But if it was true that this stranger knew the way to the Oracle, it might cut the travel time significantly—and regardless, Jewel knew she could not leave her here.
It might be wisest, Avandar said, but without much hope.
Yes. But wisdom didn’t bring us here. Hope did. And fear. She failed to mention the fear. She did not understand what had happened; she would ask Adam in detail later.
“Snow, she’s naked.”
The cat hissed. “So what? We are all naked.”
“I’m not.”
“Us. The important people.”
“Fine. Naked cat is far more attractive than naked woman.”
“And water is wet,” the cat growled. “Fine. Fine. Carry Adam. Don’t let him fall. Don’t make noise. Don’t sharpen claws. Don’t have any fun. And now, make dresses?” His love of extended sibilants made the sentence much longer than it would have been had anyone else spoken it.
She sighed. “If you feel you’re incapable of making a dress in these difficult circumstances, I understand.” She turned to Avandar. “I think we can come up with something that might at least keep her warm.”
Snow hissed. High above their heads, Night hissed as well, which didn’t improve the white cat’s mood.
The woman, however, stopped, arrested; her eyes opened—in wonder, not fear. Even Snow could not be immune to the shift in her expression—or the fact he had caused it. He preened. Jewel didn’t even begrudge it; in his position, she would have done the same. No one had ever looked at her the way the woman now looked at Snow.
Snow sniffed and stuck his nose in the air, exposing the underside of his chin—something he very seldom did if his brothers were within swatting range. “What will you make?” he demanded of Jewel.
“Make? Nothing. We all brought clothing; she can wear some of ours.”
The cat sputtered with his usual exaggerated outrage. Jewel was, in his opinion, the stupidest person it had been his misfortune to meet. Ever. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
White brows rose as Snow continued his rant. “You allow this?” The Lady asked Jewel.
Jewel shrugged. “They’re cats. I’ve been called worse. Even by myself. You were aware that he makes dresses?”
“I was aware that, should the mood strike him, he creates, yes. I have seen only one or two of his creations, and one, sadly, was destroyed. Had any but the cat himself destroyed it, they would have perished for the crime. What price do you pay?”
“Pardon?”
“You have asked him to create; he has not yet agreed. What price will he demand in return for his gift?”
Jewel blinked. Snow sidled up to her, butting her hand with his head until she began to scratch behind his ears. “What will you give me?”
She looked at him, forehead bunching in lines as her brows rose. “Me? Nothing. I’m willing to find her something else to wear.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“Because she’s the only person I’ve ever met who I think would be worthy of what you can create.”
Snow hissed.
“Not worthy of you,” Jewel added; she privately thought no one deserved to be saddled with these cats on a continual basis. “Worthy of the dress. I would give her the one you made for me—”
Hiss.
“—But I treasure it. I value it. I would not be parted from it.” This was mostly untrue. On the other hand, Snow was not generally suspicious of flattery; he expected all flattery was simple fact, where it involved him. “But I think most people would agree that it would suit her far more than it suits me. Perhaps she doesn’t deserve it. But then again, neither did I.”
“You are Sen. She is hers.”
“I will not command it.”
“You can’t!” Snow replied, in obvious outrage. Night hissed laughter; he had circled low enough he could stand on the height of the precariously supported pillar. The white cat glared at the black one.
Jewel kept her hand on Snow’s head because he was warm, and when she touched him, she felt some of that warmth. The Lady didn’t seem to note the chill in the air, given how poorly she was dressed for it.
She had told Celleriant she was mortal. Jewel couldn’t quite force herself to believe it, although she was certain the woman spoke the truth as she understood it. The wind seemed at play in her hair; it was not a gale. She looked very like Meralonne before he joined battle: wild, pure, and inhuman.
“You just want to see her.”
Jewel reddened. “Yes,” she said quietly, “I do. I want to see her in a dress of your making.”
Snow hissed and muttered. Jewel simply waited.
The woman watched the cat; her brows took the shape of a frown, but on her, it was an elevated expression.
Snow pushed himself off the ground, shaking off Jewel’s hand as he rose. His wings were spread, but he didn’t flap them; they seemed to be caught instantly in winds that touched nothing else.
If he had complained about lack of material or tools, Jewel would have let it go; she had always suspected that Snow required neither to do his work. Haval had implied as much, and Haval noted everything. But she hadn’t watched Snow work—and he had chosen to do the work now.
The Lady’s expression changed as she watched him. He might have been the only other living thing in the area; even Celleriant was forgotten. From out of the folds of the air that carried them all so far above the ground, threads emerged. They were—or looked—white; white and gold. But as they continued to coalesce, they were joined by strands of black, of gray, of something the color of ash; of red, and the purple that red could become.
For a moment it seemed like a chaotic storm of colorful tendrils; it looked deadly, dangerous, wild. But the cat circled it, muttering—the word stupid had prominent position in every otherwise inaudible sentence—his movement somehow containing it.
She could almost understand why Haval treated Snow with so much respect. Gray threads and black, red threads and white, began to merge; the individual strands seemed to struggle to break free of the growing, whole cloth—but with little success. It awed Jewel. At the same time, it made her vaguely queasy.
As if in response to that, Shadow finally condescended to land. He almost knocked Jewel off her feet—and would have, if her left foot hadn’t been part of what he was landing on. Angel took his life in his hands; he smacked the gray cat on the head.
Shadow hissed and said, “I will drop you.”
Night hissed laughter. Night was doing a lot of laughing; Jewel was fairly certain he’d pay for it later. And it had better, her glare at the gray cat implied, be much later. She wasn’t worried for Angel’s safety. When the cats were whining and uttering dire verbal threats, they were harmless—unless you were furniture.
She did, on the other hand, place a hand on Shadow’s head. “Who is she, Shadow?” she asked softly. The woman was so absorbed by Snow at work she didn’t seem to hear. “Is she Ariane’s sister?”
Shadow hissed softly. “You should not have come here,” he told her. “She will be angry. Everyone will be angry.”
“She seems to know you.”
He nodded. “She went away,” was his soft reply. “We didn’t know where she went; the wind wouldn’t tell us.” He swiped, claws extended, at the air as he spoke. “No one would tell us. We tried to make her tell us.”
“Her? You mean the Winter Queen?”
Shadow rolled his eyes. “She will be angry.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that. What should I have done instead?”
“She was safe here. The Winter Queen protects what is hers.”
“The child,” Jewel replied, “isn’t hers.”
“Exactly. I told you not to trust the Oracle.”
Jewel nodded. “I’ll remember that none of this is your fault.” She fell silent as the threads at last beca
me whole cloth; the cloth caught the gray, ambient light, and returned it, shifting as she watched. It folded in on itself, moving at wind that touched nothing; Snow’s claws caught its lower edge and held it in place. Red seeped from his claws to the fabric; it was the red that she had seen as moving threads.
The white cat had fallen silent. He exposed his fangs as his ears rose to points; his body gained inches as his fur rose as well. He looked very much as if he were engaged in battle—until Shadow reached out and stepped on his tail.
“Shadow.”
Shadow hissed. “We want a dress,” he told his brother, ignoring Jewel entirely. “Not armor. Make armor for the other ones.”
“This is better than armor!”
“It is ugly,” Night said, descending as well.
“Ugly? Ugly? You are ugly!”
Jewel exhaled and glared at the three cats. If they’d been in the great room—or any of the guest rooms, including the one that was technically theirs—she’d be looking at furniture replacement and possible bloodstains.
She looked up at the woman and saw, to her surprise, that she was smiling. Before she could look away, the woman lowered her face, and met Jewel’s gaze. “They have not changed, have they?” she asked, with genuine fondness. “I was not certain what to make of you; they have wings, now, and they did not require them before. And they seem smaller of stature.”
“You should have seen them a month ago,” Jewel replied. “They were two thirds the size they are now. Still trouble, though.”
“You do not seek to confine them, then? But no, I can see you do not.”
“They’re cats. They more or less do what they want; they mostly avoid doing what I don’t want.” As she said this, she glared at Night, who hissed.
“But it is ugly.”
“So?” Snow snarled. “She is ugly. It is not as ugly!”
Since the stunningly beautiful stranger seemed to find this amusing, Jewel didn’t rush to her defense; it would have been embarrassing. She did clamp down more firmly on Shadow’s head; Night was smart enough to remain out of reach.
“Kallandras?”
“Terafin.”
“Is it safe to stand on the ground?”
“I believe that would be wise at this point. Your cats appear to be restless, bored, or both, and I am not certain the wind will not take offense soon.”
• • •
By the time they made their descent, the dress was firmly between Snow’s jaws. Jewel cringed, imagining cat saliva all over the folds of cloth. She didn’t, however, say anything; cat saliva was probably better than no clothing at all, and in truth, Jewel thought any of her clothing that might fit the much taller, much more statuesque woman would only be an embarrassment—to Jewel.
Embarrassment didn’t seem to be a concept that the stranger understood. Her nudity didn’t bother her; nor did the cold. She seemed to regret the absence of the wind; Jewel mostly appreciated it, although she did offer thanks to it before it stilled. Terrick was embarrassed for her, and kept his gaze fixed on the ground, on the cats, on Angel—on anything, in short, that wasn’t her. His cheeks were flushed, and Jewel kindly decided it was due to the chill.
Avandar was amused. You are staring, he told her.
Jewel reddened, because she was. But it was the stare she might have given a grand and distant mountain: like those mountains, this woman was a thing beyond desire. She invoked an awe that desire couldn’t touch. Jewel had no words to describe her; even beautiful seemed too common, too inadequate.
Don’t you see it? she all but demanded.
Yes, Terafin, I do. But it is merely beauty. If you cannot gather your thoughts and the tatters of your dignity when faced with this stranger, how do you intend to speak with Ariane herself?
Jewel shied away from even the thought; she occupied her hands by removing the dress from Snow’s jaws and offering it to the stranger. “I’m not called Matriarch,” she said, eyes drawn to skin that seemed warm and luminous.
“You are not?” She glanced at Adam, who was now asleep; Angel supported the bulk of his weight.
“Adam calls me that, yes.”
“It is a title that conveys respect.”
“For Adam, yes. It is not a title we use among my people.”
“And what title do you prefer, seeker of the Oracle?”
“Jewel.”
The woman frowned; even her frown could stop breath. “It is a . . . stone?”
“Yes, of a type. It’s a name. It’s the name I was given by my parents.”
“It is not a name; it is a word.”
“Yes. But if you shout it where I can hear it, I’ll know you want my attention, as opposed to anyone else’s.”
“Jewel.” She spoke the word as if testing it. She spoke it as if it were a song.
“Yes.” Jewel inhaled, exhaled, and turned to the practical, as she so often did. “Lord Celleriant is called Lord Celleriant. If that isn’t his name, it’s used that way among my kin. What might we call you?”
Her frown shifted. “If the name signifies nothing,” she finally replied, “You might choose a word. You have come to me, where none but the White Lady have ventured; I will therefore take no offense at whatever word you choose.”
Jewel froze. She wanted, for one absurd moment, to shake Adam awake and make him choose. The Lady didn’t seem to sense her discomfort—either that, or she didn’t care. She donned the clothing Snow had made, and the rough collection of syllables that comprised a name fled before Jewel could grasp one.
The dress was almost white at the shoulders; as it fell to the ground, it gained color—but the color was stone or ash, darkening in the last yard to something that was almost black. The hem of sleeves and skirt were adorned with red embroidery, and delicate red swirls rested just beneath the line of her breasts; across the very obvious swell of belly, the cloth was a delicate gray. It was, in all ways, unlike the dress Snow had made for her.
What, she thought, should she call this woman? Lady, perhaps, but it seemed too prim a word. Jewel was certain that the hands that now ran along the folds of sleeves had carried swords before—and had used them. There was a harshness about her beauty, a distance, that offered wonder but no comfort and no safety. It made a mockery of the desire for comfort and safety.
She shook her head to clear it. “I understand that you are not as we are.” She indicated the obvious mortals in their midst. “But every single Immortal I have ever met has a name by which they are known, or will be known, by us.
“I didn’t name Lord Celleriant. I call him Celleriant because it is what his brother called him, and what the White Lady herself called him. Even the Winter Queen has a name by which she is known to mortals—Ariane. I wouldn’t have the courage to call her anything else.”
“You have met many?”
“No. I’ve met very few. Celleriant, his brother Mordanant, their lord.” She did not repeat the Winter Queen’s name. “Meralonne,” she continued, after a pause. “Which is what he calls himself when he speaks to us. But the gods and the rest of the immortals call him Illaraphaniel.”
Her eyes widened. “You have met Illaraphaniel?”
“Yes.” She hesitated, and then added, “he lives in our city.”
“And you yet live.”
It was Jewel’s turn to frown. The nameless woman turned instantly to Celleriant, as if for confirmation. At his slow, grave nod she said, “There is a story in this, and I would hear it. But perhaps it is best that we leave.”
Jewel nodded. “We can’t go back the way we came.”
“No,” the woman replied, as if the possibility had not occurred to her. She bowed her head for a long moment; her hair framed her face, lending it light, but no color. “Illaraphaniel.
“When we were young, he called me Shianne. It was a new name, a small name.” She
looked up, then, tilting her head, exposing her throat. “He was not Illaraphaniel, not then. And I have not been Shianne for so long the name is the barest echo in memory, even mine. I grew beyond it. I grew beyond it and I will never return; it is part of who I was—but it is not who I am. I . . . am no longer certain who I am.” She did not look down; her eyes continued to seek the heights.
And then she lowered her clothed arms; silk fell like liquid to all but cover her hands.
She began to sing.
They froze at the sound of her voice; the first note, the fullness of it, almost deprived them of breath. She sang storm; she sang sunrise; she sang open skies and freedom; her voice rose and fell, hardening or gentling. Even the cats were almost still, although their tails or ears twitched.
It wasn’t that it was impossible to move, but rather that if one looked away, if one allowed any form of distraction, some essential part of the song might be missed—and it would never be heard again.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that might be for the best. She did not sing in Weston; nor did she sing in Torra. Jewel couldn’t understand the words themselves—if there were words at all. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need the language to underpin meaning; the meaning was plain.
Jewel wept. The tears were silent; they trailed down her cheeks. She couldn’t stop them and didn’t try, although she had long ago learned to hide the weakness of pain and emotion. This song was every farewell she had ever said, but more, every farewell circumstance had denied her: It spoke of love—not storybook love, but messy, complicated, conflicted emotion. She closed her eyes; she could see Duster front and center. Of course.
Behind her, Lefty, as he was the last day she’d seem him in the dim glow of magelight, far beneath the open skies. Fisher. Lander. She’d made a home with them, and their deaths had destroyed it, hollowing it out from the inside until it collapsed.
Duster, so difficult, had preserved what remained. But the act of preservation had destroyed her.
Just as it would destroy Shianne.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 31
