“We had two choices: die in a fire, or escape with her. Not really much of a choice.” He was staring at the fire now, as if he could see the flames of the past. “We had nowhere to go. No one who wanted us. No one who wouldn’t sell us back, or worse. She was our age. Another orphan. But she had friends. Friends with swords. She crawled through the brothel looking for one person. That was Duster. You probably don’t know about her; she died the day we arrived at the manse.
“If she hadn’t died, we would have.
“She found Duster.” Jester sucked in air, and reached out toward the trunk. His hand froze an inch from its surface. “And she found the rest of us as well. She took us all. She wouldn’t leave us. And some of us were too damaged to follow quickly.
“I never understood it. I didn’t argue and I didn’t demand explanations—not then, not later. Not ever, really. I didn’t want to ask questions. She was a miracle. I wanted to believe in her. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not at first.”
The heat across Birgide’s face became warmth. Simple warmth. Fire as salvation, and not destruction.
“But years have a way of dulling the edge of suspicion and fear. Was I cynical?” He reached out again, and again his palm stopped an inch from the tree’s flame. “Yes. Bitter. Angry. Weak. Enraged by helplessness—I mean, by mine. I didn’t particularly mourn the people who did die in that fire.” He was white. Whiter than Birgide had ever been. Even the reflected firelight didn’t change his base color.
She wanted to ask him what had changed that, if anything had. She didn’t. She knew, if she waited, she would have her answer. Her hand was no longer the very definition of pain; it had numbed into a constant throbbing, as if her heart had momentarily moved into her palm.
“But she kept us. She kept Duster, the worst—and the best—of us. She kept Lander, who wouldn’t speak a word for months on end. She already had Lefty—a right-handed kid who’d had fingers lopped off. She had Finch—Finch, who escaped the brothel, and who led Jay back to it. And Carver.” Jester swallowed. Birgide thought he would kick the tree, and froze.
Jester apparently thought he would kick the tree as well; the fire flared, reddening the gleam of polished leather. He wasn’t—quite—a fool, but even intelligent men had moments of temperamental weakness. Carver’s absence loomed so large in the den, it might as well have been a death.
Jester exhaled. “She kept us going. When the money ran out—and it did—she kept us all moving. No one starved. There were enough of us that we wouldn’t freeze to death in our sleep—not given the room we lived in. We learned a thing or two about her. About her hunches. We trusted those—even when we couldn’t bring ourselves to trust her.
“I would never have died for her. Not then. Not even when Duster did. Duster was the worst of us—but in spite of it, facing death is what she did. It’s not what I did, unless I had no choice. And when given a choice, I’d bolt first.
“But I came to understand that Jay would have died for any of us. Then. Now. She thinks we’re one happy family.” His lips were a twist, a grimace laid over a smile, as if he couldn’t quite decide which was more appropriate. “And maybe we are. We’re happier than my old family ever was, before Dad disappeared. But we depend on her. It’s like—gods, this is embarrassing—she’s our mother or something.”
“She is,” Birgide felt compelled to say, “your lord.”
He was staring at the fire, and failed to answer. “Maybe. She’s a lord. As patrician in title as the lot of them.” His smile was wan, but genuine. “And as lords go, she’s better than Duvari.”
“No comment.”
He laughed. She liked the sound of his laughter far better than the intensity of his anger—because Jester was angry. Looking at him, she realized for perhaps the first time, that Jester was always angry. “There’s a difference,” he said. He took a deep, sharp breath, and before Birgide could react, reached out grabbed the trunk of the tree. “There has to be a difference. This is not what Jay would want, and this is her damn tree.”
And just like that, the pain was gone.
• • •
The pain left; the fire did not. The mask it had built over the whole of her face remained in place; she could see the world through the tint of the fire’s glow, just as she saw Jester. She released his hand—and as she had suspected, this was work. He didn’t apparently notice, but he turned toward her, his hand pressed against the trunk. Absent was the smell of burned flesh; the fire had not harmed him at all.
“Thank you.”
His brows rose. After a moment, he shrugged. “If I tell you it was nothing, will I be accused of undervaluing your life?”
“I don’t know. Try it and see.” She opened her clenched fist in front of Jester’s watchful eyes. The palm was scarred—or appeared that way on cursory inspection. Birgide’s inspection was not cursory; nor, she thought, was Jester’s.
In the center of her palm was a white patch that seemed solid; it wavered at the edges as if it were cloth. No, not cloth; it had the borders a leaf might have. A small leaf. As she moved her hand in the light shed by the burning tree, red glinted off this new scar.
Jester said, “It’s metallic.” It wasn’t a question.
She probed the mark gently with her fingers. The touch itself caused no pain. She felt her fingertips; the sensation was distinct. It was normal. What was not normal was the scar itself. “. . . Yes. Yes, I think it is.”
“It’s the shape of the leaves.”
“It is the shape of a leaf, yes. Not the leaves on this tree.” She shook her head. “Not the silver, the gold or the diamond. I think it’s meant to be Ellariannatte in miniature.”
The difference in Jester’s posture made clear how tense he’d been. She would not have otherwise noticed it. Duvari had never been particularly complimentary about her powers of observation—not when she was actually focused upon duties that had nothing to do with the Kings. Looking up from the mark, she said, “I will accept your offer.”
He laughed. The laughter filled the clearing made by fire and fire’s unnatural heat. “This,” he told her, as the laughter faded into a worn smile, “is why I will never be a merchant.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve made clear—the forest has made clear—that you’ll serve Terafin, name or no.”
“Ah, you misunderstand me. I am not even certain it is deliberate. Yes,” she said, gazing up at the tree as the lines of the masking fire slowly, slowly faded. “I will do everything in my power to preserve this forest. I will not,” she added, “do it for The Terafin’s sake; I will do it for my own. I would do it,” she continued, “if Rymark himself took the House Seat and ruled from it.”
“That is never going to happen,” Jester said, the edge in his voice cutting the smile from his face.
“That is a House matter, and I am not—yet—of the House; I will not discuss it further; you understand the point I attempted to illustrate, no?”
“Use a better illustration.”
“I am not a politician; it is not one of my many skills. I mean only that the forest exists—for me—separate from the ruler of the House.”
“It doesn’t—”
She lifted her scarred hand. “Do you ever let people finish a sentence?”
“Not unless they’re committed to it.” He grinned. It made him look younger. It made her feel older. Objectively, there couldn’t be more than a handful of years separating them, and she was uncertain that she actually was the elder. “I’ll be good.”
“If the forest exists separate from Terafin, it is joined to it by the woman who presides as the head of the House. I will serve—in what limited way my oaths to Duvari allow—Jewel Markess ATerafin because to serve her is to preserve what lies at the heart of her grounds.
“But I could do that without tendering the aid you require. I could do that without approaching D
uvari. There would be no need on my part to interfere in matters that exist between the Kings and The Ten.”
“And you will?”
She stared at her palm again. “Yes. Jester—what color are my eyes?”
He frowned. “Pardon?”
“What color are my eyes?”
“Last I looked? Gray.”
“Look again.”
“Birgide—” The rest of his words deserted him as he obeyed. “. . . They’re not gray.”
She nodded. “What color are they?”
“In this light?” He hesitated, which was unlike him, but given the day, it was a minor inconsistency. “They’re—they’re kind of a reddish brown.”
“How brown?”
“In this light,” he repeated, with more irony in the emphasis, “they’re red. I think they could pass for brown if they weren’t reflecting so much fire.”
“You’re lying.”
He gave up. “Yes. I’m lying. You think this is an artifact from the tree.”
“Yes. The forest doesn’t speak to me in the way you and I speak to each other. But I think, having decided to accept my service—and it is service, Jester—it has offered me tools with which to do my duties.” More than this, she did not say aloud.
Chapter Fifteen
INTO THE FADED, pale day of the abandoned, ancient halls stepped one of the firstborn whose images had been engraved, in the passage of seconds, into the basement of one room in Avantari: Calliastra.
She had eyes, at the moment, for Shianne. Celleriant seemed to be beneath her notice. So, too, the cats.
Only the cats cared. Shadow hissed. Night hissed. Neither sound implied laughter or amusement, and in case their displeasure was somehow not apparent, their fur rose inches, changing the shape of their backs and faces. Shadow stepped closer to Jewel’s side; he placed one paw on the top of her foot and pressed down.
Jewel glanced at the top of his head, at the height of his ears; she was surprised to see that her hand was still attached to his fur.
Stand well back, Avandar said. His magics, orange and gold, colored the air around the whole of their party.
I know. She glanced, briefly, at her arm; at the arm that bore the Warlord’s sigil. It was not, however, for herself or her domicis that she feared. Angel was here. Terrick. Adam. They were all at risk, should Calliastra’s focus waver. Kallandras was mortal as well, but Jewel could not imagine that he could be caught in Calliastra’s grasp; she was, in fact, certain he could not.
As usual, she couldn’t say why, and as usual, she didn’t question the certainty. She knew it was the artifact of the talent to which she’d been born—the talent that had led, in slow and winding steps, to these grand and haunted halls.
Terrick dismounted. He dismounted and, to Jewel’s surprise, armed himself. Jewel frowned; Angel frowned as well. Angel, however, dismounted and drew sword, taking his lead from the older man.
Shianne—armed—had not caused this reaction in Terrick; Terrick’s gaze had been as awestruck as Jewel’s whenever it had fallen on the Arianni woman. It had fallen on her only slightly less often. It was hard, despite Shianne’s claims of mortality, for Jewel to look at anything else.
Or it had been. But Calliastra, daughter of gods, was compelling in her own right. She was beautiful, yes—but it was not a beauty that spoke of mountains and the vast heights and depths of a natural world that counted mortals as nothing; it was a beauty that spoke of desire. Desire, darkness, and death, as if one led naturally into the other, like dusk into night.
Night, in the eyes of the child of gods, was endless.
“She is not for you,” Celleriant said, coming to stand between Shianne and the daughter of their ancient enemy.
“She was not, once. She might be, now,” Calliastra replied, smiling. Her lips, full, her eyes, dark, implied both warmth and smoldering heat. If Shianne was distant and untouchable, Calliastra was her opposite.
Jewel swallowed.
She had faced Calliastra once, in the Stone Deepings; had it not been for Avandar, she would have died there. Willingly. It angered her to remember it, but she accepted it: she was mortal.
The Lord of the Hells, and the goddess of love had birthed Calliastra. Jewel had met almost no one who did not desire love—even if they failed to trust in its existence. And Callistra stood, now, in the ancient remnants of the Winter Queen’s first court: she had power here.
Shianne, however, inclined her chin. She evinced no fear, and no particular suspicion. “I am not,” she replied, “for you.”
“You have chosen,” Calliastra replied, “to do the unthinkable. You have tied yourself to the rhythm of life and death.” She gestured at the baby, still enfolded in the center of Shianne’s body. “Summer and Winter are not for me; they never were. But life and death? They are mine, Shianne.”
“And I,” Shianne replied, regally and distantly, “belong to the White Lady. If you seek to touch me, if you seek to destroy me, understand that I have already made my choice; there is nothing that you can offer me that will change it. I am, as I have always been, of Ariane.”
“Yes. Yes, you are.” Calliastra smiled. Her voice, soft and sensual, was almost a purr. “And you carry within you the seeds of her death.”
Shianne stiffened.
So, too, Celleriant.
“Do you think she preserved you for your own sake? She was foolish; she was sentimental. Sentiment is my domain. You are evidence of her weakness. She should have destroyed you, at least. Instead, she kept you here; she kept you hidden.
“But the roads are changing, Shandalliaran. They are shifting. A god walks this world once more, and every step he takes reminds things wild and hidden of the life they once knew. Ariane is trapped in her hovel of a Hidden Court, and I? I am free to roam as I please.
“I heard your song. It moved me. It drew me from the vastness of my home.” She did not seem particularly moved, to Jewel.
“It drew you,” Shianne replied, “from its emptiness. Why have you come?”
“To see the beginning of the end, little niece.” She smiled. Her smile could melt ice.
It could not, however, melt stone; Shianne was stone, now. She said nothing.
Calliastra turned. “Viandaran. I see you have not yet tired of your consort.”
“She is not my consort,” Avandar replied. He was quiet, his tone chilly; his stiffness, however, was natural. “She is Sen, Calliastra. Perhaps even you will remember what that once meant.”
Avandar.
It is necessary. I do not know if Shianne divested herself of all power when she made her choice.
Jewel thought of the golden sword. I doubt it.
As do I. But she is not, here, a match for Calliastra. We might stand against her for some small while; we might drive her off, if the cats choose to be useful. We cannot destroy her. Not yet.
When?
He didn’t answer.
Why is she here?
She did not, in my opinion, lie. She is here to stand witness to the beginning of the end.
What end? Silence. Avandar?
“Listen to him,” Shadow growled. “And do not be stupid.” He hissed at Calliastra. The child of gods failed to notice him. Pointedly. She did not, however, fail to notice Jewel; she turned.
Jewel remembered the starless night of the Stone Deepings; she remembered the velvet of a voice that promised everything. Her mouth was half-open, her lips dry, as she met Calliastra’s eyes. They were Duster’s eyes.
It angered her. She attempted to hold on to the anger, to shore herself up with it. But she knew it was too feeble; Calliastra engendered emotion—emotion itself was no shield against her. It was purchase. It was anchor.
Yes, the Winter King said. She was ever a danger to our kind, even when the Cities were at the height of their power.
No. She cannot take what is already claimed. I will die if the Winter Queen decrees my death. I will die if the Winter Queen dies. There is nothing she can take from me; nothing that will feed her endless emptiness; nothing that will calm her ancient sorrow.
Sorrow.
Sorrow, Jewel. She did not understand, when young, that love must lead inevitably to death. And she could not easily accept that she could not control the hunger that drives her to feed.
You pity her.
I do. You do not—and it is safest for you. She is firstborn. What she wants is not, and has never been, pity.
What does she want?
What she can never have: love. Warmth. Belonging. She is Allasakar’s daughter. She is Laursana’s daughter. How that union came to be, I will not guess. But it has made her the creature she is. You think her monstrous.
She did.
And so she is. But she is wed to her monstrosity; short of destruction, she cannot escape it. And Jewel: she has tried. There are lays and legends—lost to you and your kin—that speak of her tragedy.
Jewel’s frown creased the corners of her eyes and mouth as she turned her glance toward the Winter King—and away from Calliastra. You want me to ask her what she means when she speaks of the end.
Silence. It was a thin silence; it could not hold. Not I alone. Look at the Lady. Look at your liege.
Jewel did. Shianne was the height of distant mountain in the coldest of winter; her expression gave nothing away. So, too, Celleriant. A flick of movement caught her eye. Angel was signing.
No, she signed back. Stay where you are. She glanced at Terrick and added, hold him back.
Angel cast a very dubious look at the grim and bearded Rendish warrior; he signed again. Jewel almost laughed.
Calliastra chose that moment to reach out to touch Jewel’s face.
• • •
Celleriant was in the air before the firstborn’s perfect fingers grazed Jewel’s wind-dark cheek. The wind howled, speaking all of the words he could not or did not choose to shed. His blade, blue lightning, traveled in the heart of his storm; he landed.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 43
