He smiled. “The Cities of Man were not built on the Sleepers. They are almost as gods, Terafin—but they will wake in the heart of this city’s shadow. The gods did not destroy the cities you speak of because they could not breach the barriers erected around them. Had they been able to walk into the heart of those cities, the cities would have fallen in a day.” He glanced, once, at the three cats he referred to as eldest; they bristled.
He made no further attempt to harm Adam.
“Can the firstborn die?” she asked the Warden of Dreams.
His smile was the knife’s edge; brilliant, sharp, slender. “Yes, Terafin. Yes, we can. But you cannot kill me. You lack the will. I am too powerful for you, now.” His wings rose; they were the only thing in the clearing that fire did not touch. “If you wish to rob me of power, there is one simple way to do it: kill the dreamers. Mortals are not so powerful in this age, at this time, that it would be difficult for you. You would barely have to raise hand; you could slaughter the majority of the citizens of your fair city in a day. Perhaps a week; there are pockets of resistance that might withstand the full force of your attention for some time.
“I do not think they would withstand it forever. You cannot kill the Sleepers—not yet, and perhaps not ever. The gods feared them when they rode to war, and you are not a god. But you could be, in this small, enclosed space. You could do as gods did, when the world was young and they yet dwelled among us.” His wings spread as he spoke.
Jewel remembered the legend of Moorelas’ ride. She knew that the Sleepers had been sent with him to kill . . . a god.
Shadow growled.
“Will you tangle with me again, Eldest? The outcome of our last encounter was not, in the end, decided in your favor.”
The tenor of the growling changed and multiplied.
Jewel folded her arms. “Do not even think it,” she told the three cats, without glancing at any of them. “The Warden is mine.”
“I have already said you cannot destroy me.”
“I don’t need to destroy you,” she replied. “These lands are mine, and I’m beginning to understand what that means. You do not have my permission to cross these borders, and yet you are here. What will you offer in compensation for your trespass?”
His dark brows rose, shifting the lines of his expression; his eyes became rounder, the line of his mouth fuller; the corners moved as he smiled. Jewel offered him the slight nod that was the Imperial acknowledgment of equality. “Warden of Dreams.”
“Well met, Jewel Markess ATerafin.”
“Are you in league with your brother?”
“I do not wish the Sleepers to wake,” he replied.
“And by destroying what I hold dear, you believe you can stop them?”
“No. There is no certainty, save one: if the Sleepers wake, the dreamers here will die. What you are unwilling to do, they will do in the ice and fury of their ancient rage and loss. It is to protect the many that we have chosen to dispense with the few.” His smile was, unlike the smile of his brother, gentle and resigned. “If it eases you at all, I am complicit in this action. You are Jewel. If it were necessary, you would give your life in defense of the people in this city—the thousands of dreamers you will never meet or touch.
“Your death might prevent theirs.”
“Will it?” she demanded.
Finch crossed the invisible line that divided them; Angel, from the opposite direction, did the same. They moved, for one moment, with the same intent, the same thought—the same sense of protectiveness that had characterized their early, struggling years. They did not stand in the alleys of the holdings or in the tiny, cramped room the den had called home—but it didn’t matter. Clothing, experience, the passage of years and the gaining of power and rank could not touch what they had built—it could, and did, make it stronger and more certain.
Yet she felt the fire’s heat dim as they came to stand by her side.
Finch said, before Jewel could speak, “It’s irrelevant.”
The Warden considered her gravely. She wore no raiment of fire—but for a moment it appeared she had swallowed flame; the intensity of her glare should have burned. Angel, sword in hand, was silent, content—as he so often was—to let the women do the talking. At this moment, nothing they could say would not speak for him.
Celleriant did not move. Jewel heard—or felt—the presence of his sword, but to her mild surprise, he also chose to defer to Finch.
“Irrelevant?” the Warden asked, his voice just as gentle.
“You meant to have the rest of us die. You meant for Terafin to be ruled by someone who serves the Lord of the Hells—and in the end, that must mean you are content to let the Empire itself fall to that god. We’ve seen the hand of his servants at work before—and we’ve listened, helpless, to the torture and murder of citizens of Averalaan.”
Even Haerrad shifted position as Finch spoke; his chin rose. In the red-tinted light, the scars that he wore as badges or adornments seemed both newer and rawer. But it was his eyes that caught—for a brief moment—The Terafin’s attention.
She hated him. She would always hate him. She saw hatred in him now—but all of it, in the end, directed at the Henden of 410. And of course it would be—Haerrad, like Jewel, could be driven into a frenzy when confronted with his own helplessness, his own ineffectiveness. She thought—and this surprised her—that Haerrad’s scars in that regard might be deeper and harsher than even her own. But she understood that in some small way the words of the Warden of Dreams—the gentler, kinder half—had kindled in him a visceral sense of enmity and denial.
He would never openly support her; she was certain of that. But he understood now what was at stake in a way that he had not before Finch spoke. The choice itself was stark. Would he kill Jewel to preserve a city or an Empire? Yes. He would have killed her to gain the House Seat, and her death would have caused no loss of sleep, no hint of regret. But the alternative was beneath him.
It was a cold, cold comfort to know that even Haerrad had limits.
Finch continued. “Better that the Sleepers wake and slaughter us all outright than that we fall to the hands of the demons, as we almost did that Henden. If I understand what you fear, we would die swiftly, but we would not die in near endless pain, stripped of all dignity. You have no care at all for the lives we live, only the fact that we sleep—and dream.”
“Where there is life, there is hope.”
“But there is life, right now. We don’t accept that we are helpless in the face of the Sleepers—or the Lord of the Hells. You may believe it—you probably do. We don’t. If we were no threat, if we had no hope, the Lord of the Hells would never have interfered with House Terafin; the attempt would be pointless. He has wasted resources and servants in these games—and men of power do not wage war against mice or cockroaches.”
“It is the war that will threaten the precarious balance of fading sleep; they are almost waking as we speak. Their waking dreams have a power and a substance that mortal dreams cannot; the exception are the Sen, and even the Sen require lands such as these upon which to both stand and build.”
“Then kill the god,” Finch replied.
His brows—and his wings—rose. “That would not be possible for me, even in his current state.”
“That is the only option we will support. If he does not wish to wake the Sleepers by bringing his war to the Empire, tell him to keep his war to himself.”
“I offer you the chance to tell him that yourself, if you desire it.”
“We decline,” Jewel said.
But Shianne said, “It is a generous offer—and a costly one.”
The Warden smiled. “You have been greatly missed.”
Shianne’s smile was colder in all ways, a reminder that ice could be beautiful. “I have need of this woman; I cannot allow you to kill her. Nor can I allow you to k
ill or entrap her companions. You are in her lands, and you have offered no apology and no restitution for your trespass.” She turned, then, as if she was done with the confrontation, and lifted her face to the skies, exposing the long, perfect line of her throat.
She lifted one hand as well, and spoke softly; Jewel could not understand a word.
But Kallandras, apparently, did. “With your permission, Terafin?”
Jewel nodded. “Meralonne has already called the air,” she added. “He fights in its folds, even now.”
“Meralonne has been granted your permission to fight in defense of your realm. I have not.”
“In every way that matters, you have always had it. Yes. Go.”
Celleriant moved as Kallandras stepped lightly into the moving breeze. “He will not thank you for your intervention.”
“I do not intervene at his request.” The bard bowed to Shianne. “Be ready, lady. I do not think he is aware of your presence.”
“He is not,” she agreed. “Nor is the traitor he fights.”
“I will leave you,” the Warden said.
Shianne, however, shook her head; her smile shifted, but did not falter. “The mortal—that is the word, yes?—is inexperienced; she is too new to the wilderness and its many strengths and weaknesses. You are not, of course. She has not given you permission to traverse her lands. In her absence, you have nonetheless done so. But she is present now, and she has not given you permission to leave.”
The Warden’s expression darkened—literally. So, too, his wings and the shadows he cast. Jewel noted them: there were two. “You cannot think that she can prevent me from doing so?”
Shianne frowned. To Celleriant—who had made no move to join the Senniel bard—she spoke; he answered. Once again, the language was beyond Jewel’s comprehension, but at this point she expected that; she made no attempt to retain the words in memory.
“Do not think to attack me here,” the Warden said—although it wasn’t clear exactly who he addressed. Jewel guessed that he meant the soft, edged words for her ears, because she could understand them.
Celleriant leaped into the air; he, like Kallandras, did not land.
“Hers is the greater power here,” Shianne told the Arianni Lord. “I understand the desire to test one’s strength; do we not all succumb from time to time? But the boy will not survive that trial; he struggles, even now. We are free of the storm and the anger of the ancient earth—we must continue our journey, soon.”
“You are not my lord,” Celleriant replied; he did not so much as look down at Shianne.
“No. I am, for some small time, merely one of your companions. But I serve the White Lady, as you do.”
“You do not—”
“You have taken another lord. You no longer answer directly to the White Lady. But you are, as I am, of her; you have not forgotten, and you are not forsworn.” She turned, then, to Jewel as Celleriant trod air, sword and shield readied but still. “These are your lands. They are almost awake; I can hear the whisper of ancient trees and the song of their hearts.” Her smile was gentle but tinged with sorrow. “Call them, Jewel, and they will walk.”
• • •
The Warden of Nightmare faced them, his wings throwing darkness across flames that continued to burn without consuming anything in the clearing. His two shadows worked in concert, although their movements were subtly different; Jewel expected no aid to come from the Warden of Dream.
She expected no aid from the cats, either. “What are you going to do with him?” Shadow demanded. “Talk him to death?”
Snow hissed laughter. “Why can’t we play with him?”
“I let you do that once. I almost died.”
Night sniffed. “But you didn’t.”
“No thanks to any of you.”
All three cats hissed at once.
“Now hush. I can’t kill him.”
Shadow sniffed. “Let us do it.”
“Already said no, Shadow. It’s a simple word. Birgide.”
“Terafin.”
“How familiar are you with my forest?”
“More familiar than any other member of your House—but that is not, sadly, saying much. I have new classification schema for the trees that I’ve encountered, and also for some of the flowers. I have not—”
She really had spent time in the Order of Knowledge, Jewel thought, as she raised one hand, cutting off the rest of the words. “I see the heart of my lands reflected in your eyes; I see the shadow of the tree of fire beyond the edge of your feet. It seems to follow you—the shadow, I mean.” She gestured as the Warden of Nightmare leaped.
The branches of the Ellariannatte twined, instantly, above his head. The sky could be seen in blue slivers between the intersections of bark and leaves. The Warden’s wings were not decorative; he lashed out with the left wing. Bark and splinters scattered, and the glimpse of sky grew larger.
There were more trees than wings; the canopy shifted and the gap closed. This time, the branches burned—and when the wings struck again, the flames latched onto dark feathers the length of Jewel’s arm.
The Warden shed those feathers.
“You cannot call the wind here,” Jewel told him softly. “Nor wake the earth. There is a price to be paid for passage through these lands, and you have not paid it.”
“Nor will I.”
Shianne spoke into the silence that followed his words. “Then, Warden, you will never leave them. The choice is yours—and hers.”
The Warden’s smile was ice and shadow. “She is not as you are—or were. These lands—”
“Are hers. The trees speak her name with reverence. The earth is silent beneath our feet. The fire continues to burn, but consumes nothing. Even the air is gentled, where it stirs. I do not know the extent of this domain—but I know that you should never have been able to trespass where you were forbidden entry.
“You mean her to believe that her hold over her own lands is weak and easily broken.”
The Warden did not reply.
“It is not. I do not understand how you came to be here.”
“I have explained how, Lady.”
“Forgive me for my lack of clarity. I do not understand how you can traverse the dreams of my brethren.”
“Do you not, Shandallarian? Ah, but you absented yourself from these lands long before the Sleepers fell, and their kin do not speak of them at all. You do not know who sleeps beneath the streets of this crowded, mortal city. Let me tell you their names.”
“You will not speak them here. You will not speak them at all.”
The Warden laughed, the sound so warm, so full, it reverberated almost literally through the ground; even the flames that now surrounded him shivered in place, as if listening.
“I am the only one present who can safely do so,” he told Shianne. “And I have already said my purpose is not to wake them. The Lord of the Hells did not expect you; I see the hand of another in this. A long hand, and subtle.” He drew his wings in and his body became even less corporeal. It did not, however, fade. “Do not attempt to imprison me; you will not care for the results.”
“I will not leave you to work against my kin,” Jewel replied. “You have said that the dreams of the Sleepers touch all lands in some fashion. I cannot stop them from dreaming—and I do not wish them to wake, although their waking would end your passage through these lands, or any others. Did you,” she continued, “send Darranatos to us, as well?”
He did not answer.
• • •
She wanted to kill him. She had let him go once—but no, she thought, that was not entirely the truth. As she stood, surrounded by friends and comrades and as close to kin as life had allowed her, she felt the forest blanket her like a living thing. It was hers. It was as much hers as the apartment in the twenty-fifth holding had been; it
was more hers than House Terafin, although she had kept her promise and become its ruler.
It was den-kin, to Jewel. And it was not. She could give it commands. It would warp and twist itself to obey them. She had no sense that it trusted her, though. She did not know trees; she did not know forests. She knew that this was one, but knew that it was far more flexible.
And she knew, when she left, that it would be as Finch had become. It would do what it thought she needed, and wanted.
But what, in the end, did something ancient and immortal—in essence, if not in disparate parts—understand of what she wanted? What could she build, what could she make, that would carry the whole of her intent? She understood, now, that her den-kin, in her absence, would face demons and assassins—just as she had.
And she understood, as well, that they were not seer-born. They were not Sen. They were not, in any way, talent-born. They had followed, from almost the first day, where she led. Oh, they’d argued, and they’d dragged their heels, and on occasion, they’d ignored her less visceral commands. She’d let them. She’d wanted friends. Family. And no friends, no family, had ever been perfect followers. They’d had minds and desires and tempers of their own.
Dreams of their own.
They had dreams of their own, now. While she stood here, she could protect those dreams. Wind rippled through leaves above her head; the sound formed almost audible whispers, cold whispers.
“Yes, I know,” she replied. All of their small dreams would end if she would not leave Terafin. Even her own.
She lifted her chin. Turned to face Finch. Perhaps she had spent enough time in the wilderness to which the Oracle had sent her that her talent had been sharpened; she could see Finch in meetings with—she grimaced—Jarven. And Haval. She could see Finch consulting with Teller, which was not a surprise, and Jester, which was. Jester.
She could see the tail end of a letter Finch was penning by lamplight, in the confines of her personal rooms in the West Wing. She could even see the recipient; it made her uneasy. Ruby? Ruby ATerafin? Jewel herself would confront Ruby directly—or threaten her—only after Ruby had chosen to make the first move. She understood Ruby well enough to defend her own interests, and Ruby was cautious when dealing with someone who might see the future; Ruby’s understanding of Jewel’s talent was imprecise, and Jewel had never chosen to correct it.
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 82
