War

by Michelle West

  Shadow hissed. There was no amusement in it.

  “Did they wake him?”

  “Almost. Almost, but the boy quiets the earth now.”

  The creature turned toward her, seeing past the Chosen, Calliastra, and Shadow. Seeing, Jewel thought, past walls and rooms, past anything else that formed the heart of The Terafin’s current chambers. The creature ambled toward her.

  “Let him pass,” she said.

  Torvan stiffened, but Marave immediately turned to the side; she did not sheathe her weapon. It was the weapon that caught the creature’s attention, causing fur to change the shape of his face as his large eyes rounded. He did not, however, talk to Marave, the Chosen being mere guards.

  “They are dreaming here. Here, where the mortals dwell.”

  Calliastra’s frown was edged enough to cut. “And you know this how?”

  “Are you not Calliastra?” the creature countered. “Can you not hear them beneath your feet?”

  “I hear nothing over your screeching, irritating voice.” As Shadow hissed laughter, she added, “Or yours.” To Jewel, she finished. “What will you do with him?” The tone in her question made it clear what her own preferences were.

  “I’ll send him to the forest,” Jewel replied. “I think he must be kin to the eldest there.”

  “Oh?”

  “The trees in my lands are awake. They take different forms when they choose to speak with us at all, but one is a golden fox.”

  “Golden?” the creature said, tilting his head.

  “It’s the color of his fur. However, while you are in my domain, you will cause no harm without my permission. You will not torment the mortals you happen across, and you will not cause more damage to my abode.”

  The creature seemed seriously offended at the latter, and Jewel had to struggle not to think of him as a cat. Well, as one of her cats.

  “You should let us eat him,” Snow suggested.

  “Try.”

  “Snow, please.”

  Snow hissed, and not with amusement. “What is his name, hmmm?”

  The Terafin, the Lord of the lands, the Sen of a nonexistent city, exhaled. “My manners are not what they should be. I am Jewel Markess ATerafin. This is Finch, this is Teller, this is Adam. Calliastra and my cats, you apparently know.”

  “And the others?”

  “The captain of my oathguard, and one of my Chosen.” She finished and waited. After a longer pause, she said, “And you must be Anakton.”

  Calliastra was the first to respond. She laughed. It was not particularly kind; she reminded Jewel viscerally of Duster. She was the only person to laugh. The name meant nothing to Jewel; it clearly meant nothing to Finch, Adam, or Teller, either. But she felt, rather than saw, the stiffening of her personal domicis, and when she glanced to the side and back, she saw that his expression was rigidly neutral.

  “Why is that funny?” the creature now demanded of the godchild.

  “You are, currently, a large, silver-furred weasel.”

  He instantly bristled. To Jewel’s eye, he did not resemble a weasel. He resembled a badly put together fox, with odd feet. On first sight, however, he had been a bear. Jewel, who tended to use the names she was given, had named her cats in order to lessen their bickering. Had she been asked to name the creature, she might have called him Silver, for just as good a reason.

  “It is like your clothing—which is deplorable, by the way. I might be a large, dirt-brown bear. I might be a midnight steed, with wolflike fangs. I might be many things.” One of which was angry. “I might even choose to look like you.”

  “You could not.”

  “Might I remind you about my rules regarding destruction? You are, at the moment, a guest here. Guests can be asked to leave.”

  “Can they?”

  “Or made to leave, if it comes to that.”

  “She is Sen,” Calliastra said. She had settled on bored rather than annoyed or angry, and her voice was almost a drawl.

  “She is not. Not yet. But the castle speaks her name.” He glared at Shadow but spoke to Jewel. “Have I permission to enter your wilderness?”

  Jewel nodded.

  To Calliastra, Jewel said, “Come. Let’s find you a room. There are probably a lot of them. I’d warn you that closets are dangerous, but I don’t actually think they are for you.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “You don’t look happy,” Jester said, leaning against a tree and examining his fingernails for inappropriate dirt.

  “You don’t look awake.”

  “And you have eyes in the back of your head now?”

  “They’re not really required,” Birgide replied, but she did turn, the hint of a smile at play across her otherwise severe face. “You have no idea how angry Duvari would be with me.”

  “Because of the new guests?”

  “No. Because although it is impossible for me to be unaware when you approach me, I am willing to expose my back to you.”

  “Ah. I thought you were just being condescending.” He grinned, and the slight smile deepened into something that resembled genuine amusement. It helped, because her eyes were blood-red. He came to stand by her side. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I interrupting anything important?”

  “It is a small wonder to me that The Terafin has not strangled you.”

  “And not simply removed the House Name?”

  “She would strangle you first.”

  “True. She’s been busy. You’re not happy about our guests.”

  “The elders are not entirely happy about the guests. The majority are Lord Celleriant’s people, yes?”

  Jester hesitated; Birgide marked it.

  “Celleriant,” he finally said, “is like the Chosen, but with less humor. He’s not one of us, but he is The Terafin’s. He would die defending her.”

  “Not happily.”

  “Probably not. But they wouldn’t.”

  “Have you spoken with them?”

  Jester shook his head. “You’re watching Shianne.”

  “Yes.”

  “You think she’s dangerous?”

  “Or possibly in danger. If the influx of Lord Celleriant’s people has unsettled the forest, it is her presence that has truly alarmed it. I think it not impossible that were she here as anything but The Terafin’s personal guest, the elders would try to kill her.”

  “That . . . would not be good.”

  “No,” Birgide agreed. “But I confess I did not expect the animosity. To my eyes,” eyes that had been altered by the forest itself, “she is a pregnant, mortal woman. What they see, I do not, and cannot, see. But you did not come here to discuss my discomfort.”

  “Actually, I did. I wanted your impression of the Arianni—that’s what they’re called by the lesser races, apparently.”

  “You wanted, or Haval wanted?”

  He grinned again. Birgide was suspicious by nature, which meant there was no fear, no condescension, in that suspicion. “Both, actually. And if I’m being honest—”

  “Don’t put yourself out on my behalf.”

  “—Haval is occupied by Jarven. If the forest considers Shianne the threat, Haval is more concerned with Jarven.” Jester shrugged. “Jay’s not happy about Jarven.”

  “No; she doesn’t trust him. It gives us all hope.”

  And at that, he laughed. “I also wanted to hear what you thought about the other significant guest.”

  “Which one?”

  “Calliastra,” he said, but he said it uneasily. Too much was changing, too quickly. He was not Warden, as Birgide was, but he could almost feel the tension in the forest as a pressure, a growing weight.

  “The elders do not seem to be concerned about Calliastra, one way
or the other. They do not believe she poses—or can pose—a threat to The Terafin.”

  “Never say that where Calliastra can hear you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Trust me on this.”

  “Do you wish to speak with the guests?”

  “I had hoped to discreetly observe them, but I found you first.”

  “The forest is being defensive,” she replied. “I am Warden; the forest cannot protect me if I am to fulfill my duties. But you are important to The Terafin in a way that I am not.” She said this without apparent unhappiness; it was observation, nothing more. “It is possible Haval could reach them; I do not think anyone who is otherwise not accompanied by The Terafin herself will.”

  Jester exhaled.

  “That was what you wanted to know, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  Birgide paused as if listening to something inaudible to Jester’s ears. “It wasn’t the only thing.”

  “No. I’d say you’re wasted here, but actually, I don’t think you are. Where is the House Mage?”

  Her frown deepened. “I do not interfere with the House Mage; his duties and mine overlap, but we perform them independently.”

  “Can you find him?”

  “Can the Chosen not summon him?”

  “I wasn’t sent to ask the Chosen; I was asked to ask you.”

  “Because Haval is occupied.”

  “Yes. Personally, I would leap at any task or chore that got me away from Jarven. Haval, however, thought to send me.”

  Birgide was silent. “He thought it necessary?” she said at last.

  Jester nodded, uneasily aware that he could have asked this question two weeks ago and she would have answered without hesitation. Possibly without thought. “What’s happening with Meralonne? I thought he might be with the Arianni or with Shianne.”

  “There will come a time when Meralonne is no longer welcome in the forest, in Terafin, or perhaps even within the city itself. The elders discuss him frequently, but only when they are near the tree of fire—and they are not particularly fond of that tree, although it doesn’t burn them.”

  “When?” Jester asked.

  “I’m not certain. I’ve asked the elders. I’ve asked the trees. They are not afraid of Meralonne; when they speak of him, they do not speak of betrayal. They are worried for Terafin, but they are not worried for the woman who rules the House. I would say they are almost . . . excited.”

  “Is Meralonne with Celleriant’s people?”

  “No.”

  “Then where, Birgide?”

  “I am uncertain; he is not in one place.” Silence. “I believe, however, you will find him in the heart of The Terafin’s personal space.”

  “You believe.”

  Her silence was the silence of thought, of deliberation, as if she were picking a path made of words in a landscape that was only barely stable enough to support their weight. “Would you trust yourself with The Terafin’s power?”

  This was not what he’d expected. “Hells, no.”

  Birgide seemed slightly surprised.

  “I’ve got a much fouler temper, and I don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but us. No one cared about us except us when we had no money and no position. I’d trust her with power because she did see us. We’d’ve died, without her. She rescued me from a brothel—but she didn’t come for me. She came for someone else, and she didn’t want to leave any of us behind.” He shrugged, uncomfortable and irritated. “I’d trust her with power because when she had power—and it was nothing compared to what we have now—she pulled us up with her.

  “Me? I’d let most of the city burn.”

  Birgide bowed her head again. “What she has to be, she isn’t. The choice is hers, but she hasn’t evaluated it, won’t face it, won’t look at it. She will,” Birgide added. “But Haval is very concerned.”

  “You’ve discussed this with Haval?”

  “It wasn’t necessary. Inasmuch as a man of Haval’s nature can, he views The Terafin as a daughter. Were it not for his wife’s obvious affection for The Terafin, I am not certain he would have. He is far more like Jarven or Duvari than any of you.”

  “Except for the wife part.”

  “Except for Hannerle, yes. It is a huge exception. It is a defining exception. But absent his wife, he would be as terrifying as Jarven or Duvari, and as scrupulous.”

  “And he thinks that I have the potential to be Jarven or Duvari?”

  “No.”

  “He just believes I’m callous enough to be a close second.”

  “He believes you well-situated and observant enough; he does not believe your sense of self-worth is derived from social scruples. He will use you, yes, because you consent to be used; his focus is turned toward Jewel and her survival, as is yours. The survival of the rest of the city is, I feel, ancillary to his concerns—or would be, if the city were not where his wife lives. And you have once again broken my attempt at analogy.

  “Your Jewel, your Terafin, is not what she must become if you are all to survive. But if she becomes what she must become—and no, I don’t know what that is; the trees speak of it in a hush, and the cats themselves mutter—she will not be your Jewel. Can you accept that?”

  “Can she do what must be done if she doesn’t become something other or different?”

  “I do not know.”

  And that, Jester thought, was a half-truth. “Is Haval in the forest?”

  “He has returned, albeit briefly, to the manse.”

  “Then why don’t I speak to Haval? It’s not like I care what he thinks of me.” He had taken less than a step when Birgide’s voice caught him, almost as if it were a snare.

  “And you care what I think?”

  Jester did not look back. He did, however, answer. “You’re not den.”

  She accepted that. That was the thing about Birgide: she accepted everything. As if people were distant mountains, arboreal trees, raging oceans: things she could witness but could neither control nor own. And perhaps because she did, he spoke again, his back toward her because he could turn his back to her without fear.

  “You’re not den, but you could have been.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Haval was, as Birgide had said, in the manse. Given that he was in the act of what might pass for cleaning or tidying in a room that was covered in the detritus of his tailoring work, she was less correct about the “briefly” part.

  He did not seem surprised to see Jester. Jester stood in the open door’s frame, as if daring Haval to leave until he moved. He was aware that were Haval determined, there would be no contest, even given the disparity in their ages.

  “If you are determined to remain there, you might at least offer to help.”

  “My offer to help involves creating one large pile—preferably in a fireplace—and setting it alight. I believe you raised objections to that.”

  “Some of the materials would not burn, and the attempt might cause you difficulty. While I personally would have no qualms with this—playing with fire often has consequences, and if you survived, you would learn—Jewel would be upset. Why are you here?”

  “I don’t like Jarven, I dislike what I see between the two of you, and I would consider war a boon if it divested the House of Jarven.”

  “I believe that Jarven is fond of you.”

  “Jarven could adore me, and it wouldn’t stop him from slitting my throat if I happened to be inconveniently in the way.”

  “No. But prior to that, he would at least be amusing company. You’d prefer Haerrad?”

  “That’s low.”

  Haval smiled. “Did you come to ask about Jarven? If so, I am not inclined to answer.”

  “Not really. I’m grateful that Jarven is your problem. I would love it if he became sole
ly your problem, and he ceased to be any part of Finch’s.”

  “He has saved her life at least three times in the past year. I believe she is only aware of one. Be careful what you wish for.” He exhaled. “There is a reason that I have never advised his removal. Loss of Finch would cause far more damage than Jarven’s presence. Even were Jarven to attempt to assassinate Jewel—and I hold that as an outside possibility, but a possibility nonetheless—it would not cause the damage that Finch’s death would.”

  “That’s not why you keep him.”

  “No. I keep him or, rather, have ignored his presence, because the cost of doing otherwise would be too high. The magical fortifications that have prevented Finch’s death would, of course, prevent Jarven’s; to circumvent his protections, one would have to be able to predict them. And even then, the only guarantee is that Jarven would then become an enemy and would remain so unless a greater advantage convinced him to disregard the unfortunate past.”

  “And now?”

  Haval shook his head. “I have discussed Jarven as much as I am willing to, with you.”

  “And with Jay?”

  “She will not ask.”

  Jester considered this briefly. It was true. Without external prompting, she wouldn’t. She didn’t like Jarven, and never had, because she couldn’t trust him. But she also understood that, in some fashion, he was Finch’s. “I came to talk about The Terafin.”

  This caught Haval’s attention. “The Terafin, then? Not Jay?”

  Jester ignored this. “What will happen to her?”

  “I am not entirely certain.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  Haval stopped his packing. He turned to face Jester fully, his face expressionless, his eyes unblinking. His arms dropped to his sides; he might have been a maker-born statue—something that suggested life without containing it.

  “You have, no doubt, heard the stories. You have observed Jewel with her domicis, with Lord Celleriant. You have seen the cats. None of these things are what we would have once considered normal. You have seen demons, Jester; you have seen gods. You have seen someone who seems to walk through time, as if time were a path that could be followed. Have you attempted to understand what once happened when the gods were free to walk the mortal realm?