War

by Michelle West

  Nor did Jewel. Her Chosen preceded her; her domicis walked behind. Shadow, however, had grown unnaturally silent. Jewel was as alone as she was likely to get when she was on her own ground; she had as much privacy as she could expect to have.

  Shadow, mindful of her dignity, said nothing. That should have been a clue.

  “You are quiet,” Sigurne said, the final syllable tailing up slightly. It was an invitation, or as much of an invitation as she could make when speaking with The Terafin.

  And it was not as The Terafin that Jewel wished to speak. It had been more than two decades since she had heard her Oma’s voice in the flesh; more than two decades since the whole of her life had been built in and around that old woman’s harsh dictate.

  It had been, therefore, more than a decade since she had felt safe.

  Safety is illusion, two voices said, with the requisite amount of disapproval.

  I know, she told them, staring at Sigurne’s hands. Staring at her own. It was better than lifting her face to meet the older woman’s eyes. I know. But if it was illusion, if it was phantasm, it was nonetheless the illusion to which she’d dedicated her life. And she wasn’t the only one; the den had done the same. They’d seen her through the holdings, when starvation was the biggest threat they faced—that or freezing to death in the winter. They’d stayed by her side when the threats expanded to include demons, magic, death. Even death. They’d come with her to Terafin, and in her early years she had believed that with the Terafin name behind them, they’d be safe.

  And they’d been safe, given demons and magic and gods.

  But they’d been safe because they’d stood—all of them, Jewel included—in the shadows cast by Amarais Handernesse ATerafin. Jewel was not, and could never become, Amarais. She felt the lack keenly, as she stood in the mist raised by roaring, falling water.

  “Jewel.”

  She lifted her head. What she saw in Sigurne’s face almost made her lower it again. She was not a child. She had not been a child for years. But Sigurne reached out—slowly, deliberately, her hands losing the orange-and-blue glow that was so familiar it was almost like gloves—and touched her right cheek.

  “You are not like I was in my youth. But had you been raised among my kin, I think you would have been. I have no children. I will not embarrass you by pretending that I think of you as my own—I confess that the intricate dance between parent and child when one has multiple responsibilities has often confused me.

  “Had I a daughter, had you been that daughter, I am not sure what I would now do. But I believe I would do everything in my power to spare her the future that is coming, regardless of what we now choose to do. In the darkest of my moments, I see so little hope I do not feel that I can give advice. Is it my advice you seek?”

  Jewel shook her head. She knew that Sigurne had no advice to give. What she wanted, for just this moment, was to give over the responsibility of choice to someone she trusted—someone powerful, someone wise, someone steadfast. Sigurne Mellifas was all of those things.

  As if she had spoken the words she would never speak aloud as The Terafin, Sigurne’s smile softened. “Were it in my power, Terafin, I would do what you must do. It is not.”

  “I don’t know what I have to do.”

  “No. No more do the gods or the wise, and it has been discussed in admittedly very closed circles. To me, you are young. Not a child, but young. We fear that the fate of the world rests upon your shoulders, and you lack the experience and the wisdom to make the correct choices. But child, we do not truly understand what those choices might be; we cannot see them.

  “Why did you wish to speak with me?”

  “To ask you what I asked.” Jewel swallowed. “And to ask you what that ring means.”

  “Ah. And I can answer neither question. No, it is not that what you have asked is impolitic or prying; it is not; I simply lack knowledge. The ring you wear and the ring I wear are not the same. Tell me, Terafin, what do you hear?”

  “Besides horns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Water. Wind. Birdsong.” Jewel closed her eyes. “. . . My name.”

  “That is all?”

  Was it? She listened; the horns made it hard. “That’s all.”

  “Then we have more time than Meralonne now fears.” Sigurne inhaled, and gained inches in height, although her shoulders and back were still bent. “Come. I am as prone to curiosity as any other member of the Order of Knowledge. Let me see what you have made of your personal chambers.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sigurne did not seem overly concerned—or impressed—by the castle. If she was curious, she kept her questions to herself, or perhaps she understood that Jewel couldn’t answer them. But when they entered the courtyard, she froze beneath the housing of the gate, her eyes drawn to, riveted on, the fountain.

  “You did not create this,” she said, her voice so thin it was barely audible.

  “No.”

  “Fabril did.”

  “That wasn’t a question.”

  “No, Terafin. No, Jewel, it was not.” The orange weave around the magi intensified, but the blue did as well. “May I?”

  She did not wait for permission, but permission wasn’t necessary. What Calliastra had seen, what Meralonne himself had seen, she did not—but Jewel didn’t ask. Instead, she kept pace with the guildmaster as the guildmaster stepped toward the rim of what—to Jewel’s eye—was the stone into which the water fell from on high.

  She stepped through it, as if it were simple illusion; the orange light wavered, buckling as if at a blow.

  Avandar.

  Jewel.

  What do you see? When you look at the fountain, what do you see?

  His silence was marked, long; Jewel watched Sigurne as she traversed the edge of the structure seen by the guildmaster. She thought Avandar would not answer, and was surprised when he said, There is a reason that your personal space now includes a waterfall.

  “What is an Artisan?” Jewel asked.

  Sigurne froze and then slowly turned, as if avoiding something physical that Jewel herself couldn’t see. She could see water; she could see that Sigurne was standing in it, and could see, as well, that the guildmaster wasn’t any wetter for the experience.

  “That is a question that has occupied many of the Order’s researchers since the Order was founded. And no, Terafin, I have no answer. Or rather, I have too many, and I am certain of the validity of none of them.”

  “But this fountain was created by an Artisan.”

  “Some say it was created by the Artisan. And some say Fabril was not mortal; that he was not, in any true sense, maker-born. Fabril was many things to many people; he was rumored to exist at the dawn of time, under other names. If he created this monument, I can almost believe it.”

  “He created it,” Jewel said.

  “I see. Will you walk its path?”

  “Path?”

  Sigurne was silent for another beat.

  “We don’t see the same things when we look at this fountain,” Jewel said, when the guildmaster did not immediately speak. “What the firstborn see, what the Arianni see, what other mortals see—all appear to be different. To me, you are standing in the middle of a stone pool into which water falls from the hands—and the eyes—of a large, alabaster statue. But you are not wet; the water that I see—and Sigurne, I can touch it—does not affect you. If you see a path here, or a path from the fountain, it’s a path that is open to you.”

  The guildmaster bowed her head a moment, her chin dipping, her lowered face shrouded by shadows cast by the statue that Jewel had, for the first time, described in words, even if the words were scant. Sigurne left the fountain, left the water, and came to stand once again by Jewel’s side.

  “It is not,” she said quietly, “a path that is open to me. A man yo
u once knew specialized in relics that contained written or carved Old Weston, possibly Ancient Weston. Did he teach you much of it?”

  Jewel blinked. “Are you talking about Rath? Ararath Handernesse?”

  “Indeed.”

  The name echoed in the stillness. The fall of water, both within and beyond the castle’s walls, did nothing to diminish the syllables. The import of the name seemed to diminish all other questions.

  She could hear it; it seemed to break free of Sigurne’s voice, and the echoes, like the resonant tail end of specific bells, were louder, larger, clearer.

  “Jewel?”

  “He taught me to recognize it so that I’d know what was valuable. To sell,” she added, turning in the direction of the single word, the single name.

  “Very well. The path I see leads to a . . . door. The door is engraved with runes I recognize as Old Weston; the work seems new, but it is maker-made; it might be millennia old.”

  “And the words?”

  “I do not recognize them. I can repair to the Order and set my experts to translate. . .”

  “You don’t think it will help.”

  “I think the words that you cannot see are words that are nonetheless meant for you.”

  Jewel whispered a name. Once. Twice. A third time.

  And the waters of the fountain parted, the hem of stone robes shifting as noiselessly as if they were of the lightest, finest silk.

  Chapter Three

  ‘‘COUNCILLOR.”

  Haval lifted a hand but made no further motion; he demanded silence in all its forms. Had he not, Jester might not have heard Jay’s voice. His own hands froze as what she was saying penetrated a stillness that allowed for no other noise.

  The syllables died into stillness; the forest held its breath until forced—as Jester was forced, if he wished to retain consciousness—to exhale.

  Then, motion returned.

  The first thing to move was short and golden-furred. He walked around Haval’s feet and came to stand before Jester, his nose raised in a lofty way that reminded Jester very much of the worst of the patriciate. He understood the demand inherent in the posture and folded his arms.

  Haval, however, bent to one knee to offer the fox the seat he demanded; he rose, and the fox, held in his arms, rose with him.

  “We do not know this Ararath,” the fox said. “What is it?”

  “Who,” Jester said tersely.

  No immortals appreciated being corrected. To Haval, the fox said, “Who is it?”

  “A mortal of our acquaintance,” Haval replied, his voice smooth and uninflected.

  A fox face was not shaped for frowning; the elder had to settle for baring his teeth instead.

  “He is dead.”

  The fox snorted. “Of course he is. But she is not mourning.”

  “No?”

  “I am of her lands, Councillor, in a way that you are not. I know mourning when it is felt. Why does she speak his name so loudly? Why does she speak it so clearly?”

  “They are very good questions,” Haval replied. “And as is often the case with very good questions, there are no simple answers. But it is the question I have been asking myself. I believe I am wanted. I must set you down; I will have to return to The Terafin’s side.”

  “And you will take them with you?”

  Haval did not turn. Jester, however, did.

  The Wild Hunt had gathered. The fact that their gathering had been silent was irrelevant; they stood upon a path that had widened to accommodate them. They were armed, armored, their platinum hair a spill down their glinting backs. They did not ride.

  “Ah, no,” Haval replied. He turned toward the Arianni, as if inspecting them. “Where,” he finally asked, “is Lord Celleriant?”

  “He has gone ahead,” one of the Arianni answered. “So, too, Shianne and the firstborn.”

  “And Kallandras?”

  “With Lord Celleriant.”

  “Very well. Your numbers are too great to take through the manor; your presence would cause alarm. We will have to approach The Terafin along a different path.”

  This was news to Jester.

  “Will you go to The Terafin?”

  “Yes. But I’d like to see this different path with my own eyes.”

  Haval did not argue. Instead, he turned to the right, which appeared to be composed of standing trees, and nodded.

  Birgide Viranyi stepped from between the trunks. Or rather, she took a step forward, as if she had been standing in plain sight the entire time.

  “You are Warden. The decision is yours.”

  “Jester ATerafin has the run of The Terafin’s lands. All of them.”

  “Apologies; I was perhaps unclear in an attempt to be concise.” Jester recognized the sarcasm that indicated a special type of Haval annoyance.

  Birgide, however, was not Haval’s subordinate. “I agree that the movement of the Wild Hunt through the manse is too risky. I am not entirely certain—” She stopped. To Jester, she said, “The Terafin’s rooms are not what they were.”

  “No,” Jester agreed. He was not surprised that Birgide knew this, although he was certain she had not been invited to view them herself.

  “They are here,” Birgide continued, when she failed to see any hint of comprehension or enlightenment across Jester’s feature.

  “You said they were always connected to the forest.”

  “Connected, yes. I could reach her rooms from any path in the forest. But the bridge between forest and her rooms had to be . . . built. The whole of those rooms overlooked domains of which she was not Lord. Now, they do not.”

  “And you have reservations?”

  “Yes. I understand that the changes she makes are made subconsciously, but her state of mind is of grave concern to the Kings.”

  “To Duvari, you mean,” Jester could not prevent himself from saying.

  Birgide, however, didn’t blink. “Strategically, a window into multiple lands might be desirable.”

  “To you.”

  “To us, Jester. To everyone who is not Jewel Markess ATerafin.”

  “She is Lord,” the fox countered. “And it has not always been wise to allow other lands to trespass into ours. If she has made this change, it is for a reason.”

  Birgide inclined her head. “But it is not a reason she herself understands, and she has given stewardship of these lands to one of the merely mortal.”

  “Meaning you do not understand it.”

  Birgide did not answer.

  Jester said, “I’ll go through the house with Birgide.”

  “It is not—” Birgide began. Jester grabbed her by the arm and dragged her off, and after a very tiny resistance, she allowed this.

  * * *

  • • •

  “You do understand,” Jester said, trying to sidestep the mountainous bank of normal flowers that had appeared almost beneath his feet. “Birgide, it’s me. I’m generally quiet and famously lazy, but I will hound you to death if you do not answer me.”

  “That is a poorly thought out threat.”

  “It is. I’ll have cats hound you instead.”

  “Do what?”

  Jester cursed.

  “She isn’t home yet,” Birgide said quietly, giving Night the side-eye although she spoke to Jester. The cats acknowledged that she was Warden—whatever that mystical position meant to the wild—but accorded her the same respect they generally accorded The Terafin: none at all. “She means to make her home as safe as possible in her absence.”

  “She was absent before she built a castle in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes. She was. But the House Mage was here, and he was, for the moment, on our side.”

  “And now?”

  “He will not be.”

  “Here, or on
our side?”

  “Here,” Birgide said. “The latter, I do not know. But the forest elders fear that he will be one among the horde of enemies we will face. And we will face them soon. Can you not hear the horns?”

  “No. The cats make too much noise.”

  Night stepped on his foot. As Jester cursed him, Night said, “Now who’s making noise?” To Birgide, he said, “He can’t hear them. He is stupid.”

  “Stupid and deaf are not the same thing,” Jester protested. He turned to Birgide and paused; she was smiling. He seldom saw her smile, but there was affection in it, and he was almost shocked to realize that she liked the cats. Or at least this one.

  “He is leaving,” Night continued, talking down his nose at Jester, which should have been awkward given the disparity in the heights of their noses. “He is waking. She cannot stay. She cannot leave him here. But if he is awake, he will be able to enter. There is nowhere he cannot walk.”

  “There is,” Birgide said softly. “And as is often the case, it is the only place he desires to walk. She will walk there,” she added.

  “Who will?”

  Night stepped on Jester’s foot, even harder. “She won’t take you.”

  “No. She knows I’m useless.”

  Night nodded. Birgide, however, frowned.

  “Please don’t start,” Jester said, waving a hand in front of her expression.

  “She does not consider you useless. She does not consider any of her den useless.”

  Jester, uncomfortable, retrieved his foot from under Night’s paw, which took effort.

  “Your strengths are best utilized in the manse and in the city itself, where people live. And yes, she wishes you all to be safe—but she is not a child, ATerafin. She understands that safety is a gamble, an illusion. She would not, and has never, considered you a burden.”

  “She does. She doesn’t call it that, but she does. If not for us, most of her fear would vanish. She’s always wanted to keep us alive; she wanted us to be ATerafin because we were all too ignorant to imagine that people who had the name wouldn’t be safe. Even her.”