War

by Michelle West

  “You are wrong.”

  “I think I know her pretty well.”

  “I think you care about the den, and only the den—and you imagine that she’s the same.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Stop squabbling,” Night said, snorting in disgust.

  “That’s rich, coming from you.”

  “I didn’t start it.”

  Jester snorted back.

  Birgide, however, was not fooled. “The Terafin almost died because a stranger’s child was held hostage by a demon. She knew—who better to know it—that attempting to save that child was death. And she made the attempt anyway.”

  Jester didn’t ask her how she knew because, in the moment, he didn’t care.

  “The whole of the city is composed of the children of strangers. They are not den. They have never met her, and given her lofty status, they likely never will. But she still sneaks out—or did, before she assumed the title—to visit the Common; she has friends there. Her den is her kin, her family. But her concerns for those outside that family are not yours.

  “You were enraged when you thought Vareena had been abused by a member of the House. I do not believe you could turn your back on the rest of the world as easily as you believe you could. I could,” she continued. “Duvari could. And your Haval?”

  “He is not my Haval.”

  “He could.”

  “Not if his wife has anything to say about it.”

  Birgide smiled again. “I have yet to be formally introduced to his wife, and I doubt it will ever happen.”

  “You failed to list Jarven.”

  “I don’t believe you enjoy it when I belabor the obvious.”

  That did make him smile. He was uneasy, however. “Hannerle isn’t like her husband. She’s louder, for one, and she’s genuine. What she says, she believes. She might be wrong,” he added, “but never deliberately. And she hates what Haval is now doing.”

  “Yet he does it.”

  “He does it because she hates what walking away would do to the rest of us more. She truly believes that Haval can somehow protect us—well, Teller and Finch. And she’s inordinately fond of Finch. If she weren’t, Haval wouldn’t be here.”

  “You are so sure?”

  Jester nodded. “Around his wife, he’s a different man. No one—no one who wants to survive—would threaten his wife. I wouldn’t, even if I had the Kings’ own armies to back me up.”

  “And that is the only reason?”

  Jester grimaced. “Hannerle is loud and bossy. And she nags. She is not my idea of restful companionship. Finch was genuinely sad when Hannerle left the West Wing. I think Jay was as well. But Haval is different with her. If he has a weakness, it’s his wife. I don’t know what Haval used to do before he met her, or married her, or became a clothier. But by this point, I can make an educated guess.”

  “And by this point you know enough that you would never do so publicly?”

  “Got it in one. I don’t like him,” he added. “But I can’t stand Jarven, and Haval is a small shield that can be placed between Jarven and the rest of the den.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  “I’ve got nothing against lying, as you well know, but I don’t see the point in lying to you. Yes.”

  “One day, I’ll tell you what little I know of his history.”

  “When he’s dead?”

  “It will be safer then, yes.” She spoke so gravely, Jester almost missed the humor in the words, but it was there in the glint of her unnaturally colored eyes. Those eyes at the moment could pass for brown in poor light, but the galleries of the Terafin manse were not poorly lit.

  “You tried,” Birgide said, “to save me. I don’t believe you’re heartless. I do believe you wish you were. But believe it or not, Jester, it is you—and your chosen kin—who will define the shape of the city.”

  Jester snorted. “If it were up to me, she wouldn’t be living in a castle.”

  “Funny.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I only like to be funny when it’s a deliberate choice. What’s funny?”

  “Of all the den, I think you would be happiest in a castle. It’s a fortification, and it’s meant to repel invaders and discourage visitors.”

  After a long pause, Jester said, “Tell me about Meralonne.”

  And as they walked, she did. For a time after she had finished, Jester had nothing to say.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Did you know Ararath?” Birgide asked.

  “I lived with him for a couple of years.”

  This seemed to surprise her.

  “Jay was living with Rath when we first met. It was Rath who found us, indirectly, when she decided to come searching. She meant to save Duster,” he added. “The rest of us were afterthoughts.”

  “That’s harsh.”

  Jester shrugged. “So’s life. The manor at which we were held captive, and from which our services were sold, burned to the ground. Everyone alive, she rescued from the fire. When she realized we had nowhere to go, she took us in.” He grimaced. “I really don’t want to be talking about this.”

  “No. I apologize. But I hear his name almost as strongly as I hear hers. The forest is afraid,” she added. “The Terafin will not stay, but none of the elders are certain how she intends to reach the Hidden Court of the Winter Queen. Even her own kin can no longer find it—and they have tried. I am not certain it was wise to bring them all here. They are not hers, and do not serve her; they serve only their queen.

  “But the name is causing eddies. Haval recognizes it.”

  “He would. Jay would never have met him if it weren’t for Old Rath.” He paused, and then added, “Hectore would recognize it, as well.”

  They had reached the doors to The Terafin’s inner chambers. The Chosen stopped them both, but it was entirely cursory; they could not keep these doors barred if Birgide chose to enter, and they both knew it. Birgide, however, bowed.

  “Jester wishes to speak with The Terafin before her departure and has been summoned to do so.” As far as Jester knew, this was a lie. But Birgide heard what the forest heard.

  “And you came with him?”

  “I intended to approach her rooms from the outside,” Birgide replied. “But it is not a road that Jester can easily walk, and it would have delayed my ability to make my own report. The others,” she added, “will take the longer route; there are some among them who would not be welcome in the manse but are accepted in the forest.”

  The Chosen nodded, as if the information was not news to them. Then again, when in this position, they could be set on fire and react the same way.

  Birgide reached out to touch the door; it opened before her hand made contact with the wooden paneling that comprised it. Not for the Warden the regular handles.

  He had been prepared for waterfalls, water, and a wet trek to a castle.

  “Does this look like a waterfall to you?” Jester was standing at the gates of what he assumed was the castle Teller had described. The gates were open. Through them, he could see Sigurne Mellifas—or so he assumed, given the color and the fall of her robes—and Jay. Torvan and Marave were to either side of her, stiff as boards; Avandar, however, was a step back. As was the gray, winged cat.

  Night sauntered over to Shadow and stepped on his tail. Or tried.

  “Why did you bring him?” The gray cat demanded.

  “He followed me,” Jester replied, before Night could. The black cat hissed in outrage, but before he could shred any part of Jester, Jay turned.

  Her face was ashen. Her hands were fists. Her eyes were reddened, not with figurative rage, but tears held back. She swallowed.

  He lifted his hands. They’re coming.

  “They can’t, not yet. I have to speak with Gilafas.”

 
“Unless you’ve got some convenient way to tell them to stay put, they’re coming. I don’t know how,” he added. “Birgide probably has some idea.”

  Birgide, however, was staring at the fountain itself. Or at a statue that might once have been a fountain. Only a trickle of water remained in its basin. Her eyes, however, were now almost crimson in her otherwise pale face. Her hands were fists.

  “They will come,” Birgide finally said, as Jester thought to remove himself from the physical line of conversation. “They, too, hear the horns. The Sleepers are stirring.”

  Jay opened her mouth, but no words came, and after a pause in which she clearly struggled, she closed it again. She turned to Sigurne, and to Jester’s surprise, Sigurne opened her arms and enfolded The Terafin in a hug. He wanted to call it maternal, but he had no experience with that.

  “Can you see the road?” Jewel asked, from the region of Sigurne’s shoulder.

  And Birgide said, “Yes.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Jester could not see the road.

  “That is because you are stupid,” Shadow told him. He had ambled over to where Jester stood. “Why are you standing there?”

  “I’m stupid,” Jester replied, not much caring about his dignity when it came to the cats.

  Night hissed.

  “Where’s Snow?”

  The black cat shrugged. “Who cares where he is?”

  “We do,” Jester replied. “Shadow, are you going with her?” Because he understood and accepted that Jay was leaving. She was leaving, and she had not said her good-byes to any of the den; Finch was at the Merchant Authority, Teller in the right-kin’s office, Arann with the Chosen. Angel and his friend were in the West Wing, not here; Jester realized that she might leave without Angel, and something in him rebelled.

  He didn’t want to interrupt Jay; not when she was all but clinging to Sigurne Mellifas. But Angel was the only part of them she was willing to take with her, and he wanted Angel here.

  He turned to the gray cat. Shadow was watching him with speculative eyes. “Go get Angel.”

  The cat’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you get him?”

  “I won’t get there in time.”

  Night yawned. Loudly.

  “What if she doesn’t want him to follow?”

  “Doesn’t matter what she wants. She promised. And I know what he’ll be like to live with if she leaves him here. I’m not going through that again.”

  “Oh?”

  “Carver kept him in line. And Carver’s—” He held breath, exhaled. “Carver’s not here. I’m not his equal. Never was. Go get him, Shadow.”

  If cats could smile, Shadow did. “You are not very stupid,” he said.

  “He issssss.”

  “Where is Snow?”

  “Why do you care?” Night demanded.

  “Because she’s only going to take Shadow,” Jester finally replied. “Last time, she took you all. She didn’t want to take the risk of leaving you behind. But this time, she’ll only take Shadow—and actually, I’m not even certain about that.”

  Shadow’s voice was a low-throated growl. “She will.”

  “What will they do when she’s gone?”

  “Do I look like them?”

  “Yes.”

  Night hissed laughter. “He is very stupid.” He twined a tail around Jester’s left leg. “Maybe we will eat you.”

  Birgide snorted. “They will do what Meralonne did when he could trust himself enough to serve. Like the House Mage, when they fight, they’re less difficult.”

  “They create difficulty,” Jester replied, thinking of the bills that had landed on Teller’s desk, the sums a staggering accusation of malfeasance.

  “When they’re bored, yes. I seldom hear them complain about boredom when they fight. Jarven was injured on our borders,” she added, as if this would tip the scale that Jester appeared to be carrying.

  “Jarven’s not a match for the House Mage in outright battle.”

  Birgide said nothing. It was often her way of disagreeing when the discussion itself would yield little of practical use to her. “The cats will become Meralonne.”

  “We will be better than him,” Night said, growing inches as he raised his head. He looked either regal or pretentious. Probably both.

  Shadow evaporated. There was no other word for what happened to him as Night preened. Birgide didn’t seem concerned, and Jay hadn’t noticed, so Jester decided not to worry. He waited, his hands behind his back, until Sigurne released Jay.

  Jay turned to him, her eyes sliding away from his.

  And Jester exhaled. “I didn’t blame you for Duster’s death.”

  Her confusion was instant, genuine.

  “I didn’t blame you for Lefty, Lander, or Fisher.”

  Confusion receded. So, apparently, did breathing. He hated to have to say any of this; he was good with words precisely because he refused to give them any real meaning. He could talk for hours about nothing and be witty and entertaining. This kind of talk? It wasn’t in him, not for long. And Birgide had already used up half of his annual allowance.

  “I do not blame you for Carver. I don’t blame you for not bringing him home. If what Ellerson told us is true, he chose.” When she didn’t respond, he continued. He accepted that he had to say this because he was the only one who had made clear that the rest of the world could burn in Carver’s place if she brought Carver back.

  And he had meant it, but Birgide had unsettled him.

  “You left something with him you shouldn’t have left. I personally love you for it. You know how I feel.”

  She did meet his eyes then, her own still tinged red with weeping for an entirely different man’s loss.

  “But I also know how Carver feels. He chose, Jay. It wasn’t your fault the gods chose to bury the ancient princes beneath Averalaan. It isn’t your fault that they’re waking. Everything we’re suffering now comes down to those two things. Carver isn’t like me. He loves the servants. He loves the back halls. He loves the den. He’s friendly in a way I’m not, and never want to be. People like him because he’s Carver. Hells, I like him because he’s Carver.

  “If you did what I wanted, you’d have to go over his head. You’d have to ignore that he’s Carver; you’d have to trample all over any choice he might make.”

  “He did it for us.” Her first words.

  “And? So did Duster. Doesn’t make it any less their choice.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t feel guilty. I know what happened isn’t on me. Storms in harbor aren’t on me, either. But you? You feel guilty.

  “The fact that you can feel guilty, that part of you wants to protect us, is what we love. It’s where we feel safe. Terafin is only home because you’re here. You’re The Terafin. And you didn’t even want that. But guilt is double-edged. If you start to feel guilty about everything bad that happens, if you start to think it’s all your responsibility, all the time, we’re useless. We’re impediments. We’re the thing that makes your life difficult.

  “I thought you’d learned that lesson, way back. Before we took the name. But maybe Shadow’s right.”

  “I am always right,” Shadow said. “About what?”

  “Me being stupid,” Jay said.

  “Oh, that.” To Jester, the gray cat said, “He’s coming.”

  “And Adam?”

  Jay said, “He’s staying.”

  Jester withdrew his hands from his pocket and signed.

  Jay signed back, this time. I want him here.

  He can help.

  Not where we’re going.

  Anywhere.

  She shook her head. “Adam is staying. I expect you two,” she added, to Night and the absent Snow, “will keep him safe. Do you understand that? My part of this whole war is min
e to shoulder—but he has a role to play, and that’s his. I’m leaving him here, and I expect he will be whole, healthy, and uninjured when I come back.” She then returned to Jester. “I’d like to leave Angel as well.”

  “No dice.”

  “If—and it’s an if—we make it to the Hidden Court, he might be at risk.”

  “It’s not me you have to convince,” Jester said, raising both of his hands. “It’s Angel. And frankly, what you just said wouldn’t convince me, so you’re going to have to work harder. Jay, it’s his choice. We were kids when you found us. You were a kid yourself.

  “We’re not kids now. Finch is regent of arguably the most powerful of The Ten. Teller is right-kin. Arann is Chosen. Daine is needed in the healerie. I’m useless, but I’ve made my peace with that. We’re your mortal face. We’re not talking trees or foxes or cats. We talk to the people in Averalaan, and we react to them. If they play games—and they do and will—we’re there to block them. If we die, we die. But we’d’ve died if you’d never met us. All of us except maybe Arann and Daine. Don’t turn us into a burden.”

  “Terafin,” Birgide said quietly.

  Jewel looked past the Warden, through the open castle gates. She then signed again. She looked as if she would hug Jester, and he stiffened; he could endure hugs from den-kin but had never enjoyed them and probably never would.

  Remembering this, she stopped, her lips quirked in a familiar, rueful grin. She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I wasn’t always like this.”

  “No. Before, we were all helpless, and therefore we were all equal. You needed us then.”

  “I need you now,” was the fervent reply. “I need you to remind me. I need you to say what you just said. I don’t have to be a god. I just have to be myself.”

  Shadow grimaced and yowled. “Boring. Boring, boring, boring.”

  “Tell Finch and Teller—”

  “No, please, don’t make me deliver sentimental messages. Unless you want to take the time to write them, in which case, feel free.”

  She laughed. He would remember that later. She laughed.