were the trees, the undergrowth, the forest floor; gone were the butterflies—and that caused Jewel’s heart to sink. Where trees had stood, there were men—the armored Chosen.
She heard—felt—the drawing of a single sword and knew Celleriant was very close by. Shadow was no longer in the air—but neither was the Warden of Dreams.
In his hands were an ordinary sword, an ordinary whip; in the room, in less than a minute, other ordinary swords were drawn. One of them was Arann’s,
The Warden’s wings expanded suddenly, as if he were still in the dream world and they could encompass the whole of a deep, clear purple sky. There were walls on all sides and ceilings above; the wings hit wall and parts of the wall crumbled. They hit swords, but the swords did not break.
“Nightmare,” she said, pushing herself up, “is rooted in reality.”
“It is stronger than reality.”
“Not here,” she told the Warden. “Never here, again. It’s true that I cannot destroy you.”
Celleriant entered the room at a graceful, deadly run; he saw the Warden, but he did not slow. A shield girded arm—it was the same blue as the sword in his right hand. The Warden’s wings once again shot out, unbalancing two of the Chosen; they did not shear armor, but they dented it.
Once, Jewel would have said that the Warden was beyond the Chosen; the Chosen were men, and the Warden a child of living gods. She would have left the Warden to Celleriant, Avandar, and the cats, because in some fashion, they were part of the same story; not mortal, not human—or in Avandar’s case, only barely—imbued with magics that were wilder, greater, and ultimately incomprehensible to those who did not possess the same.
But the Warden’s sword was not an Arianni sword; it was not a golden one; it did not come from the forges immortals—or gods—might use, if they needed them at all to create. That sword, and the swords that were now raised against him—all save one—had come from the dead earth, or the sleeping earth; they had been forged in fires that obeyed the whim of men, in heated, enclosed rooms that smelled of sweat and coal and fire and oil. They were wielded by men and women whose oaths of service were simple words, not binding ones.
And here, it was enough. It was enough because they were as real as the people who wielded them.
Celleriant’s sword swung in from the left, and the Warden’s whip caught its blade as if the tongues were prehensile. It was not, therefore, Celleriant’s sword that struck the first blow—it was Torvan’s. The Warden’s eyes widened as blade pierced flesh; his blood fell. It was not red, not crimson; it was gold, and thick, like amber honey.
The walls shifted shape where the Warden’s wings touched them; plaster cracked and shattered; paper, laid across it, tore so quickly the color of the room changed every time the Warden struck. Armor took dents as the Chosen struggled to maintain their footing; Celleriant’s sword finally managed to slice the bindings of leather.
Wind howled in the contained space, its voice growing as it responded to the Warden’s summons.
No, Jewel told it. Not here, and not now. Remember?
And the Wind fell silent. As it did, the bits and pieces of detritus it had gathered fell as well; inkstand, inkwell, quill, stoneholder, and magestone itself; two trays and the contents of two large pitchers, brushes, one small mirror, quivered a moment before crashing to the ground.
Avandar lifted his hands in a wide, sweeping arc; light trailed down the length of his arms like a bright, thick liquid.
Avandar, wait.
He is—
He is the child of absent gods; I don’t think we can kill him—
It is possible now.
But she hesitated, and he lowered his arms at her unspoken plea. It wasn’t a command.
“You are,” Jewel told the Warden, her voice clear and cold, “like the wild air, the wild earth, the wild water or the very fire. You are not welcome in my lands without my permission. I cannot kill you—not yet—but I can contain you; you will take root in my garden and you will grow branches and when I sit under your bowers, the dreams I have will be yours. No more.
“Is this what you wanted? I am awake, Warden, and I am still dreaming. I understand the ways in which the dreaming world has its roots—and its heart—in the waking one. These men and women are mine; they will grant you no purchase here, and