in her tone gave them pause—and it should. In the end, it should. Even the den had come to trust her word and mood in times of grave danger and conflict; if the Chosen were her armor and shield, they must come to do the same.
Shadow leaped before the last syllable faded. Night flanked him; Snow moved to stand in front of her. Jewel herself did not take a step, either forward or away; had it not been for the damnable cold, she would have been motionless.
Wind roared, returning to the hall in a rush.
It came, however, from behind them; she heard the clang of armor as the Chosen turned. Only the Chosen moved; Avandar, by her side, seemed made of living ice. Around her feet, however, a circle of orange and blue appeared, glowing faintly. A like circle did not appear around his; he stood outside of its boundary.
Avandar.
He didn’t even raise a brow in response.
Shadow leaped as the horses approached; the leveled spear wavered briefly in the gray cat’s direction. Jewel held breath, remembering: the cats were no longer creatures of stone.
“Stone forms would not prevent their injury,” Avandar said. “Not against this opponent.”
The horse did not slow, but the spear snapped to the side as Night now leaped, changing the mount’s trajectory by landing on his side. A different rider would have been unseated by his mount’s fall; this one jumped and the air caught him before he could land. It carried him, in a rush, over the two cats, but not past the third, who now sprang from his position in front of Jewel.
She watched, hands by her sides; they were looser now than they’d been since she had entered the closet that was not a closet. She raised chin, drew breath, exhaled; breath made a veil of mist through which the cat and the first assailant clashed. There was no blood; there was sound and fury; the wind drove cat and man apart, but it failed to dash the cat against the nearest wall.
Ah, no, she thought, there was blood; it was scant—a scratch across a perfect, Winter cheek. She caught a glimpse of it as he turned, dropping spear to draw sword. It was—of course it was—pale, perfect blue, a thing of light and motion. She expected shield, and it followed, instantly adorning the arm bent to bear it. That shield took the full force of Snow’s extended claws, and the blow sent the Arianni back.
Jewel grimaced. She knew where back was in this fight: toward her. The Arianni Lord had positioned himself perfectly, and the force of Snow’s almost aerial blows pushed him exactly where he wanted to go. Had his opponent been Shadow—who was now embroiled in his own fight farther down the hall—such a tactic would have been pointless. But Snow and Night were not the tacticians Shadow was; Jewel stood her ground as the Arianni Lord spun in air, sword raised. It came down in a flashing sweep that looked, to her eyes, like handheld lightning.
A hand’s span from her neck, the blade slammed into a second, similar sword.
Celleriant had arrived.
* * *
Jewel felt no triumph at all.
“Mordanant,” Celleriant said, as the echoes of steel striking steel faded. They did not put their swords up; they strained, blade against blade. All of the Arianni looked alike to Jewel—cold and perfect and Other. She could not see beyond that similarity to a family resemblance, although she knew they were brothers.
“Will you defend her here?” Mordanant demanded. “If she dies, you are free.”
“If she dies while I stand,” Celleriant replied, “I have failed.”
Mordanant’s eyes widened. “Impossible,” he said, the last syllable almost inaudible. “It is impossible.”
Celleriant remained unmoved by the disbelief, the shock, the pain, in Mordanant’s voice. Jewel did not, but she had a decade of practice at hiding pain in public.
“Why do you think she waits?” Celleriant asked. “She has not moved; she has not ordered her guards forward. She knew that I would be here before your sword fell.”
Mordanant was rigid. “How did she force this upon you?”
He shook his head. “She could not, as you well know. There is only one who can.”
“Then why? Why, brother?”
Celleriant, arms locked to prevent the downward fall of his brother’s sword, shook his head. “Does it matter?”
Mordanant did not reply.
“She is mortal. She has lived half her life; the handful of years left her—”
Mordanant’s gaze slid from Celleriant’s face to Jewel’s. She stood, chin lifted, watching some point beyond his back. Snow,