expression was almost enough to make her take a step back. “I say again, release him.”
Celleriant shook his head. “She will not give you what you desire unless it is clear that I also desire it. It is not your request she will honor, but mine.”
“Then ask her, brother. We have been sent to hunt their heralds; to find and destroy their servants before those servants set foot upon the path that leads to where they slumber.”
“The heralds are abroad?”
“They are.”
“They will not find that path easily,” Avandar said, speaking for the first time. “Not in this place.”
“They will find it,” Mordanant whispered.
“How do you know this?”
“The Winter Queen entertained a guest. Her guest has seen what must follow if they are not apprehended. They will find what they seek.”
Jewel surprised herself; she spoke. “Was her guest Evayne?”
“Evayne a’Neamis,” he replied.
“I don’t understand. Do you speak of the Sleepers?”
The three men turned to face her; she might have uttered the most foul of curses to far less effect.
Celleriant said, “Yes, Lord. But we speak softly, if at all. Do not name them here. Do not name them at all if it is within your power.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No,” Mordanant replied. “You do not. Viandaran?”
Avandar said nothing for a long moment. Into his silence, Jewel continued. “They’re meant to sleep until—until Moorelas rides again.”
“Given that he was mortal, and given that he is long dead, that is unlikely.” Mordanant glanced at Celleriant. “What tales do mortals now tell?”
“They tell few indeed that I have heard.”
Avandar said, “the oldest of their legends—most forgotten—tell the tale of their betrayal of Moorelas in the Shining City. Four princes rode by his side, but only one fulfilled the oaths made to the wielder of the godslayer. For their betrayal, they were entombed, alive but unmoving, until the day Moorelas returns, when they will redeem themselves, at last, in the mortal’s endless quest to bring death to the Lord of the Hells.”
Mordanant’s brows rose as his silver eyes rounded. “That is the story they tell?”
“That is the story that was once told. Fragments of it remain in the sayings and superstitions of the Empire, no more.”
Jewel said, softly, “‘When the Sleepers wake’ heralds the end of time. The end of the world. It means ‘never.’”
“Never is come upon you,” Mordanant replied. “Speak, now, to Illaraphaniel. He is the only hope you have.”
“He is in her service,” Celleriant said.
“Not in the way you are. I would have felt it a hundred leagues away.” He frowned. “Brother, among those who tracked, you were second to none. Our Lady has need of you.”
“Did the Winter Queen ask this of you, Mordanant?”
Mordanant did not reply. Answer enough, Jewel knew. And she knew that if Mordanant had said yes, Celleriant would have asked for his freedom. Knew it. But Mordanant did not lie.
In the distance, Jewel heard the long, resonant note of a horn’s call.
“Come with us,” Mordanant said, speaking both softly and without hope.
Celleriant smiled; it was pained. “Survive, brother. Survive and we will meet again in the Summer Court.”
“There is no—”
But Jewel said, “There will be a Summer Court if we survive what is to follow.”
“How can you—”
“She is seer-born,” Celleriant replied, the words strangely hushed. “The White Lady was not the only one to entertain Evayne as guest. Mortality does not guarantee that she speaks truth; she is mortal, and as any, is full capable of choosing words without recourse to fact.”
Mordanant did not reply. His expression had shifted as he regarded Jewel. She couldn’t read it.
Celleriant, however, could. “Do you still counsel me to abandon her, brother?”
“You do not serve her because you view her as our hope.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” was the soft reply. “Because there is now a thorn in the side of our hope, if you believe her words to be true.”
“She is not full capable of a lie, although she has learned to use silence in its stead. Regardless, she cannot now lie to me.” He turned to her, and fell to one knee. “Lord,” he said. It was a posture she disliked; she suspected he knew it. “When you speak of the Summer Court, what do you envisage?”
“Ariane,” Jewel replied. “In the heart of a forest that is also a city. It’s . . . not strong. It’s certain.”
“Can you not look?” Mordanant almost demanded. There was a desperation in the words that underlay the sudden eagerness.
“No,” she said, understanding the question. “I do not have a seer’s crystal.”