“Apologies, Finch,” he said.
“If you are going to enter the office, please use the doors.”
“It is my office, and I do not recall—”
“We have contingencies in place for unexpected visitors.”
“I am hardly a visitor.”
“Given your involvement in the office at the moment? Lucille has had to be almost forcibly restrained from calling in the magi.”
“Meaning I have set off the protections within the office proper by entering it.”
“I will speak with her in a moment,” Finch continued, folding her slender arms. “I am not certain what skills you have gained. At the moment, I am not concerned with them, except in this regard. When you enter the office, enter it through the front doors.”
“I am attempting to discern the limits of my own abilities, as you call them.”
“I am attempting to set limits for the use of those abilities in my office. Lucille is . . . not happy. I have convinced her that there are no demons in the office—just you.”
“And she did not believe you?”
“We’ll see. If the magi dissolve the door and fill the room with Summer light, then no. But,” she added, her voice softening, although her expression did not, “she let me into the office.”
“Tell me, which protections did I cross?”
Finch exhaled. “Why did you visit here?”
“Because most of the city is deplorably trusting. I could have attempted to enter the right-kin’s office, but I judged that to be very unwise. This office, however, is my own. Our own,” he added. “And I am cognizant of all of its protective functions. How did you know it was me?”
“I could see you,” was her flat reply.
“You have been the first person today to do so.”
“Maybe you wished to be seen. I have no explanation and offer none. But when you enter this office again—”
“Use the doors. Yes. Will that diminish your impressive ire?”
Finch exhaled. “Not entirely.”
“I will now go out and grovel and apologize to Lucille. Will that be enough?”
“Yes.”
“You drive a very hard bargain.”
“I was taught by a master.”
“I believe I bargain with a good deal more charm.”
“Charm was not my first concern.” She shooed him out of the office and then turned to look down at the golden fox.
• • •
“You are not happy,” the fox said as she knelt.
“No.” She had, of course, lied to Jarven; she suspected he knew it. She hadn’t seen him at all. She had not lied about the protections; he had tripped several—but not all. She had, however, seen the golden fox—and she understood that either the fox had set off the protections, or Jarven had. Either was a possibility.
She was not at all comfortable with the idea that Jarven could, at will, enter rooms such as his own without being seen. She wondered if he could touch or take anything when he paid these visits. Jarven was, and had always been, dangerously perceptive. His instincts were sharp; age had honed them.
“Is it so unusual?” the fox asked, his head tilted.
“It is.”
“It is not, to us. If we hunt, we must not be seen until it is far too late for our prey. We are not dragons; it is not through size and breath that we triumph. We are cunning, a cunning people; we make our home in the quiet spaces, and we swallow that quiet, where we must.”
“Jarven has been cunning beyond belief in his life,” Finch replied. “But, in general, he doesn’t swallow quiet so much as shatter it.” She opened her arms, and the fox agreed to grace them with his august presence. “He otherwise seems himself.”
“It is not to change what he is that I have made him my own,” the fox replied. “Truly.”
“I could not be yours.”
“No, Finch. But you could not belong to any of the ancients who grace the high wilderness; you are The Terafin’s. You will be The Terafin’s until either she dies, or you do. To even approach you requires some courage; the younger ones will not do it.”
“Courage?”
“You are fragile. You are mortal. Our games might break or destroy you.”
“You are not so afraid.”
“No. I believe I can survive any harmful intent on your part, and I understand mortals well enough not to inadvertently harm you. Mortals,” he added fondly, “were once my prey, when the world was young. And they were a glorious prey—agile, cunning, resourceful. They could, and did, surprise. Not all surprises were pleasant, of course, but that is the nature of the game: it is only real when there is risk. I am not a cat; there is no test, no joy, in playing with mice.”
“I can understand what you saw in Jarven.”
“That is unkind, Finch.”
“Is it?” She turned, arms cradled protectively around a creature that had spoken of hunting men for game, to meet Jarven’s steady gaze. “Well?”
“I am not yet in command of the few abilities I have been granted. I cannot see magic as Birgide Viranyi seems to; I cannot touch it or disrupt it. I can walk unseen into almost any room—but clearly, there are difficulties. I am concerned, myself, about the quality of these magical protections. They are not well written or well constructed if I can step through most of them.”
She blinked. “You weren’t certain?”
“I was relatively certain.”
“Jarven, at least two of those will burn half the office to ash.”
“Well, yes. That would be a bit inconvenient.”
“I happened to be working in the office!”
“Hush,” he said, wincing. “Lucille will hear you, and she is only barely willing to be mollified. You have been wearing the clothing that Haval made for you; the fire would not have killed you.” He glanced at a ledger on Finch’s desk and frowned. “Ruby?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. Haerrad has pulled in his fangs for the moment; if the dinner accomplished nothing else, it accomplished that. There are fewer avenues of resistance.” She exhaled and surrendered. “Your presence on the House Council has caused different fires, but those fires give me some leverage.”
“Compared to me, you are considered malleable and acceptable?”
“Not malleable enough, but much more acceptable. It was not necessary to attack Iain’s records the way you did.”
“They were, in my opinion, appalling.”
“Iain is relatively honest and relatively straightforward, and he has done the House a great service. Honestly, Jarven.” She was cross and allowed herself to look it. Unlike Lucille, she had the choice.
“My dear,” he said, in his most indulgent voice. “You could not expect that I would join the House Council to little or no effect? I dislike invisibility.”
“You have a very odd way of demonstrating it.”
He laughed out loud. “I dislike invisibility that does not serve my purpose.” He then frowned at the fox. “She is not yours.”
“No, of course not,” the fox agreed. “But neither is she yours.”
“Oh?”
“I will not play that particular game with you—not over this mortal. Perhaps another, but perhaps not. We will have time when things are less uncertain.”
Unwilling to leave the conversation entirely to the fox or Jarven, Finch said, “I understand the game you believe you are playing there. If I am to be regent, I must be seen to exercise a control that other Councillors could not likewise exert. I am not, however, you. I am not—and generally you are in favor of this—Lucille or The Terafin. If I appear to be in control of you, everyone who witnesses the interaction will assume it is actually you who are the power.”
He raised a brow.
“It is too obvious,” Finch said.
“Is it?” His smile was gentle, which put Finch on her guard immediately. “You are naturally suspicious. It is a useful trait. Do you honestly think the House Council will see in me what you see?”
/>
“Only the dangerous ones.”
He inclined his head.
“And it’s the dangerous ones I need to control.” She hesitated. “Rymark is not in the city.”
The whole of Jarven’s posture changed. “You are certain.”
“Haerrad is.”
Jarven’s gaze dropped to the fox. “I will need to leave the city for a brief period.”
“You are not ready yet,” the fox said.
Finch tightened her arms in subtle warning; she did not otherwise move.
“Ready,” Jarven said, “is alway subjective. I was not ready to take this office; I was not ready to become part of the Merchant Authority governing council. I was not allowed to enter the Merchants’ guildhall but did it frequently. There is no ‘ready,’ Eldest; there has never been ‘ready’ for me.”
“I thought mortals were more careful with their lives as their time is so short.”
“I am exceedingly careful with my life,” Jarven replied with a suspicious amount of dignity. His eyes were bright.
“Did you not have duties here?”
Jarven was restless. Finch would not have kept him in the office in this mood unless Lucille’s life depended on it; she would not do it to save her own. In this mood, Jarven became the greatest danger; if he did not find trouble, he became it.
Jarven deliberately softened his voice. “Eldest, I need to understand my limits. What you have given me is appreciated greatly—but before I had it, I traveled as I pleased and survived it. I am not afraid of doing things the old-fashioned way; it is, after all, what I am accustomed to.”
“Very well. Find your limits. I will not be pleased if you perish; no one likes wasted effort, especially when it involves their own.” He lofted his small, pointed nose in the air. Finch met, and held, his eyes. “Go, go.”
Jarven did not need permission but did not say this; he left.
• • •
“You think Jewel will be angry,” the fox said, when Finch had returned to her desk and her ledgers. She settled the fox in her lap since he seemed to have no intention of leaving.
“I don’t think she’ll be happy, no. And before you ask, no. I don’t wish to see Jarven destroyed, and given the choice, neither would she. What’s done is done. What are the restrictions you’ve placed on his power?”
“Restrictions?” the fox asked, blinking.
“You cannot think to keep Jarven leashed without some.”
“What restrictions have you placed upon him?” the fox countered.
She blinked. “He is not mine; he does not serve me. I came to him as a junior apprentice, at best, and he has condescended to teach me—mostly by throwing me into the middle of his various meetings as a serving girl.”
“And yet you will occupy the position of power in the house; he will not.”
“He doesn’t want the power. He’s come to understand that there’s far too much fussy, boring responsibility associated with it. Were he thirty years younger, he would take it anyway; he’s not. He considers the regency to be babysitting without appropriate compensation.”
“Do you believe that?” the fox asked with genuine curiosity.
The question made Finch pause. “He has never sought power of that nature in the House before.”
The quality of the eldest’s silence was almost bemusing. Finch found herself stroking golden fur, almost as if the small fox was one of Jay’s giant cats. “In his youth—or perhaps when he was slightly older than I am now—he could not have become Terafin. He did not have the birth and the connections that arise from it. Amarais did.”
“The current Terafin does not.”
“No. And that, in the history of The Ten, is unusual—but it’s not unique. That we know of, though, being seer-born is. The patrician birthright wasn’t as important, in the end, as the talent.”
“Meaning that she was born to power.”
“Do yourself a favor,” Finch told the golden fox. “Never say that in her hearing.”
“I do not understand mortality,” the fox replied.
“You don’t have to understand all of it—no one could. Jay doesn’t like to think of herself as a power, because power is duty and responsibility, and she has too much of that already. She feels, often, that she is skirting the edge of failure—but the greater the responsibility, the greater the cost of a misstep. I don’t know if she was ever afraid to die,” Finch mused. “But she was always afraid that everyone else would. Her own death, she was certain she could prevent—and she has. Every time. But the deaths of others?
“Not reliably.” She looked at the fox and said, “You knew she was here.”
The fox nodded. Paused. Frowned, which looked odd on an animal face; it was mostly a movement of brows and eyes. “You did not.”
“Oh, we did—but not immediately.”
“She was here this afternoon.”
Finch closed her eyes. “Was she dreaming?”
“You are clever,” the fox replied. “I think I understand why Jarven kept you.”
“If you must know, he kept me because he wished to prove a point or two. I was not the choice any of the House Council would have made for the position into which I was thrust at The Terafin’s command. In truth, I wasn’t Jarven’s choice either—but it was his choice, in the end. His office was powerful enough to survive the addition of an orphan street urchin with poor numerical skills.
“He was bored. I was different. And I reminded him, in some ways, of himself—as I said, he was not born to the patriciate. He was not born to power. Where was she?”
“She went, I think, to a large building on the Isle. We think she entered Fabril’s reach and walked upon his roads. They are not,” the fox added, “our roads.”
“But they’re in the city.”
“Yes. But they are not ours. They are claimed and guarded until the reckoning, and that reckoning has not yet arrived.” The fox leaped off her lap and onto the desk. “Jarven can move without being seen. He can move quickly now. He can understand the language of the wilderness, and he can make himself heard by it.
“And he cannot be taken. He is claimed, and this will be known. What happened to Haerrad will never now happen to Jarven.”
“Is he even alive?”
The fox chuckled. “You are astonishingly perceptive. Why would you ask that?”
Finch didn’t answer the question. “The Terafin would not sacrifice even Jarven willingly.”
“No, she would not; it is a pity. But she has need of dark things, dangerous things; she understands that the pure and the joyful do not always make good soldiers—and if they do, it is because they have changed. Or broken. Jarven is a dark thing, but he always was. He did not come to her because he does not want what she offers, so he cannot be hers.”
“You did not do this as an act of servitude or charity.”
“No, Finch, I did not. But consider: the Councillor, in the end, thought it necessary. We do what we do for our own reasons—you, me, Jarven—but that does not mean that we do not, in our own fashion, serve. If you must be troubled by her choices of companions—” But he stopped, then, and would say no more.
“Could Andrei face Jarven?”
“Yes. He could face Jarven and survive; he could face Jarven and triumph although it would no longer be a certain encounter. But you could not.”
“I survived Jarven because he desired that I survive. For me, nothing you have done to or for him changes our essential relationship. What has changed it is time, familiarity, experience—but at any point during our long association, had he wanted me dead, I would have died. The fact that it is still true does not bother me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” the fox agreed. “You are now concerned that the same is true for people other than yourself, who will not know the risk they take. It is a pity; you are concerned about things over which you have no control.”
Finch nodded and returned to her books.
Chapter Twelve
; THERE WAS NO MORNING in the darkness of the Oracle’s many rooms; Jewel thought of the cave they had first seen and thought the illusion apt. She rose in a darkness alleviated by more than simple torchlight, dressed, and joined her companions. They watched her in silence, except for the cats, who had made boredom their personal cause.
The butterfly remained on her shoulder; it moved only to allow her to dress. It was as beautiful as it had been in dream, as solid, as delicate. She found it almost a comfort in the darkness of this place.
The ring, however, was not. It was odd; the wearing of the strands of hair had been marked and noted, but it did not invoke what the ring did.
Avandar noticed it instantly. “Where did you come by that ring?” His voice was soft, which was no comfort, because it was also winter cold.
“I didn’t steal it,” she replied, as defensive as if she’d been sixteen and newly arrived at the Terafin manse. She flushed as the words left her mouth.
He stared at her. “I did not—and would not—imply that. Your cats, however, are far less careful in their habits of acquisition.”
Shadow hissed. Night swatted Snow. Snow, however, lowered his belly to the ground.
“In this case, you could not wear that ring if it were not intended for you. Do you understand what it is?”
“Jewel.”
The Oracle had entered the room. She did not enter it the normal way—through the door—and made no noise until she wished to be heard. It was astonishingly easy to overlook her.
“Oracle.” Jewel bowed.
“It is time. It is almost past time. You must leave—and soon. The window that is open will close, and you must be there before that happens.”
And she thought the Oracle knew.
“I see you have chosen.” The Oracle stared then at the butterfly on Jewel’s shoulder. Her eyes, for a moment, were round with wonder, but beneath that wonder was dread. “What did you do, child?” The words were a whisper.
Defensive words came; this time, they were discarded before they left her mouth. “I didn’t make the butterfly. A maker did.”
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