Finch smiled ruefully, her face relaxing into the familiar expression at the octave change in Jewel’s voice. “I don’t think he was happy with the decision—and it’s been difficult. Adam is new to the city. He’s new to the Empire. His Weston is only barely passable.”
“How barely?”
“He can buy a few rudimentary things and ask very simple directions. His Torra’s not street Torra, either—but he understands most of it. Levec’s lost younger healers before. He hates to let them out of his sight.” Jewel didn’t blame him. “It’s not that Levec wanted him here—but Levec let him choose.”
“And Levec’s been checking up on him ever since?”
Finch shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“This sickness—they call it the sleeping sickness, the dreaming sickness. People fall asleep and they just don’t wake up.”
“At all?”
She nodded; Jewel caught the hesitation in the gesture. She waited. Finch finally said, “Adam can wake them. They don’t stay awake,” she added in a rush. “But… Adam can wake them for a while. He’s the only one who’s been able to even do that much. So he’s necessary, in the eyes of the Kings and the Houses of Healing.”
“I’m surprised Levec doesn’t have a room here as well.”
Finch and Teller exchanged a glance. It was Teller who said, “He has a guest room.”
“…So what you’re saying is I might accidentally wander across Levec—not the world’s friendliest man on the best of days if you didn’t happen to be born a healer—at any time?”
“He doesn’t use it often.”
Jewel almost laughed. It would have been wild and raw—but better by far than tears. Adam was alive. So many people weren’t—but Adam was, and he was here, and that was an unlooked for gift. She looked across the table at where he was trying to look smaller.
“Adam.”
He looked up instantly. Glancing around the table, he then said, “Matriarch.”
It took Jewel a few seconds to realize he was applying that title to her. “Adam, I’m not—”
“I didn’t know,” he continued, in uneasy Torra. “I didn’t know what you were when we met. I apologize if I gave any offense.”
“Adam, I’m not a Matriarch.”
“These people are your kin,” he replied gravely. There was the tail end of a question in the words.
“Yes. But not in a way that your sister, Margret, would understand. We weren’t born to the same parents. We weren’t born to related parents, either.”
“But you are all ATerafin.”
She glanced at Angel, who couldn’t understand what they were saying. “Almost all, yes.”
He digested this in silence. After a long pause, he said, “My sister?”
“She is well. Adam—the Arkosa Voyani have left the Voyanne. They now dwell in the City of Arkosa, in the Sea of Sorrows. She’s alive.”
“My cousin?”
“Alive as well.” More than that, she did not offer.
“And the Serra Diora?”
Jewel couldn’t help but smile at that. He was fourteen years of age, and the Serra Diora was possibly the most beautiful woman Jewel had ever seen. The most beautiful mortal woman. “I left her in the camp of the Kai Leonne. She is alive, she is well.”
The door swung open; Avandar entered the kitchen. After a moment, so did Ellerson. They stood on either side of the doors, watching; neither domicis had ever joined them at the table. Jewel looked at Ellerson and then looked away.
“Avandar, how is Ariel?”
“She is sleeping.”
“Naturally?”
He raised a brow. “She was both frightened and exhausted. Ellerson has seen to a room for the child; I am not certain that she is best left on her own.”
Jewel nodded. She almost rose to go see the girl herself. But she couldn’t decide if leaving to check would be an act of concern and affection or an act of rank cowardice, and she suspected it was the latter. She stayed in her chair.
Everyone was watching her now. She was acutely aware that the first person she had spoken to was Adam. But it was hard to face her den, because The Terafin was dead. She was dead and Jewel’s return had not saved her.
Teller said quietly, “Jay.”
She swiveled to look at him.
“She knew. She knew you had to leave. I think she understood why.”
Jewel nodded.
“You don’t believe you had to be—wherever it was you went.” It wasn’t a question. Teller knew her so well. “But she did.”
“Teller—I was there. I was there, and I’m not even certain if I was necessary. The war in the South isn’t over. We need to win it.”
“How bad will it be if we don’t?”
“Henden bad. Dark Days bad. But if we lose and the Dark Days come again, there won’t be a Veral. There will never be a spring.” Her hands became fists on the table. “And I’m not there for that. The army’s almost in place, but I won’t see the battle; I won’t be able to help there. And the Commanders are going to be furious. With me. With the House.
“I’ll miss the battle. I arrived too late for The Terafin.” She pushed herself out of her chair.
“Jay,” Finch said, also rising, but with less force. She glanced toward the door, at Ellerson. Jewel’s gaze was dragged there as well.
“Why is he here?” She spoke softly, as if there was any hope that Ellerson would fail to hear the words.
“We needed him,” Finch replied.
“I needed him sixteen years ago, but he still left.” Gods, the words. The words just fell out of her mouth. She wanted to grab them and swallow them whole. And she wanted to scream or shout or rage—not at Ellerson, although he was part of it. At the world. At death. At the demons and the Lord of Night and The Terafin, whose order had killed Morretz for no reason. He had come South, using a magic that he did not have—and had never had—the power to survive.
For what purpose?
Rymark had, in front of the Twin Kings, claimed legitimate right to the Terafin Seat in the Hall of The Ten. He had implicated Gabriel, his father, in his lie; he had produced a forgery of a document that he claimed was signed by The Terafin and the right-kin. Gabriel had not spoken a word. Jewel wasn’t even certain what he would have said—he was rescued by Haerrad. Haerrad, clearly injured, had survived what was an obvious attempt on his life to contest Rymark’s claim.
Jewel could no more declare herself the legitimate heir—the only one—than she could bring the dead back to life, not unless she wanted to join them. At this very moment, that didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
The only reason she had been summoned back was to fulfill her promise to the woman she had served for all her adult life—and she couldn’t do it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
It was Angel who rose next. The movement was slow and deliberate; he abandoned his chair and then took the time to tuck it neatly under the table, a signal that for him, Kitchen council was over.
“Jay,” he said quietly as he approached her, his hair in its familiar spire, his expression oddly gentle. “We don’t have to do this tonight.” He lifted his hands in clear den-sign, asking for a vote. One by one, her den nodded. Jester, utterly subdued and silent, Carver, grim and pale, Teller and Finch in silent concern. Only Arann hesitated; Arann, injured in the battle in the Council Hall. Daine’s consent was given quickly, perfunctorily; he rose—they all did—and headed straight for Arann, who was trying very, very hard to put him off without drawing Jewel’s attention.
She didn’t speak—not aloud—but she gestured a short, curt command. Arann’s shoulders slumped as Daine took both of his hands and held them tightly. “Come to the healerie,” he said.
“The healerie?” Jewel said sharply.
Daine glanced at her. “I was in training with Alowan,” he said. “And I’m all there is for a successor.”
She blanched. “Alowan—”
“I’m not Alowan, Jay. Most of th
e House isn’t aware of what I can—and cannot—do. But the healerie was important to Alowan Rowanson. It’s the only thing he left behind. I want to keep it running. I want to keep it going. The House needs a healerie. And it’s the only thing I can do for him, now.”
“Levec will have my head.”
“Probably. He wasn’t happy when I told him.”
“Daine—”
But Daine smiled almost bitterly and shook his head. “It’s my risk to take.”
She opened her mouth again, but this time no words came out.
Daine didn’t have that problem. “Do you understand why Alowan served The Terafin?”
She swallowed. Nodded.
“I serve you in the same way, for the same reason. You can’t forbid it, if you’re smart. You need me here.” Pursing his lips in a way that was at odds with his age, he frowned at the much larger Arann. “So do the rest of you. You’re not dying, Arann. It won’t hurt.” He led Arann away, and Arann followed.
Angel approached Jewel while the doors were still swinging behind their vanishing backs. “We can do this in the morning,” he told her.
“But there’s so much—”
“It’ll still be here in the morning.” He smiled; it was a brief, pained grin. “And gods help you, Jay, you’d better be here as well.”
She heard what lay behind both the words and the smile, and flinched. “Angel, I didn’t mean to leave that way. I didn’t mean to—”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s done. But, Jay—never do it again. Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
“Can I promise to try my best?”
“No.”
Avandar was already gathering the lamps. Around her, in silence, the den drifted through the doors, allowing Angel to speak for them. It was Angel who led her to her room, Angel who opened the door, and Angel who threatened to sleep on the floor in case she suddenly vanished again. It was Angel who drew the curtains, Angel who approached the magelight that sat cradled in its burnished stand. No lamps now. He whispered the stone to a warm glow; it made his hair look gold. Like a very odd crown, she thought.
“They’ll call a Council meeting in the morning,” she told him, as if this had only just occurred to her.
He shook his head. “Let them. At the moment, there’s no one in charge.”
“They’ll have to call Council meeting, Angel. The Kings were there. They wouldn’t interfere if The Terafin had been poisoned or stabbed or shot—but she was killed by a very large, very deadly demon. House Terafin can’t claim this as an entirely internal affair anymore. Not after that Henden. We’ll need to come up with a plan to deflect Imperial control, or the House will be crippled.”
“Not more than it already has been.”
She couldn’t find words to answer him.
Avandar waited by the door in silence. Only when Angel left did he move. His robes were familiar Terafin robes, and he lifted a familiar chair, dragging it across the thick, dark carpets until it rested within plain sight of the illuminated bed.
“No,” she told him softly. “You’re exhausted. You need sleep more than I do.”
He sat. That was all. It was his most effective way of disobeying an order that she only barely wanted to give.
27th of Corvil, 427 A. A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
The night, not unexpectedly, was bad. Jewel woke several times, jerking upright and staring, in wild-eyed silence, into the pale glow of her room. Avandar did not sleep. His hands tensed around the armrests of a chair that couldn’t be comfortable for long hours at a stretch, no matter how careful its craftsman had been.
“Jewel?”
She rose. He remained in the chair, although she was aware of his gaze as she gathered up the very few things she had brought with her from the South.
“What are you doing with those?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she dressed. The clothing she had worn for most of her sojourn in the South had been Voyani in make and style; practical, loose, comfortable. She therefore faced the contents of her closet as if they were a sentence for a particularly odious crime. She set her dusty boots aside in favor of shoes that were far cleaner and far more polished; she found a dress, drew it out of the closet, and paused. It was blue, yes—but today, blue was not the right color.
Heading farther back, she found the dress that she had worn at Alea’s funeral. It was serviceable, and even if it wasn’t, it was the only official mourning dress she had.
“I think that is not required for breakfast,” Avandar rose now. “Dress simply. You will not be allowed to hide in your wing for most of this day; take what freedom and ease you can.”
Setting her jaw, she shook her head. “This is what I want.”
Once dressed, with Avandar’s help—her hair did need work, but if she was allowed a little ease, this is where she chose to take it—she left her room. She hesitated to one side of the door—the wrong side. “Avandar, where is Ariel?”
He led her further down the hall, pausing at the door that was next-to-last.
Jewel knocked at it once. Then, shaking her head, she entered the room. The curtains were open. Moonlight silvered the window.
Ariel was sleeping on the floor beside the bed. She had a pillow; she’d removed the counterpane. She was a slender child; she was almost lost in the folds of cloth and the darkness. But she sat up a little too quickly when Jewel entered the room. Jewel, in her strange Northern dress, approached with care, holding both of her hands palm out, to make clear they were empty.
“I’m sorry,” she said, in soft, soft Torra. “This room must be confusing.” She knelt at Ariel’s side.
Ariel said nothing. Her eyes were wide; in the darkness, Jewel couldn’t distinguish pupil from iris.
“This is my home. The people here are my family. It’s colder in the North than it was in the South, so we wear different clothing. I’m sorry,” she said again. “You’re safe here. I—I’ll be busy, so you might not see as much of me, but I’ll come to see you when I can.”
Ariel still said nothing, and after a long pause, Jewel rose and left the room. She shouldn’t have brought the child here, and knew it—but leaving her in the middle of an army hadn’t seemed like the better option. She stood outside of the closed door, head bowed against it for a full minute.
The den habitually used the breakfast nook—and nook was a misused word for a room that size, in Jewel’s opinion—in part because their schedules differed so much, and they seldom ate together. The dining room seemed cavernous and empty when its long table was occupied by only two.
On this morning, however, they drifted into the dining room by some sort of silent consensus. They didn’t go to the kitchen; neither Jewel nor Teller had called it.
The Terafin offices in the Merchant Authority had understandably been closed; Finch was therefore at home. The office of the right-kin, however, was being besieged; Teller should have been absent. But Teller, dressed for work, and at odds with the more casual morning clothing of Carver, Jester, and Angel, came to the table anyway. Daine came to breakfast in the pale robes of the healerie, as well. Adam, however, did not. Nor did Celleriant. Arann was not yet on duty; he was seated at the foot of the table, as far from Daine as it was possible to sit, and still be in the same room.
Jewel sat at the head of the table, watching as the den gathered. They noticed what she was wearing—how could they not? White, mourning white, edged in black and gold. She hated it now as much as she’d hated it the first time she’d worn it. It was a dress. A dress might indicate some small part of the loss she felt—but it offered none of the rage. She struggled to set it aside. If there was one small corner of the world that didn’t deserve it, it was this one.
Instead, in silence, she pushed aside the breakfast dishes that had been laid in front of her. She wasn’t hungry. She knew she needed food—but apparently that information would not impart itself to her stomach. Ellerson attended and directed the servants who had
come bearing their multiple trays in somber silence. Jewel tried very hard not to meet his gaze, or draw it.
When she had cleared enough space, she set four things on the table in front of her hands: three leaves, and three strands of hair twined in a bracelet. The hair was fine enough that it should have been almost invisible; it wasn’t. It was Winter white against the gleaming wood grain.
It was the leaves that drew all eyes first: one was silver, one was gold, and one was diamond.
They stared for a moment. It was, predictably, Finch who spoke first, but she spoke with her hands, asking permission to take—to touch—what Jewel had placed on the table. Jewel answered the same way. Finch rose and lifted the leaf of gold—the warm color, not the cool ones—and raised it to the light.
Skirmish: A House War Novel Page 5