House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “The fact that the death of one is frequently followed by the death of the other buries the significance of the Sacred Hunt to those who have no knowledge of gods, of convenants, and of the ways in which a world that once existed for the amusement of the gods now defies the gods’ will.” Smoke became a thickening veil in the confines of the room as he hesitated.

  “It is my suspicion—and it is only a suspicion, based as it is on little fact—that the god of the Breodani is Bredan. In few other ways could the Huntbrother be oathbound. If the Huntbrothers are oathbound, as I suspect they are, and they wither and die if they fail their oath, then their god is Bredan, long absent from the heavens.”

  She waited. Meralonne APhaniel was not a mage known for his patience or his humility, and with just cause. Exposing ignorance—when it was his own—was not a thing that came easily; not for Meralonne the dissembling and the feigned forgetfulness Sigurne often found it convenient to adopt.

  “We do not know how the changes in this world affect the gods,” he finally said. “There has been no clear way to study it, and only the ancient—and long dead—mages wasted their time on such theories. The gods were gone; there was no practical reason to attempt such a study.” He inhaled again, and again he hesitated. It was unusual.

  “However, one of those theoreticians—and if you have any pressing interest, I believe I can find some of his work in the library, but it would take some time—felt that the world itself was bled, in some way, of some essential divinity. Whether this occurred because the gods left or before they left, he was not entirely certain.

  “But you are aware of the long game of the Kialli and their Lord. The last of that divinity, the last of the eternal, exists within mortals, passing from lifetime to lifetime until it, too, sunders ties with this plane.

  “What the gods require to function upon this world, they must take,” he continued, still musing, still quiet. “And I believe it is just possible that if Bredan had made the long and difficult journey to return to this world—and it would be an act of decades, not of hours or days—he would have found that the world was hostile.

  “The gods do not think, or dream, or live as you live,” he added, softly. “And I think—again, without substantive proof—that if Breodanir is Bredan, he might have had to consume, or devour, the living souls, the small shards of divinity, within mortals in order to be able to think, to live, and to act here.

  “Once a year, without fail, Sigurne.”

  “The Sacred Hunt,” she whispered.

  “Even so.” He paused. “I do not think he intended to remain in this world. But . . . if the wild girl is in truth his daughter, then he is here.”

  “And if he is here—”

  “The Lord of the Hells is not upon his throne.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “It is theory,” he said, and she heard his soft words at a distance.

  “And do you feel it to be the truth?”

  “I?”

  She opened her eyes slowly and sat heavily on her desk; for the moment, even walking around it to the comfort of her chair felt beyond her. “There is no one else in this room,” she told him.

  “Yes.”

  “Meralonne—”

  “The Sacred Hunt,” he continued, as if there had been no pause, no shadowed silence, “is called without fail in the Western Kingdoms, where the Breodani reside. Krysanthos showed an interest in the wild girl, and in all things Breodani, long before this hidden city came to light.

  “But here, and now, when word of Allasakar has reached us, and the shadowed mention of a fallen city haunts House Terafin and possibly far more of the city than anyone could guess, I think the Hunter Lord—and, far more significant, his Huntbrother—have arrived for a reason.”

  She watched him.

  “That reason?”

  “I am not entirely certain, not yet.” The familiar lines of frustration now etched themselves into his brow and the corners of his mouth. “But I will know more.” He glanced at the desk. “The writ of execution remains unsigned, Sigurne.”

  She returned, then, to her chair. “I do not understand men who seek power,” she told him, lighting a candle with a simple twist of her hand. “Can they not see that in the end, all power they are granted in such a fashion diminishes them?”

  “No. Of course they can’t. They daydream their way to death.”

  “If it were only their own deaths,” she said, heating and melting wax, “I would not mind nearly so much.” She laid it against the writ and then pressed her seal into it.

  “No,” he replied. “You would not. It says much about you, Sigurne. Even when you betrayed your teacher in the Northern Wastes, you were prepared to die for what you knew. For what you had done.”

  “I am prepared to die now,” she told him grimly. But her expression was dark, her color pale.

  “Yes. But in both cases, Sigurne Mellifas, your death would be a waste.” He smiled then. It was a cool smile, but it held as much approval as he ever showed. “If you face your death, it will be because the city has fallen.”

  “And you?”

  He nodded, his lips curved in a strange, fey smile.

  The lattice above the door shifted, breaking the moment. Meralonne, always sensitive to the warp and weft of her protective spells, raised a brow.

  “Word,” she told him softly, gazing a moment at the patterns.

  He approached the closed door. “May I?”

  “Please,” she said, with genuine gratitude, “do.”

  He opened the door, and his shoulders stiffened. But he said, “I suppose you will be excused any interruption; Sigurne is far too indulgent.” He stepped out of the way, and as he did, she saw that Matteos stood in the door’s frame, looking grim.

  There had already been little joy in the day; she could not imagine what he could possibly say that could make it worse—but his expression indicated that he meant to try.

  “What news, Matteos?” she asked.

  He had known her for many years, and she saw that her tone, which she had made as gentle and neutral as she possibly could, had conveyed something to him; he hesitated. But after a moment, he entered the tower room and waved the door shut.

  “This is not official news,” he told her quietly.

  They were not promising first words. “Continue.”

  “Official word may travel, but it may not; we’re not sure how much will leave Avantari.”

  “Avantari?”

  Matteos nodded.

  “The Kings?”

  “No. The Kings were not harmed.”

  “What happened?”

  “There was some sort of attack—magical in nature—that involved the Breodani lord and his retainer. They were not the perpetrators,” he added, seeing her expression, “but the intended victims.”

  “What magic, Matteos?”

  “Fire,” he replied. “The Hunters survived. The would-be assassin did not.”

  “Good.”

  “Duvari of the Astari was seen.”

  Bad. She did not, however, feel the need to state this clearly.

  4th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  The Terafin manse did not boast large front grounds; on the Isle, where land was expensive and much coveted, it was not practical. What land there was, and it was extensive, was reserved for the use of The Terafin, and in it resided her many gardens, her pavilions, and her summer stage.

  Nestled within the gardens, the path almost obscured by the careful placement of trees, was the Terafin House shrine. It was not the only shrine within the garden; that would be an act of arrogance. Nor was it the first; to come to the Terafin shrine, one must pass the three others: the shrine of the Mother, the shrine of Reymaris, Lord of Justice, and the shrine of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom.

  Each of these shrines quartered the garden of contemplation, but the last of these—unless one wished to enrage the gardeners by ignoring the carefully laid stone
s of the path—one arrived at by first paying respects to the other three.

  He waited in silence. It was not a patient silence, but there was no one to note it, no one to criticize. The moons were high, and the air was cool. Would she come?

  Ah, patience, patience. She was new, and she was young; the grounds, she had barely touched. Which was appropriate; she was a guest here, a visitor; she did not feel secure enough to wander. He knew. He had waited in silence in the evening hours for almost a fortnight, and if it was necessary, he would wait longer.

  It was not, after all, the first time he had waited in this fashion.

  He glanced at the small altar beneath the rounded dome of the dais that formed the Terafin House shrine. The stone was flat and cool; it was not adorned by gold or jewels. The dome itself was simple, if curved, and lamps—not magelights—flickered above it, evenly spaced along the circular rim.

  He stood behind it.

  This evening, however, the waiting bore fruit.

  He felt her presence upon the path of the garden of contemplation. He knew, by her movement and by the cessation of that movement, when she had reached the Mother’s shrine. She paused there for minutes. What she offered, he did not know; nor did he care. It was not for show that she stopped; there were no witnesses, here.

  She started to walk again, and he could almost time the steps, could almost mark the moment when they would stop again. The second shrine. Reymaris, Lord of Justice. Here, too, she paused. What she offered Reymaris, he also did not know, but he could guess. So many people offered their pain, their anger, and their outrage to a god who understood justice. Sometimes they forgot that Justice and Vengeance were not the same; he wondered if this girl would likewise forget. She was young.

  It did not surprise him that her pause at the third shrine, the one that honored the Lord of Wisdom, was so brief. It was, on the other hand, The Terafin’s most sought shrine.

  A life could be marked, and the changes in it noted, simply by the length of time one spent at each shrine, for it changed with the passage of years; one sought different things from the gods one worshiped as one aged. Here and now, she marked herself as young.

  But she continued past the three shrines, as he had hoped she would, coming at last to this one: the shrine of House Terafin. Very few were the House members who came here. The Chosen, of course, at least once, but beyond that? It was a private, quiet place.

  He watched her face as she approached, for she approached hesitantly at first, looking at the round, concentric circles that were the steps; the marble, pale and almost reflective in the lamplight caught and reflected her wavering form. She looked up to the dome, as if seeking the symbols that girded it; there were none.

  She came closer, and closer still; he looked at her slightly freckled face, her pale skin, the hair that sun had tinted red. It was an auburn that would fade to brown without the touch of light. She pushed it out of her eyes now, and it fell back almost instantly.

  Mounting the stairs, she came to stand to one side of the altar itself, searching for some mark that would identify it. She would, of course, find none.

  But as her search yielded nothing, her frown deepened, and at last she reached out to touch the smooth, flat stone, as if her palms could force it to surrender the identity of its god.

  He spoke then, in a measured, quiet voice. “Do not touch it unless you have something to offer.”

  She startled at the sound of his voice, jumping back until her heels skirted the edge of the round dais and, therefore, the top of the stairs.

  He stepped out of his perpetual shadow, carrying a raised torch, as if he might signal a distant, watchful god with its light.

  When she saw his face, she relaxed. Interesting, that; the armor that he wore, with its stylized, raised helm, its polished plate breast and greaves, did not seem to discomfit her at all. But she seemed to recognize him, and as that had been his intent, he made no comment.

  “If I had something to offer, who would I be offering it to?”

  Bold child. He smiled. “You would be offering it to the spirit that guards Terafin.”

  She snorted and even started to chuckle, but he had no like mirth to offer her, and his gravity leeched the laughter from her voice. “What spirit?”

  “Well, rumor has it that the founder of Terafin watches over it still.”

  “Bet that’s news to Mandaros.”

  He cringed, but inwardly; outwardly, this unfamiliar face smiled down at her. “Perhaps, perhaps not. What we know of the gods and the life beyond is not perfect, Jewel.” What he had denied her, he now did himself; he walked to the altar until he rested against its familiar stone edge. “Every guard that is Chosen places his arms and armor here; they offer their service and possibly their lives to protect Terafin. If the spirit exists, he grants them his blessing in return.”

  She frowned. “Why would he?”

  It was not entirely the question he had expected. “Why would he what?”

  “Why would he want to stay here and watch?”

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. It was even, in some part, the truth, although truth, like any ancient thing, was complicated and often contradictory. He looked beyond her slender shoulders for a moment, to the grounds; they had changed much in his tenure, and no doubt, they would change again. Even the manse was different; it was much, much larger than it had once been, although the heart of it remained.

  “If you died, would you not want to watch over your den?”

  If her question had been unexpected, his was both that and unwelcome; he saw that instantly in the way she retreated while standing in place. “I don’t know,” she said, voice thick. “I haven’t done that good a job so far.”

  This, he understood. “You brought them here to safety, and you protect them while they are here. What more could you do?”

  “I didn’t bring them all,” she said, after a pause in which he feared her silence would remain unbroken. “I lost Duster. And before that—before I even knew what was going on—I lost Lefty and Fisher. Even when I had suspicions, I still lost Lander.” She reached out and touched the altar, and this time he did not stop her.

  What she offered in the gesture, he could—barely—accept.

  “Do you think that people in your service shouldn’t die?”

  “They don’t serve me.”

  He raised a brow, then. “They do. They follow you, they obey you, and they trust you.” The middle was perhaps a bit of a stretch, but they obeyed her to the best of their stunted abilities, and she was wise enough—or perhaps canny enough, or perhaps even just lucky enough—that she did not push them for more.

  “All right! Yes, I think they shouldn’t die.” She lifted her hand from the stone surface and shoved it, and the other, into the belt that encircled her tunic. This act of defiance did not comfort her, and she turned away from his watchful eyes. “If I deserved their trust, they wouldn’t have. I hate it. I hate that they trust me, and I hate that I failed.”

  “Then let them go.”

  She stilled. The anger had not fled, but it had been shunted, briefly, to one side by, of all things, surprise. “What?”

  “Send them away. Refuse to take their service. Cast them off.”

  “I can’t do that—what would they do?”

  “What did they do without you? They survived, and I imagine that they will survive again.”

  The anger that had clung to her from the moment she set foot in the garden of contemplation now died. “I know what you’re trying to do,” she said softly. “And you don’t have to do it.”

  “No? Jewel, do you think they hold you responsible for the deaths of their den-mates?”

  “No.”

  “Good. But you hold yourself responsible.”

  Wearily she met his gaze and held it. “Yes.” The single word was almost inaudible, but he would have heard it in the winter gales. For a moment, in his vision, the altar was limned in a light that traveled its perimeter; it wait
ed only a dedication.

  But that, he thought, would not come yet.

  “Good. You aren’t, and you are. You did not kill them, but had you not chosen them from the streets—and chosen, I think, well—they would not have died at the hands of demon-kin.”

  “Thanks.” Her lips twisted in a bitter grimace that did not suit the youth of her face.

  “Remember this feeling because to The Terafin, the House is her den. You don’t understand her—or so you think—but you have more in common than you know.”

  He watched her struggle with what she assumed was a simple compliment ; she had nothing to offer in return, but it took her some minutes to accept this.

  “Why did you come here tonight?”

  She glanced at the altar, at the domed ceiling, and at his face. “I’m having nightmares. I’ve been having them a lot recently. All of my dead come back to me; they surround me and try to take me with them.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “No. Walking corpses. Ghosts, I think I could live with.”

  “Corpses?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are certain that they are dead?” For he understood the precarious nature of her dreams.

  “Look, they’re my dreams.”

  “Interesting. Do you always have such morbid nightmares?”

  “Only when I’ve lost over a third of my kin,” she snapped. She stopped, relaxing the fists her hands had become. “I’m sorry, Torvan. I know you’re trying to help, and I know what you’ve told me is true—but it—it makes it harder.”

  “I know.” He did not speak again of the altar; nor did he speak of what she might, in the end, offer at it. “Stay at the shrine, if you will. Don’t let me disturb you. But Jewel: Trust your instincts.”

  5th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  The Common, Averalaan

  Devon ATerafin was not Meralonne APhaniel, a fact that should have brought Jewel joy, given how often she and the mage disagreed. But the mage was so obviously irritable, so obviously bored, or so obviously annoyed, you knew where you stood with him. With Devon ATerafin? You knew precisely what he wanted you to know, and for the better part of two days, that had been exactly nothing. He could be charming to a fault, but he clearly didn’t feel that charm was necessary for her sake; she only saw it when it was applied to other people.