House War 03 - House Name

by Michelle West

  “And if I allow this? If I allow you to discuss your work and its circumstances with your den at your own discretion?”

  “It’ll help. It’ll help them. It’ll help me.” Keeping anxiety at bay, she added, “It’ll help the House, in the end. I swear it.”

  The Terafin glanced at the altar, and her lips curved in a very odd, very slight smile. “Very well, Jewel Markess. I will consider your request for the deployment of the three, and I will exercise my own judgment here. You may discuss, in general, the difficulties that you now face, with your den. It is to go no further.”

  Jewel felt, then, the shift of the weight that she had almost unconsciously shouldered since she had first crossed the Terafin threshold.

  It must have shown on her face, because The Terafin said, “No, do not thank me; you do not yet understand how what you ask will change both yourself and your den. But it is an interesting request, and a thoughtful one.

  “Now, I must leave you. I have other things to consider.”

  “What things?”

  The smile left The Terafin’s face, but a frown did not replace it; instead, distance did. “A letter,” she replied softly. “To the Kings.”

  She left Jewel with the ghost of a vision and the slow return of fear, her skirts trailing above the shorn edges of grass like a delicate, cloth cloud.

  After she’d gone, and only then, Jewel rose. She knelt, briefly, by the side of the House altar, and she bowed her head into the cool stone as if that stone were a hand, and she were fevered. Here, now, she needed to think. She needed to have a plan. But it was hard; everything was too damn big.

  No.

  Think.

  The world had always been too damn big; she’d lived—they’d lived—by focusing on the parts of it they could handle. What did she know? That The Terafin would be in danger. That someone would try to kill her. But she wasn’t dead yet.

  And what could she do about it?

  Forehead against stone, she ceased to pray; she needed more than fear right now. Eyes closed, she struggled, as she had often struggled, silent and immobile.

  Oh, hells with it. I’ll give you my service, she told the Terafin altar. I’ll give you the service of my den. In the name of your House. How do I protect her?

  The answer came not from the shrine and not from the nameless deity to whom she’d prayed—after all, what House had its own god?—but from memory. Standing in front of Devon ATerafin, as if he were a mirror, both of them dressed in foolish, embarrassing clothing, his hands holding the ornate and decorative scabbard of a dagger that looked as if it were meant to be used in street plays.

  Take this, he told her, grim, the words he offered so sparse each syllable might have been solid gold, and he as poor as she. Something in his voice had stopped her, and she’d turned to look at his face, his shuttered expression.

  Don’t draw it unless we’re cornered. You’ll know when to use it; you can only use it once.

  She wondered, then, if he meant her to use it on herself, and she opened her mouth to tell him she couldn’t. The words didn’t leave her mouth. Instead, she nodded.

  She nodded now as she lifted her head from the altar’s surface. She still had the dagger; he hadn’t asked for it back, and to be fair, watching his blistered, bleeding hands hadn’t left much room for any other thought. Rising, she drew the sheath from under the folds of her robe. It was a stupid dagger, but she carried it anyway because of Devon’s conviction.

  In the fire’s light, she drew it from its scabbard. It was, as it looked, ungainly; it couldn’t be thrown. It couldn’t be used to cut anything harder or thicker than paper or cloth, in her opinion; the metal was a soft one that took no tarnish and kept very little in the way of edge. You could probably point it and stab.

  But she frowned as the blade caught the light, reflecting it and absorbing it at the same time. Runes were carved in its flat on both sides, and they glowed faintly as she turned it. She thought it the light’s reflection at first, but while shards of scattered light hit the underside of the shrine, she saw that the light in the runnels of those runes didn’t falter.

  Magic.

  “It is a consecrated blade.”

  She turned at the sound of Torvan’s voice. Only his voice; she’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t even heard his steps approaching.

  “Consecrated?”

  “Generally by the Three. There are ancient spells that were once used against the Lord of the Hells and his servants. Those runes hold some trace of that magic and that conflict.” He glanced at her face and then smiled. It was a weary smile.

  “We need this,” she told him softly. “No, we need more. How do we get them?”

  He raised a brow. “I don’t know. I imagine that you petition the Exalted of Cormaris, Reymaris, or the Mother.”

  “And wait a lot?”

  The smile deepened. “And wait, yes.”

  “And if we don’t have time?” She hesitated. Torvan was Chosen; the safety of The Terafin was almost literally in his hands. What could she offer as aid that wouldn’t somehow be insulting? Once, it wouldn’t have mattered. She understood that this hesitation was the effect of Ellerson’s constant, quiet lecturing, and she didn’t even resent it.

  “If you don’t have time, you generally do without.”

  “Can we?”

  His gaze was measured. “Jewel,” he finally said, “this is The Terafin’s battle. It is not yet yours.”

  “It is,” she replied, with more heat than she’d intended. She turned from him and slid the dagger back into its sheath. The sheath itself was old, and it was also runed; at one time, she would have kept it because it might be worth something on the open market.

  On Rath’s open market. He was gone. If she was ever to fence things again, she would have to build her own.

  “What have you seen?” he asked softly.

  He knew. She’d told him the first day she’d crossed his threshold, trusting him in the end because he’d carried Arann all the way from the guardhouse to the literal feet of The Terafin. “They’re going to try to kill her,” Jewel whispered.

  He knew instantly who she meant. “Who will?”

  “The demons. I think. It’s fuzzy, Torvan. It’s not clear enough.”

  “The Chosen will be prepared.”

  “Of course they will.” She hesitated again. “But I want us to be prepared, too. We’re here because, in the end, Rath died.”

  “He knew he would die?”

  “I told him. I told him, and he sent us here.” She drew a sharp breath. “I see things you don’t see,” she said quietly. “I tell her what I see, but—I can’t always tell her in time. Sometimes I know things a second before they happen.” Not often, but she wasn’t lying. Lying here would do her no good. “But everything here—it’s so complicated and it’s so damn slow. She won’t keep me under her feet—I wouldn’t, if I were her—but it’s under her feet that I’ll probably do the most good if—if something happens.”

  “Where did you get this dagger?”

  “Devon gave it to me, the day we went to the Merchant Authority.”

  He nodded.

  After a moment, gazing into the distance, he spoke.

  And after that, he escorted her to the edge of the garden. “Be careful, Jewel,” he told her softly. “Whether or not you attempt to do things in service to the House, if you are caught, understand that you will be judged only by the action.”

  She nodded. It didn’t matter. He’d told her, obliquely, where many of the important members of House Terafin lived, worked, or slept. It was a long list, and she did pay attention, but the name that stood out at this moment was Devon ATerafin.

  Chapter Seven

  7th of Corvil, 410 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  TELLER GAZED AT THE WALLS of Gabriel ATerafin’s office. He was, by this time, accustomed to the sheer finery, the size of the rooms, and the height of the ceilings; the entire Terafin manse b
oasted these. But Gabriel’s office, unlike the galleries and the public areas, reminded him most of the spare rooms in which The Terafin worked.

  Gabriel was in the inner office, behind a closed door.

  Teller glanced at the Chosen who stood to either side of that door; as usual, they failed to notice that he—or anyone else in the room—was present. He wondered how they could be such good guards when they failed to notice so much.

  But the man seated at the desk to one side of those closed doors looked up. He set both quill and paper aside, and rose.

  “You,” he said, glancing at something on the surface of the desk, “are Teller . . .” He frowned.

  “Just Teller,” Teller told him quickly.

  “Just Teller, then.” The frown didn’t ease. “Please be seated and remain there. The right-kin should be with you shortly; his appointment has run long.” He made his way to the closed doors, ignoring the guards that flanked them as easily as they ignored him. He knocked once, and then he opened the doors and slid between them.

  Teller glanced at the chairs. They were positioned in one row against the wall, and while they looked comfortable, they were also expensive and empty. He felt more comfortable standing. He felt less comfortable disobeying what was barely a request. Eventually, he sat.

  When the doors opened, they revealed the man behind the desk, who had failed to introduce himself. He looked far less composed as he made his way out, but he glanced at Teller, seated, and nodded, regaining his lost composure as he took the chair behind his desk. He didn’t speak. Teller didn’t ask him what was wrong; instead, he gazed at the walls again.

  At the painting, the single painting, that adorned them.

  It was a quiet painting, a seascape by day. Senniel College adorned the skyline, and little else. What made it unusual was that the central figure was not a building, not a man—or several men—not a ship; it was a bird, wings catching some hint of sunlight. It wasn’t a gull; those, anyone who lived in the city could recognize. This was the wrong shape, the wrong color, possibly the wrong size—it was flying high enough over the sea and Senniel that there was nothing to compare it to.

  But its wings were stretched, tip to tip, in a long glide.

  “It was painted by Haveros,” someone said.

  Teller looked up, surprised to see that it was the unidentified man behind the desk. He knew instantly that the name should mean something to him, and he knew as well that it didn’t.

  The man, however, did not seem ruffled by his ignorance; indeed, he now seemed to expect it, which was safest. “It’s called Freedom.”

  “Did the right-kin choose it?”

  “Yes. It is in his personal possession, not the possession of the House.”

  Teller turned back to the painting. Freedom? What freedom, in the end, did a bird know? It flew, yes, but it flew the way the rest of the living world drew breath. If it was hungry, it tried to find food. If it was tired, it slept. If it was hunted—and what would hunt it?—it tried to escape.

  The door opened, and Teller turned.

  A young man—not the right-kin—stood for a moment in its frame, his face a shade of red that suggested anger. Or fury. Were it not for his expression, he might have been handsome; his hair was auburn, and the magelights—the ever present source of illumination throughout the manse—caught the red highlights, brightening them. His eyes were dark. Even in this light, they were dark enough that his pupils couldn’t be seen.

  The man at the desk hadn’t moved an inch, nor did he look up; the guards, however, now turned to face each other.

  This time, they were obviously aware.

  And the man knew it. He slowly unclenched hands that were fists, and he turned, still contained by the door. He bowed, a stiff, heavy bow. “Father,” he said.

  There was no reply.

  After a moment, it became clear that none would be forthcoming, and he spun on his heels and strode to the desk. “Barston,” he said coldly. “I require another appointment. My discussions with the right-kin are not yet done.”

  So, the man had a name. Barston. ATerafin? Teller thought he must be.

  Barston nodded smoothly, as if such ill-tempered demands were common occurrences. For all Teller knew, they were.

  “I would like to know,” the angry man continued, “what business was so urgent that our meeting had to come to such an abrupt close.”

  “The Terafin’s business,” Barston replied smoothly. The lack of composure that he’d shown upon leaving the right-kin’s office was completely absent; behind his desk, he seemed unflappable. He didn’t look across the room at Teller.

  Teller, in turn, tried very hard to disappear.

  “Boy.”

  Apparently, given the utter lack of anyone else in the room, he hadn’t done a very good job. He straightened his shoulders and turned.

  “Rymark,” Barston ATerafin said. Efficiency had given way to ice and had also surrendered the angry stranger’s name.

  The man failed to hear him. So much deliberate failure, today. Teller wondered whether he was going to have to develop the same failures in order to function in House Terafin. He thought so.

  Even so, he could not ignore the single, sharp word.

  Jay wants this, he reminded himself. He rose and offered Rymark ATerafin an almost perfect bow. That he could was due to the efforts of Ellerson.

  “What urgent business brings you to the office of the right-kin?”

  “Rymark,” Barston said again, and this time he glanced, not at Teller or Rymark ATerafin, but at the Chosen who girded the doors as if they were so much furniture. To Teller’s surprise, they moved away from those doors and toward Rymark ATerafin.

  “It’s a simple question,” Rymark said, not to Barston but to the Chosen, who were now tight-lipped and silent. Teller wondered who they were; he didn’t recognize them immediately. He’d have to ask Torvan, later.

  Now? Now he faced Rymark, and he found his silence and held it.

  “It is a question that is of no material concern to any save The Terafin and the right-kin,” Barston replied.

  Rymark lifted a hand; rings glinted in the magelights. Clearly, he was not a poor man. The rings were obviously gemmed; he meant them to convey something other than wealth. “He is not a child, Barston.”

  “He is due the respect that any guest of House Terafin is due. If you feel the need to question him, you will do it outside the confines of this office.”

  Teller was honestly surprised. Barston had not struck him as friendly in any way when he had first entered the room; when he had retreated from an office full of the right-kin and this angry man, he had almost slunk back to this desk. Yet he spoke now in Teller’s defense, and he spoke with conviction.

  Even Rymark could not fail to hear it, but he didn’t move. The Chosen, however, did.

  “ATerafin,” one of them said.

  Rymark looked at Teller. He lowered his hand. “Very well.” The words were stiff and forced. He turned, the Chosen now to either side, and offered Barston a nod.

  Barston returned to his chair; the Chosen, however, did not return to the doors. “You will meet him at your usual time?”

  “I would like the earliest possible appointment that does not conflict with my studies in the Order of Knowledge.”

  “Very well. Two days hence, after the morning meal?”

  The pause was long, but Teller could no longer see the man’s expression. “Two days,” he finally said. He turned on heel and he strode out of the room; the door slammed behind him.

  Teller sat; his legs were shaking. The Chosen glanced at the door and at each other before returning to their silent, stiff positions.

  “My apologies, Master Teller,” Barston said quietly. He also glanced at the door. “Rymark ATerafin is generally an exemplar of House etiquette, but the right-kin is his father, and harsher words are often spoken between kin than between peers. I am sure,” he added quietly, “he meant no harm by his disrespect. If you wil
l wait but a moment,” he said, rising, “the right-kin will see you.”

  Gabriel ATerafin was not a young man; he was not yet old, but Teller thought he and Rath were the same age. Or would have been. He wasn’t certain what to expect when he was ushered, by Barston, to the open doorway and left there. The Chosen offered no help and no guidance; they were, once again, human statues.

  “Teller?” the right-kin said quietly. “Please, come in. My apologies for keeping you waiting.” He held out a hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. Teller wondered if every important official in the manse spent most of their days behind such a wooden bastion.

  But he understood the quiet gesture, and he walked quickly to one of the chairs and took it, folding his hands in his lap.

  “I see that you’ve been our guest for the last several weeks,” the right-kin said quietly. “Ah, I forget myself. I am Gabriel ATerafin.”

  “ATerafin,” Teller said, bowing his head briefly. He couldn’t remember if he was to bow upon first entering the room, but it didn’t matter; he’d already fluffed that.

  This drew a smile from the older man. “In this House,” he told Teller gravely, “most of its members are ATerafin. Please, call me Gabriel; I imagine the usual honorific would quickly become confusing otherwise.”

  Teller nodded. He didn’t, on the other hand, use the right-kin’s name. “It is confusing,” he admitted.

  “Has The Terafin spoken with you?”

  “No.”

  “So you have no idea why you’re here.”

  Ellerson had gotten him up, chosen appropriate clothing for him to wear, and sent him both to breakfast—early—and out the doors of the wing with a guide. That was all Teller knew. “No,” he told Gabriel.

  “It would appear,” Gabriel said, “that The Terafin has been impressed by Jewel Markess, your effective sponsor.” He waited for a moment, and when the words failed to have his intended effect, he smiled again.