Morretz’s disdain for Meralonne’s pipe was well known; he failed to hear the comment. “When did she leave?”
“Shortly after the god arrived,” was his curt reply.
“And you let her escape?”
This question was met with a gaze that defined the word cold. “I have been long from the sword,” was the reply. “But I will never be so long from it again.” He gazed at the mist, as if he could see through it. “Do you understand what you see, Morretz?”
Morretz looked, pointedly, at The Terafin.
Meralonne shrugged. Jewel thought, for just a minute, that Morretz would hit him; the domicis’ hands curled into sudden, hard fists. But he refrained. “You see a god,” the mage said softly. “A god walking the world. You do not understand the significance.”
But Morretz frowned. “A . . . god?”
Meralonne nodded. “A god long absent from the Council of Gods, and, I think, long missed.”
“What god takes the form of a beast?”
“The Hunter God,” Meralonne replied. He hesitated for a moment, and Jewel marked it because it was so unusual. Hesitation was not his style. “We have long theorized about the effect of the world on the gods as they exist now. I do not think that the god himself was, until the moment the Huntbrother died, aware of what, or who, he was.”
“And the death somehow changed that.”
“Not the death itself, no. But the feeding.” He glanced at Jewel, as if he had always been aware of her presence. “Mark this, little urchin. Mark it well. It may be of significance to you in the years to come.”
She tried hard not to bridle.
“Mortals are mortal—by definition. But there is about them some element that does not age or change, not easily. You would call it,” he added, “a soul.”
And what would you call it? she thought. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to get into a bristling argument with the mage in this foyer, at this time.
“If he subsumes it, he touches the only element of the divine that is now natural in this world. I believe,” he added softly, “that it sustains some part of his memory, for he is Bredan, now. He is the god who created the Covenant, and he has been long absent from the Heavens.”
Morretz was silent for a moment. At length, he spoke. “The Covenant binds the gods to the Heavens.”
“It binds those whose oath he took, yes.”
“You are saying he did not take the same oath that the other gods did.”
“He did not.” Meralonne began to search through the folds of his robe—and he wore his robe, now, as if he had never been garbed in any other way. He cursed when his hands came up empty. “It is not much spoken of, and I believe,” he added, nodding at the landscape of bodies, “that you must understand why.
“We have long theorized that the world itself was changed in the sundering. And there is proof.” Having failed to find his pipe, he slumped against the banister, watching the mists that rolled in place.
“But I understand much, now. The Huntbrother, Stephen, is dead. He fulfilled his oath. The Hunter Lord is not, and he has yet to fulfill his.
“But the Allasakari were almost consumed by the shadows they carried, and the demon was strong.” He straightened. “I will not argue with the servant while the master is absent,” he told Morretz, “but there is no room for argument now; we are done with disagreements. The Terafin must go to the Kings, and the Kings to the Exalted.
“We face not demons and not rogue mages—although,” he added, his lips twisting with contempt, “there are obviously rogue mages involved. Men are stupid; they seldom understand the cost of their desire for power until it destroys them.” He glanced at Jewel.
Jewel, however, was looking at the mists. In their shifting gray and white, she could see the antlers of the god as if they were made of gold. Even the blood that adorned them glittered darkly. In a faraway voice, she said, “He will fight Allasakar.”
She didn’t seem to hear the sudden silence that followed her words.
But neither did Meralonne. “Yes,” he said heavily. “If we have the time, little urchin, and if the god’s long journey is not yet complete, Bredan will fight Allasakar.” His voice gentled as he watched her face.
“But your role here is, I think, at an end. Where the god goes, you cannot—and will not—follow. The Terafin,” he added, glancing at Alowan, “will rise, wake, and lead. But even The Terafin must accept the limitations of her role. She has been cautious and political, and her delay may well be costly in ways that the Empire cannot afford.
“But it is in the realm of human politics that the last of her duty lies.”
“But—but—Allasakar—”
“And would you fight him? You, who can barely wield a weapon longer than a dagger?”
Stung, she pried her gaze from the god. “We’ll do whatever we can—” she began.
“Yes. But not more.” He paused and then said, quietly, “You cannot be everywhere. You cannot go everywhere. Not yet.” He cursed, and released her. “You!” he shouted at the Chosen who had begun to approach their fallen comrades.
They stopped.
“You will not touch the bodies. Not the Allasakari’s and not your own. Not until I tell you it is safe.” He ran his hands over his eyes and cursed the lack of a pipe again. “My work,” he told Jewel, “is not yet done this night. It has been long since the shadows swallowed so much life, and they linger wherever they can.”
The god had come, the god had spoken with the strangers, and the god had gone. Evayne, too, seemed to have vanished. Lord Gilliam and the wild girl remained, along with those of his dogs that hadn’t fallen in the fight. Meralonne didn’t attempt to tell the Hunter Lord to stay away from the savaged corpse of Stephen of Elseth, the man he had called Huntbrother, and Jewel thought it was a damn good thing.
Meralonne was tired. She had seen him peevish and annoyed—and bored—but exhausted? Only once, and he’d ended up in the healerie, where neither he nor the healer was comfortable.
Yet he traversed the foyer, examining all of the fallen, from both sides of the battle. Those he deemed safe were removed at his instruction. Those he did not, he labored over for some time, and Jewel watched the orange and gold light at the core of his palms as he did; she knew he worked magic and that he was skirting the edge of mage fevers to do it; he’d used a lot of magic this night.
But he wouldn’t suffer a man present to touch any of the corpses until he’d done whatever it was he had to do, and even then, he bade the Chosen carry them to a room where they might lie undisturbed until a greater power than his could be called. They were not to be returned to their families, and they were not—yet—to be interred.
The den watched. Jester yawned, but he was embarrassed enough to at least cover his mouth when he did it. Only when Alowan rose, unsteadily, to his feet did they move. Finch had shouldered her way between Carver and Angel, dragging Teller in her wake. She had also shouldered her way between two of the Chosen, who startled but didn’t force her back.
She wasn’t there for The Terafin, after all.
She caught Alowan’s hands in hers and then freed one so that Teller could take it. “Come,” she said softly, as if she spoke to a child or a gravely injured man, “we’ll take you home.”
He attempted to pull his hands free, but she shook her head, her mousy hair falling into her eyes. “You can’t stay here,” she told him.
He managed to raise a white brow. “You listen,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you failed to hear the rest. I cannot—I should not—be touched. Not yet. It is far, far too soon.” He started to glance over his shoulder and then shuddered and turned away. The Terafin had not yet awakened.
Finch didn’t ask him if he was all right. She didn’t ask him if The Terafin was, either. She didn’t say anything at all. But she didn’t let go of his hand, and after a moment, his grip tightened.
“I’ll be needed in the healerie,” he told both Finch and Teller as he let them lead h
im away.
But Teller, gazing at the foyer, shook his head.
The rest of the den walked at a distance from the healer, escorting him as far as the healerie before they said their good-byes. Then they made their way in silence to the wing in which Ellerson waited.
“The Terafin’s alive,” Jewel told him bluntly. “No thanks to us, in the end.” The words were bitter. Failure always was.
He was Ellerson; he understood what she meant, and he didn’t press her for details. He did cast a significant glance at her tunic, and when she looked down, she saw that it was bloodied. “It’s not mine,” she told him softly. She didn’t volunteer more, and, again, he didn’t ask. But he did suggest that she bathe and change, and even at this hour—an hour at which almost anyone sane in the House would usually be asleep—the suggestion had appeal.
“Are you sure?” she asked him before she headed down the hall to the bathing rooms.
“I am. The servants will be available to heat water and have the baths filled; I think very, very few of the people who make the manse their home slept well—or possibly at all—this night. It will give them something to do,” he added. “And action is often its own release.”
Were it not for the hour, it would have felt normal. Jewel was tired enough to wonder how anything in the world could still be normal when so many people had died.
9th of Corvil, 410 A.A.
House Terafin, Averalaan Aramarelas
Morretz was silent. He was, in his fashion, grimly silent. But The Terafin failed to note the tenor of his actions. It was, of course, a deliberate failure, and he accepted it; he could not have labored at the side of this woman for so many years if he could not do so.
He did not remind her more than once of Alowan’s advice. Nor would Alowan himself, were he here. The Terafin sought and accepted advice, but what she made of it was her decision, and no authority, no other information, overrode her. She would not stay abed for a week. She would not, Morretz thought, stay abed for a day.
It was not the first time they had argued like this, and Morretz knew he would have no success should he try now. Instead, he served breakfast, brought water, and made certain—inasmuch as he could—that she both ate and drank.
But she ate and drank, in the early hours of the morning, surrounded by the various symbols of her office: her seal, the wax in which it would be embedded, and the parchment upon which various letters and orders would be written; inkstands, quills, and blotters sat squarely beside cutlery.
It had been four hours. Four hours since she had woken with a start, pale as wax, in her own rooms. Four hours since she had commanded the presence of Captain Alayra. She sat, cushioned in bed, while Alayra answered her questions. What Morretz could not do, Alayra did not attempt. She knew—as well as he—that The Terafin would rise and would begin to see to the affairs of the House.
But in Alayra’s case, Morretz thought, it was a relief.
And so she ate, wrote, and stamped, and when she was done, she rose.
“These must be delivered to the House Guard,” she told him. He nodded; he knew what the letters contained.
She was still pale, but she was undeterred; she retreated to her personal quarters and asked Morretz to arrange for documents to be collected—immediately—for her perusal.
Only when he delivered them did she dismiss him. He knew why, but it pained him greatly. She had walked death’s edge, and she had—once again—been summoned back by the power of Alowan. She did not demand his presence, and had she, Morretz would have disobeyed, which was always awkward between domicis and lord.
But she would ride out some of the bitterness of the desertion that healing always engendered in full and utter privacy; not even he was to bear witness. Or to offer comfort.
Arann came home in the afternoon, and not until he stepped through the doors did Jewel—or the rest of her den—relax. He saw them before he saw Ellerson, who was also waiting, and he grimaced. “Sorry,” he told Jewel. “I couldn’t get away, and things were so bad I didn’t know how to send word.”
Finch hugged him, and Jewel looked away for a moment, running the back of her hand across her eyes. When she turned to face him again, he was surrounded by the den with their endless questions.
“Have you seen the gardens?” Arann asked them, when he could slide a word in edgewise without having to shout.
Carver nodded. “We heard the fire bells, as well.”
“Mage fire,” Arann said. He shook his head. “Have you seen the foyer?”
“We were in it,” Angel replied.
Arann whistled. “I heard there was fighting.” The way his voice rose on the last word was an open invitation—but it was one that no one, for a long moment, took up. They glanced at Jewel.
She grimaced and nodded, and they began to talk. But even the talk was hushed—for the den.
“There’ll be action,” Arann told them quietly. “There has to be. Darias colors, Darias men—they were in the open streets. The Terafin will have to respond.”
11th of Corvil, 410 A.A.
Order of Knowledge, Averalaan Aramarelas
Sigurne Mellifas sat, as she so often did, in the small office of her tower. She sat, as she also often did, surrounded by the letters and official documents that occupied so much of either her time or the time of the people who had thought it necessary to send them. She did not, however, feel the need to pretend a polite attention to their details, as the men and women who had penned them in various states of either irritation or distress were not there to take offense; she waited.
Nor did she wait long, in the end, although she felt each minute keenly. Time was now an hourglass that could not be turned: What was left was all they had. The wards around the door suddenly brightened in a curtain of orange and gray; she lifted a palm, turning it neatly and precisely in midair.
The door opened.
Meralonne APhaniel stood in its frame, studying her wards. He had never been the most trusting of men, and even now, he was cautious. “You did not bid me enter,” he said quietly.
It was not—quite—a criticism, but it was an astute observation. She disliked obvious displays of magic, and although only the naive would assume that the guildmaster did not, in fact, use any, everything about her daily routine suggested it. When pressed for an explanation, she would tell the student—for it was invariably a student who asked—that using magic to do simple things like fill a glass or open a door was, to her, a trivialization of its mystery and its purpose.
Which was, of course, untrue. She did not use magic because she did not desire the attention it brought her. “An oversight,” she replied.
“The Terafin has called a meeting of the full Council.” He took the chair in front of her desk, but he did not withdraw his pipe from his robes; her mood did not allow it. “It was not worded as a request. They meet, as we speak, on the Isle.”
Sigurne did not relax, although the news was good.
“My mages are in place around Cordufar,” he added softly. “They observe, but they take no action.”
“And?”
“There is very little to observe.”
She hesitated and then said, “I have received word from the Kings.”
His posture did not change, but his eyes were brighter and sharper than usual. “And that word?”
“An assassination attempt in Avantari. It failed; the Princess Royale is abed in the healerie, but she was not gravely injured in the fighting.”
“The assassins?”
“Demons.”
“They grow bold.”
“Bold or desperate,” Sigurne replied. “And we must hope it is the latter.” She rose. “The time is almost come.”
“Time?”
“Allasakar,” she said softly, speaking a name that was seldom spoken within the tower, “is on the move. He must be. We do not know how long he has been in passage—but no other explanation now fits with the facts we do possess.” She walked from one side of the towe
r to the other, as if caged by both age and walls. She looked, and felt, that age; she felt the frailty of years, for the strength of wisdom had all but deserted her.
“What will the Kings do now?”
“What they must,” was her curt reply. “In this, the attempt upon their lives serves us. They will not shelter behind Imperial politics now—they cannot. The Ten are also well aware of this.
“You have not located Krysanthos?”
“No. I think there is some chance he will not survive the evening’s work.”
“They will kill him?”
“The demons? I think not. But he was not judicious in his use of power.” A small smile played at the lips of Meralonne APhaniel; it was not a pleasant one.
“The Hunter Lord is ready,” Meralonne told her, also rising. “But the death of his Huntbrother has unbalanced him.”
“Will he fight?”
“It is all he is capable of now. He is not . . . entirely rational. I do not understand all of the Breodani lore, but Zareth Khan has answered some of our questions. The Hunters hunt the god once a year. That is their oath. He takes—he devours—one Hunter, and the lands in which the Breodani live continue to flourish. “Lord Gilliam will call the Hunt when it is needful.”
“We will not have time to travel—”
“Ah, apologies, Sigurne. He will call the hunt in Averalaan, and he will call it—and his god—when we at last locate the entry point to the summoning gate of the Lord of the Hells.”
She nodded but did not relax. “Where is it, APhaniel?”
“I think you already know.”
“The undercity.”
He nodded. “The undercity, as Jewel Markess calls it.”
“And you?”
“I think it was once called Vexusa.”
He had said, in words, what she had been afraid to say. “You have no doubts.”
He said nothing. It was a peculiar nothing; the silence was charged. He seemed young to her, then; young in a way that made youth a fey and shining danger.
“What lies in the heart of Vexusa, Meralonne? What do you seek there?”
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