Amarais inclined her head. She did not look away from the Exalted’s face, but for just a moment, she wanted to. She sensed both fear and anger in the woman, and it was a fear and anger not unlike her own—but it did not provide her the usual comfort of empathy.
The Exalted’s gaze was appraising, and it was not the only gaze upon her; it was the one she chose, for the moment, to meet. “You understood that this might cause some concern.”
“I did. But I also understood that there are other concerns that would—that must—dwarf it.”
At this, the woman’s lips turned up in a brief smile. “Well answered, daughter. The young woman at your side is the one you spoke of?”
And this, of course, was the trickiest element of this meeting. Jewel Markess was not, in any way, a child raised in the confines of the patriciate. That such an upbringing was confining was not in question, but at times such prisons forced appropriate behavior so instinctively on a person they could not mis-step.
Jewel could, often just by opening her mouth.
She had, of course, been dressed, and groomed by her domicis, and she had managed—barely—an almost unbroken silence while within Avantari. But that silence could not last. It would be broken here, and if the Exalted were satisfied, it would be broken again—and both times, her words would be measured against Terafin.
Against The Terafin, who had brought her here.
Are you ready, Jewel Markess? She glanced at the curve of Jewel’s back and almost smiled. It was a grim smile, which was appropriate for these halls.
“Exalted,” The Terafin said, “Exalted, Exalted.” She bowed three times, according each of the god-born present the respect they were due. “I have asked for—and been granted—this unusual audience to offer information and to request permission to act upon it, in accordance with the ancient laws that bind all interference with the Sanctum of Moorelas.”
She recognized the silence that followed her words, and she was prepared for the sudden chill that settled into the expressions of the Exalted. It was not, however, the Mother’s Daughter who spoke next; it was the son of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom.
“Why do you speak of that shrine, Terafin?”
“It is our only avenue into the city beneath the city,” she replied, forcing the authority of her rank into the words. “In no other way will we reach the Lord of the Hells in time.”
“In time?”
A flash of annoyance would have heated her words; she held them until it had cooled. “You’ve heard the voices of his servants. Everyone in the city has, by now. Do you think they labor with no goal in mind? They have been exposed, and it is my belief they were exposed early; they play this game—this deadly, ugly game—to distract and break us.
“House Terafin has searched for the hidden ways into the underground, as I have informed the priests you guide. We have found nothing; the ways have been closed against us. Against,” she added softly, “the god-born and those who might bring an effective power to bear against the Allasakari.
“I have seen demons,” she continued, aware that the use of the word was unwelcome and unwilling to apologize for it. “They wore the guise of a family member of the House of my birth in order to either destroy me—or worse, take over Terafin from within, with no one the wiser.”
“Yet you came to us late.”
“Yes. To my regret and my shame, I chose to hide what I had discovered, in order to better uncover the enemies of my House. We are all concerned with the responsibilities we have chosen, and at times, they become all we can see.” She bowed her head.
“Well spoken,” the god-born son of Justice said. “But it does not answer the greater question. What will you have us do with the shrine?” His voice was both warm and sharp.
“Open it,” she replied.
“You would have us open a monument?”
Her eyes narrowed. He had not denied that it was possible, and that was all she now needed to know. “Were it a simple monument, a thing of stone, I would not. But it is more than that, Exalted. It was always more than that.” She hesitated, and then said, “Jewel Markess has been on the other side of the shrine.”
The silence that followed was chilly indeed compared to the mention of the shrine.
“Jewel Markess is talent-born,” she told the Exalted. “And much of what I described to the men who were sent to treat with Terafin in these matters was from her direct experience. Should you desire it, she will now recount that experience in person, without any interference from House Terafin.”
“Describe again the halls you traversed to reach this supposed crypt.”
Jewel bowed low to ground every time the Exalted—any of the Exalted—spoke. The Terafin watched her with care, as did Morretz and the Chosen. They could not, of course, intervene, and reminding Jewel of something as simple as etiquette would deprive her of any semblance of authority over her own words.
Ararath, The Terafin thought, as the Mother’s Daughter now left her throne and approached the supine form of the young street thief, whatever you saw in this girl, you saw clearly. Perhaps she believed it because she desired to do so; it didn’t matter. Here and now, the argumentative, headstrong girl who was willing to clash verbally with the most intimidating of mages that the Order of Knowledge had produced had reined herself in completely.
She answered the question the Son of Cormaris had asked. Her voice was not entirely steady, but the lack of steadiness was not due to nerves or anger; her expression was shadowed by obvious loss. The companion that had witnessed her entry into the crypt of the Sleepers had died before she had brought her den to the Terafin manse.
The Exalted conferred briefly among themselves—and out of the hearing of the Terafin contingent—before returning to their thrones. They were not pleased, and had they been able to face Jewel Markess and deny the possibility of truth in her words, they would have.
But they understood—perhaps better than Amarais—the danger that now threatened Averalaan, and with it, the whole of the Empire of the Twin Kings; they would not, and could not, deny that truth when it was also hope.
Our only hope, Amarais thought bleakly. And it rests upon the shoulders of a girl of sixteen years, by her own reckoning. Slender shoulders, drawn tightly in.
“Remain here,” the Son of Reymaris said, speaking for the first time. His hair, once red, was now streaked with the gray of age and care, and of the three he seemed angriest.
Amarais nodded.
They did not leave the room but retreated to the far wall; it was the only wall in the room that was not adorned with tapestries. Instead, reliefs depicting the gods had been carved into the stone. Given that this hall was intended for the use of the Twin Kings and the Exalted, this was not surprising.
But when the wall parted, the figures of Justice and Wisdom separating slowly to expose a hidden—and quite probably magical—door, Amarais understood that they had won some small concession.
The Kings had come.
They were not alone.
Accompanying them were the Queens—Marieyan the Wise and Siodonay the Fair. Queen Marieyan was robed in simple, midnight blue; Siodonay had chosen bold, unadorned white as her color. Mourning white. Queen Marieyan had chosen to wear a tiara, which lent gravity to the situation, but Siodonay had taken up her sword.
Like The Terafin’s sword, it made a statement in the silence.
But two such notable women could not hold her attention for long, for even The Terafin was not immune to the light of the god-born, and she found her gaze pulled—and held—by the two men who ruled the Empire of Essalieyan. Cormalyn, dark-haired, golden-eyed, and grave, stood beside Reymalyn, whose red hair was now silvered by the dignity of age.
Neither man looked pleased; they were, as the Exalted, men who could speak with their fathers, and they carried the concerns of their fathers into the mortal world, as all god-born did.
The Terafin noted, belatedly, that the Princes were not in obvious sight; nor was the Prince
ss Royale, daughter of Marieyan and Cormalyn. She wondered if they were watching and listening at a safe distance, or if they were elsewhere in Avantari.
To either side of the Kings, the Astari walked. The Kings’ personal defenders, they were not quite guards, but in times of grave danger, they served that function. They wore no armor, although they were armed; they dressed as functionaries that might be found in any of the offices through which the Royal businesses were governed.
But chief among them, and the last to walk into the room, was a man The Terafin recognized with distaste. Duvari. The leader of the Astari. He gestured, and the stone likenesses of the gods closed once again at the backs of their sons. Then he turned and performed what was, for Duvari, a very unusual obeisance; he bowed, low, to the Exalted.
When he rose, it was easy to forget that he was capable of the humility of respect; he approached Jewel Markess. “With your permission?” he said, although it was unclear to whom.
King Cormalyn nodded, however.
“Rise.”
And now, The Terafin thought, we are tested. “Jewel,” she added, in a soft voice. “Rise.”
The questioning was sharp and harsh; Jewel weathered it as well as could be expected, given her background and the lack of formal lessons she’d received since she’d come to The Terafin manse bearing Ararath’s message. That would have to change; had the situation not been so dire, and had Jewel not been so unusual, she would already have become more proficient.
Duvari was not the man to ease her into an exchange of information, and by the time he had asked her variations on the same set of questions for the fifth time, it was clear that Jewel’s ability to withstand—with grace—his condescension and obvious disdain was coming to an end.
Devon stood slightly behind Jewel and slightly to one side; The Terafin watched him without concern. Inasmuch as he could, he cared for Jewel, and he did not wish her to fail whatever test Duvari was now conducting.
“. . . and what makes you think this—this crypt is located beneath the Sanctum of Moorelas?”
A sixth round had begun.
“I don’t know it for certain,” Jewel replied, speaking calmly and softly, although her expression was now sharp.
“Yet you’ve told your Lord that this is the case.”
“Yes.” More edge in the word than in the previous sentence. Jewel, be cautious.
“Why?”
“Because I couldn’t think of anywhere else it could be. The Sanctum stands alone. The library closest to it doesn’t have a crypt.”
“Who else have you told about this?” When she failed to answer, for this was a new question, he added, “I asked you a question.” His voice had dropped several degrees.
Amarais knew the answer of course: her den. The den for whom she had risked so much. “I heard it,” Jewel replied. She moved, then, turning away from him. Devon stepped closer to her, and she moved to one side; it was subtle, but it was clearly a refusal.
Duvari drew closer, and she stood her ground. But she spoke a single word, and it wasn’t an answer to his question. “Terafin.”
“Jewel.”
“I’ve told them everything I can tell them. I serve the House.” Her voice was low, and it sounded stretched with effort.
“You have not,” Duvari said coldly, “told us everything we wish to know.”
“I have told you all that I can.”
“It is not for The Terafin to decide that; it is for me. The Crowns are not yet satisfied with your response. We would ask you to resume your place.”
She did not move.
“Jewel Markess, sit.”
Jewel drew breath then. It was enough.
“Hold.” The Terafin glanced once at Jewel and then turned her attention to Duvari. “Astari, the girl is a member of my House. She answers to me by the covenant between The Ten and the Crowns, and I do not choose to press her.”
It was petty to take any satisfaction from his obvious surprise and his obvious annoyance, but it had been a long, long week.
“We were not informed that this was the case.”
“I was not aware,” was her cool reply, “that the permission of the Astari—or the Crowns—was required in the granting of a House Name. Nor was I aware that prior knowledge was a legal imperative.”
“It is—”
“It is not, of course, required,” Queen Siodonay said. She was war’s child, and she took the measure of the battlefield before she entered it. “But as a courtesy—to both ourselves and the young ATerafin—it would have been appreciated.”
“It would have been impossible,” Duvari said coldly. He looked, briefly, toward Devon; Amarais marked it. But she also marked the complete neutrality of Devon’s expression and the lack of any obvious gesture.
“Lord of the Compact,” Queen Marieyan lifted her voice slightly.
Duvari turned to face her; for a moment Amarais thought he might argue. But he understood the import of the office, and he managed an “As you say, Majesty,” that was smooth and uninflected.
Jewel had stopped trying to speak or trying not to speak. She was trying to breathe. She was no fool, had never been a fool; she understood exactly what The Terafin’s chilly words to the Lord of the Compact meant. She had declared—in front of the Kings themselves—that Jewel Markess was ATerafin.
ATerafin.
Jewel had daydreamed, while crawling through so much dirt nothing short of magic could get her fingernails clean, of the day when she would finally be offered the House Name. She’d dreamed of what she would say. On some days, the dream had been of humble, grateful Jewel, on others, of proud Jewel. In none of those dreams had she refused what she had been offered.
And in reality, even had she wanted to do so, she couldn’t; it would have damaged House Terafin and its ruler. She couldn’t accuse The Terafin of lying to the Kings. Even if she was.
The lie had bought Jewel breathing room and space.
She glanced at Devon, who seemed to be her sole support in the room, for Torvan was by the walls, stiff and as uncommunicative as the reliefs of the gods themselves. Devon, however, was watching the Lord of the Compact and the Lord of the House the way some small children watched burning fires.
The Queen—Marieyan the Wise, Jewel thought, for she was older and she looked the part—had clipped the Lord of the Compact’s wings. But not for long.
“But, Terafin, you understand your responsibility in this matter. If this young girl’s information were openly known—”
“Then what? I have heard nothing today that indicates—to me—that you have any idea whatever of what will happen. If history—that remote and sullied record of things past—is to be trusted, these Sleepers have existed as they are now since before the Empire’s founding; they have not once woken, they have not once been disturbed. And there have been wars, and worse, that have played out above them and around them while empires rose and fell. Vexusa fell around their ears—and such a fall as that city faced woke the very dead; the Dark League did not disturb them.
“Therefore, unless your purpose is to intimidate a young girl, I believe your interview here is at an end. Is that clear?”
Jewel had heard The Terafin speak in anger before. But Devon’s frozen expression made it clear that this outburst, this anger, was both unusual and dangerous.
“Terafin,” Queen Marieyan said. “Lord of the Compact. Our grievance is not, and must not, be with each other. Terafin, you must forgive the Lord of the Compact; his purpose is the protection of the Crowns, and he is zealous in his pursuit.”
“And arrogant. And ruthless.”
Even Jewel understood how bold this was. She sidled slightly closer to Devon, who had not moved. At all. She almost wanted to poke him to see if he was still breathing.
“It seems to me,” the Exalted of Cormaris said, as he joined the Crowns without any warning at all, “that history, both ancient and recent, plays its hand. Terafin. Lord of the Compact. You do not serve your best interes
ts or ours by this. Cease.”
What the Queen’s more diplomatic words had failed to do, his did: The Terafin bowed with complete and sincere respect to the Exalted of Cormaris. The Lord of the Compact followed, but he clearly wasn’t used to the simple physical act of bending in the middle. Or at all.
“Who knows now matters not; more will know than we could possibly deal with before this matter is closed. This does not grant dispensation for any further spread of this tale by anyone in this room—or in House Terafin.” He turned to Jewel, then, his expression grave and remote. “Young one, we believe your story, although we wish it were otherwise. Son of Reymaris?”
“I concur,” was the short reply.
“Daughter of the Mother?”
“I also concur.” She looked at Jewel with something like sympathy, but it was marred by what might have been a hint of fear, a hint of anger. Jewel thought she might speak, but in the end she merely shook her head and turned to face the Kings.
“Your Majesties, I speak for the Triumvirate.”
“As is your right,” King Reymalyn said.
The Exalted of the Mother nodded; she did not bow or scrape to the Kings, then or ever. “What would you have of us?”
The Kings now exchanged a glance before King Reymalyn spoke. “If there were another way, we would ask nothing. But it seems to us that the crypt of the Sleepers must be disturbed if Allasakar,” and here, all of the Exalted drew sharp breath; they did not, however, admonish this half brother, this scion of gods, “is not to walk again. We would ask that you open the Sanctum to our forces.”
The Exalted daughter of the Mother now lowered her head. She was silent for a full minute. When she raised it, she said, “It will not be an easy task, and the Triumvirate alone cannot accomplish it; we must bespeak the Church of Cartanis and the Church of Mandaros, and their leaders must be in agreement.
“There are reasons why the very ground would deny a making or an unmaking, such as our enemies have done, that did not have the keys of the gods behind it. All keys.”
King Reymalyn nodded, as if this information were not a surprise. “Let it be done,” he said quietly.
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