“Wait here, Jewel Markess. I’ll return.”
She swallowed, and her eyes were darkly ringed. “I’ll wait,” she replied softly. He could almost hear the plea that she couldn’t make in her voice.
He could never be certain why he did what he did next. But the words he had spoken to the young girl were true: There was trust between The Terafin and her Chosen. He should have taken the news to Gabriel—the most trusted and valued of The Terafin’s advisers—and let the right-kin deal with it as he saw fit.
It was what he intended to do as he walked through the gallery on the second floor mezzanine. But he found himself walking past the hall that branched into Gabriel’s quarters; found himself marching, and quite quickly at that, to the rooms that The Terafin used for her daily business.
“Torvan?”
“I have a request for the Lord,” he said, looking forward as Gordon barred the doorway with his sword. Gordon was also one of the Chosen; he lifted his sword, nodded, and took two crisp steps to the side. All was as it should be in House Terafin. Marave cocked a dark brow, but she said nothing, as she was on duty. Guarding The Terafin’s doors was perhaps the job which required the most dress discipline; Torvan rarely got assigned there.
The door opened into an antechamber that was both sparsely and finely decorated. There were four guards in it, but they allowed him to pass without challenge. They did not have a dress function as the guards at the door did; they were there as a precaution. Six months ago, an assassin had nearly ended The Terafin’s life. Neither the assassin nor the hand behind him had been caught.
Still, he nodded at them as he made his way to the second door. Arrendas opened it for him, and allowed him to pass, lifting a brow in open curiosity. Later, he mouthed to his oldest friend, as he walked through the door.
The Terafin looked up from her desk. It was a tidy, almost severe affair; papers had been meticulously separated into neat piles of varying degrees of urgency. At her side were two secretaries who had been assigned the luckless task of sorting through the demands of the Terafin family and assigning them a relative degree of importance. Merchant matters normally rose to the top because, in matters that concerned money, voices were usually loudly and quickly raised in pleading protest.
“Torvan?” The Terafin said, the question in her voice soft. “Is there trouble?” She raised a delicate brow, and stood in a smooth elegant motion. Her pale blue skirts fell to her ankles. They were wide and quite practical, not at all the fashion of the current noble court.
But The Terafin, unmarried, was of an age where fashion did not rule. Torvan couldn’t imagine that she had ever been at an age where it did. She was not young, but not old, and she wore her years like a fine and valuable armor. The analogy was apt; she also wielded her experience like a fine and valuable weapon, much to the regret of any who attempted to cross her. Her dark hair was confined by a glimmering net that fell just past her shoulders; sapphires glinted at her left ear and upon her right hand.
“Trouble?” He shook his head quickly. “No.”
“Why,” she asked, as she moved away from the desk, earning a glance of consternation from her undersecretary, “don’t I believe you? What is it? Difficulty at the gate?”
He bowed his head. “Not difficulty, but not a normal occurrence. It seems that a street den has arrived and will not be moved.”
The Terafin raised a dark brow and her lips turned up as she pictured it. “I see. Have they chosen my House in order to mark it for humiliation, or do they have a pretext for their trouble?”
“They carry a message that they will deliver only to you.” She chuckled almost dryly, and folded her arms across her chest as she leaned back onto the lip of the desk. “I see. And what brought you here?” That she expected more was obvious.
“They say it is from Ararath Handernesse.”
Her expression didn’t change, nor did her posture, but The Terafin’s Chosen were selected for their instinct and their intuitive ability, as well as their ability to fight; Torvan knew that the message meant something to her the moment the name left his lips. “I see. Well, then,” and her voice was quite dry, “you had best see them in.”
“As you will it, Lord,” Torvan replied, without missing a beat.
• • •
Torvan ATerafin came quickly down the stairs that led to the narrow walk. His face was calm and his expression composed, but his stride was quick. He reached the gate—and his partner at arms—in half a minute.
Jewel couldn’t make out what he said, but she could hear him speak. The gates swung open.
“Jewel Markess,” Torvan said gravely, inclining his head slightly. “The Terafin has requested your presence. Please follow me.”
Just like that. Jewel’s knees refused to move; they felt weak and unstable. She looked over her shoulder and caught Finch’s trusting relief. Swallowed.
“Arann?”
Carver shook his head. He took a step forward, as did Angel, but they both staggered slightly at the weight of their unconscious companion. Teller leaned toward Arann’s white face, listened there a moment, and then looked up at Jewel.
“He’s . . . breathing.”
He’s dying. She reached out—she couldn’t help it—and touched Arann’s face. It was cold and clammy. “Arann?”
There was no answer but the silence of her den. “C’mon Carver, Angel. Let’s get him in. We can’t leave him here.”
• • •
He watched them struggle with the weight of their companion. Something about their struggle hovered at the far edge of his memory; it was familiar, but he could not recall where he’d seen it before. The younger girl was pale, and her eyes fluttered from person to person, lighting on anyone save the dying boy himself. The quiet boy did his best to help, but his spindly arms and legs were not up to the task. He could not take his eyes away from the unconscious young giant. The black-maned boy and the boy with a white spire for hair managed to support the weight of their companion as they followed their leader’s directive, with the red-haired, awkward one struggling at their back.
And the leader herself? He watched her impassive face, and saw the fear alive beneath it. It was almost as if she’d seen too many deaths, too quickly.
He knew, then, where he’d seen the expression, and the struggle; the determination not to abandon the living—no matter how badly injured—because there were too many of the dead.
Those fields were years and miles behind him. He always made certain that they stayed there. But a slip of a girl and her followers suddenly brought them back, however distantly.
“Here, Markess,” Torvan said gruffly, and his voice, deep, held the timbre of command. “Let me help you.” He pushed her firmly to one side, stared down at Teller until the boy got out of his way, and then caught Arann under the arms and legs as the two who had been shouldering his burden stepped away at the quiet directive of their leader.
He strained as he lifted him, but he lifted him.
• • •
Jewel wanted to pay attention to the finery of the House. She wanted to notice the colors of the tapestries that covered the west wall, the deep hue of carpet beneath her feet, the paintings, limned in light, that hung in the galleries.
She wanted to pay attention to the unbarred windows, to the silvered mirrors that were taller and wider than she, to the crystal that hung, casting light against their shoulders, from a ceiling so tall it couldn’t possibly be kept clean.
It didn’t work; they faded into a pale, listless dream that passed around her without really touching her.
What was worse was that she knew she should be calculating each of the words and gestures she was about to make. She had to have her story straight, it had to be convincing. If she was clever about it, the den would profit—and there was no rule against making a bit of money while saving the world.
&nbs
p; But she thought of Fisher and Lefty. Lander. Duster. Even Old Rath. Each of them had died. She didn’t know what killed them, or when, or how. She hadn’t seen it, and although she was responsible for her den, the responsibility for their deaths didn’t have the viscerality that Arann’s dying did.
Snap out of it, Jay, she told herself, as she saw the two guards at the end of the hall. You won’t do Arann any good like this. She nodded to the right, and Carver came to stand behind her.
“Teller?”
The thin boy nodded.
“Keep an eye on Arann.” As if, she added, but only to herself, he can look anywhere else. The halls were so long. “Can’t we walk any faster?” she demanded sharply.
Torvan looked down and shook his head. If he found her tone annoying, he gave no indication of it.
She was acting like a nervous child, and she knew it. Torvan ATerafin was carrying—on his own—Arann’s massive body; he was moving much more quickly than they would have moved had he not decided to shoulder their responsibility.
He’s so white.
The guards at the end of the hall put up their swords in an X, barring the entryway. “We’re here to see The Terafin,” she said, before the clamor of their ringing had started to fade. “It’s urgent. We’ve got to—”
“Marave, we’re here by The Terafin’s command.”
The woman, her dark hair peering out slightly beneath the edge of her helm, nodded crisply and pulled her sword up. “You may pass.”
The fair-haired, bearded man on the other side of the door likewise withdrew his weapon. “You may pass.” Their movements had the feel of ritual, and Jewel had seen ritual so seldom in her life that it almost drew her attention away from Arann.
But Arann proceeded through the open doors in Torvan’s arms, and she followed quietly, failing to notice that the eyes of what remained of her den looked to her for guidance or command.
The four guards in the next large room didn’t speak at all; Jewel thought, for just a second, that they might be a trap. As if, she told herself, as her pulse returned to normal, things could get that much worse. She pulled at her sleeves as she crossed her arms, pressing the papers into her skin.
The papers.
“Don’t stand on ceremony,” someone said, and Jewel looked up at the sound of a woman’s quiet voice. The woman was not speaking to her, but rather to the guard who held Arann’s very still body. “I do not require you to kneel, Torvan.”
She was, this woman, of medium height. Her skin was pale, almost milky white, and her hair was dark. It was probably long; hard to tell given that it was bound back in a net that cost more than Jewel’s entire den was worth in a good year. She wore a simple dress, but Jewel thought it was silk; it was a pale blue that fell from shoulder to ankle without the interruption of a belt.
And, of course, the stones at her ear and finger were real. Had to be. Jewel found herself bowing awkwardly; she hoped that the rest of her den were doing the same. Bowing, that is; if they could get by without the awkward part, so much the better.
The room was fine but sort of empty; there was a single picture on the wall, and there was a fireplace—empty—beneath it; there were shelves of books—books!—to her right, and to her left, two grand windows with real glass. There were three desks in the room, and on each a large lamp was burning bright. It was clear that The Terafin had ordered her other attendants out.
“I believe,” The Terafin said, her voice almost musical, “that you have a message for me?” She smiled, and the smile was warm, but the eyes behind it were hard.
Jewel nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Then I would have you deliver it.”
The message was important to The Terafin. Rath had known it would be. Most times, she would have wondered why. But right now, the fact that it was important was enough. Jewel nodded again, pulled the papers that she held very carefully from their awkward hiding place, and then moved slowly forward. No one was prepared for her sudden lunge; she jumped to the left, grabbed the closest lamp, and held its casing against her chest as if it were a weapon or a shield.
“Jewel,” Torvan said, his voice hard. “You don’t have to do this.”
Jewel shook her head; strands of hair flew out of her dust-covered cap. She felt dirty and grimy and poor and stupid and very, very desperate. “This is it,” she said, waving the rolled vellum above the brightly burning flame. “This is the last message from Ararath.”
The Terafin raised a delicate brow. “What are you doing, child?” She took a step forward.
“Stay right where you are.” Jewel let the edge of one of Old Rath’s precious scrolls skim the flames.
“Who are you?” The Terafin asked, acceding to Jewel’s demand.
“I’m—I’m Jewel Markess. I’m the den leader here.”
“And you’ve come to my House in order to extort something from me?” Her lips thinned. “I don’t know how you found out about Ararath, but—”
“He taught me.” She waved the papers over the fire. “He taught me about all of this. I—” She shook her head. “I don’t want to do this. But you’ve got something I need.”
“And that is?”
“Money.”
If possible, the woman’s lips thinned further. “You do realize that there are a roomful of guards in the antechamber?”
She nodded.
“Vellum burns poorly. I dare say that they’ll have you in hand before even one of the scrolls that you carry is lost.”
“Just try it,” Jewel replied, but her voice was thin, and her words held no strength. What The Terafin said was true.
“Shall I call the guards?” The Terafin took a step forward, and this time, Jewel did nothing.
“We used all our money to come here,” she murmured, so quietly it was hard to hear her. “And even if we hadn’t, we’d never have enough for a healer.” Then she turned to look at Arann’s body, and she lost her voice.
For the first time, The Terafin looked at Arann. “I see,” she said. “And this money—you want it for him?”
Jewel nodded. “He’s my den-kin,” she said.
“And what would you do for it, if I had it to give you?”
“Anything,” Jewel replied, straightening up and lifting her chin. “I’ll steal for you, if that’s what you need done. I’ll spy for you. I’ll kill for you. I’ll even—”
The Terafin lifted a ringless hand. “Enough.” She walked to the fireplace and pressed her hand against a square of the stone wall just above it. The square shimmered very strangely in Jewel’s sight, but even as she squinted to see it more clearly, it became ordinary stone beneath an elegant palm.
But The Terafin looked at Jewel very carefully before walking back to her desk. This time, she sat behind it, signaling a more formal interview. “Tell me about Ararath.”
Jewel swallowed. “I—we didn’t call him that. We called him Old Rath. He lives in the thirty-fifth. He’s a . . .” She I met the older woman’s eyes directly and held them for the first time. And as she did, instead of feeling lesser and more insignificant, she felt calmer; there was something in their depths, some coolness that spoke of shade and not shadow; shelter and not prison. “He was a thief there. The best. He was good with a sword—that’s why he lived to be old. He knew how to read and write and speak like a gentleman.
“He didn’t much care for the patriciate. He didn’t much care for commoners either, when it comes down to it. But he was a good friend.”
“Was?”
“We . . . think he’s dead.” She looked down at the curled papers with their extensive writings, their fear. She couldn’t destroy them; not even for Arann. Her hands stopped their shaking, and she quietly set the lamp on the floor.
“I . . . see.” The Terafin folded her hands and looked down at her fingers.
Ther
e was a knock at the door. Torvan very gently set Arann down on the floor. Teller waited until the guard stepped away from the body, and then knelt on the carpet beside his friend. He listened for a moment to Arann’s breathing, and then quickly dropped his head to Arann’s chest. “Jay,” he said, swallowing, “I don’t think he’s . . .”
She pushed him out of the way with more force than she’d intended, and knelt on the carpet as well. “Arann!” Her ear scraped the fabric of his shirt as her cheek came to rest on a patch of crusted blood. She listened and heard what Teller had heard: silence, stillness.
“Arann, come on. We’re safe now.” She lifted his face in her hands and shook him, but not hard. He was cool and slack. “Please, Arann, please.”
“Jay?”
She shook her head fiercely, refusing to turn around.
“Jewel, come. There’s nothing you can do now.” She felt hands on her shoulders and she stiffened; they were gloved and mailed. Torvan. She shrugged them off and crouched closer to Arann’s chest. When had he gone? When had he slipped away? Was it while she was trying to bluff her way past the guards? Was it while Torvan—a stranger, an outsider—carried him? When?
“Jewel.” The hands on her shoulders were heavier, the grip firmer. “Come.”
She shook her head. Couldn’t turn around. There were tears on her face and in her eyes, and she couldn’t hold them back. She could stop herself from making any noise. She could control her breathing. But the tears, damn them anyway, were going to fall for just a few minutes. She couldn’t afford to have them seen.
“Torvan, it’s not necessary,” someone said, and a figure distorted by the thin film of water that covered her eyes knelt beside her. It was a man, older than either Torvan or The Terafin—older even than Rath. His hands were callused and wrinkled, and his shirt—she would remember the cuffs of the sleeves for the rest of her life—was plain and simple white, except for the golden embroidery on the cuffs and collar. That embroidery was a sun symbol, a light symbol, in a pattern that repeated itself, dancing across a white field as if it were alive. He touched her right hand gently with his left hand, and with his right, he touched Arann’s still chest.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 51