“He made this room, these walls, and these arches. That wall, the one that he’s standing in front of, leads through the fireplace into The Terafin’s audience chambers. We must follow; wait for us here.”
And the other wall? But she did not dare ask.
The wall began to undulate, and the mists that had marked the summoning of Meralonne began to roil again. The mage crossed his arms, impatient, and they cleared. Through the arch that was no longer part of a wall, Jewel saw The Terafin, standing rather than sitting, in the room that she used to receive her visitors.
It was a far grander and far larger room than the one that Jewel’s den had been ushered into. There were no other desks; no assistants, no sense of business or bustle.
And save for The Terafin, the room appeared to be empty. The Terafin looked up and her eyes widened slightly as she saw who entered her room, and how. “What is this?”
Before anyone could frame an answer, the double doors opposite the magical arch swung open, a doorman on either side. Standing between them, well-dressed, clean-shaven, and unarmed, stood Old Rath.
Chapter Six
SHE COULD NOT BE certain that he had seen her, but she was by no means certain that he had not; upon sighting the open doors, she had all but leaped back into the summoning chamber. Carver—forgotten until this moment—was cautious in the face of the unknown; he’d obeyed Torvan’s orders to remain behind. It was probably one of three times that he’d obeyed anyone’s orders but her own since he’d joined her den. Smart Carver.
She cursed her own stupidity, lowered herself to the floor, and then lay there on her stomach, as close to the open arch as possible, straining to catch the words.
For the first minute or two, there weren’t any.
Then, in a tone of voice that Jewel couldn’t have managed had she tried, The Terafin spoke again. “Gentlemen, while it’s been a pleasure to have your company, unless we can come to an understanding of circumstances, I will be forced to ask you to leave.” Silence, and then, “I have, as you can see, a visitor who arranged to speak with me.”
“If I’ve come at an inopportune moment, I can return at another time.” It was his voice—Old Rath’s voice. But the words were prettied up a lot.
“No,” The Terafin said. “Gentlemen?”
Silence. Jewel hated silences like these, with no sight to guide her, no sense of action or movement.
“What are you doing?” It was Rath; his voice was sharp and grating.
A fan of orange sparks shot through the arch, fading from sight as quickly as a falling star. Jewel drew a sharp breath and rose instinctively to her feet. She crouched, dagger in hand, beside the arch as Carver gestured her down.
“Meralonne,” The Terafin said, her voice almost twin to his. “Please. Explain your presence here at once.”
“I am here,” he replied, “at the behest of your Chosen.”
“Obviously,” was the icy reply.
“Please accept my apologies for the unannounced use of magecraft in your presence. And you, sir, if you would accept my most humble apologies.”
“For what?” Rath replied, the edge once again smoothed out of his words.
Oh, shit, Carver mouthed.
“Indeed, Meralonne. For what?”
“I merely attempted to negate any . . . illusion that might have been present.”
“Illusion?” Rath’s incredulity sounded genuine. “Are you saying that I’m a mage?”
“No, my good sir. Please accept my apologies. Terafin, it appears that I have been summoned in error.”
“Who summoned you?”
“I did,” Torvan said. Jewel could hear the sound of an alloy knee joint hitting the grand carpets.
“We will speak of this later,” was her cool reply.
“Lord.”
The guards came in through the arch and eyed Jewel and Carver with anger and disdain. Torvan wavered a few moments more before also rising and retreating. He did not look at Jewel or Carver, but he didn’t have to; his face was pale and stiff.
“I will take my leave,” Meralonne said, turning in the arch so lightly and quickly that it caught Jewel by surprise, “but I think that I have not been summoned without cause.” Jewel could hear the power in his voice. Shining brilliance came in through the arch; it was not so much a light seen as one felt. If someone had asked her its color, Jewel would have replied, warm. Not a color at all. She thought she could smell something sweet and wild in the air, some hint of a time and place that was safe and eternal.
A scream of mingled pain and surprise filled the room, turning to rage before it abruptly ended. Jewel was on her feet at once, shifting to take her second look into the room itself.
Old Rath stood ten feet away from The Terafin, his features contorted with pain. His hair was smoking, and his skin looked slightly singed. “My Lord,” he began, facing The Terafin. “You can see that this—this mage bears me malice for reasons that I cannot begin to—” The words died abruptly as he met the eyes of Jewel Markess. His expression shifted, a subtle movement of muscle—a flag, just enough of a warning.
The wall exploded.
• • •
Torvan stopped two inches from the back of the mage. He shoved Jewel to one side, but he did not dare to jostle Meralonne APhaniel; he had the sense to understand that the only thing that stood between his Lord and her death was the mage. For he could see that, through some work of will, some magic invisible to his eye, The Terafin stood unharmed by the fire and rock fragments that filled the room like sunlight.
She had not shifted her position or her stance; even her expression was inscrutable. “Torvan,” she said, without turning her head or taking her eyes away from her visitor, “I chose well, when I chose you.”
Of course, she would speak these words when there was room for no other emotions but dread and fear.
• • •
Torvan said nothing; Jewel could see the tension and fear in the white line around his lips.
“Old man, do you think that you are a match for me?” Old Rath said. “Do you think that your magics and your pathetic human power will outlast mine? You’ve had decades, and I, eternity. But I will see you suffer before this is done.” His voice was no longer the voice of her mentor and her friend; even the face, identical to Rath’s, had somehow slipped, like a mask accidentally jostled at a nobles’ masquerade. For that, she was grateful.
“Well, well, well,” Meralonne replied, his voice so mild it was almost friendly. “It has been a rather long time, and I do admit that I’m rusty.” He took a step forward and cleared the arch. Torvan practically lunged after him. A mistake; he crashed into empty air and bounced back, clutching his arm.
“Don’t try it again,” Jewel whispered. “Not yet.” She watched the air between the columns of the arch, filmed and almost shiny but somehow still transparent. At her back, crowding her so tightly she felt her shoulders curl inward in reaction, were the rest of The Terafin’s Chosen. “Carver,” she snapped, “get out from underfoot!”
He was used to her temper in a fight and let the words—and the tone that conveyed them—slide off his back. He knew that if it were up to her, she’d’ve cleared the room of the whole damned lot of them, except for maybe Torvan. Maybe.
“What do you mean, not yet?” Torvan’s voice was too tightly contained.
“He’s keeping us out,” she said, nodding to the back of the platinum-haired mage. “Or he’s keeping that creature”—she was happy; she never had to call it Rath again—“in.”
“How?”
“Mandaros knows,” she snapped back. “Am I supposed to?” Then she bit her lip, and prayed that she not be sent to the Halls of Judgment—and Mandaros’ sight—any earlier than lofty and ripe old age. She snuck in under Torvan’s arm, pushed him—well, nudged really, as pushing a man in that much armor require
d more momentum than she’d managed to gain—to one side, and squinted fully into the room.
The sight of her seemed to enrage the creature. “You have caused me trouble, little urchin. My war is with you.” Then, as if to contradict his own words, he gestured in a sharp, harsh arc. Hands that were human glinted in golden light as if they were made of steel, and something that seemed to be darkness made liquid spread from his fingertips.
Where it struck the ground, flames gouted; they traveled, hungrily turning the carpet to ash, to form a ring around The Terafin and her mage. Both remained untouched by fire.
Jewel jumped back and hit Torvan squarely in the chest; he’d moved again, and she’d been too absorbed to notice it. Bad sign.
The Terafin did not move. If she was afraid at all, the fear did not betray itself by showing its presence. No, to Jewel’s eyes she seemed angry, but even the anger was a subtle thing. “Where is the real Ararath?”
“He is our prisoner,” the creature replied, smoothly and swiftly. “But if I do not return in safety, he will be a corpse within the day.”
“He’s lying!” Jewel shouted.
For the first time, The Terafin’s stare wavered. Both she and the creature turned to look at Jewel, and what Jewel saw in both of their faces—although the expressions were in no way similar—frightened her. She started, and Torvan’s mailed hand caught her shoulder, both steadying her and keeping her in sight of the ruler of Terafin.
“How is he lying?” The Terafin asked, her voice level and gentle seeming.
“Old Rath is dead,” Jewel replied starkly.
“He will be,” the creature added. “But he is not dead yet. Do you think we would destroy so useful a bargaining tool, Terafin? This—” and he snarled as he gestured at Jewel, “has cost us much. We had hoped to take your House from within; it appears that we will have to accept destroying its leader.”
“A poor consolation.” But The Terafin’s gaze did not waver as she studied Jewel’s face. Jewel found it hard not to look away—but she knew that she must not, or else The Terafin would think her the liar. Held by The Terafin’s dark eyes, she felt her fear give way to loss.
It was The Terafin who at last broke the stare. “Master APhaniel,” she said, and her voice was steel. “Who—or what—is this . . . caricature?”
“I am your death,” he replied, in a voice that was no longer Rath’s or anyone else that Jewel had ever heard speak.
Time froze as they turned to stare at what had once been an old man. His skin seemed to melt into thinness over blood, and then even that ruptured as he grew in height and width. Slick and shining, his elongated jaws snapped shut and he lifted a vaguely reptilian head in a roar.
Jewel could have marked the second—the half-second—when that roar became a scream. Words escaped the sounds of agony, but they were spoken in a language that Jewel could not identify, and she had heard many in the streets of Averalaan. She didn’t need to understand the words to know a plea when she heard it.
“Master APhaniel,” The Terafin said, raising her voice so that it would be heard above the unnatural roar. “Cease this! We need information!”
A platinum brow rose. “I’m trying,” the mage replied, through clenched teeth.
She fell silent at once and watched as the creature continued to writhe. It was hard to tell what was blood from what was skin; he looked like something newly birthed. Jewel turned her gaze to the woman who ruled, and kept it fixed there. Although this creature had been responsible for not only Rath’s death, but Duster’s and probably Lefty’s, Fisher’s, and Lander’s, she could not watch his agony—it was too terrible. His death, yes. But cleaner somehow. In the end, although The Terafin stood firm, her gaze cool and remote as it rested upon the creature, Jewel’s hands covered her ears, and her lids, her eyes.
I wanted to kill it, she thought. He killed my kin.
But even a dagger drawn slowly across an exposed throat, or one driven time and again into a prone back, were the most vicious of things she had actually considered; she could picture them in her mind, could almost force herself to see. Others were fantasies that had never gone beyond the feel of the words in her unspoken thoughts.
Nothing she had imagined was like this. Ask her and she would have said that the killer deserved the most hideous death that the Lady could offer. But its screams, like human screams, went on and on until she could no longer feel anything but horror and pity.
She opened her eyes to see The Terafin’s impassive face, and it frightened her almost as much as the screaming did.
“Make it stop!” someone screamed. “For the Mother’s sake, make it stop!” Later, from the rawness of her throat, she would realize who it was.
The mage was pale. Water ran from the corners of his reddened, unblinking eyes, but it was obvious they were caused by no emotion more complex than simple physical limitation. He took a step forward, and then another; a pure golden light cocooned his arms, his face, his chest. His robe crumpled; a knee hit the carpet before he righted himself. Then, at the last, he gave a cry, a snarl of fury—and the creature, limned in a darkness that was thin and hard and sharp, was gone.
Jewel slowly took her hands from her ears. Her arms were shaking with stiffness, but she brushed one quickly across her face. It came away wet.
“Jewel,” someone said, and she forced her eyes open.
Shards of stone and a fine powder lined the furniture and the carpets of The Terafin’s rooms. The curtains had been torn to shreds by the flying debris—except for the spot at which they would have had to pass through The Terafin; blue formed a perfect silhouette of her stance. Beyond it, the carefully beveled windows had been shattered; the lead-and-pewter frames had been twisted like thin reeds.
The damage was superficial, even pleasant to look upon, when compared with the room’s center. What remained of the fine carpet was a damp, smoldering ruin, and the wet, dark stains across it would never be removed. But worse were the parts of flesh and skin stretched to breaking, of human teeth and the husks of human eyes, nails from hands and feet, matted, charred strands of hair.
Jewel was sick all over the good part of the carpet, but no one noticed. Meralonne, haggard but focused upon the task that he had started, crossed the room in safety, unconcerned for the dead that he might disturb. The Terafin watched him in silence as her guards emerged.
Torvan and Alayra immediately joined her, standing slightly back on either side. Their swords were drawn, and their shields, bright and burnished steel and wood, were across their chests. Torvan looked like stone, and Alayra, iron; they were hard and focused upon their duties to protect and guard their Lord.
But they were soft and yielding when compared to The Terafin herself. If such a woman had moved into the twenty-fifth holding to declare it—and all illegal traffic through it—her own, Jewel would have packed up and fled in a minute. As it was, she barely prevented herself from cowering to the side and ducking out of sight as The Terafin slowly approached the mage’s side.
She looked down at the debris at his feet, and then raised her chin. In a chilly, quiet voice, she asked, “Is this human?”
He raised a pale brow, and then gazed at the scattered flesh and remnants as if seeing them for the first time. He gestured a green light into existence, and it touched them, twisting about them in a lattice of eerie spell-light. The light faded slowly as Meralonne let his arms fall to his sides. He turned to her without expression.
“Yes,” he replied, no inflection marring the distance of the word. “These remains are human.”
She nodded as if the question was as perfunctory as the answer was emotionless. But she turned to the ruined window, the shredded curtains, walking between her guards as if they were columns and not people. “Leave me.”
“Terafin—”
“That was not a request. Leave me, all of you.” The voice of command was s
o quiet that one had to strain to catch it—but once the words had been heard, they could not be denied.
Torvan and Alayra exchanged wary glances as they backed out of the room. Meralonne APhaniel finished his inspection, and then stood crisply, lifting the hem of his robes as he traversed the carpets. He paused in front of The Terafin.
“Terafin, I will repair to the Order and begin my report. On the morrow, I shall deliver it to you.”
“You may return this eve,” was her remote reply. “After the late dinner hour.”
He bowed his acquiescence in near-silence.
“Jewel?”
Jewel, creeping along the side of the ruined wall, stopped short and fell to one knee. The edge of a stone chip cut into her kneecap; she bit her lip and waited.
“After the middle dinner hour, I would appreciate your company.”
Jewel nodded.
“I will send someone for you in your quarters. Please be there.”
She nodded again, and then scuttled out of the room as quickly as she could. She did not look back at The Terafin because she did not wish to meet her eyes or see her face again. It was too much like an invasion of privacy, an act of voyeurism.
• • •
Early dinner, middle dinner, and late dinner were not, as Jewel half-suspected, the different stages of noble repast. They were quite literally, as Ellerson pointed out, the hours at which civilized people were expected to—or allowed to—begin their dinner. In view of The Terafin’s request, he ordered dinner for the early dinner hour.
That was not the only change he insisted upon; the second was a matter of clothing. The third was a matter of weapons, or rather, a lack of weapons. The fourth was a matter of language—but the fourth could not be supervised closely when she was no longer in the wing; Ellerson therefore concentrated on making her presentable. Presentability meant a dress; anything else was unsuitable for the dinner hours. Jewel wasn’t even terribly surprised when he just happened to have a deep blue dress that was her size. It was not complicated, not frilly, and not restricting in movement. But it was heavier and finer than anything else she was used to wearing.
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