“The injury was not severe enough to—”
“There is blood on your lap, and on my chair.”
He looked down and raised a brow in faint surprise. “Terafin,” he said, acknowledging her order, as he did every order she gave.
“Good.” She rose. “Jewel,” she added, in a voice much less harsh, “you have served us well today, whether or not you know it. Go back to your den; I will call for you after the late dinner hour.”
Jewel bowed, awkward in the motion. The door opened and closed with unseemly haste as she fled the room.
• • •
Jewel caught up to Devon as he walked down the long hall that led to the grand stairs. To either side were the rooms of the minor functionaries whose entire life was to see to The Terafin’s various needs; there were paintings, most old and elaborately framed, and there were two long tapestries, although what they depicted, Jewel didn’t know. Nor did she much care.
“Devon, wait!”
He stopped at her command and then pivoted on his left heel, standing exactly between the alabaster sentries at the top of the stairs. He was smiling, but the smile was both strained and sardonic. “At your command, lady.”
She snorted and held out her arm; it wasn’t an offer so much as a demand. This was Jewel Markess, den leader and guardian; he saw her rarely. “I told you, healer first, Terafin after,” she said crisply, in a tone of voice which took for granted that he would be smart enough to listen next time.
He was grateful for her aid, and halved his weight between her arm and the railing.
“Devon?” she said, when they were halfway to the foot of the stairs. He turned to meet her gaze, and found that it wasn’t possible; she was staring at her feet. “I want you to know—”
Had his hands not been wrapped in folds of silk, he might have lifted them to her lips to stop her words. Instead, he shook his head. “Jewel, you did well today. You would have done so with or without me.” He made a point of raising an elbow, and she favored him with a half-smile. “I’m not so very certain that it’s not I who owe you thanks.” The smile left his lips slowly, but when it was gone, she knew it. “But perhaps thanks, like congratulations, will have to wait. We’re not finished yet.”
“No,” she replied. “But you are. Until the healer says different.”
He started to speak and then laughed. He knew, from the sidelong glance she gave him, that she didn’t understand why.
• • •
The Terafin sat quietly in her chambers as Morretz applied a cooling balm to her shoulders and her arms. Her eyes were closed, as if in meditation, and her arms delicately folded; her hair was drawn up above the nape of her neck to better allow Morretz to do his work.
“What did Alowan have to say?”
“Bow your head,” Morretz replied. The smell of something cool filled the air as he broke a scented wax bead against her pale skin.
“Morretz?”
The domicis sighed. “You will not be pleased.”
“Oh?”
“Meralonne refused our aid most emphatically; he would not even suffer the healer to examine him. To make his point more strongly, he cast a protective circle around the bed we managed to force him into.”
“Cast a protective circle? In the midst of the fevers?”
“Terafin, please.”
She struggled to find her quiet and relaxed again under his ministrations.
“He is, even now, struggling through them. What we can offer him, we have offered.”
“We can’t afford to let him—”
“Terafin,” Morretz said gently, “the mage-fevers cannot be hastened or lessened by the healer, or have you forgotten?”
“I’ve seen a healer aid a mage who was suffering from them.”
“No,” he said, equally gentle in his correction. “You have seen a healer contend with the physical damage the fevers left behind. And even then, there is no guarantee of success.”
“Morretz.”
“Terafin. Devon is resting well, and will be able to continue his activities in your service without interruption.”
“Good.” She sighed. “But it was not Devon’s opinion I wished; it was Master APhaniel’s.”
“You had it,” Morretz replied evenly. “He has said that what Jewel described—what she saw in her vision—was impossible.”
“But she saw it.”
“Yes.”
“And it was not illusion.”
Morretz was silent a moment. Something fragrant and slightly bitter trailed down the back of her neck; another wax bead, another exotic oil. “No, Terafin. Neither I nor Master APhaniel believe it to be illusion.” He paused. “She has the sight, and illusion would have left telltale traces to her vision.”
“Then if she saw it, how can it be impossible? Why is it impossible?”
Morretz’ hands stilled a moment; she felt their warmth, but felt their stiffness as well. At last he said, “I do not know.” It was an admission he hated to make. “But everything I have ever been taught agrees with what Master APhaniel said.”
“And you think he understands more?”
“Yes.”
She cursed. “How long?”
“I do not know,” he replied gravely. “Terafin, I had no idea that he could travel thus. And after such travel, he still had the power to play out young Jewel’s vision that we might see it and he might clarify it for his own purpose. I cannot think of another mage who could do the first, let alone survive it to continue to the second.” He was silent for the space of five seconds before he once again began his massage.
“Tell me, Morretz.”
“Very well. I summoned him, but did not expect his immediate arrival. It worries me. Meralonne keeps his secrets well; indeed, he is known in the Order for no less. He is powerful enough to be feared—just how powerful, I did not know until this eve—and he has few enemies, although he has few friends.”
“But tonight, for reasons that he has not—and in all probability will not—state, he came in undue haste; it was as if he was afraid of what he might hear. Or, perhaps, afraid that he might hear it too late. The thing that can put that fear into Meralonne APhaniel must be terrible indeed.”
The Terafin was silent. Morretz slowly worked his way down either side of her spine; she curved her back beneath his fingers, sinking slowly into the bedding. She thought to pretend to be relaxed, but Morretz knew her too well.
“Who are they?” she asked him, seeing Ararath behind the closed lids of her eyes. “Who are they, and why do they seek to take Terafin?”
“Why?” Morretz echoed. “One month ago, you would not have asked that question.”
It was true. But one month ago, it was perfectly clear who her enemies were both within and without Terafin. Within Terafin, they sought control of the most powerful of The Ten, and without, they sought to damage Terafin enough that Terafin would lose its rank among The Ten. The idea that controlling Terafin would not be an end in itself was so foreign it had taken time to gather strength and become deliberate question.
She shivered, suddenly cold; Morretz, expecting this, wrapped heated blankets around her shoulders before moving to the fire. He paused by the brazier and very carefully broke a small cone into its flames. Smoke eddied briefly in the rising currents; in minutes the air carried the scent of sandalwood.
“Sleep,” he said softly, as he placed kindling into the hearth. “I will wake you when it is time.”
• • •
Ellerson found her in the kitchen, with a lamp on the table and a slate beneath her shaking, chalk-covered hands. Beside her was the box that carried every coin the den owned.
“That is not,” the elderly domicis said, “a wise use of oil.”
She looked up at him, the shadows under her eyes cast by more than the round light. “I’
m studying.” Her lids fell halfway shut, and she forced them up.
Ellerson lifted his own lamp and brought it to within two inches of Jewel’s face. “To bed,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.
To her surprise, she found her feet and even managed to stay on them. “I—”
“To bed, now.”
It seemed very childish to tell him that she was afraid of sleep. To point out that, three times this eve, the nightmares had forced her, screaming and sweating, to wake. Jewel Markess was the leader of her den, and guardian besides. There were certain kinds of fears you didn’t own up to unless you wanted to be thought of as weak.
But she couldn’t go back to her room. It was too big and too cold and too empty; the ghosts were waiting for her before her lids were properly closed. She lifted her lamp and held it aloft, some sort of unfortunate shield against the rigors of natural night.
Ellerson’s expression was not what she had feared it would be; the severity of the day was softened somehow by the hour and the isolation.
“It’s not often,” he said, as he lowered his own lamp, “that a domicis finds his master in a kitchen.”
“Back at the den, it was the only empty room. Wasn’t even a full room.” Lamplight skittered off the walls and the wide bank of flat, perfectly clean windows, softening the bare walls. “Our whole place was smaller than this.”
“But you miss it.”
She looked up, for Ellerson was quite a bit taller than she, but there was no accusation in his eyes, and no contempt. “Yes,” she said. “I miss it. It was mine. I knew how much it cost, I knew when I had to pay rent, I knew how to clean it and break into it when I had to.
“It’s stupid,” she added, almost forlornly. “I couldn’t dream of a better place than this.”
He said nothing.
“But I don’t see my den-kin anymore. I go out early, I come in late, and I’m forbidden to speak about anything I do in The Terafin’s service. It’s not what I thought it’d be.”
“No,” Ellerson said. “It never is.” He pushed her lamp across the table, setting it aside as if it were no longer necessary. “Come, Jewel. It is time to sleep.”
His voice reached for her, although he kept a respectful distance, as station and rank demanded. Not very many people told Jewel what to do anymore—at least, not like that. She found herself following where he led, and was almost disappointed when the journey ended at the door to her rooms. Like a well-dressed doorman, he opened her door and held it while she slowly crossed the threshold from the wing into her private quarters. Then, lamp still bobbing in his hand, he stepped over it as well.
She stared, openmouthed, and then remembered what little manners she had.
“Jewel,” he said, his voice less stiff than she remembered it, “I am a domicis. I have been trained for most of my life to serve. I take pride in it; all of our number do. I was brought here to serve you; it seems that you did not—or do not—understand this.” He walked up to her and reached out for the lamp in her hand; her nerveless fingers let it slide. She was tired and weary; exhaustion made her stare although her eyes weren’t really seeing.
“Come. It is time for you to sleep.” He placed a lamp on either side of her bed, one on the low, flat set of dressers, and one on the tall, narrow table that was meant for a vase or a pitcher. Then, satisfied that both were full and secure, he stepped back.
The room was lit, and the shadows cast by the lamps were small. Without darkness to hide them, the walls did not seem so far away or so barren. Ellerson quietly pulled up a chair, choosing to place it halfway between his mistress and the door.
“I will watch the lamps,” he said quietly. “When they are low, I will fill them.”
“But the oil—the cost—”
He smiled, and the smile was a rare one. “Sleep, Jewel. You are not the master that I envisioned when I was called to serve—but I understand now why it is I who was sent.”
She wondered what he meant as she slid between the covers and then struggled to kick her sandals out the sides. Wondered, but didn’t have the voice or the wakefulness to remember to ask.
• • •
Devon ATerafin stared at the moon. The sky was clear, and the luminescent orb was almost full—although whether it was waxing or waning, he could not remember. In a darkness so lit by the scattered glow of moonlight and the brilliant spill of stars it seemed hardly dark at all, his hands looked whole. The skin was tender to touch, but no one touched him, and it was unlikely that the injury would be remarked on, even were one to be looking for it. Alowan’s touch was potent, Alowan’s skill without equal.
But Alowan was also old, and wont to look and act his age. Time ran across his brow with ungentle feet, and sat upon his shoulders with increasing weight. See us through this crisis, old man, Devon thought. Then he grimaced. There was always one more crisis to last through.
Always.
With genuine regret, he left the balcony, with its cool, stone seat and its thick, overadorned rail; with its exposure to moonlight and starlight and the crisp, soothing breeze. Devon was a moonchild, not a sunchild, and the light that he preferred was one that accented shadows without stripping them of power.
He turned and pushed the curtains back, holding them long enough to enter into the office from which he served Patris Larkasir in the overseeing of the Crowns’ trade routes.
On his desk were reports and paperwork, and the paperwork at this time in the season was unusually heavy. Trade with Annagar was still opening up, and many were the merchants who clamored for permission to bear the Crowns’ seal along the various routes. Patris Larkasir had been most patient about Devon’s comings and goings, but judging from the size of the small mountain on his aide’s desk, Devon thought that patience would soon wear thin. It was unfortunate; an impatient Larkasir was rather like an impatient bull.
In the small, middle drawer above his lap was flint and tinder; he pulled them out, navigating his way around the quills and brushes that work demanded use of without making a sound. Almost, he lit the sole lamp that stood, full, on the right corner of his desk. Almost. But there was a shadow, and it was wrong.
He froze at once, but before he could arm himself, he heard a voice he knew quite well.
“Devon ATerafin,” it intoned, “the Astari summon you.”
• • •
Water trickled out of the cupped palms of a kneeling, alabaster boy. He was blindfolded, and his hair was cropped very short; there was nothing at all around him but still water. Stephen found the fountain vaguely disquieting, and wondered if that had been what its maker intended. It was hard to say; there was so much in Averalaan that seemed to defy sense, reason, or beauty.
He was well enough that the night no longer exhausted him; well enough that, during the day, he could begin to pen long letters to Cynthia, as was his wont. He was not quite well enough that he was willing to venture into the Kings’ court—or the Queens, as they seemed to be two separate things—to meet with the Ladies of Breodanir.
On the morrow, however, he would have no excuse; guilt and a sense of duty, even in this foreign place, conspired to rob him of peace as he stood alone in the silence. Gilliam was someplace in the eastern courtyard, with his dogs and Espere for company—but Stephen could sense his Hunter’s unease and restlessness. They had come to Averalaan for a reason, but that reason was Evayne’s to dictate, and she had not seen fit to visit again.
Or rather, the path had not seen fit to bring her.
He tried, at a distance, to calm his brother, and felt the hint of Gilliam’s annoyance in return; it was familiar, and he missed the familiar enough that it made him smile.
Come, Stephen, he thought, as he stood and left the fount behind, don’t tire yourself. Tomorrow, you must fulfill your word to Lord Devon.
“Am I interrupting?” The voice was soft and faint, b
ut Stephen would have recognized it in a crowd that roared. He turned at once, dropping into a bow of genuine respect and gratitude at the feet of the healer-born Alowan.
Alowan’s smile was genuine but tired. “I’ve come to see the patient, but I see the patient is well.”
He found himself nodding; found himself trying to square his shoulders enough that he might look the picture of perfect health. It drew another smile from Alowan; that of a father who knew what the son was about.
“I’m well,” Stephen said, and then added sheepishly, “well enough to visit the Queen’s court on the morrow.”
“On the morrow? Well, that will be the occasion. If I’m up to it, I may see you there.”
Stephen raised a brow, and almost asked the healer what he meant—but he set it aside. Alowan looked his age at the moment; Stephen felt guilt for being the cause of his venture into the palace and the Arannan Halls. There was a cadre of guards at every entrance and exit, and running their gamut bred a type of exhaustion that was unique.
Almost, he sent the old man away, but as he led him to the door, he hesitated. And then, quietly, he called to Gilliam; Gilliam’s concern came back, and Stephen calmed it as he could.
“After all you have done for us, Healer, I know it would be ungrateful to ask you for more.”
“But?” A white brow rose, skeptical, at Stephen’s graceful words.
“But indeed,” Stephen smiled, as one caught out, “if I might trouble you to answer a question of some urgency to myself and the Hunter Lord Elseth? We can pay,” he added quickly, and then, seeing the lines in Alowan’s forehead, fell just as quickly silent.
“What question is this?”
“It concerns—ah, Gilliam. There you are. Did you bring Espere?”
Gilliam’s suspicion was immediate, as was Stephen’s annoyance at it. They glared at each other a moment as Espere very neatly stepped round her Lord and into the open courtyard.
The old man looked down at the girl. “Is she the matter of concern?”
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 76