“Tell the old woman,” Shadow said again.
Finch’s arms got tighter, and so did the line of her mouth.
The cat hissed and turned to her. Jewel managed to right herself; she grabbed his tail. She fell over again, still attached to it.
“She needs to sleep,” he told Finch, in a much less catlike voice. “And I will watch over her dreams.”
“Why don’t you tell the guildmaster that Jewel’s sleeping?”
“Will you watch her dreams?”
“I’ll wake her if she has a nightmare.”
The cat snorted. “You? You will drown in it. You will die.”
But Jewel said, “Shadow—I want her to stay.”
“But you have me.”
“Yes. Yes, I do. But—I want her to stay. Just for now. Just while it’s quiet. Haval still needs her to be in the wing, and I—”
“I don’t want to talk to the old woman,” Shadow said, and sat heavily on the floor.
Finch relented, but only slightly. “I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her. But I’m coming back, and the door had better not be locked when I get here.”
Sigurne Mellifas stared into her cooling tea in the silence left after Finch ATerafin had delivered her message and retreated. Matteos, standing by the fire—which he also tended—said nothing; his gaze caught on flame, as if he were a child fascinated by its caged danger.
Sigurne, however, was not in need of his words. It was chilly in the room; the fire was welcome. The magical wards that protected the magi from simple things like weather were wards Sigurne had always disdained as impractical; at this very moment, that disdain seemed more due to pride than pragmatism. She glanced at Matteos; he moved only to add dry logs to the small blaze. His back, shoulders bent, robes draping, was all that he showed her, but by it, she understood enough.
Sip by sip, the cup in her hands emptied. The alcohol that Ellerson had graced his tea with failed to warm her. She felt old and tired—which, admittedly, she was—but more disturbing, she felt at sea. Demons, she understood. She understood as much as any living mage, with the possible exception of Meralonne. But how much, in the end, was that? They were ancient, deathless creatures—but the ancient was bound in ways she had never fully seen to the mysteries of the gods in their youth. It was now, on the day before the funeral, that she understood how insignificant her knowledge was.
She rose; Matteos, sensitive to her movements, turned.
“You are thinking of Meralonne,” he said stiffly.
“I was,” she admitted. “But I fear to summon him too often. It is costly, and it is possibly costly in ways he cannot afford.”
“That has not stopped you before.”
“It has,” she said, in mild annoyance. “But while I feel certain that he would have a deeper and broader understanding of the possible threat Jewel ATerafin poses, I am far less certain that he would surrender that information to the magi.”
“Or to you?”
“Or to me.” She, too, watched the flames. “Do you remember how he trained the warrior-magi?”
Matteos stiffened. “Sigurne—”
“They still have those weapons. The weapons born in part of their power and in part of their force of will. I do not think they will set them aside, having summoned them; I do not think they can.”
“And you think Jewel Markess will summon such a weapon?”
Her frown was a teacher’s frown—a tired, worried teacher, shorn of all patience. “No, Matteos, that is not what I fear.” She turned away from the fire, from its warmth; turned back to her empty cup, and the pot that stood beside it, cooling as well. She poured tea for herself. “You are aware that the loremasters among us have come to prominence since Henden of the year four hundred and ten?”
He nodded.
“You are aware that what was once considered childish story and foolish bardic lay is now accepted as possible truth.”
“That gods once walked the earth?”
“The same.”
“I am. No reason has been given for their decision to leave, however.”
“The gods are not subject to our sense of reason.”
“No, indeed.” A log cracked at his feet, and he knelt to pull another, untouched, from the pile in the rounded brass bin.
“It is believed—by some, and I confess that at last, I am one—that there were men, mortal men, who could stand in defiance of the gods themselves.”
“That I am less willing to grant.”
“Allow for the possibility, Matteos.”
“As you wish.” He set the log carefully on top of those that were already burning and fanned its embers until it, too, was embraced by flame.
“There could not have been many,” she continued, after a pause. “And as we have little evidence of what the gods could achieve, we are not certain what level of power might be required to stand long against them. But there have been discussions.”
“You believe that Jewel ATerafin possesses the power to stand—against gods?”
“I do not know what I believe, Matteos; I do not trust what I know.” It was a bald admission from one who was styled the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge. “But I believe, now, that we will see the beginning of an answer, some proof of a theory that is so poorly supported by fact it can barely be considered theory at all.”
He rose. “Why, Sigurne? Why that girl? Because she is seer-born? Because she has those loud, noisy beasts following her and making nuisances of themselves?”
“Is that all you perceive?”
He grimaced. “I like the girl,” he finally said.
“She is hardly a girl anymore.”
“I see her seldom, but among the patriciate, she is one of the few I do not dread on sight.”
“And you are, therefore, unwilling to see the threat she poses.”
“I cannot imagine that she would willingly pose a threat to us.” He spoke with more heat than was his wont, and then seemed to realize it; he reddened. “What is it, Sigurne? What did you see?”
“Lord Celleriant,” she replied. “I know what he is, Matteos.”
Matteos waited.
“He is sworn. To her. Matteos—the names she used. The words she spoke. Did you hear them and remain unmoved?”
“No,” he finally replied. “I saw her. What will you do, Sigurne?”
“I will attend a funeral. I will attend a funeral, and I will do my best, at this juncture, to see not the girl, but the shadow she casts.”
“And if it is dark? If it is the wrong shadow?”
She failed to answer; she drank tea and thought of the ice and the snow and Meralonne APhaniel in her youth.
Jewel woke when Finch called her name. She couldn’t immediately see Finch, because Shadow lay between them, and his wings were in the way. But she woke in silence, to silence, her breath and heartbeat calmer than they had been all day. “What time is it?”
“It’s just off lunch, early lunch,” was the quiet reply. The curtains had been drawn, but light leaked through them, gray and yet bright. Jewel rose.
To her surprise, Adam was standing near the door. His hands were behind his back, and his chin low.
“Adam?” She reached for clothing—not the stiff cage of an expensive dress she’d been tied into all morning—and cursed Shadow as she did. Shrugging herself into a dress that didn’t require at least two other people’s help just to put on “properly,” she turned toward him. Shadow stretched and yawned.
“Where is the ugly one? Is he gone again?”
She cursed the cat under her breath.
“Matriarch,” Adam said in Torra.
“Adam, no. Whatever else you want to call me, I’m not that.” He nodded, and she gave up. “What’s wrong? Why are you here?”
“I am called to Levec’s side.”
“By who?” she asked, more sharply.
“By Levec.”
Her brow felt as if it would be caught in a permanent crease. “Why?”
&nb
sp; “He is to meet with the healers from the palace.”
She almost smacked the side of her head. “Is Levec here?”
“He sent a message. Teller rerouted it.”
Jewel looked up at Finch. “This is about the sleeping sickness?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago did he send for you?”
Finch said “He’s already over an hour late. He’s been going to meet them at least once a week since it started, but—that was before The Terafin’s death.”
“So this is a planned meeting?”
Finch cringed, but nodded.
Kalliaris’ frown.
“He didn’t want to leave until he’d seen you; you told him to stay in his room.”
Well, yes. She had. “I owe you an apology, if something that pathetic will do—Levec’s probably knocking down walls by now. With his teeth.” That description, at least, made Adam smile. It was a quiet smile, and it reminded Jewel inexplicably of Lander’s smile, although the two had nothing else in common besides gender.
“He won’t be angry at me,” Adam told her, as she opened the door.
“No, of course not. It’s just the rest of us who’ll be forbidden the Houses of Healing for the rest of our natural lives.”
Angel and Carver came into the kitchen a full ten minutes after she’d asked Ellerson to get them there. Carver looked wary; Angel—he looked tired. She turned a palm, three fingers folded, in his direction, and he straightened out. Didn’t look any less exhausted, though.
“Adam’s needed at the Houses of Healing. Can you get him there in one piece with no detours?”
Adam added, “I told her I could travel there quickly on my own.”
Carver snorted. “Might as well’ve told her you could fly. Do you need to take anything with you?”
“No.”
“How careful do you want us to be?” It was Angel who asked.
“I’m sending you, aren’t I?”
A little of the tired look lifted off his face when he smiled.
Adam was always more comfortable with women than with men; it was something Angel had noticed from the beginning. He’d initially assumed that Adam was comfortable with Finch because it was impossible to be uncomfortable around her. But in the time between, he’d come to understand that it wasn’t Finch; it was her gender. That and her ability to speak Torra, an ability Angel lacked.
Adam was tall. He was scrawny, the way tall fourteen year olds were. He was also quiet. The quiet didn’t bother Angel much, because Angel was capable of the same type of silence. But to Angel, Adam looked like a kid. The fact that he was the age that Angel had been when he’d first set foot in the city, carrying, in a backpack, everything he owned, should have made it easier not to think of him as helpless; it didn’t.
“Your Matriarch,” Adam said in his strangely accented Weston. “She is angry.” The last word rose, making a question of the statement.
Carver said something in Torra, because Carver could speak it. Adam, however, had been the recipient of some of Carver’s teasing, and looked hesitant. He answered in Weston. “Matriarchs always worry. Worry is normal.”
Angel laughed. He wasn’t certain why Adam referred to Jay as a Matriarch, but no one had been able to break him of the habit. “What?” he asked, at Carver’s frown. “It’s true. She breathes less than she worries.”
But Carver shook his head. “Start worrying more,” he told Angel, lifting one hand and twisting it, rapidly, in a downward direction.
Angel’s hands fell instantly to his sides. They’d almost reached the front doors.
“Next time,” Carver said, under his breath, “we take the trade entrance.” It was too late, now; they were almost upon the half dozen House Guards near the front doors. The House Guards weren’t in a particular formation; they weren’t on duty. Or rather, not House duty.
They fanned out, not so subtly discouraging a quick exit. No weapons were drawn, but hands rested on sword hilts as a man emerged from their midst. He wore very fine robes, in the varying shades of blue that passed as House Terafin colors when the clothing was fashionable. His hair, at the moment, was dark auburn, which had been highly regarded in the past; it sometimes showed gray. Not today. Not for the four days to follow.
“Councillor Rymark,” Carver said, tendering Rymark ATerafin a very grudging bow.
“ATerafin,” Rymark replied coolly. His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Adam, and Angel stiffened. Stiffened, but kept his breathing regular and even. “I do not believe I recognize your companion. A new addition to your den?”
“Sir,” Carver replied.
Rymark ATerafin raised a brow. His expression was severe and unfriendly—no surprise there. His eyes, however, were ringed with dark circles; he was either hungover or exhausted. “I would like a moment of your time,” he told them both.
Jay had made perfectly clear how little time they had; they’d already apparently wasted an hour and a half of Levec’s patience. Explaining this to Rymark ATerafin was out of the question. Angel glanced at Carver; Carver’s gaze was fixed on Rymark.
“I’m afraid we must refuse,” Carver replied. “We are on an errand for Councillor Jewel ATerafin.”
“And the nature of that errand?”
Carver didn’t answer. Rymark looked neither surprised nor pleased; the latter was more of a problem.
“You are not House Guards, and neither of you are servants or pages. You, Carver, are a full member of the House.” Angel didn’t point out that many of the guards and servants were also full members of the House, but it was tempting. “I am surprised that the Councillor sends named members of the House on insignificant errands.”
Carver was an old hand; he didn’t bite. He kept a respectful posture—and a respectful distance.
“Very well. You, boy. Come here.”
Angel lifted a hand in a brief motion: danger. Don’t move. Finch had taught Adam some of the basic den-sign, and Angel prayed that basic encompassed his message. Adam failed to obey the Councillor’s command. Rymark repeated it in a chillier voice.
Adam remained slightly behind—and between—Carver and Angel.
But when Rymark spoke a third time, he spoke in perfect Torra. Carver didn’t curse—with words—but his single gesture more than covered what he could have said. Adam couldn’t feign ignorance. They both knew it was important that Adam’s power remain hidden; mention of Levec or Dantallon—while it would get them through the unwanted and informal checkpoint—would seriously jeopardize any hope of anonymity.
Rymark repeated his command and Angel lifted an arm as Adam took a step forward.
“Councillor Rymark.”
Everyone froze at the sound of the voice. Adam. The House Guard. Even the Councillor, whose expression stiffened into one of extreme dislike.
Carver gestured; Angel nodded. The Lord of the Compact stepped between the House Guards as if they were frivolous decorations. Angel knew Jay disliked Duvari. He privately doubted that anyone who’d met him felt anything but dislike—in the best case. He didn’t relax.
“Lord of the Compact,” Rymark replied—without turning, without bowing, and without otherwise acknowledging Duvari, a fact that was not lost on Duvari.
“My apologies for interrupting your…meeting, Councillor.”
“No apologies are necessary.” The House Guards moved to the sides to make way for Duvari at Rymark’s silent nod. If this was meant as a hint, it failed.
“Good. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Please do.” Rymark still hadn’t moved.
“There appear to be some irregularities in our filed reports.”
“Surely that is not a House concern?”
“No, indeed, as was made clear to me—by the regent.”
Rymark surrendered with very poor grace; he wheeled, his hands curving. Angel admired the way they failed to become fists, because controlled or not, his anger was clear. “Which filed reports, Lord of the Compact?”
“Yours.”
“I? I have filed no reports with you.”
“Indeed. You have, however, made provisions with the House for your entourage at the opening of the funeral rites on the morrow.”
“What of it?”
“The regent’s report clearly stated that you will have twelve guests, six guards, and two attendants.”
“I fail to see the significance.”
“Reports indicate that you have, in fact, issued fourteen invitations.” Duvari stopped speaking. He glanced at Carver and Angel, in much the same way he’d glanced at the assembled House Guard. “Leave,” he told them curtly.
Carver bowed instantly. Angel was slower to bend back, but he did; he almost saluted. Duvari, however, had no sense of humor, and now was not the time to prove it. A quick gesture caused Adam to do the same. Strictly speaking, none of the three bows were necessary; with someone like Duvari—or Rymark, on most days—obsequious gestures never hurt.
* * *
“Trade entrance and servants’ halls on the way back,” Carver said, when they were well out of sight of the manse. “Damn lucky Duvari was looking for him. And too damn bad we couldn’t stay to hear the rest of the discussion.”
Angel shook his head. “That wasn’t luck.” Adam was watching them both, his lips compressed as if he feared to interrupt them.
“You don’t think he just happened to be wandering by either.”
“No.”
“Watching us?”
“Watching Jay—which means watching us.” Angel frowned. “I’d say he was having us watched. Someone must have alerted him; he moved damn fast.”
They both glanced at Adam, and then back at each other. Adam, however, shook his head. “I do not think he was watching for me, but I have met him before.”
“He knows you?” Carver’s visible brow rose into his hairline.
Adam nodded.
“He knows what you can do?”
“He knows I am a healer, yes. Levec doesn’t like him.”
“No one likes him.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the Kings’ spymaster and the Kings’ assassin.”
Angel punched Carver’s shoulder, hard. “Don’t ever say that again, idiot.”
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 39