Jay shook her head.
Avandar held the pendant out—to Angel. Angel took it; the links were surprisingly warm. He held it, waiting, and she finally exhaled a few inches of height and bowed her head. He surprised himself by disliking her hair, it was so tightly wound. Like his hair, hers was an inseparable part of her character; unlike his, she couldn’t demand that it remain untouched. She had come from the South and the summer of its perpetual desert; the auburn highlights were bright and red.
The platinum was cold; it looked like sword steel. Unlike silver, it took no tarnish; time wouldn’t mellow it. Time clearly hadn’t. Angel lifted it; it wasn’t particularly heavy. It didn’t seem to bear the weight of history that Avandar ascribed to it. He cupped the pendant in his hand for just a moment; it, like the chains that held it, was warm. He thought the light at its core shifted, but he couldn’t say how; he didn’t try.
Instead, he let its weight once again fall, and he placed the chains around her exposed neck.
She froze for an instant, as if expecting the magic she alone could see to manifest itself in some unpleasant way. Nothing happened. The pendant lay against her chest, almost blending into the fabric of the dress itself.
“It’s warm,” she said.
Angel nodded.
She glanced at the Winter King; he waited. “He said I should wear it,” she told Angel. “And that I should ride.”
“Riding won’t damage you now,” Angel replied. “You’re already wearing that dress, and you can get rid of rats and roaches more easily than you can get rid of that cat.”
Snow hissed and turned, raising his wings in outrage.
Jay, however, laughed. She then climbed up the back of the Winter King, and he almost leaped to his feet again, as if afraid she’d change her mind. She sat with both legs dangling off one of his sides; the dress didn’t allow for anything more practical. But it wasn’t required either: the Winter King was willing to carry her.
Avandar walked behind Jay, and Torvan and Arrendas walked in front; a very white, very winged cat walked by her side. Behind them, the rest of the den walked, and Angel reluctantly fell back, making room for Arann; Arann had the sword and the armor of the Chosen.
A fourth guard joined the three. The Winter King stepped down the stairs that led to the heart of the gardens. He stopped for a moment, as Jay took a deep breath. She wore a cape—a white cape—but no jacket. The magi had been at work in the garden, erecting a shield that might keep out the worst of the wind for the service, but the air was still chill. Most of the House Council members were already present, as were their various adjutants.
Rymark ATerafin was there, and of the four, he looked the most regal. Angel wouldn’t have dared in his position, because Duvari was also present, and Duvari’s Astari were no doubt scattered among the robed and suited men and women who waited. Some of the magi were also in the gardens, but they weren’t here—yet—as guests. The only Terafin servants present were the Master Gardener’s groundskeepers; they worked, rather than mingling.
Haerrad wore a suit that implied martial prowess, although he wasn’t technically part of the Kings’ armies. He had half a dozen House Guards with him at all times, and at least two Council advisers. Where Rymark looked like he was holding Court, Haerrad looked like he was expecting battle.
Between these two, in groups of similar composition, were Elonne ATerafin and Marrick ATerafin. They were, in fact, exchanging cool pleasantries. Angel couldn’t see Gabriel among them yet. He could see other members of the House Council on the grounds. The servants moved among them, but offered no food or refreshments; nor would they until after the first day rites had been completed.
People gathered in such numbers, no matter how politic—or perhaps because of how political all such gatherings had now become—made noise. They spoke, they moved, they listened and conversed. Any discussions about House affairs would, of course, be superficial, but they would occur only now; when the guests arrived, no House matters would be discussed at all. But although the guests had not arrived, silence spread through the grounds as Jay at last came into view of the gathering. This unexpected hush leaped from one interrupted sentence to the next, until all but a handful of those gathered here—mostly gardeners—stared, mouths half open.
How could they not?
She rode into their midst like a Queen. No, he thought, not like a Queen; the Queens would walk, attended by members of their Courts—men and women of power and sophistication in their own right. They would have servants, yes, and Astari; they would be accorded the respect due their rank. But they would not ride a great, white stag; they wouldn’t be attended by a snow-winged cat; nor would they—and he saw this clearly as she approached—be served by a preternaturally beautiful man who claimed not to be mortal. Lord Celleriant waited.
She stiffened as all eyes fell on her; she never liked to be the center of attention unless there was an emergency and she needed people to listen. Here, however, she had no choice; all her choices had been made in the past few days, and she now had to live with them. Her hands tightened in her lap, and she forced her expression into something that mimed neutrality, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders as she did.
The Winter King didn’t stop at the boundary implied by the gathered men and women. Because he didn’t, none of them did: Not the Chosen, not Avandar, not the stupid cat, and not any member of the den. It was easier for them than for her; they knew that no one would be watching them yet. No one would be speaking to them either; they had eyes for Jay. Judging from her expression, Jay wasn’t the one who chose her eventual destination either.
The Winter King walked to the place that had once contained the oldest—and tallest—tree on the grounds. A tree stood there now, but it was in no way the same one; it was one of the new trees—trees that had been birthed, ancient, into the Terafin grounds. It was, however, the tallest of the trees that now grew here, and its leaves weren’t in bud, but in bloom. Even in the Common, bloom would have to wait for a few weeks; buds would start soon as the worst of winter gave way to Advent, and to spring.
To the trees here, time and its seasons apparently had no meaning. They grew, and as she reached the trunk of the tree, Lord Celleriant came to kneel—in full view of the current assembly—at her feet. It was not a perfunctory gesture, and it stopped just short of the full obeisance offered the Exalted or the Kings. He carried a sword, and the light the blade reflected was the azure of a winter sky.
He wore armor that was entirely at odds with the Chosen; where they wore plate, he wore chain, although the mesh at this distance was fine enough it might have been shimmering, heavy cloth. He wore no helm, no tabard; his boots were supple and fine. He did wear a cape of midnight blue, with a pale edge that appeared to be solid white at a distance, but resolved itself into very fine, very complex embroidery as they approached. His hair was unbound, as it always was, and it fell in a perfect drape down his back, defying movement and breeze.
The Winter King knelt. Jay slid off his back and stood before Lord Celleriant, straightening the fall of her skirts. It was a nervous gesture; the skirts themselves fell smoothly, without obvious wrinkle, and whatever else the Winter King did, he didn’t shed. Her hands fell to her sides. She didn’t ask Celleriant what in the Hells he was doing; instead, after a long pause, she bid him rise. He unfolded in as graceful a manner as he had knelt, and he joined her Chosen, although it was clear he’d never be part of them.
Neither would Angel, but he felt at home among the Chosen; he felt ill at ease in Celleriant’s shadow. It was a shadow he accepted because Jay did; he accepted it the way he’d accepted Duster. Funny, to think of her now, here.
“Are the grounds secured?” she asked Celleriant.
He didn’t answer.
She closed her eyes and drew a deeper breath.
“ATerafin,” he said, and she opened them. “What do you wear?”
“Do you recognize it?” Her eyes widened, but she narrowed them
before surprise was stuck like a signboard across her expression.
“No. But I recognize that it is…unusual. In this city, in these lands, it is worthy of remark.”
She was silent for another beat. “Just how insecure are the grounds?” She strove for casual, and mostly achieved it. For Jay.
“None of our enemies linger within them now, but they will come.”
She glanced at Avandar. Avandar inclined his head. “That is my suspicion as well. I, however, believe that some of them will use the front gates and doors; Lord Celleriant’s concerns are other. As, ATerafin, are yours.” He stepped back as she turned to face the gathered House Council and all of its tertiary support.
In the morning light of these transformed grounds, in a dress that was too perfect for someone as fragile as she felt, she stood in silence. Angel was almost afraid, but he couldn’t decide which way the fear should fall: be afraid for her, or of her. He couldn’t stand beside her here, and fell back, indicating that Teller and Finch should join her; they were also members of the House Council, although they had been so for a very short while.
Rymark ATerafin was the first to collect himself. His entourage was still staring, but words had breached the silence, and as they began to spread, movement and sound returned to the carefully arranged clearing. He didn’t look pleased—at either their words or Jewel’s presence—but she couldn’t blame him. She therefore didn’t cringe when he began to walk toward her. Two of the members of his entourage followed after a pause, surprised but determined not to show it.
The quality of their surprise was different from Rymark’s, although Jewel couldn’t quite pinpoint how. It didn’t matter; she was about to get a face full of Rymark, and that was enough of a worry. He stopped less than a yard from Torvan and Arrendas. “Captains,” he said, with the barest patina of respect. They ignored him. Technically this was correct behavior, but Rymark had never been all that fond of correct when it didn’t suit him.
It didn’t suit him now. The Chosen stood between them.
“Jewel,” he finally said, as if they didn’t exist—which was also correct behavior. “I am pleased to see that you are so well prepared for the funeral rites.”
“I held The Terafin in the highest of regard. I owe her my life, and inasmuch as I have it, my freedom from service to the Lord of the Compact. Whatever I could do to show my respect for Amarais Handernesse ATerafin, I have done.” She spoke clearly, and without much concern for eavesdroppers; she meant the entire assembly to hear her.
“It is seldom that exotic animals are brought as a gesture of respect.”
Snow began to growl. The cats rarely growled, but it wasn’t a good sign. Jewel dropped her hand to the top of his head and pressed her palm firmly between his ears. She’d prepared for this. “It is not the first time unusual servants have attended significant members of either the patriciate or the Crowns, and if it is a rare occurrence, I believe it can be forgiven.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Marrick said, joining them. He was smiling broadly, and the worst thing about that damn smile was that it looked so genuinely friendly. Jewel wanted to dislike him. She certainly knew she couldn’t trust him. But there was something about him that all but demanded trust. “As long as they aren’t killing or eating our guests, I see no reason for complaint. They are,” he added, looking directly at Snow, “magnificent.”
Snow’s growl banked.
“But they are not nearly as notable at the moment as your dress, Jewel. It is very, very fine—I do not recall ever seeing its like in any Court before.”
Snow now purred. “You like it?” he asked.
Marrick’s brows rose. This didn’t stop his mouth from moving, on the other hand. “I do, indeed,” he said—to the cat. “It is exquisite. I am almost afraid to speak to the woman who’s wearing it, and I’ve known her since she was a child.”
“That’s not very long,” Snow said, smug now. “We think she’s very young.”
“Snow,” Jewel said.
Snow glanced at her out of the corner of a well-turned eye, and then fell silent. For a minute. “He likes it.”
Jewel pasted a smile onto her face. When she had first arrived at the House, it was a skill she’d lacked—but at that time, it hadn’t mattered. Now, she knew it did.
“I feel I fall far short of your sartorial elegance, Jewel,” Marrick continued. “But as it is, all eyes—all—will be on you; I should not be surprised if the Kings themselves take note of little else. It certainly takes the pressure off the rest of us.” He laughed.
He laughed, and Jewel almost joined him; he had that kind of laughter. She did allow herself a genuine smile. Marrick, even Finch had a hard time disliking. But not as hard a time mistrusting. He bowed to Jewel, and then took her hand and kissed it. His eyes lingered a moment on the ring that she wore on her thumb, but he chose not to comment.
“Come, Rymark, there’s no need to look so sour,” Marrick added, grinning broadly. “Today, and for the next three days, there will be no woman as grand as the young woman from our House; it is a minor victory for Terafin.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Rymark conceded, looking very dour. “I should like the name of your dressmaker.”
Jewel didn’t even hesitate. “Snow, this is Rymark ATerafin, a prominent member of the House Council. Rymark, this is Snow, the dressmaker.”
His brows rose in astonishment, and fell almost instantly. She saw suspicion harden into certainty. “If, of course, it’s a secret, ATerafin, there is no need for this style of low humor.”
Snow hissed.
Marrick glanced at Rymark and then, as was his wont, he moved on. “ATerafin, have you anything to say about the miraculous change in the grounds and the gardens?”
She studied his expression and was rewarded by a glimpse of something far less friendly in the lines of a face that had been etched and defined by laughter. He knew, or had heard. “Very little,” she replied, gazing up at the heights of the tree in bloom. She reached out to touch its bark. “But I am very, very fond of these trees; they remind me of my childhood.”
“I see. You realize were it not for your dress and your unusual companions, it would be the trees that would be envy of every other House in the Empire?”
“I think the trees will still be that,” she replied. “Ah, Elonne.”
Elonne ATerafin offered Jewel a graceful nod. More wasn’t necessary, and there was nothing perfunctory in the gesture of respect. Jewel returned it. She could not—and did not—feel at ease with Elonne. Elonne had always been cool, correct, graceful; she had never once—in Jewel’s hearing—raised voice. Nor did she descend into cursing or obvious signs of anger, even during the most heated of Council meetings. Hers was the voice of deliberation and reason. Of the four, she most reminded Jewel of Amarais. Of course, of the four, she was the only woman, and maybe that explained something.
She had chosen to wear a dress that could be considered the height of current fashion, with its elaborate collar and its high bodice done in white and gold. Like Jewel’s dress, it was predominantly white; the sleeves, however, were black, and they trailed across the grass as she walked. The skirts were wider than current fashion dictated; it was the one touch that was old-fashioned. Jewel almost grimaced; she’d clearly spent far too many hours cooped up with Haval and Finch; Haval made no bones about what was, and was not, acceptable fashion for ladies of the patriciate in this season. He was less exacting when it came to Teller, although he did explain the cut of sleeve and collar in both jacket and shirt; he’d also said something about the pants, but that, Jewel honestly couldn’t remember. She didn’t try very hard.
Elonne was older than Jewel; as old, Jewel thought, as Amarais herself had been when Jewel had first arrived at the front gates. She offered the stonelike Captains of the Chosen a brief dip of chin, both recognizing them and accepting their lack of greeting as if it were the natural order. They failed to acknowledge it, but not in the same way they’d failed to acknow
ledge Rymark.
“Jewel,” Elonne now said. She passed by Torvan, and Torvan didn’t move to block her in any way. “The trees are, indeed, very fine. Very impressive. Will they grow in any other House grounds upon the Isle?”
“I honestly don’t know. The Master Gardener was shocked that they grew here.”
“Ah. I believe he can be forgiven.” She glanced at Snow, who was now following her with his eyes. He did not, thank the gods, ask if he could eat her—or any of the other House Councillors; Jewel was grateful, because she wasn’t entirely certain she wouldn’t allow him to make an attempt at Rymark. “Why these trees, ATerafin?”
Jewel frowned. While it was formal and correct to be called ATerafin, it could also be tiring and confusing, especially in a gathering of this type. Asking Elonne to be less formal, however, had no effect. “I don’t know,” she replied. “But if any tree could be said to define Averalaan, it’s these trees.”
“Ah, yes. They do. But Averalaan is not Terafin, and Terafin is not Averalaan. Did you plan this?” she added, her voice as calm and reasonable as if she’d been asking about a merchanting report of some import. She meant for the question to be taken seriously; she was not intimidated by the subject.
“No, Elonne. I would never have planned something so visible and so elaborate without recourse to the Council.”
“Yet you had a hand in this.”
Jewel nodded.
“May I ask how?”
“Yes, but I fear now is not the time. The Council has been called for the day after the funeral rites are done, and I will report what I know at that time; I’ve thought of little but the funeral—and The Terafin—since my return to the House.”
Elonne bowed her head. When she lifted it, she said, “Of course. My apologies, ATerafin. The Terafin’s murder was not what any one of us expected, and it has opened the door to magics that are almost entirely foreign—to me. This tree,” she added, gazing up as Jewel had done moments before, “is likewise foreign, and I feel it almost as a danger to the natural order. Do you not?”
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 55