“A mortal girl entered the Winter realm when the roads were passable.”
“The roads are very seldom passable to the merely mortal. I will not lie to you, Guildmaster; I have some respect for the makers. If I cannot answer your questions, I will ask for no boon. But if I can, remember what you have promised.”
ADelios managed to look offended, but it was a shabby display; Haval would have smacked the back of Jewel’s head for such transparent acting. “It was several years ago. She—she had a task set her. She was not merely maker; she was Artisan, and of a power that only legend now contains. She was young. She was not beautiful, not in the—”
“Beauty is not a shared language between our kind,” Celleriant said, in a much softer voice. “You cared for her.” It was not a question.
The old man—and he seemed old, now—smiled bitterly. “She was in my care, yes. I am not certain why she chose to venture upon the hidden roads; she did not speak often of her gift or her compulsion. But she lived in Fabril’s reach, with me.”
“Fabril?” Celleriant said. “You almost make me feel young again, Guildmaster.”
“Fabril is dead, of course. But he created some part of the building which the guildhall now occupies.”
“That would explain much. She came to the road, and she met my kin?”
“She walked to the road with two broken artifacts, and she remade them. I did not ask her how; I’m not sure she could answer in a way that would make any sense to anyone who was not maker-born.”
“You fear they killed her.”
“I—” he looked away. “I am certain she is still alive.”
Celleriant frowned. “Did this mortal girl cause harm?”
“She did.”
“To the host of the Queen?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I believe she cut them down. With a sword.”
Jewel was staring at the maker. “How is that even possible?” she finally asked.
But Celleriant said, “I know how, ATerafin. I think I might even understand why.”
“Then explain it to me,” the guildmaster said. “She was not—I would swear she was not—a violent child; she was not willful except in the way the maker-born are. I remember the carnage—”
“She could not do what she had to do if she did not kill.” Celleriant’s smile was cold and slender. “We are not close in the ways mortals often are; we do not huddle together for company or our own protection. That is not the way of my kind. But we understand some of the forces behind the greater workings. We have our own craftsmen, our own artists—and art, like love, is in the eye of the beholder.
“Nothing great is worked or made without cost. Nothing. And I believe I know what she wandered the path to make—or remake. No, have no fear; I will not mention her task further. But I will tell you this, although I do not think it will grant you any peace. She could not complete her making without bloodshed. Had she not been upon the Winter road, she might have walked in abandon through your mortal streets, and untold numbers of your kind would have perished before the blade could be quenched.
“I remember the moon and the road of that night. I remember the girl.”
“What happened to her?”
“She gave the items so precious to her into the keeping of another mortal, one less foolish, and far less driven, than she. They were the only things she might use to survive if harm was intended, but it was not her own survival that was her concern—and it has ever been that way among the maker-born. You are that mortal?”
ADelios bowed his head.
“Then I will tell you only this: she is not dead. She is alive. I cannot say she is happy, because that has no meaning. But it is Winter, and the seasons have not turned. They would drive a normal mortal mad, but the Artisans have always been mad; they are immune to the fixed season, and they see things in the snow and hear words in the wind; they see, in the shapes of trees and the fall of shadows something to grasp and take and change.
“Will she—will she return to us?”
“Can she resurrect the dead? No. She will never return to you. But in some fashion, she may find peace, and in some fashion, Guildmaster, she may be of great aid to us in the war to follow.”
“And if I asked if I might see her again?”
“Then you ask about the hidden ways, the Winter road, and you are aware of the risks involved.” Celleriant glanced at Jewel. “The roads will not long remain hidden, Guildmaster. If you seek to find her again, you must ask my Lord for her mercy.”
“The Winter Queen—”
“I told you; I serve Jewel ATerafin, until her death. It is she who can grant what you desire—but at a cost that she at least does not fully understand yet.”
Jewel, whose hands were still around the older man’s arm, said, “It is not yet time, Gilafas ADelios. But the time will come, and you will know it. Come to me then, if you can.” Unfortunately for Jewel, those weren’t the words she’d intended to say, and she had no idea where they’d come from; she just knew, as they ended, that they were the truth.
He accepted them that way, as well; any other man of power and political cunning would have been all over the words in an attempt to pick them apart. She did not understand this man at all. Had he not been such a significant power, it wouldn’t have mattered. She let go of his arm as he turned—but he turned toward her and caught both of her hands in his.
“Don’t thank me,” she told him, before he could speak. “It’s not with me that you made your agreement—and I can’t imagine that Lord Celleriant will ask for something small or inconsequential in return.”
But the guildmaster shook his head. “If you can, indeed, give me the opportunity to see that child again—to apologize to her—I will be forever in your debt.” He released her hands and pulled back, dropping into a bow that would have caused Haval to cringe. Clearly, if one had enough money, anything was acceptable.
“I very much like your dress, ATerafin,” he finally said, before he allowed himself to be dragged off.
“There is more to this city than I would have thought possible,” Celleriant said softly, once the guildmaster was beyond sight.
“There’s probably more to any mortal city of any size than you’d think possible,” was Jewel’s sharp reply. She had watched the guildmaster walk away, and she had watched, with consternation, the way the gathered members of her House now looked at her. She wondered how much they’d seen or what they’d heard, and what they now made of it, because Gilafas ADelios bowed to very, very few, and most of those had crowns of one sort or another on their heads.
“Well done, ATerafin,” Avandar said quietly, which only compounded her sense of unease. He glanced at Lord Celleriant. “Fabril’s sword and rod?” he asked; his voice barely carried.
Celleriant raised a brow, and rewarded him with the hint of a smile. “You are perceptive, Viandaran. At a later point, you might explain it to our Lord; she does not understand all of what was said.”
“She does understand that she’s been talked about as if she’s not actually here, on the other hand,” Jewel said sourly.
Angel, who had been quiet throughout the long morning, laughed. She was surprised by the sound, surprised for a moment to see him standing to one side of the tree, watching, a half smile on his face.
“I was wondering,” he said, as she walked toward him, “if the dress had entirely absorbed you.”
She raised a brow and he laughed. “I guess not?”
“No. But you look impressively intimidating, if that counts.”
“It counts for something,” she replied. “But I think it might be expensive in future.”
“The future,” Angel told her, with a grave nod to the terrace, “has arrived in force.”
The Ten had come.
Haval watched Jewel discreetly as the first of The Ten—in order of arrival, and not, in Haval’s opinion, significance—made his way down the terraced steps. The Wayelyn was dressed in
a somber suit that was appropriate for the occasion, itself a bit of a surprise. The least powerful of The Ten in any practical measure, he was also the most wont to shed, as he called them, the restrictions of the patriciate. On the other hand, his House Council had gathered about him like vengeful schoolmasters; where he looked slightly ill at ease, they looked watchful. The Wayelyn was the first of The Ten to see Jewel ATerafin.
He was also the first to stop dead in his tracks; his sudden lack of motion a deliberate choice, and one that garnered attention. The one thing the man could do at whim was draw such attention; he did it unconsciously, the way his more mature counterparts in the Hall of The Ten drew breath. Haval had never paid particular attention to House Wayelyn; he considered the ambitions of its putative head to be, if not beneath notice, then unworthy of his full intellectual rigor.
The head of the House, in his black and white—colors which did not, admittedly, suit him—immediately made his way toward where Jewel now stood. Various members of the House, and various merchant houses, had made their way toward her on one pretext or another; at least three were trading rivals of some minor note, in his opinion. They had, of course, withdrawn, given the nature of the occasion—but they had not withdrawn so as to be out of line of sight of her.
She was not, lamentably, aware of this; Haval, however, was.
“I trust you are enjoying the view?”
Haval raised a brow at the Lord of the Compact. “I would thank you not to stand there; you are blocking my light.”
“Very clever. I imagine that you are not yet queued to join the mourners?”
“I am very, very far down the list, as you are no doubt well aware; I have, however, been cleared for access as a modest clothier with an unimpeachable reputation.”
Duvari’s expression soured further, although most would not have noticed the change; Duvari was not a man given to any expression that implied friendliness. Or humanity. It was one of the qualities that Haval admired. Haval considered himself too lazy to adopt such a formidable and severe bearing for any length of time; it was far too much work for the very meager amount of information he might obtain. No, Haval’s preferred methods were ones he had long practiced. He liked to observe.
If Duvari looked ill-pleased, he did as Haval requested. Haval continued to watch as The Wayelyn offered Jewel an exaggerated performance of a bow. The bow did not please his minders, to be sure, but it was entirely within character. He rose; Jewel had not offered him a hand to kiss, which was unfortunate. He would have to speak to her about that later. “Have you made certain that the magi are watching the arrivals?” he asked, without taking his eyes off the unfolding discussion. He couldn’t hear a word at this distance without magical intervention, and while he was not above its use, only Duvari and his operatives would be granted the necessary permissions in this House, on this day.
Snow was conversing with The Wayelyn, and to Haval’s amazement, the head of one of The Ten now burst into song. This voice was not a natural voice; it was tinged by the talent that usually drove men and women to the bardic colleges. He therefore had a tenor’s natural range, but could stretch his voice to reach lower tones; Haval wasn’t certain if this was done with ease or not, but it didn’t matter; it was done and made to appear effortless. His song, unlike his conversation, carried the full distance.
Haval couldn’t resist a glance at Duvari’s expression; it was stone.
Jewel reddened, but as the song continued, whatever embarrassment or hesitation marred that first reaction slowly melted, like snow at the start of spring. What song was he singing now? Haval frowned. It sounded like a children’s song, a children’s rhyme—about a young girl searching for her young man in an enchanted and dangerous land. It wasn’t—quite—doggerel, but in Haval’s opinion, came close.
But when he heard:
Leaves three, she carried, carried, three leaves
Winter Silver, Summer Gold, Earth’s Grief
Leaves three, she carried, carried, three leaves
To find him, to show him the way
His eyes rounded. Why, he thought, that song, and why to Jewel, now? Haval closed his eyes briefly when the cursed cat leaped off the ground, spreading his wings like contained storm. The Wayelyn, however, did not pause; he sang, now, of the hidden ways, the darkest road, and the nightmare bower that waited. If it were not for the sudden interruption of one of his minders—Haval thought it the wife, Akyna—he might have continued. Most lays of this nature were quite long, and Haval very much doubted they were appropriate for the venue, or at least the context—but he did not doubt that the bard-born voice of the Wayelyn might carry the day.
Had the bardmaster been closer, she might have prevented it, though; she had all of her bards on as tight a leash as one could reasonably expect bards to accept. The Wayelyn, trained under her predecessor, was the exception; he was a bard who no longer owed allegiance to Senniel College, although he was reputed to favor it highly. Akyna then spoke a few words with Jewel; judging by expression alone, many of them were apologies. Jewel, however, was gracious; Haval thought her unoffended once the initial surprise had faded. She did, however, lift head and speak curtly—and clearly—to Snow, who affected not to hear her.
The shout did nothing to enhance her dignity; the fact that she was speaking to a large, flying cat—an obviously magical creature—served to mitigate. Yes, Haval thought, the three days promised to be interesting.
So it went. The eight remaining House Leaders met with Jewel. They spoke, of course, with the regent first—all but Wayelyn, who spoke with the regent last—and spent a few moments in discourse with the significant members of the Terafin House Council; they understood, as well as Duvari did, the nature of the conflict likely to arise within the House at the end of the funeral rites. They did not choose sides, although he was certain at least two of The Ten would attempt to offer money or support to prolong the struggle; a long battle for the House Seat would almost certainly weaken Terafin’s position on the Council of The Ten, allowing other Houses to assume a more prominent role. But as they were not yet certain who would occupy that seat, they treated all of the House Council of any note as if they were to become worthy rivals.
Of The Ten, two leaders were absent: Kalakar and Berrilya, swallowed at the Kings’ command by the war in the South. Kalakar had, according to rumor, been as much a Terafin ally as one could expect upon a Council of the ambitious and the powerful. In their stead, senior members of their individual House Councils fulfilled their responsibilities, but their absence was a reminder that life—and war—continued unabated beyond the bounds of this singular House, this singular death.
Perhaps Jewel needed the reminder. She was in a strange state of suspension, in Haval’s opinion; she moved and acted as if she stood upon ground that, at any moment, might break beneath her feet. She could turn in place, but at most she took a single, uncommitted step outside of her small zone of safety, hiding behind the necessary respect for the woman who had been her mentor.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, he was being unfair. Watching her at a distance, in a dress that had not pleased her in the slightest, she stood as tall as her negligible height allowed, and if she was not perfect in her control, she was—for Jewel Markess ATerafin—as close as she had yet come. Was it enough?
He watched her as she spoke with The Korisama, a man who affected an almost Southern style of dress in prominent, public places. Today was not to be the exception; the colors he wore were white and midnight blue, not black. Only in the Dominion of Annagar did such colors signify mourning or loss. There and in House Korisama itself. Jewel, however, seemed to take no offense at the departure from Imperial tradition; she seemed to understand its meaning.
The Korisama was quiet, and from a distance, respectful. Jewel extended the same courtesy, albeit not for long; the Houses gathered, but so, too, the significant and powerful among the merchants and the guilds. They gravitated toward her as word of her attire and her companions spread.
Haval’s attention slid from his young charge toward the House Council members he considered a possible threat. Harraed kept his distance, although he did deign to speak with significant members of the patriciate. Haval recognized two that lingered longest: Servalis and Daetton. They were not of The Ten, of course, but their prominence in the Merchants’ Guild was unassailable; they were part of its governing body. So.
His gaze moved on, to Rymark ATerafin, and stopped there. Rymark was not in conversation with anyone of significance—but he was in conversation, briefly, with someone Haval failed to recognize. Rymark’s arrogance and his disregard for the common class was a hallmark of his personality; if he had words to offer someone insignificant enough that Haval would fail to recognize him, they were offered in disdain or disregard.
But he was clearly engaged with this one man. Haval turned to the Lord of the Compact, still present. It warmed his heart—in a manner of speaking—to see that Duvari had both followed the direction of his own observation and had arrived at the same silent concern.
“Who is he?” Haval asked quietly.
“A very good question,” Duvari replied. “I will leave you to your long-distance babysitting; I have inquiries to make in haste.”
Chapter Twenty–one
SIGURNE MELLIFAS drew close to Jewel when the girl—and at thirty-two years of age, girl was perhaps unfair—had become almost vacant-eyed. It was, even for Sigurne, hard to look away from her. The man who stood by her side—immortal, Sigurne was certain—helped, but in truth, far less than Sigurne would have expected. The guests had begun some movement toward the chairs, benches, and small platforms erected for their use. When they were seated, the Kings and the Exalted would at last join them. The Kings only milled in this particular way in their own Courts and, truthfully, seldom there.
The Queens, however, had arrived, with their respective Courts. Sigurne was pleased to see Commander Sivari in attendance at the side of the Princess Royale. Only the Crown Princes would fail to make the first day rites; they were to be present to pay their respects upon the quieter and more introspective second day. This was, as far as Sigurne could tell, normal operating procedure for the Crowns, or at least for the man charged with their physical safety.
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 58