Princess Mirialyn ACormaris headed toward Sigurne, an odd half smile at play on her lips. She was grave and measured in her approach in almost all things; she clearly favored her grandfather, on her father’s side. She wore a Court dress, and not more martial wear, although she was at home in either. Her hair, bronze and long, had been partially captured in pins and braids; pearls and small emeralds had been woven through the strands. They were kept in place by magic, but it was a legal use of magic—if an expensive one.
“Guildmaster,” Mirialyn said, bowing.
“Your Majesty,” Sigurne replied. “If we are being formal.”
Mirialyn smiled; the smile was cautious. “We are being very formal, as always, in grave circumstance. I see you are watching over the young ATerafin House Council member who has caused such a stir in the crowd.”
Sigurne raised a brow. She did not, however, deny it; Mirialyn was too observant by half and would only attempt to ascertain the purpose of any lie she cared to make. “I am an old woman,” was her austere reply, “and should the need arise, I will be forgiven any interruption or demand on account of that age.”
“And not on account of your position as the leader of the magi?”
“No, certainly not on that account. Would you like to speak with her?”
“No; I merely wish to observe. The…cat—did it arrive with her?”
“No. Not immediately, but it came shortly thereafter. I believe it appeared during the difficulty in the Terafin grounds.”
Mirialyn nodded. “And the Lord of the Wild Hunt?” Her voice was cool, clear.
Sigurne tensed, stiffened, and smiled. “He arrived at her side. It was his sword that dispatched The Terafin’s assassin.”
“So I was told. You are certain he arrived at her side?”
“As certain as I can be. Jewel ATerafin is many things—some inexplicable and possibly dangerous—but she is almost without guile. I have observed her in her own quarters, among her kin. She has a pack of councillors who are, at the same time, close siblings. At least they squabble as if they were.”
“The assassination attempt on Jewel?”
Sigurne cursed privately behind the facade of a tired smile. The Princess was well-informed. But she would be, if she desired it. “You must speak with the Lord of the Compact.”
“I have.” She glanced past Jewel to her domicis, frowned, and said, “I am not entirely comfortable with the current arrangement.”
“Then you must speak with Jewel ATerafin, ACormaris. I believe she will put you at ease.”
“It is not Jewel ATerafin that I mistrust. Those without guile are often easily misled,” she added.
“It is true. Those without guile are, however, seldom seer-born.”
“Has her talent given any possible warning of danger or disaster during this funeral?” Mirialyn asked, watching Jewel at a distance.
“I don’t know. It saved her life; I believe it saved the regent’s life as well. But you are aware that her talent cannot be directed.”
“Ah, no. I am aware that she cannot—yet—direct it; they are not the same thing.”
“The guests,” Sigurne said quietly, “are being diverted toward the bier’s location.”
Mirialyn nodded, but her gaze went up to the tree’s full branches and rested there in silence.
Teller slid through the crowds to reach Barston—and Gabriel, to whom Barston was almost physically attached, if invisibly.
“Are there difficulties?” The most formidable secretary in all of House Terafin asked, voice stiff and almost inaudible in the milling crowd.
“There are variations to the invitation list that I last received.”
Barston frowned. “Impossible.”
“So I would have said, given Duvari’s presence.”
“Who is present?”
“There are two extra guests in the retinue of Lord Sarcen.”
Barston’s frown deepened. “He is not an insignificant man.”
“He is not.”
“I almost feel guilty asking you to do this, Teller, but—”
“You want me to find Duvari.”
“Or someone who reports to him, yes.”
“Now?”
“Absolutely now, while the Kings have not yet arrived.”
Teller nodded as Barston turned his attention to Gabriel. The funeral was, to Barston, Barston’s office, and therefore anyone of significance who worked with him, a nightmare that would not end for three days. To make matters worse, Lord Sarcen was a member of one of the oldest Houses in the patriciate, and what he lacked in raw money and political power, he made up for in prestige. He had had three daughters, all of whom were advantageously married into families of power and note. He was rumored to have a small and expensive gambling problem; Teller wondered, as he drifted away from the regent’s retinue, if Sarcen had actually sold secondary invitations. It wouldn’t be beyond what he knew of the man, although admittedly that was very little.
Barston’s request, however, was problematic. While Teller recognized Duvari on sight—anyone of any position in any House did—he couldn’t easily spot him in the crowd, which probably meant he wasn’t in it. Crowds had a way of parting whenever Duvari walked into them.
But easy or not, Barston’s concern was serious. Teller surveyed the gathering of guests with care before he began to move through it. Even in Haval’s somewhat heavy and confining clothing, he hadn’t lost the ability to navigate a crowd; it was more difficult when half of the people in the crowd recognized him, however. He considered removing and pocketing his House Council ring; it was new, anyway, and he still wasn’t accustomed to its weight—both literal and figurative—on his hand.
“Ah, Teller,” a familiar voice said, at his left elbow. He grimaced and turned; the crowd was now thick with moving bodies as people began their surge toward the seats and benches in the distance. Even at a funeral it appeared that attaining the best position was a necessity that allowed for a little loss of dignity.
He turned to see Haval looking at his jacket with a markedly critical expression. “You did speak with Ellerson before you left the wing this morning?”
Teller grimaced but ducked his head in a nod. “At least three times.”
“Allow me.” The erstwhile clothier reached up and straightened Teller’s collars, adjusting the gold pins that held them place. They were not terribly expensive and not terribly ostentatious, but suited Teller. On most days. From Haval’s expression, this was clearly not one of them. “You are in a hurry?”
“I need to find Duvari.”
Haval frowned. “Why on earth would you need to find the Lord of the Compact?”
“Lord Sarcen has two guests in his entourage that weren’t on the list. Two extra guests,” he added, in case this wasn’t clear. He hesitated, because he realized that he was also explaining this to a man who made dresses for a living, and he was explaining it as clearly and as quickly as he might have had Jay asked. Not a good sign.
Haval, however, frowned. “I see.” He glanced through the moving crowd. “Have they left the grounds?”
“They’re with Lord Sarcen,” Teller replied, as if that was all the answer required. It was, if you knew anything about Lord Sarcen. Haval’s brief and economical nod indicated that he did. It should have surprised Teller; it didn’t.
“How long ago did they arrive?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know the guest list?”
“I don’t know it as well as Barston does; I know the original list, but there were about a hundred and fifty amendments by the time it was done, and each and every one of them was an emergency of one kind or another.”
“I will find Duvari,” Haval replied, his voice losing inflection and irritation and becoming something more distant and inscrutable instead. “You, however, will find Lord Sarcen’s guests. Take one or two of the Chosen with you; if you are at all obvious about it, you will attract the attention of one of Duvari’s famed Astari
, and you may need them.” He turned on heel—quickly—and vanished through the crowd with an ease that belied both his age and his general demeanor. It was an ease that Teller himself could have managed only in his youth.
“ATerafin,” Avandar said quietly.
She was trying—hard—not to shout at Snow; Snow was blithely ignoring her, although she was certain he could hear every damn word she’d spoken. Sadly, she was certain anyone else in the crowd could also hear them, and Avandar would make her suffer for eternity if she started cursing in Torra, which she desperately wanted to do.
“ATerafin,” the domicis said again, this time with more urgency.
She looked away from the sky and the sight of wings that were both powerful and graceful. “Sorry. Did I miss something I shouldn’t have?”
“You did. The first chimes have sounded.”
“We’re not due to leave until the second.”
“They sounded ten minutes ago.”
“Oh.” She glanced around the flattened grass; most of the guests had departed. One or two remained, and like Jewel, their gazes were pinned to the sky, where the crowning glory of impossible trees met the flight path of impossible cat. Notably, none of the watchers were among The Ten or their entourages. One or two, however, looked like priests from their robes; she recognized the gold and silver of eagle and rod. The Church of Cormaris had arrived. The Exalted, however, had not. Or rather, they hadn’t set foot in the grounds yet.
Gathering her skirts, she moved out of the lee of the great tree. Torvan and Arrendas formed up in front of her; Arann watched her back. It was an arrangement that brought her a much needed sense of comfort, if not familiarity. Angel was at her side.
“Did Carver and Jester not arrive?” she asked him, out of the corner of her mouth.
Angel nodded. “They arrived thirty minutes ago, but you were busy.”
“And they went where?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave your side to babysit.”
She couldn’t help herself; she snickered. When he offered her his arm, she took it; Celleriant chose to walk on the other side of Arann, leaving Avandar the space to Jewel’s left. They made it most of the way down the clearly marked path before Jewel stopped walking. The path was glowing faintly in her vision—the mages had worked here, casting protective spells across the grass, the path, the lamps, and the area itself. Shadows encroached on them now; Jewel glanced up to see that the sky was darkening by shades as clouds rolled in.
“Well,” Angel said, “At least the work of the mage-born wasn’t wasted; we’re going to see storm today.” He stopped walking first. “Jay?”
Jewel swallowed. Angel caught the hand that rested against his arm as it tightened suddenly around the fabric of his jacket and his shirt. “Avandar!”
The domicis frowned.
“Where’s Teller? Where’s Finch?”
“Finch is with the delegation from the Merchant Authority. I am uncertain as to the whereabouts of Teller. ATerafin?”
Jewel’s hands were shaking; her eyes were wide, unblinking. For a moment her face was a blank composed of all the familiar pieces: nose, mouth, eyes.
Angel understood instantly what it meant. He looked up at Snow and shouted, and this time, Snow deigned to land. He landed on one of Angel’s feet, which, given his size and the small space in which he had to maneuver, was no mean feat. But whatever he’d meant to say when he opened his mouth, exposing large fangs, he forgot as he stared at Jewel.
“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping. He turned to Avandar. “She is seeing,” he told him. The fur on his ears and around his neck began to rise, as did his wings.
She was also trembling. Angel turned to Avandar; the domicis, frowning, had pulled a small rod from the folds of his robes. Jay called it “the bit”; she disliked it, but didn’t forbid its use—mostly because when it was being used, she was pretty much incapable of speech. When she dreamed, when her visions came in the dreams that caused a den migration to the late-night kitchen with its multiple lamps and its old-fashioned slates and chalk, she didn’t have seizures.
But on those rare occasions when vision—certain vision, not a nameless, instinctive dread—came during the waking day, she could start to tremble and shake so much she couldn’t control anything physical at all. Not today, Kalliaris, not today, Angel prayed. But he shifted his grip to her shoulders as her mouth began to tremble. She swallowed.
“Angel—Angel get Duvari. Get him now.”
Avandar shook his head. “ATerafin, I will find him. What must I tell him?”
“It’s not here—they’re not coming here, not today, not now.”
Avandar didn’t ask who she referred to—even odds she wouldn’t be certain herself. But in this case, they was always bad. He nodded grimly. “Celleriant.”
Lord Celleriant nodded, cool now.
Torvan gestured, and Arann joined him. He then said—to both Arann and Angel—“This is a seeing?”
Angel nodded. Arann was slower, but nodded as well. “It’s—not good,” Arann told the former Captain of the Terafin Chosen. “But—it’ll be clearer than most of her ‘feelings.’ ”
Her hands had tightened again; Angel could feel his arm going numb. “Angel—Arann—”
They gathered around her, as if they were in her room or the kitchen, and not in the grand gardens of the most powerful House on the Isle.
“They’re going to Avantari. They’ll kill the Princes. They’ll slaughter the Swords, and they’ll kill the Princes.”
Celleriant was the first to reply. “Are these Princes significant?”
The question robbed every other person present of speech for a moment. It also annoyed Jay, which was not a bad thing. She struggled to take control of her body, to separate herself from vision’s grip. Angel understood that this meant she thought she’d seen enough—and was aware that more could be costly on a day when she couldn’t afford it.
“They’re the heirs to the Twin Thrones,” she practically spit. “Yes, they’re important.” She glanced at the sky as if she hated the sight of it, and then at the cut stone beneath her feet. Her knees buckled, but she locked them before Angel could shift to take more of her weight in his hands. “We have time—but not much of it. Not much. Is Sigurne—”
“I am here, Jewel,” the guildmaster said, in a tone of voice that Angel had never heard her use. “You are certain of what you’ve seen?”
Jewel swallowed. Nodded. No one else would have dared to ask.
“How long do we have?”
She shook her head. “Not—not long. Not long enough to ride. But long enough for—”
But Sigurne shook her head. “The magi are under the auspices of the Lord of the Compact; if there is an attack upon Avantari in his absence, he will not divert the only mage present who can arrive in safety at the palace in time; the Kings themselves are here, and they demand precedence. He will have the magi send word to the Kings’ Swords—immediately—and he will confer with the Kings when they arrive. The Kings may countermand his decision, and they may choose to cancel attendance at the funeral, but I fear the argument will not be brief; if there is an attack of significance in Avantari, Duvari will see the Kings in safety here.”
“Send word,” Jewel said sharply.
Sigurne said, “It is already done, ATerafin. The rest, I fear, is in your hands.”
I know. I know that. She was trying not to shudder. She could feel the involuntary muscle spasms in her arms and legs, and she knew, she knew, that if she pushed it, if she clung to the vision that even now seemed to transform the visible landscape, muddying the colors and the physicality of location until almost everything in it was malformed, she would collapse, fancy dress and guards notwithstanding.
She couldn’t afford that, here. It wasn’t about the dead anymore. It wasn’t about the respect she should show them—and gods knew no one deserved more respect than The Terafin. The living mattered. The living had to matter more. She forced her
self to see the gardens, to see the grounds; she forced herself to look up at the trees, their branches in full bloom and out of season. As she did, she felt her body slow its frenzied shudder; she closed her eyes, hoping that the lack of visual confusion would help. It at least made her feel less dizzy.
“Avandar. Celleriant,” she said, eyes closed, vision blanketed in a red, red darkness, “Go to Avantari. Go. Save the Princes.”
Celleriant was silent.
Avandar was not—but his voice touched only Jewel. I do not like it, Jewel. We will leave you undefended.
The attack’s not here—not yet—and I’ve a record of survival. Duvari is here. The Exalted are here. The damn cats are here, as are the best of the Chosen. Angel’s here, she added. No one’s there.
They do not empty the palace when—
No one who can face what’s coming.
Then send Celleriant.
He won’t get there in time if you don’t go with him. She opened her eyes and faced him squarely. “You can travel there the way mages do. You brought us all from the South to the manse—all of us—and you were still standing. You’ll have two. You, Celleriant. You’ll still be able to fight.” She glanced at Celleriant, who had offered no argument, and she recognized the pale light in eyes that looked, for a moment, silver.
“You’re not entirely healed,” she told him, knowing in that instant it was true. Knowing, as well, that he didn’t care.
“There is not the inconsequential fact that the alarms and defenses across the palace will alert every member of the Palace Guard the moment we arrive,” Avandar pointed out, “and the Palace Guard is unlikely to recognize a simple domicis. They are also likely to mistake Lord Celleriant for an enemy.”
“They would,” a new voice said, and Jewel spun on her feet, nearly unbalancing as her knees gave. Angel caught her. Angel helped as she faced Devon ATerafin; Devon, who was standing beside the previously absent Jester. Jester’s face was almost the color of his hair; he’d run, Jewel thought, to Devon and back. And he’d dragged Devon with him.
Skirmish: The House War: Book Four Page 59