He was his father's son in looks; taller than any other Council member, gaunter in build. His hair was streaked gray—and it had always been gray, even in a youth that she did not clearly remember. But he was his father's son in looks alone, and the family resemblance was superficial enough that she only saw the father in the son when she turned to look at her oldest adviser, her oldest supporter, her most trusted ally.
The father had never sought power. The son sought little else. He had taken his first step on the road under the tutelage of the magi. That had been a relief to her, for it was the only strain that lay between her and Gabriel in their long years together: he had wanted his blood son to be ATerafin, and she, as always, was cautious about the giving of her House name. Of her name.
But the magi had given him a skill, and that skill was a thing of value; in the end, and perhaps foolishly, she had granted Gabriel his one selfish desire. And it was a single desire; he had never asked her for anything else so purely personal in the long years of silent service he had offered. Gabriel. Right-kin. And compromised.
Do you suspect your son, Gabriel? Parents could be so blind where their own children were concerned, but she could not— not quite—believe him so willfully blind. She wondered, idly, if Rymark was his mother's son.
And her gaze passed on. Three Council chairs stood empty. Courtne's. Alea's. Corniel's. The last she had shed few tears for— the same tears, in fact, that she might shed if any of the four who remained were to perish: Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, or Rymark.
But beyond those empty chairs, set apart—as always—by the most convenient method given to her, sat Jewel Markess ATerafin. No longer the young girl, she seemed, still, an embodiment of things youthful. A sign, The Terafin thought, of age, that a woman over thirty can feel so much the defiant youngster.
Jewel's dark hair was not so unruly today as it usually was,, and her clothing was, indeed, of a fine material and an acceptable cut. She alone had chosen to bring no guards or attendants, but Avandar towered over her like a shadow, like a death for any whose approach was careless or inimical.
Of the four—Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, and Rymark—The Terafin thought that it was Marrick who stood the best chance of protecting the House and gaining for the House what the House needed in the future from the both the Council of The Ten and the Crowns.
But it was to Jewel ATerafin that her gaze returned, time and again, before she at last began her address.
Council meetings were often bearable because they represented a rare opportunity to catch up on sleep—if she were subtle enough about it not to catch Avandar's attention which was, admittedly, not often.
But today there were no odious reiterations of a previous meeting's minutes, no descriptions of what was to be discussed (although this often proved more interesting than the discussion itself), no maneuvering behind the scenes (which in this case often meant causing one) for presentation position, or worse, for "support." There was The Terafin, and there were the ATerafin, separated by the chairs they occupied across the gulf of the suddenly huge table.
She sat; they sat. She rose, and when they moved to rise, she gestured them down with a cutting motion of hand through air.
"This will be a brief meeting," she said softly, and for a minute Jewel could almost believe it would end in an execution. She cast a glance at the right-kin, but his complexion was going through a serious color change—enough of one that she knew he was as surprised by The Terafin's tone as any of the other members of her Council.
For just a minute, The Terafin seemed to shake her age, gaining inches and power in the process.
"Courtne is dead. Alea is dead. Corniel is dead. For the last, I offer no great grief, as you are all intelligent enough to suspect. I will do you the favor, behind these very closed doors, in the privacy of a Council chamber that it is in your best interest to leave private, of not insulting your intelligence. Or taxing it overmuch."
Stiffening, there, especially across Rymark ATerafin's features. Jewel was certain that once Haerrad figured it out, he'd be purple. Elonne's face did not change at all, and Marrick, damn him, actually smiled.
"I do not understand why you choose to play these games now— and they are games, make no mistake. A war of succession is generally held after the death of the ruler one wishes to succeed.
"I will remind you all that the decision of heir is made in Council by the council's recommendations in accordance with my decision. I will further remind you that the last time a House ruler was assassinated, the House in question lost prestige in the Imperial Court, and for that reason, lost a great deal of both power and influence.
"The question of succession has been—and in future will be— left to the House; it was agreed upon when The Ten came to the Kings at the beginning of. their reign over four hundred years ago. But in turn, it was agreed that the Houses would abide by the greater martial laws imposed by the Kings we had chosen to support."
Restive movement from all of the House members but Elonne. Jewel didn't much like Elonne, but the woman was made of steel, and steel was necessary in the rule of a House.
"Ah. I see you understand the rudimentary costs of a House War. I will, in that case, refrain from belaboring known history." She put both hands, palm down, upon the table and leaned toward them, captive audience by force of her will alone. "Courtne was a reasonable choice as heir. He is obviously out of the succession. You will now, no doubt, argue among yourselves for the honor of a clear recommendation and a clear choice. I have no… difficulty with this.
"I have difficulty imagining that when the heir is finally chosen, there will be more than two of you left standing, and again, I have little difficulty with this. But Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, Rymark," she said, her voice soft, her gaze harder than Elonne's, "I will not see this House torn apart by your ambitions. Whether you die or not is of little consequence to me; it will be a loss to the House. Do not kill those who follow me because they have chosen to throw their future in with you, or worse, because they will not.
"Do I make myself clear?"
Silence.
Haerrad said quietly, "And if they die, Terafin?"
Jewel held her breath. It was not a question that needed asking, but having been asked, it was not a question that could be ignored. The Terafin did not utter threats; she did not rule by such extremes. What steel there was in her was sheathed until the last possible moment, and if she was capable of death—and she was— it was the death that more than simple expedience demanded.
She thought that The Terafin would make no answer; the silence stretched. Stretched for long enough that Jewel realized she'd forgotten to breathe while she waited.
And as she drew breath. The Terafin replied with a single word. "Justice."
She turned then and left the room.
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
Evening of 10th of Lattan, 427 AA
Averalaan, Terafin Manse
Jewel had not had dreams like this for almost fifteen years, although she woke often from nightmare, and some of those nightmares twisted truth. No dreams like this since she had started to learn the limits of the talent she was born to. Not since she had accepted that the instincts by which her life was ruled could, occasionally and with great cost, be pointed. Not since she had run from the streets and the warrens of the twenty-fifth holding, the remnants of the gang of children—her den—that had survived their first contact with an old and terrible magic under the thin stretch of her shadow.
Seer-born.
The days with the den returned to her. Years in the most powerful House in the Empire would never remove them entirely; she had come to know, and accept, this truth. It made her something of a mystery to most of the powerful men and women who partook in the rulership of House Terafin; truthfully, it made her something of an object of disdain. But the disdain that there was was whispered and hidden—as if she was too stupid to be aware of it—because if she was from the streets, she was also of value to
the House.
Seer-born.
She was Jewel, born Markess, raised to ATerafin, and she still felt the rawness of a scream against the walls of her throat as she sat bolt upright and waited in the darkened bedroom for the wing to come to life around her.
It happened slowly; the swing of doors in the distance, doors well-oiled enough that they did not creak, but not stiff enough that they did not slam—either into their frames or into the walls as they were pushed open or slammed shut. Then the shouting:
There, Teller's voice, just outside of Finch's door; Jester's voice outside of Angel's. Carver was—ah, there. Swinging lamplight bobbing beneath the crack of her door. Light.
Her own lamp was guttered.
And, of course, no matter how familiar these friends, no matter how welcome, they would not be the first to arrive. There were three doors that led to this room. The first was the door from the sitting room beyond which lay the hall and the rest of her den. The second was a door that opened into an office—a room she still rarely used, preferring the comfort and the familiarity of the late night kitchen seen through oil-lamp light and sleep's lack. The third door opened into the chambers which her domicis occupied.
And always, always, always it was that third door that opened first.
No exception tonight; in the shadows, Avandar crossed the threshold, neither lingering in the doorway nor appearing to hurry. She could see in the dark about as well as anyone else, but if Avandar was a shadow, he was a shadow who had substance and color and personality, all rooted firmly in memories, most of which still irritated her.
As domicis, he was, technically, her servant. As Avandar, he was like a keeper, but of what, she had yet to determine—and they had been together, as uneasy allies, since her sixteenth year. There probably wasn't another domicis in the guild's long and honorable history who could abide by technicalities so well without conveying any of the spirit of the law.
He's handsome. Finch had said, and powerful; you can feel it.
Yeah. So's a demon, and I wouldn't want one serving me—you never know when the damned thing'll get loose and rip out your throat. Or worse.
If the Terafin thought he'd be the best domicis for you, it probably means she thinks you'll see a lot of trouble, Jay.
The years hadn't made him any uglier.
Or any less arrogant, for that matter.
"Jewel," he said. He knew better than to touch her.
Before she could answer, the door to the outer hall flew open; Angel and Carver stood abreast in the wide frame. Lamplight was at their back, held aloft by a slender, strong arm: Finch's, she thought. She smiled as she saw the light glinting off steel too short to be sword. It was her first smile.
"Jay?" Teller's voice. He sidled around Carver, shoving his forelocks out of his eyes and squinting into the shadows. In the darkness, she was sixteen again; so were they. There were instincts, she thought, that they'd never lose because more than half their life had gone into the making.
"It's—safe," she said, swinging shaking legs free of blankets and planting her feet almost delicately against the nubbly cotton rug.
"You were dreaming." Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Bad."
"Yeah."
"Kitchen?"
She laughed. It was a wobbly sound. "Yeah."
The lamp helped. It sat on the table in its customary place at her left elbow, flickering with warmth and orange light. Her elbows, propped against the smooth, hard surface of sturdy, unor-namented wood, were like a silent commandment; only when she lowered her hands from her chin and shook herself would anyone speak. And she wouldn't do either of these things until her gaze was focused on them, and the present.
She could barely see them at all. She wanted to, but the reality of them deflected the edge of the dreaming as if both were blades. She felt Avandar settle into his customary position to the left of her, back to the wall. Almost told him to sit. She hated the feel of his shadowy presence where she couldn't—quite—see it.
But she opened her lips and said instead, "Terafin is burning. The fire is black, but the heat—the heat is white." She swallowed. "There's sand on my clothing, in my hands, my mouth; I'm dry and hot and I can barely move. Someone calls my name. I turn toward the voice.
"Behind me, there's a woman. She's my age—" She stopped, absorbing the words, realizing how untrue they were. It had been a long time since she'd returned to that age in the dreamscape. The age, for Jewel Markess, of demons, of fire, of magic. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's sixteen, seventeen— and her eyes are filled with fire; she kneels, as if she's supplicant, but she's wearing a thin crown, and a bloodied sword is staining the silks she wears.
"She tells me—that I cannot turn back." Hard, to speak those words here. Jewel swallowed. Continued. The vision's hooks were things of fear, of terror—but although the emotions would sustain themselves, the vision itself would pass into memory, and memory was imperfect.
"The Chosen are scattered. I can only find Torvan; the rest are dead or blind or deaf. He says. 'Why did you have to leave?' and I feel it, the weight of those words, and he grabs my hand and drags me to The Terafin's Council chambers.
"She's dead. There are three knives in her body and she lies across the Council table. Gabriel looks up when I enter the room; there is fighting, of course, the war for succession. He is aloof from it, but bleeding anyway. And he says, 'You. You left her to die.'"She pushed unruly brown curls from the edge of her forehead so that she might better see the light, feel its distant heat across her cold, cold skin.
"Where," said the only person in the room who refused to learn better than to interrupt her, "is Morretz in this vision?"
Morretz, The Terafin's domicis. Jewel frowned, bit her lip to stop the sharper words from leaving her mouth, and then shook her head. "I don't—I didn't—see him."
"Strange. Go on."
It was so hard, with Avandar, not to snap. "Why, thank you." she said, grinding her teeth. Losing her clarity. It took her a moment to find it again.
"The Terafin sits up. Her eyes are dead eyes. Her wounds don't bleed. And her voice—it's not her voice. Her head rolls awkwardly on her shoulders as she turns in my direction. She says, 'Another lesson. The hardest lesson. There will be blood on your hands no matter what you choose.'
"The color returns to her face; the knives fall out; she shakes her hair down and stands. She's not dead, and she's not undead; she's alive. She keeps speaking, with the same voice, as if life or death doesn't matter to what she has to say. 'There will always be blood on your hands. Glory in it, or weep at it, as you choose— but when you choose who must die, choose wisely.'
"And before I can answer, before I can ask a question, she gestures and the—and the—city rises."
"The Shining City." Avandar's voice. Avandar's unwelcome, solid voice. No shadow in it: no shadow would dare.
"Yes. And the screaming starts." She shuddered, then, and her arms relaxed, hands falling almost nervelessly across the tabletop. "I remember the baby—"
"Jay." Teller rose at once. The shadow of Henden in the year 410 fell across their faces like the blow of a drunk parent across a captive child's; they flinched, and hid from it, as they could. But it was there. Always there. Finch glanced furtively at Carver, but Carver was staring at the tabletop, at the diffusion of light across the wood grain.
"Did you recognize the voice?" Avandar asked, speaking almost gently. For Avandar. Which meant slowly, and without that slight clenching of jaw that accompanied many of his questions.
"The voice?"
"The voice she spoke with. Jewel, you said The Terafin spoke with a voice not her own."
"No," Jewel said. And of all her den—yes, dammit, her den— gathered at this large table, the only person who knew she was lying was, as always, Teller. He raised a brow, his expression shifting, and then shifting again, so quickly that she was certain only she had caught it at all.
Finch sto
pped writing. "Anything else?"
"No. Yes."
"Which is it?"
"Yes. Can you arrange a meeting with The Terafin?"
Jester frowned. "Jay, you might've forgotten that you're to spend half of tomorrow with the Flight."
"With," Avandar said quietly, "the three Commanders."
"Yeah. Eagle, Hawk, and Kestrel." Jester smiled, his teeth a flash in the lamplight.
"Jewel—"
"Jester."
"Fine." He held out his hands and surrendered with about as much grace as she expected. Sadly that was about three times less grace than Avandar considered acceptable. "But that's what everyone else calls 'em."
"If you call them that, I'll pick it up. If/call them that, I'll kill you."
Angel laughed. It was nervous laughter. He scraped his chair along the kitchen floor as he rose. "Jay?"
"What?"
"Are we going South or staying?"
She loved these men and women. Everything was obvious, and nothing had to be spoken in more words than were needed to get the point across.
That fact that she rose, turned, and left the room without an answer was lost on no one. Especially not on Jewel herself.
She went to the shrine, of course.
Not immediately; at first she returned to the dubious comfort of her bed and pulled the comforter up to just under her chin, burying every part of her body beneath its folds. She even closed her eyes, willing her hands to relax the firm grip they had on the thick, dry linen. She'd become an optimist over the last decade.
Or an idiot.
With something that was decidedly less quiet than a sigh but more heartfelt, she pushed the comforter to one side and then groped around on the floor for her shoes. She thought of changing from bedclothing to real clothing, and decided, practically, that no one was going to see her anyway; she took a large cloak as a compromise, intending to drape it across her shoulders until she'd cleared the wing and the halls of the manse itself.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 8