Kalliaris, she thought, the word more of a mantra than a prayer. She turned away from the door and trudged back to the bed. Sat, letting the weight of her chin drag her head down. Down. Down. Her lids were kind of heavy, too. Lashes brushed cheeks before she forced them open.
Prayer stopped. Anger, for a moment, let go.
Across from the bed, a section of particularly garish wall had been usurped. By a door.
It was a very, very strange door, and she stared at it for fifteen minutes before she understood what was wrong with it: It was hers. One of hers. Her grandmother's voice hadn't been so strong since childhood, but it whispered in her ear now, repeating every Voyani warning she had ever been offered, Torran words lighting the corners in which shadows, like fears, waited.
Oh, Oma, she thought. I wish the Lady had never taken you. What would you do now if you were me? To that, there was no answer. Jewel ATerafin walked to the door and opened it.
Beyond the door, her rooms shimmered beneath a gauzy veil of light. She wanted them so very badly she almost let herself believe they were real. "And what," she said aloud, "happens if I walk through those doors?"
The doors that were not her doors opened at her back; she heard their smooth glide across fine carpet and turned.
The man who stood between them flinched slightly as he met her eyes. That was to be his only acknowledgment of what he had done. Avandar said, not unkindly, "I do not know."
She had been so angry moments before she could not quite allow the anger to slip from her grasp. But it was harder to hold than she had thought it would be, with her lip still sore.
He didn't seem to realize she was angry. Or perhaps he didn't know how to acknowledge it; he had rarely chosen to acknowledge any temper that had no outward expression. Of course, if she were honest, those had been few. Usually he had done the dance with the rest of them as they made their way through—and out of—the kitchen doors, avoiding any loose pot lid, any pan that wasn't too heavy, any spare utensil. The clatter of metal against stone had a much more satisfying voice than the one she'd been born with.
There was no wind in the room; no sea breeze; no open windows through which air could pass unimpeded.
But she felt it anyway, the movement of air, the hint of water's expanse, the warmth of sun that had burned away all cloud. He came to stand by her side. By her side and a little bit back, as if this were a normal day, as if this present danger was the merely demonic, this mystery the merely magical.
She turned to look back through her door; her room was solidifying as she watched, the details becoming less hazy. She stopped a moment. Bunched her hands in open-and-closed fists that seemed timed with necessary things: heartbeat. Breath.
"Jewel," he said quietly.
"Did you let them go?"
"No."
"Why are you here?"
"I… don't know."
Turning, she hit him.
Not hard enough to hurt him, of course; without training, she probably couldn't. But hard enough to test. He did not lift a hand to stop her. "Don't ever," she said, as coldly as she could. "Don't ever ever ever do this again."
They both knew she wasn't talking about the lip.
She didn't look at him. She looked at her rooms.
There, the chair by her bed where she habitually threw her clothing. Beside it, the chest of drawers, and across the room, the desk that she never used. Her bed, unmade, the canopy so simple and tasteful compared to the bed she'd wakened in she promised never to make young-girl cracks about it again. Her closet.
"Can I go there?"
"It's not your room," he replied softly.
"It's my room."
"It's your memory of your room. Wait," he added. He touched her shoulder. Withdrew his hand immediately when she flinched. "When the light dims, it will be as real as it can be in this place."
Disappointment silenced her. But only for a moment; silence was not one of Jewel ATerafin's many gifts. "I thought it might be—I thought we could—"
"Go back?"
Something in his voice made her turn. She caught only his profile; his gaze was there, upon the room whose reality he dismissed.
"Yes," she said at last. "Go back. I've never been so far from home."
"You don't even know where we are."
"I know where we aren't. That's enough for me." She folded her arms across her chest; jewels caught and pulled against each other as they settled into this familiar position.
"No," he said quietly. "There is no way back from here."
"Avandar—"
"You may enter now."
"Is there any point?" But she left him standing outside the doors, the simple wooden doors, when she passed beneath their frame. She walked to her bed, paused a moment in front of her chest of drawers, and moved on to her closet. Her breath was a wild struggle; her chest felt constricted, as if something heavy had been placed against it and was growing in weight with each passing moment.
He had never been denied her rooms. He entered them quietly behind her, reasserting the order that she had come to view as natural. She wondered, briefly, if it would ever be natural again. She'd always known he had power, of course, but she never been forced to confront it. Funny how the little lies of omission were the things that held the safety of her life together.
Within the closet hung the dresses she wore to those meetings Avandar deemed politically important. And beyond them, hidden by this patina of decorum and rank, the clothing that she wore when she worked with her den in her kitchen. None of them fine silks—she found silk just a touch too delicate—but all of them sturdy enough. She'd had the elbows patched, and after Avandar had finished having his fits, had seen to it that the reinforcements were not immediately obvious, although it cost more.
Without thought, she turned her back to her domicis, inviting him by gesture alone to undo whatever it was that nubbled her spine so uncomfortably.
His fingers moved the length of her back as he undid the small catches that held the dress in place. Southern in look, it had. none of the apparent simplicity of the saris she secretly loved; it took time.
"Jewel," he said.
"Don't."
"Don't?"
"Whatever you were about to say, don't bother. We—thanks." She slid out of the dress, keeping her back to him. Gods knew he'd seen her naked before—and not like he'd ever noticed— but she'd never really felt naked. Either that or it had been long enough that she'd forgotten the early awkwardness.
Either way, it was there now. She was aware of every particular flaw her body possessed, every out of place hair, every extra bit of weight.
She dressed for speed and not for elegance, which was a good thing; elegance was something that was really only within her grasp with Avandar's help, and someplace between Terafin and Evereve, she'd decided his help was too costly.
The shirt she grabbed was hunter green; gold circles had been embroidered into the sleeves and the collar, and they caught the unnatural light, reflecting it. She almost put it back. Didn't.
The mark, the S with the two little v's, was an angry red, decorated by silver and gold. Precious metals. "What does it mean?" She would never have thought her voice could be so quiet.
"It is… a claim. A… falsehood."
"I know you put them on your wife. But what does it mean?"
When the collar of her shirt had cleared her head, and before its sleeves had cleared her hands, he started to speak again.
"I… expended much of my power to bring you here," he said quietly.
"Why didn't you just use it to take us someplace safe?"
He laughed.
She turned, yanking her arms into clothing's confinement and comfort. "Just what is so funny?"
"This was safety," he said softly. "The only safety I, or mine, had."
"Well, I'm not you, and I'm not yours, and frankly I don't feel particularly safe here."
"You aren't. You are not of my blood and you are not… consigned
to my service. The direction service takes in our relationship was… never conceived of in the time that this fortress was in use."
"Good. If you could just arrange for us to go home, I'd appreciate it."
"If I could just arrange for 'us,' as you so ignorantly put it, to go home, I would have done so before you woke." He walked to the door and closed it.
They stood together in her room. The curtains were closed; she wondered what she would see if she drew them. Started toward them to find out.
"Don't."
Stopped. "Won't it just be rock?"
"I… don't know."
"Oh." Silence, awkward and uncomfortable. "Why?"
"I never attempted to force windows upon this place. And my… wife… understood its nature well. You are, as always, surprising."
"How?"
"This. This room," he added, when it became clear that understanding was not going to miraculously occur. "It shouldn't exist. That it does speaks either to your power or to the dangers of tampering with a spell that was complicated enough to kill two of the mages required for its casting."
The tone of his voice made clear that it wasn't her power he was worried about.
She'd promised herself that she wasn't going to beg him for anything. She'd even promised that she wasn't going to ask, because on some level she was smart enough not to want to know. But smart wasn't enough.
"Who are you?"
"Avandar," he said smoothly. No cracks in that armor.
"All right. This?"
"This is… Evereve. Aristos told you its name, and he had no reason to lie. As you should well know, lies are best used sparingly."
"I don't lie."
"You've always been too lazy to learn the art."
"It's not laziness. My memory's lousy."
"As you will."
"And we were talking about you."
"In a manner of speaking," he replied. "I did not make this place, but I did discover it, in a fashion." His steps were flat and hollow in the still room; rugs absorbed their sound. "I… had already lost one wife. Two, although the first was killed when she tried to kill me." He lifted his head, folded his hands behind his back. She had seen him stand in exactly that position countless times.
"I lost all of my children."
She approached him slowly, as if approaching a wounded, wild creature—one that had claws, fangs, and weight behind it. His gaze was so far beyond her the walls couldn't contain it.
"I was… I am a very difficult man to kill. An acknowledged truth in my time. I was not… I am not a pleasant man. 'Pleasant' is a goal that those who have to live with fear struggle to attain.
"But my children were vulnerable. My wives. During a time in my life when I thought I could somehow attain happiness by protecting them, I found this place. I struggled with its essential nature. I made it my own. To do so was costly." His shrug told Jewel that the cost was measured in the lives of outsiders.
"I brought my wife here. She agreed to this; she was well acquainted with the death of her predecessor, and she was with child.
"She lost the child here. She did not conceive again until she left these walls, and she left them in haste."
"Avandar, please. We haven't much time."
"Yes and no," he said quietly, rising.
"Yes and no?"
"We discovered, in time, that time—within these walls—is not an issue. My wife did not age. Nor would she."
He was lying about something; she wasn't certain what. There was so much to lie about.
"But time is a jealous god."
"Time's a god?"
He raised a dark brow. "They teach you so very little these days."
"Thanks. I'll take that as a yes."
For a moment she thought she had his attention; that attention dissipated with the criticism. It really is as natural as breathing, she thought, stepping slightly back so she could see his face without being forced to tilt her chin up.
"You said she left."
"She left," he said softly, "because she desired a child."
Jewel shrugged. "Some women do."
And the edges around his dark eyes narrowed, changing their shape and his expression. "She was not a sentimental woman." His voice was cool. "She desired my legacy, or rather, a claim to it."
"And did she have her child?"
"Oh, yes."
"She survived?"
"She survived childbirth, yes. The child survived as well."
"There's something you aren't telling me."
"I am telling you so little it might as well be a lie," he replied. "You have no context in which to put the information."
She walked over to the closet again. Closed her eyes. Opened them, and opened the door. On the floor, tucked into the corner she reserved for long dresses and skirts she couldn't stand, was an old backpack; cracks split leather that was shiny with sweat where her hands habitually rested.
There were blankets in the dresser drawers, and clothing fine enough for the Tor Leonne—if she came as a Voyani. She grabbed the pack's shoulder straps in her right hand and slung it over her shoulder.
"Jewel," Avandar said.
"I'm not really listening."
"You're listening to every pause in my breathing."
Damn him anyway.
She began to roll the blanket into as small an object as she could. It had been years since she'd done this for herself; she-was rusty. "What happened to her?"
"To who?"
"The wife you don't even grace with a name?"
"She tried to have me killed," he replied softly.
"Oh." The blanket stilled. Jewel looked up, but Avandar's face was like a wall whose only gap was arrow slits. "I'm sorry."
"And she died for her mistake."
"Did you kill her?"
"Does it matter?"
She took the shirts and the very Imperial pants out of the drawers and began to fold them up as well, taking less care than she had with the blanket. Years of training slid past her; she wasn't certain if the colors matched, or if the style, such as it was, was current. Didn't much care. "Yes."
He didn't answer. He wasn't going to. She knew him that well. "We don't have much time, Avandar. We've got to go."
"I know," he said quietly. "But to bring you here almost killed us both. To take you out in a similar fashion will."
"You're lying."
"Very well. It will kill you."
"Does it matter?"
His smile was grim, unfriendly. "Yes."
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
9th of Scaral, 427 AA
Tor Leonne
He held Saval.
Its hilt was fine, and its scabbard finer still, but the grip that made the sword practical was unadorned leather. In his tenure as par el'Sol he had patiently remade the grip; he trusted no one else with the sword that had become associated with his rank.
It should have passed on to the man who replaced him as par el'Sol; the kai el'Sol's weapon was Balagar, sometimes called Balagar of the Long Night. It was gone. Fredero kai el'Sol had taken it with him, somehow, and if Peder par el'Sol suspected the how, he was consumed with the need to protect the Radann from far worse, in the end, than the theft of the kai el'Sol's sword.
Or so he told the others, and if they chose to believe it—as he tried to do himself—so much the better. Whether or not there was belief, however, mattered little; they chose not to question him. The loss, theoretically, was his.
The streets of the Tor Leonne opened before him like merchant tents before the wealthy; he expected no less. He wore the full regalia of the warrior-priest; the armor in perfect condition, the surcoat a deep blue, signifying the depths of clear sky. In the clarity of cloudless day, the Lord's sight was keenest, his judgment most dangerous. Blue was bisected by the curve of a weapon's blade: Balagar, although very few would recognize the sword should they otherwise see it. From out of the valley its curve made the sun in gold rose, and it rose with te
n rays, ten full rays.
They bowed to him, the people of this city, or they fled, depending on their rank. How often, after all, did the kai el'Sol venture among them? How often did he do so accompanied by the par el'Sol, each fully armored, each carrying a naked blade?
There should have been four: there were three, Samadar, Marakas, and Samiel. When he had allied himself with Alesso— Lord scorch him, winds scour—he had already decided upon the man who would replace him in the Hand of God. Significantly, he had not called upon that man to face the Lord's fire, the Lord's fight, and the Lord's test. Why?
The three men who stood at his back now were men he trusted.
Trust was a fool's game; it was also the game of desperate men. Desperation had forced him to trust.
For once in his life, he cursed ambition, because no man became par el'Sol—with the exception of Marakas, perhaps—without ambition. He had chosen his successor carefully. Grego di'Erreno was brilliant, cool, and politically wise; the perfect counterweight for Samadar, a man too much beholden to the Lambertan-bred kai el'Sol. He had intended to replace Samadar in time.
No matter; he could not afford it now. Too much was at stake. Gregor was ambitious, and Gregor had thrown his weight behind the General. The so-called Tyr'agar. No doubt—no doubt—the Erreno-born clansman, when confronted with the same truths that Peder had been confronted by, would make the same choices.
But by then it would be too late. Thus, Fredero kai el'Sol's revenge. What had he said?
/ am the Lord's servant, but the game that is played here is a game for men who understand treachery better than I. Had he thought Fredero a fool for accepting—and forgiving—his treachery? He repented.
It did no good.
Sun glinted off metal; gold, he thought, although the momentary pain would have been the same if the light was reflected off something base.
The three men he led understood the risks that had already been taken; they understood, further, the risks they would take. How long had it been since he had stood beside men who would die to protect him? How long had it been since he had stood beside men he would give his life to protect? How long—and this question stung him, for it was foolish, and it was painful, and he could not quite say why—had it been since he had believed enough in anything to do either?
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 29