Battle: The House War: Book Five

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Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 3

by Michelle West

“She is kin, in that fashion, to the Queen of the Hidden Court. They are half sisters. It is possible that that robed stranger can more easily traverse the paths that will lead to the Summer Court. Remember it; I am certain you will see her again. It is not her way to give advice—to appear at all—without exacting a price.”

  “The advice was not given to me; I am therefore little concerned at its price.”

  “Remember that,” was the grave reply. “For it may be, in the end, that her words were meant for you. If you go to the heart of your enemy’s stronghold, you will undoubtedly see her again; she may—or may not—recognize you. Have a care, Swordsmith.”

  “Save your concern for those who require it.”

  “If you do not live, you will craft no shield for me.”

  “Do not insult me.”

  Meralonne laughed, and after a moment, Anduvin joined him. They looked young, then. Bright and gleaming, like new blades.

  24th of Henden 427 A.A. Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

  It was not unusual for Devon ATerafin, a senior member of the Royal Trade Commission, to work late. It was, however, unusual at this time of year. The offices were all but empty; the lack of discussion, argument, pleading, and the occasional loud spate of cursing made the silence almost disturbing.

  It was not disturbing to Devon. Gregori, his aide, had remained in the office, occupied with the filing, which was both necessary and tedious enough none but the junior members of the Commission were required to do it.

  Neither man was particularly surprised when the door opened; they were alert, but unalarmed.

  Devon, however, was surprised to see the woman who entered the room: Birgide Viranyi. Her expression was shuttered, but that wasn’t surprising; so was Devon’s. He rose. “Apologies,” he said, “but the Royal Trade Commission is closed for the day.”

  She entered the office, closing the door at her back. “Yes.”

  Silence. Gregori left the stacks of letters and moved to the books; in any given day, ledgers and references were taken from the multiple shelves that held them—and their return to those shelves was, like the rest of the filing, the employ of junior commissioners. He began to shelve books.

  Only when a majority of those volumes were in place did he turn; he nodded once to Devon.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I wish to speak with Duvari,” she replied. She was stiff, but the mention of the Lord of the Compact often had that effect on the men and women who served under him.

  Gregori and Devon exchanged a glance.

  Birgide was a compact woman of medium height. Her hair was shorter than either Gregori’s or Devon’s, and her scars therefore more visible. Her eyes were sharp, a clear gray that was often disconcerting when she failed to blink, as she did now. “I have only just arrived from the Western Kingdoms, but I could see, as I made my way to Avantari, the trees that grow on the Terafin grounds. I heard the rumors as I traveled, but it is seldom that rumor contains so much truth.”

  “Did Duvari summon you from your post?”

  “No. I do not imagine he will be overjoyed; he is not a man who appreciates initiative.”

  “Is that so?”

  Birgide grimaced. Duvari’s disembodied voice sounded clipped and unamused. No door—no obvious door—had opened; Devon was almost certain that Duvari arrived at the exact moment Birgide had.

  “It is, as you well know,” she replied.

  “Initiative and abandonment of duties are not, surely, synonymous?” He stepped into the room from the farthest reach of the office.

  Devon tensed. Birgide did not. Gregori continued to work. Gregori very seldom spoke when Duvari was present—and of late, his silences were the norm.

  “Report,” the Lord of the Compact said.

  Devon considered returning to his chair, and decided against it. He was angry. “Four men wearing the armor of the Terafin House Guard attempted to assassinate the Terafin this morning. This is the second assassination attempt she has survived.”

  “They failed.”

  “Yes.”

  “The manner of their failure?”

  “The Terafin moved.”

  “Moved.”

  “She threw herself forward and somersaulted across the hardwood, narrowly avoiding two swords.”

  “There were four men present.”

  Devon nodded. The nod was controlled. “None of the four survived. One of her cats was on escort duty. I believe he killed two before they could draw weapons.” He glanced at his cuffs, as if searching for ink stains. His hands were remarkably steady. “I was to be informed before any move was made against the Terafin.”

  Duvari said nothing.

  “We have lost two tasters in the kitchen,” Devon continued.

  “The Terafin is aware of this?”

  “They were not poisoned.”

  The Lord of the Compact stepped toward Devon; Devon stood his ground. Birgide idly crossed the room and took Devon’s chair. “I would be a better choice if you chose poison,” she said reasonably.

  If Devon could have ejected her from the office, he would have. Birgide, however, was not his immediate concern—although that might change in an instant. She, as Devon and Gregori, was Astari.

  “You are crossing a dangerous line, Duvari,” he said, without preamble.

  “As are you,” Duvari replied.

  “No. I owe my loyalty to the Kings, and the Kings have remained utterly silent on the matter of the Terafin’s disposition.”

  “There is no proof that the assassination attempt was connected to the Kings.”

  “No. But two of the four were yours.”

  Duvari did not deny it. “And the tasters?”

  “They are not dead.”

  The lift of a dark brow changed the contours of the Lord of the Compact’s face. “You are compromised,” he said softly. “You understand what must be done, and you hesitate.”

  “Until the Kings command otherwise, I owe my service to the Terafin. They have not commanded, Duvari.”

  “That is not what I mean, and you know it. You allowed them to survive.”

  “The Terafin would have taken their deaths very personally, and I could not have offered any reason for those deaths that would have eased her.”

  “And so you protect her from me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you understand what she has done?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you honestly tell me that she does not constitute the biggest threat to the Crowns that the Empire has yet seen?”

  “Yes. We survived the Henden of 410. She is not the danger that we faced then.”

  “No. No, in my considered opinion, she is far worse. I want her neutralized.”

  “And I will kill her myself when the Kings give that command.”

  “She has not yet chosen to subject herself to the judgment of the Kings.”

  “The Kings have not yet made their decision.”

  “Have you informed her of the extent of the architectural changes within Avantari?”

  “No. She is aware of the obvious changes: the floors and the structural pillars. She is not a threat to the Kings.”

  “You are not impartial.”

  Nor was Duvari. Which was irrelevant. “Should the Kings decide that she is to be removed, I will kill her.”

  Duvari did not acknowledge the words. Instead he said, “The Exalted are highly concerned. It is clear that the gods believe the Terafin is a danger.”

  “To the Kings?”

  “Their concern is not the Kings. They feel she is a danger to the Empire. I will grant that they feel the danger she poses is unintentional, but the Lord of Wisdom believes she should be removed—if that is indeed possible.”

  “And the Lord of Wisdom is not the Kings. The gods do not rule here. The previous assassin was demonic in nature.”

  “I am aware of that.”

  “If the demons want her dead—”

  Duvari lifted a hand. �
�The Kings have taken that into consideration. They are willing—barely—to wait. I infer, from the words of the Exalted of Cormaris that time, should we wish to remove the Terafin, is of the essence. She does not yet understand the power she wields.”

  “No more do the gods!”

  “They understand it better than the magi or the Kings,” Duvari said, voice the cold of ice. “And she will grow to understand it. She altered the architecture of the Kings’ Palace without once leaving her own backyard. She did so without obvious intent.”

  “She saved the lives of the—”

  “I understand what she did. Were it not for that, the Kings would have made the only wise decision immediately upon arriving in the Palace.”

  Birgide cleared her throat, and the two men turned. Duvari was unamused. “I wish an introduction to the Terafin Master Gardener.”

  “I did not summon you from the Western Kingdoms. Nor did I request your expertise at this time. If you hope to infiltrate the Terafin manse, you have now made that clear to Devon ATerafin.”

  She smiled. “I am aware of Devon. There is no way of gaining entrance to the House that would avoid his detection. I have not been briefed about the architectural changes, but such a briefing was obviously not considered germane.

  “But I may be of assistance. I may be necessary.”

  Devon did not argue. He did not point out that both he and Gregori were ATerafin; nor did he claim that they could easily assassinate the Terafin although, were she any other head of a House, he might have.

  “What, exactly, do you desire of House Terafin?”

  “I am a botanist, Duvari. I wish to study her grounds, her trees, and her rumored forest. Not more, not less.”

  “I will consider it.” He turned his attention to Devon. “Do not cross me.”

  “If you wish me to revoke the Terafin name, only ask. I serve the Kings, Duvari. I do not believe that the Terafin’s death is in their best interests.”

  “You are not impartial. What you feel is immaterial.”

  18th of Henden, 427 A.A. Araven Estates, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Hectore of Araven hated no color on earth so much as black.

  This had not always been the case; in his feckless, brash youth he barely noticed it, and in his errant first attempt at adulthood, he had considered it a bold fashion statement. Now? It was a public emblem of loss: Black, white, and gold—but black, in this case, the predominant color. His daughter wore mourning white, as the mother, although she wore a black veil; her husband, the white and black; the whole of the Household Staff of the Borden Estate in the seventeenth holding employed were likewise attired.

  Even Hugh, the oldest of Rachele’s children, was somber and colorless as he stood beside his parents in the long hall that led to the single, modest public gallery, and from there to the grounds in which Sharann, Hectore’s beloved grandchild, would be laid to rest. Rachele, the youngest of his daughters, had been coddled, according to Hectore’s wife and his many friends; she had not learned that life was a constant test. It was not success that defined a man or a woman—it was their grace and their continued ability to maneuver in the face of inevitable failure. His daughter held her head high, but even through the veil her swollen lips and eyes could be seen.

  She had shed nothing but tears for weeks now. She had traveled, when she could bear it, to the Houses of Healing at Hectore’s side; she had sat by her youngest child’s bed, and dribbled water and broth into her daughter’s mouth. She had watched—as Hectore had watched—as Sharann dwindled in weight; at seven years of age, she had weighed well under thirty pounds in the last few days of her life.

  She had woken four times on her own, and a handful of times with intervention, but she had eaten so little; toward the end, when she woke, her eyes were dull and she could barely remember how to speak. Hectore had visited daily, absent the usual merchant emergencies; he resented each and every one of them bitterly, now.

  Sharann was not the only person to die of the sleeping sickness, as it was colloquially called in hushed whispers throughout the hundred holdings; she was not even the only child. But she was the only one whose death Hectore of Araven took personally.

  He hugged his daughter tightly and wordlessly; after a few seconds, she wrapped her arms around his neck and the whole of her body trembled. He didn’t much care that other visitants were waiting to speak a few words to the bereaved; they could damn well wait. He didn’t care about their time, their convenience, or their much smaller sense of loss. There were only two things he cared about today: his daughter and his grandson. He went to his grandson after he forced himself to relinquish his hold on his daughter.

  “Hugh,” he said, offering the boy an open hand. Hugh, mindful of his father, took the hand; mindful of his mother, he stepped closer to his grandfather. He was, in Hectore’s opinion, just a shade too young to fully understand what death meant. He was not, however, too young to understand his mother’s pain. He was, in Hectore’s admittedly biased opinion, a good child. “You’ll have to take care of my daughter,” he said, bending in, speaking softly as if attempting to conspire.

  “Da takes care of her,” was the quiet reply. “She doesn’t want my help.”

  He glanced at Rachele and then back to his grandson. “She doesn’t know how to ask, yet. She doesn’t know that she wants help. It’s not that her world is over—but she’ll never see Sharann again, and that’s hard.”

  And you’ll never see her again either, but that’s not quite real to you yet. He took his leave of his family, and accompanied by Andrei, made his way out to the gardens. “Well?”

  Andrei glanced at the grounds. They were almost impeccable, and they were certainly larger than the grounds Hectore’s gardeners maintained; Borden was situated in the hundred, and Araven’s main house, upon the Isle. Land on the Isle was at a premium.

  “There are no easy answers. There are no answers within the Order of Knowledge that my sources were willing to divulge; the Exalted are involved.” He paused and added, “The Astari are involved.”

  Hectore rolled his eyes. “I have no designs upon the Kings; they were not materially involved in my grandchild’s death.”

  “No.”

  “But I feel that something was, Andrei, and I will know what it is.”

  “Patris Araven—”

  “Do not sling titles at me; there are no eavesdroppers.” Hectore’s hand was cupped firmly around a stone of silence, in his pocket for just such a conversation. “Had you met me before I was required to depart, things would be simpler. My daughter will be in tears for the whole of this wretched day, and I would be there to offer her comfort.”

  “Your daughter accepts the death, Hectore.”

  “She’s no other choice.”

  “She has.” Andrei raised a brow.

  “Give me the information you’ve managed to obtain.”

  Andrei nodded. “It is, as I suggested, scant. It is therefore not reliable.”

  “But?”

  “Hectore—”

  “Out with it.”

  “It involves House Terafin.”

  House Terafin. First among The Ten, although not by such a wide margin now as it had once enjoyed. Hectore had some dealings with Terafin, although to be fair, he had dealings with all of The Ten in one form or the other. His merchant holdings were not small, and they were not passive. He frowned. “House Terafin. It’s where the healer boy lives.”

  “It is.”

  “Andrei, your expression could sour wine.”

  “The boy is not, as you well know, the most significant aspect of Terafin at the moment. You attended the previous Terafin’s funeral.”

  Hectore nodded, lifting a hand to his chin as he began to stroll past the violets. He found them a little on the pale side, but Rachele had always preferred what she called “soft” colors. “I did. It was interesting, and not the norm for such affairs.”

  “Did you note the young woman?”

  Hectore nod
ded. He didn’t need to ask which young woman Andrei referred to; from the moment he was granted entry into the grounds and the outdoor reception, there had only been one woman of note. She wore a dress that Hectore could still remember if he paused to close his eyes: a thing that suggested all possible variants of the shade white, mixed with gold and the delicate black of mourning. It had not been particularly daring—and yet, it had. “Jewel ATerafin. She is Terafin now.”

  The dress, oddly enough, had seemed more significant than the very large, very white winged cat that had sat, like a statue—a talkative one—by her side. Hectore knew he had seen the creature—but his memory would not conjure a concrete image; the woman in the dress, however, haunted his vision, like an afterimage burned there by unwary sight of the sun.

  “Yes. In the weeks since she was acclaimed, she has survived no less than four attempts on her life.”

  Hectore shrugged. House succession was always a tricky affair, especially if the House was one of The Ten.

  “Not all of her assassins were reputed to be human.”

  This, Hectore had not heard. “Why did you not inform me of this fact earlier?”

  “It was barely possible to ascertain that it was, indeed, fact. The stories that have sprung up around that girl almost beggar the imagination—and a rational man would assume most lacked substance.”

  “You, of course, being the definition of rational.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Andrei, I cannot run my life without you. You are aware of this, even if your modesty forbids open acknowledgment of that fact. If you do not, however, speak plainly, I will strangle you and consign myself to a life absent your competence.”

  “The stories are true.”

  “Pardon?”

  “The stories are true, Hectore. She owns giant, winged cats—”

  “If I recall correctly, the cats are not suitable as either guards or servants; far too cheeky.”

  Andrei did not roll his eyes, but this clearly took effort. “—she rides a large, white stag that appears—and disappears—at whim.”

  “Her whim?”

  “Apparently so. She is served by someone the magi deem an immortal—a Hunter.”

  “Hunter?”

 

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