“The Wild Hunt.”
“Andrei—please. I know you do not drink when you are on duty.”
Andrei inspected the roses; he liked them. Hectore did not care for roses, or any flowers that came with thorns. “It is said she stopped the rains on the first day of the Terafin’s funeral—and that, Hectore, you must believe.”
Hectore shrugged.
“But she did more—and this is not rumored, for reasons which will become obvious. She altered the structure of Avantari.”
“Impossible.” Hectore’s eyes narrowed as he turned to confront his most loyal and most necessary servant. What he saw in Andrei’s face stemmed the tide of his careless words, and left him only with the careful ones. Andrei was not—and had never been—a fool; his was a skepticism and cynicism that even Hectore found difficult at times. Hectore was not certain what it would take to convince Andrei of the truth of a rumor of that magnitude—but clearly, Andrei believed it.
“Were any of the assassins sent against her Astari?”
“Hectore, that is beneath you.”
“I am serious, Andrei. If what you have just said is true in any measure, the Kings cannot afford to let the girl live.”
“And yet, she does.”
“Why, in your opinion?”
Andrei’s silence took on a different quality as he considered the man he had served for much of his life. “She is,” he finally said, “The Terafin. The death of a reigning member of The Ten is always destabilizing. The fact that her predecessor’s death occurred at the hands of a demon adds to the danger. Recent attacks on the current Terafin are also demonic, which makes clear that the demons consider her a primary—possibly the primary—threat.
“It can safely be assumed that what demons want and what the Kings want are not the same.”
Hectore had made the Araven fortunes by relying on a mixture of instinct and natural shrewdness. And by, admittedly, a certain brash arrogance and a willingness to take risks to get what he wanted. The problem with many of his opponents was that their definition of what Hectore wanted was so parochial and so narrow. Many of the visitants to this particular funeral were such men—and women. They were here to show their devotion to Araven and its merchant trading wealth. They would not believe that Hectore was distraught over the death of a granddaughter, as he had so many of them.
They would certainly never believe that Hectore might choose to take this one death personally.
“You are not telling me what you know, Andrei.”
“I am telling you what I know.”
“You are not telling me all of it. I will have the rest. I will have it now.”
Andrei, to Hectore’s surprise, hesitated. “It has been very, very difficult,” he finally said.
“It is unlike you to offer excuses in place of information.”
“It is very like you to be so impatient.”
“This is important to me, Andrei.”
“Understood. When we attended The Terafin’s funeral, I saw Jewel ATerafin when you were briefly presented to the House Council. She was—as you have rightfully pointed out—daring in both her choice of dress and her choice of colors; she made a statement without opening her mouth. So much so,” he continued, after a long pause, “that I did not recognize her.”
“You would have little reason to do so.”
Andrei smiled. “You would think that, yes. You would be wrong in this particular case. She is not someone I have seen often; I have, in fact, seen her on only one occasion in the past.”
“The recent past?”
“No, Patris. It was almost two decades ago.”
Hectore frowned. “You did not meet the girl in my company.”
“No. You were not directly involved.”
Hectore’s eyes narrowed. “I am involved in almost any action of note you might take; if I am not present, I am nonetheless affected. Where did you meet her?”
“In the Common.”
Hectore waited. His lack of patience, his fury at his granddaughter’s senseless, lingering death, were balanced—barely—by a growing curiosity. Curiosity and a faint suspicion that was hardening as he watched Andrei’s expression. Do you think to save me pain? Yes. Yes, he did. Hectore was not certain what might cause more sorrow on a day when he was forced, against all prior effort, to finally acknowledge Sharann’s death.
But he could guess, if he thought for a moment like a rational man. At times like this, rationality was highly overrated, but it had its uses. “Ararath.”
Andrei did not seem surprised to hear the name, although it had been well over a decade since it had been spoken between them. “Yes, Hectore. I met her in an evening, in the Common, while attempting to watch over your godson.”
“How was she significant?” That she was, Hectore no longer doubted.
“He did not mention her name in my presence, but it did not matter; it was clear to me that Ararath had become as invested in her welfare as you were in his. Perhaps more. She arrived in the Common in order to protect him.”
“Two decades ago? She couldn’t have been more than a child.”
Andrei nodded. “A child,” he said, “who saved your godson’s life; I do not think I would have arrived in time, otherwise.”
Hectore’s brows rose. “You?”
“Even so.”
“How could a child save Ararath’s life? Was he unarmed?”
“He was not. But what he faced, Hectore, should have killed him, in my opinion.”
“You killed his assailant.”
“There was more than one, and yes. It is why I am aware of how unusual the young lady in question must be.”
Hectore’s eyes narrowed. He examined Rachele’s roses, eyeing their thorns with suspicion. The flowers, however, were a lovely color. “You have not answered my question.”
“It is a difficult question to answer. But it is my suspicion that the child was—and is—seer-born.”
* * *
Hectore bent his face over the roses which were still in bud. They were sweetly scented, but at this stage in their growth, the scent was not cloying, not overwhelming. He had heard that one or two enterprising Master Gardeners had managed to create roses which grew no thorns, and he was interested in seeing such flowers, because he was somewhat skeptical of the claim. “You never mentioned this.”
“Ararath would have died.”
“You said that much.”
“Ah, pardon; you misinterpret. He would have attempted to silence me, Hectore. You were as fond of Ararath as you were of any of your own children, and there are some things you would not forgive, even of me. I made it clear that I would speak no word of her ability or her existence. I thought her mage-born, at first.”
“I cannot believe that Ararath would have been suicidal enough to attempt to harm you.”
“Men are not always wise where their children are concerned.”
“Indeed, they are not. Nor their grandchildren.” Especially not their grandchildren. Children were always so fraught with difficulties; they were rebellious, angry, sullen, in their turn—and a parent must tolerate all of these things with a modicum of grace, weathering the worst of the storm until it passed. Grandchildren, however? Those storms were their parents’ problem. Not his. The affection was unadulterated by the daily realities of life.
“Ararath’s young charge eventually wound up in House Terafin. That cannot have been an accident.”
Andrei addressed the first sentence, not the second, not immediately. “She did. She went to House Terafin on the day that an assassin also visited the manse. The rumors—and these are more easily accessed—are that she proved her value to the House by saving The Terafin’s life the day she first arrived at the front gates. She is admired by the House servants, with a few notable exceptions. Do you know that she was given a permanent residence in the Terafin manse from that first day?”
“I obviously knew no such thing.”
“I believe she is seer-born,” Andr
ei said again. “I think Ararath knew it. And if it will bring you any peace, I think Ararath sent her to his estranged sister at House Terafin, and his estranged sister accepted her.”
Hectore straightened. Ararath. Did you make peace with your sister, in the end? But no, that was not Ararath’s style. His pride had been both his strength and his downfall. “You think Jewel ATerafin is that girl of Ararath’s.”
“Yes, Hectore.”
“And she is at the center of the strangeness in House Terafin; of that there’s no doubt. Why,” he asked, his voice softening, “do you feel that the sleeping sickness is connected in some fashion with that girl?”
“I do not; nor would I have ever assumed it. But there is an undercurrent of unease within the Order of Knowledge—and not a little resentment—about The Terafin.”
“Resentment?”
“Apparently she is not interested in having her grounds overrun by desperately curious mage-born scholars.”
“Really? How selfish of her,” Hectore said, raising a brow. “I can see why the magi would therefore assume that she is the source of all evil.”
“The resentment has been heavily discouraged by the guildmaster—to no great effect. Discussion about The Terafin within the Order has also been heavily discouraged, to much greater effect. Because there are demons involved, and because the guildmaster’s policy in regards to discussion of anything related to the forbidden arts is harshly enforced, there is little discussion. It is why I have had such difficulty, and why, in the end, I have no solid information to offer; the magi are willing to discuss what is known—the cats, the trees, the stag—but they fall silent very quickly when it comes to intelligent speculation and theorizing. I understand why,” he added. “Guildmaster Mellifas is as terrifying a woman as I have ever met.”
“That is unkind, Andrei.”
Andrei nodded smoothly. “For this reason, Hectore, I have been uncertain about the value of any information I might bring you with regards to The Terafin or the nature of the plague. Because it is of import, and because you will act in haste when your family has been harmed, it is rather more important that the information have a strong foundation in fact or truth; less would be socially irresponsible. What I have said today is, in the main, hearsay. I am not comfortable with it.”
“You are, as always, too strict in your determination of what constitutes solid information.”
“As you say.”
“I wish to speak with The Terafin.”
Andrei evinced no surprise at all.
“But, tell me one thing, Andrei. In your investigation, did you happen to discover if Adam, my healer boy, was living under the auspices of The Terafin herself?”
His servant smiled. “Indeed, Hectore. He is living in the personal apartments used by the new Terafin and her small, unusual court. She has failed to take up residence in the large apartments traditionally reserved for The Terafin’s personal use.”
“What? Why?”
“I am not certain. Adam lives in the West Wing, where The Terafin currently resides.”
“In your investigations, what is the general consensus about her ability to hold the Terafin seat?”
“I believe it would be best, in this case, to meet with her in person, if that can be arranged.”
“I am Hectore of Araven,” he replied, drawing himself up to his full height with an annoyance that was more real than feigned. “Of course it can be arranged. I will go through the Merchant Authority; I believe it’s been some time since I took tea with Jarven.”
Andrei’s smile stiffened as he bowed.
“Oh, stop. If I have forgiven him our early encounters and rivalries—or perhaps, if he has forgiven me—I fail to understand why you continue to harbor such a dislike of the man. Speak to Jarven.”
“Yes, Hectore.”
The Patris Araven spoke a soft word as he touched the stone in his pocket. “And now,” he said, in an entirely different tone of voice, “I will go to my Rachele. I will offer her what comfort I can, and I will tell her that I will personally see that whoever—whatever—is responsible for our loss will pay.”
Chapter One
7th of Fabril, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
THE SERVANTS WERE, as always, efficient. They moved in silence through the back halls, and with grace through the public halls, tending to their daily duties with the starched exactitude the Master of the Household Staff expected. But if one knew them well—and living in the Terafin manse for half one’s life allowed opportunity for plenty of observation—it was clear they were excited. There was an expectant air to their work.
Some of that work involved the rooms occupied by The Terafin, although at the moment they were empty on what Gabriel ATerafin referred to as a technicality. Everyone else referred to it as “Jewel being difficult.”
Jewel found the transition from member of the House Council to Head of the House to be daunting. She’d expected daunting. She’d worked herself out of hours of sleep while staring at the ceiling in the room she’d occupied since she’d first set foot in the manse thinking about how to deal with the Kings, their Astari, and the mages who served them. She had, thanks to the unsuccessful assassins, managed to avoid Avantari and its many Courts since she had been acclaimed, but the time for such avoidance was rapidly drawing to a close.
Speculation about the intentions of the Kings—and the Lord of the Compact—was dire; given the constant press of emergencies that now constituted her life, Jewel avoided those discussions whenever possible.
She’d had less luck avoiding the bards of the bardic colleges, because at this point in her early tenure she had two in residence. They were young enough not to be master bards, and nervous enough—when they thought no one was looking—to be careful, but they were also charming bastards. They reported to Solran Marten, the Bardmaster of Senniel College. She, as anyone with the ability to form half a thought knew, reported to either the Kings, or the Queens if the Kings were otherwise occupied.
The Exalted were also uneasy with the newest in the line of Terafin rulers. The Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge had likewise expressed reservations. Hannerle was, at the moment, asleep in the West Wing, but when she wasn’t, her room was a silent battleground of anger, guilt, and fear. Haval could hide it all, of course; Hannerle couldn’t.
But again, all of these were things she’d expected.
What was unexpected was the sudden diffidence shown her by every servant in the manse. Every single one. Even Merry. Oh, she knew they’d always stretched all the rules of etiquette when they worked in the West Wing, making allowances—as Merry called them—any time the Master of the Household Staff was absent.
Since the day Jewel had left the Council Hall as The Terafin—with only two abstentions in the vote, those being Haerrad’s and Rymark’s—the servants had been uniformly perfect in all of their interactions. They replied with actions, and only spoke if words were utterly necessary; they no longer smiled, nodded or—gods forbid—laughed. They looked at Jewel only if she gave them a direct order, but absent that order, they looked through her or past her. It didn’t matter whether or not the intimidating Master of the Household Staff was even present.
Jewel felt like a ghost in her own home.
You are not Jewel Markess ATerafin, the Winter King said. He could; he was at a distance somewhere in the wild garden. You are now an office; you are the reason House Terafin exists; its leader and its rule. It is not an office you made, Jewel. It existed before you, and it will exist when you die. The fact that you fill it lends color, personality, and direction to that office—but it is not you, and it is not entirely yours. They understand, even if you do not, the respect that office must be given if the House is to endure.
She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, flanked by six of the Chosen—and Avandar, who stood closer to her than her own shadow at high bloody noon—she examined the library’s shelves. She had always loved this library, with its
long, empty tables and its high, high ceilings which nonetheless let in light, be it sun or moon. But she had come to realize in the past few weeks that part of what she had loved about it was the quiet, steady presence of Amarais. Paying her predecessor the final respects that were her due and her right hadn’t laid the sense of loss to rest.
She should be used to it. She’d done this before.
“Terafin,” Avandar said.
She turned to face him, one thick and scuffed leather volume in her hand. “I’ve got it.”
He nodded, as if the book had no significance; to Avandar, it had little. “You have three hours in which to prepare for your first public outing as The Terafin.”
She hesitated for a long moment, and then slid the volume back onto the shelf.
* * *
Haval was waiting for her in the West Wing in what had become her fitting room. He had already set up the tools of his trade; the stool upon which she might stand for adjustments in length of hem, the spools of thread and needles of varying thickness, and the pins which were such a necessary annoyance. Although Snow lounged in the corner, he had failed to insist on the creation of any new dresses. He nonetheless felt compelled to offer criticism of the clothing she did end up wearing. He was, in cat parlance, bored.
“You did not,” Haval said, “take Night with you.”
“I only went upstairs, Haval. I had six of the Chosen and Avandar with me at all times.”
“In the last eight weeks there have been four attempts on your life, at least three of which obviously involved magic.”
“Believe that I’m aware of that fact. Sigurne—”
He cleared his throat loudly.
“—The guildmaster expects to speak with me tomorrow. Again. The Order of Knowledge has been given permission to lay down whatever magics she feels will be useful to us in the months to follow. I have food tasters in and out of the kitchens and the dining hall before any meal; I am not allowed to snack without their presence. Daine is in full command of the healerie as we speak, and the previous four attempts on my life, while unsuccessful, caused enough injury that he’s unlikely to relax. I feel the absence of one cat is unlikely to make much difference within the manse itself.”
Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 4