Teller was silent.
Angel was not. “What she’ll be giving them—if I understand what’s been said at all—is the chance to defend their homes, their children, and their lives. The god will come anyway.”
“No matter what she does, they have no chance of standing against the god himself. Most will flee at the sight of armed men—men who are, in all ways, their theoretical equals. I ask again, do you think they’ll be grateful?”
Jewel shook her head, exhaling heavily. “I don’t think it matters.” She turned to Torvan. “Captain, would you prefer to cower behind me in the hope that I might understand enough of the paradigm of this strange power to save your life? Or would you fight?” Her voice was cool, measured; it was a match for Amarais’ in this place.
“We are your Chosen,” he replied.
“Yes.” She turned to Meralonne, and to the Winter King, who had come to join him. “These men are mine, all of them. They will keep me safe, or they will die in the attempt.”
“They are not the citizens of the holdings.”
“They are. But that isn’t all that they are. Maybe we’ll surprise you,” she added. She could have continued, but didn’t. She was aware that Meralonne was not wrong. But neither was she. There were people who would die before they took up the mantle of even limited responsibility. There had always been people who made that choice, knowing or unknowing. But not all people made that choice, and not all people made that choice all of the time.
“We are mortals,” she said simply. “And the world, for better or worse, was left to us.”
“It will not remain that way.”
“I know.” She closed the book carefully. “I have an appointment—or will have soon—with the Exalted and The Ten. What will you counsel?”
“I? I will counsel as I have. I feel you are foolish, impractical, and naive—but in spite of those traits, you are necessary. And, Terafin,” he added, his gaze once again passing beyond and above her, “you have already surprised me; it may be that, in the end, you and your kin will continue to do so.” He offered her a perfect and unexpected bow. He rose quickly, however, when Snow and Shadow landed; they weren’t careful about who happened to be standing beneath them.
Or no, she thought, they were—they did not appear to care for Meralonne APhaniel. Meralonne, in his turn, singed their feathers with a casual, almost bored, gesture.
Shadow said, curtly, “He didn’t want to come.”
She could see that; the white cat was looking at anything in the huge room that wasn’t Jewel.
“Snow.”
He stared at her feet. It was almost impressive that he could fit that much body into such a shrinking space, but he managed. “The necklace,” she said.
“What necklace?”
She lifted the chain, exposing the gem to the amethyst sky and the eyes of all observers, including one very reluctant cat.
“Oh, that. You shouldn’t wear it.”
“You insisted that I wear it.”
“That was then. You won’t wear my dress now, so you don’t need it.”
Meralonne was staring at the gem as it slowly rotated on the dangled chain. “Terafin,” his voice was almost a whisper. “Where did you come by that necklace?”
“Snow,” was her curt reply.
The mage turned to the cat, who cringed. “Please tell me that you did not take that necklace from—”
The cat screeched, drowning out the question. “It’s not safe to mention him,” he hissed, when Meralonne stopped speaking.
The mage was utterly silent for one long, awkward moment.
It was Teller who spoke, and he spoke to the mage. “Are you regretting your acceptance of the role of Terafin House Mage, Member APhaniel?”
Meralonne blinked, as if slowly returning to the world. He smiled. The smile was transformative. “I?” he said, his grave tone at odds with his expression. “No, right-kin. But even I had not imagined what it might entail.” He turned to the fountain, and then away. “Terafin, the book?”
She shook her head. “Evayne couldn’t touch it.”
He did not immediately dismiss her concern, although his expression darkened and cooled. “At what age did she make the attempt?”
“I’m not sure. She was older than I, but not quite as old as The Terafin.”
“The former Terafin.”
She nodded, aware of the gaffe, but willing to let it stand with no sense of fault whatsoever.
“I am intrigued. Might I—”
She hesitated. She felt the Winter King’s curiosity, although he fell short of urging her to allow the mage to take that risk. In the end, she chose to demur, and returned to the table which served as a shelf. “There are other books here,” she said quietly, acutely aware that they were all transgressions of the Order’s very strict code.
Meralonne did not appear to care, although he made a show of inspecting the volumes. “Sigurne is unlikely to be pleased by their inclusion in your library. If possible, avoid antagonizing her. She is unlikely to believe, given the nature of the drastic changes within your personal quarters—and the fountain itself—that these have always been resident in your library; she is, however, likely to demand they leave with her. I do not think that will be so easily accomplished, even if you choose to accede to her request.”
It wasn’t likely to be a request. “We could compromise; she could destroy them here.”
“Be careful, Jewel. If you are ruler here, you are also custodian.” His eyes narrowed. “You have no intention of destroying them.”
“After I read them, I won’t object. Or,” she added, “after you do. I think there is information here that may be of use to us.”
“Us?” His smile was slight and strange. “I very much doubt, Terafin, that there is anything in books—even these—that will enlighten or surprise me. But there is wonder here, and it is not a subtle wonder. Here,” he swept out an arm, “one does not have to stand still, to close eyes, to conjure some image of the distant glories of a faded past: it is here, and it lives, it breathes.
“Fashion what you will out of mortal clay; build as you desire. You do not understand the whole of what you wish to invoke—because that is the nature of magics such as these. No laboratory, no paper, no dry discussion and dissection, no lesson, will ever explain it all.”
“I would not have expected to hear such words from a member of the Order of Knowledge,” Jewel replied quietly, “and never spoken with such exultation.” She lowered the necklace into the folds of her dress. “How dangerous is it to wear this?” she asked softly.
“A wise man would not,” he replied. “But a wise man would never accept a gift from the cats. They are vain and idle, but cunning when they so choose. If you are asking whether or not you might leave the necklace in a place of safety, the answer is no. I would counsel it anyway, but given your personal predilections, I will not; if anyone can survive the bearing of such a burden, it is one who is Sen.
“But he will search for it now.”
“Who?”
Snow yowled, and Meralonne grinned. “I am afraid, at the insistence of your Snow, I cannot answer that question.”
“The hells you—” Avandar cleared his throat, and Jewel reddened.
He is correct, Jewel, the Winter King said. No good will come of the naming, if it is as I now suspect.
Is it dangerous?
No, or not in that way; it is dangerous because another owner claims it, and he will want it back.
Can’t I just make Snow return it?
I very much doubt that Snow would survive the attempt; I am surprised that he survived the item’s retrieval. I would not, however, be upset should you order him to attempt it.
Snow’s fur was standing on end, and Jewel placed a hand on his head. It was, as Teller said, much softer—and given the rest of the transformation, it shouldn’t have been. Then again, the cats often made no logical sense. “He’s teasing you,” she said, as if he were a child.
“Whe
n he teases, it is death,” Shadow replied; Snow was hissing quietly.
Meralonne nodded. “I am here,” he told the cats, “as her House Mage.”
“You are not hers.”
“No. I will never be hers.” He glanced up as the wind changed; it carried Celleriant in its folds. The Arianni Prince stepped out of the air and onto the ground by the fountain’s side. He bore both sword and shield.
“She would not demand it,” Celleriant told Meralonne, as if he had always been part of the conversation, even in his absence. “Will you hide at the edge of the wilderness like a timid stripling?”
Platinum brows rose, but no anger followed the question. “I am no longer so young that I might rush off into every dell, every glade, on a wild hunt.”
Celleriant laughed. “You are ageless, but dulled by your long exposure to the petty squabbling and tired noise of the mortals. Come, come, Illaraphaniel. Can you not hear it? Even the trees that consent to serve as shelving are speaking.”
Jewel couldn’t hear the trees talk. Given the excitement barely contained in Celleriant’s words, she almost regretted it. But Meralonne did as the Arianni Lord bid; he listened. As he did, his expression shifted, changing by slow degree.
“I fear that my presence will be demanded soon,” he said softly.
Celleriant waited.
“Terafin—”
“Go,” she told him. “Whenever Celleriant is this joyful, it means death. I will not spend the Chosen in the wilderness if the wilderness does not attempt to spend itself on me.”
“Tell Sigurne, should you see her, that the breaking of the enchantments was, in its entirety, your doing.”
“I didn’t—”
“Ignorance excuses nothing. But tell her, as well, that I am far less troubled than I was.”
Celleriant laughed. “Do not trust him,” he told Jewel, clearly enjoying himself. “The hidden world is waking, Lord, and you have announced your presence more clearly than even the Winter Queen might, should she ride at the head of the Wild Hunt. They will come.”
Jewel froze.
“They will come,” he said, “and they will test themselves against your borders. If you are strong, they will hold, and while they hold, we will fight.”
“In my name.” It wasn’t a question.
“In your name, while you live. Your name will be known.”
Jewel turned to the Winter King. “Yes,” she said softly, although he had said, had asked, nothing. “If you desire it, join them.”
And Viandaran?
“No. I need him here.” All three turned to her in an instant, some of their wild exuberance dimmed.
“What concerns you?” Lord Celleriant asked.
“It is nothing to do with the wilderness,” she replied. “Snow, find Night, and go with them.”
“And me?” Shadow asked.
“I want you with me.”
“Why?”
“Because before we meet The Ten or the Exalted, we’re going to speak with Rymark ATerafin.”
Celleriant called the wind, and Jewel felt it respond; nor did she stop it in its wild, affectionate rush. The Winter King stepped into the air, and it held him; Snow leaped past its sentient folds and into the purple skies. But Meralonne APhaniel lowered his hand, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
“Lord Celleriant.”
Celleriant’s lips lost the curve of his smile.
“Terafin.”
“I don’t need—”
“No, you don’t. But if you are to speak with Rymark ATerafin, I will accompany you.”
“I have Avandar.”
“Avandar is not a First Circle member of the Council of the Magi; nor is Avandar the guildmaster’s designated agent in this regard. She has been concerned about Rymark ATerafin for some time, and with cause. It is possible that my presence may prove critical.”
“How? Even if Rymark intends to attack—or kill—me, he’s going to have to do it himself; a demon can’t just walk here and join him at his behest.”
“I did not say that. The Kialli are capable of reaching both the Isle and your manse; they will not be able to do so with the speed and the secrecy to which they are accustomed. If you feel no Kialli watch Averalaan, you are naive. Or have you found them all, Terafin? Have you found them and ordered their destruction?”
“No.”
“I will accompany you.”
“You don’t feel Avandar is capable of defending me.”
“I do not feel that defense is necessarily the issue. It grieves me far, far more than you know.”
Jewel turned to Teller. “Can you reschedule your meeting?”
He winced. “Not easily, no. Among other things, Finch will be upset.”
“Finch? How important is this merchant?”
“He is Hectore of Araven.”
Jewel knew the name; it was hard to be responsible for any of the merchant operations within the House and remain entirely in ignorance. Teller was right: Finch would not be pleased. She would understand, because she always did—but ruffling the feathers of Hectore of Araven was unlikely to be considered wise within the Merchant Authority. “Fine. Hectore of Araven first. Rymark second.”
* * *
Hectore arrived on time. It was not against his personal beliefs to do so, but time was one of the subtle ways in which favor—or disfavor—might be shown. Too late, and someone of The Terafin’s import might consider his timing a slight; too early, and he would, of course, appear far too eager. Either of these choices set a tone, and as Hectore had not had time to speak with and assess the young woman who had taken the Terafin mantle, he had not yet reached a decision about the tone he wished to set; he therefore chose to set none.
His brief meeting with Jarven had gone about as well as either of the two men expected; Hectore had spent far longer in his carriage waiting for the correct moment to disembark to achieve this perfect timeliness. Andrei was, of course, waiting beyond the open carriage door, his impeccable posture nevertheless suggesting the barest hint of impatience. Hectore occasionally enjoyed tweaking the inimitable Andrei, but knew, from long years of practice, his limits. He dismounted, accepting Andrei’s offered hand. He frowned.
“Andrei.”
“Patris.”
The tone of the word caused Hectore to slow; he looked at the justifiably pretentious front drive of a manse that was arguably home to the most powerful woman in the Empire, excepting only the Queens and the Exalted. Andrei was . . . tense. Concerned. Given Andrei and the circumstances—The Terafin was in no way an enemy to House Araven—that concern was unexpected. House Terafin was only barely a rival, in the few concerns in which their merchant operations overlapped. They had not been involved in open trade hostilities for two decades, perhaps a touch more, and even then, the depth of the hostilities had never extended to overt physical harm.
“You put great faith in the Order of Knowledge,” Hectore told his servant.
“I put an appropriate level of faith in their prognostications,” was Andrei’s suitably subdued response. He was too alert for verbal fencing.
“Andrei, please.”
This evoked a raised brow. “Very well, Patris Araven. The Astari are here.”
“Wonderful. If they are here to speak with The Terafin, they can wait.”
“I do not see Duvari,” Andrei replied. “If they are here at all, it is to observe. But they are here, Hectore.”
“Very well. I will be on my best behavior. Will that suffice?”
“Yes. The magi have been here as well.”
“Andrei, you are making me regret breakfast. Come, or we will be late.”
Andrei tactfully said nothing further, but he had a way of saying nothing that was actually quite loud. Hectore had gone to some difficulty to arrange this meeting. To his surprise, Jarven had proved as slippery and noncommittal as he would at any negotiation of grave import to the House. To his consternation, he was not at all certain that Jarven would have intervened h
ad it not been for the young woman commonly considered his most important aide in the Merchant Authority.
She was, however, everything that Jarven was not; direct, but politic, deferential within the easy limits of polite power, and gracious enough to offer him tea. The tea had been greatly appreciated—but not, apparently, by Jarven, a man renowned for his love of teas.
“Finch ATerafin,” Andrei had informed him. “She is a junior member of the House Council, which is, of course, significant. Of more interest, however, is her adoption into the House.”
“She is one of Jewel ATerafin’s people.”
“She is. She arrived at the manse at the side of Jewel ATerafin. As, rumor suggests, did the current right-kin, Teller ATerafin.”
“Teller? An unusual name.”
“It is. Teller has no other family name.”
“You are certain this Terafin paragon is merely mortal?” He chuckled.
Andrei, sadly, did not. He was not, by nature, a merchant; he was not, by nature, a gambler. The risks he chose to take, he took because there were no other options. Hectore understood the game of risk and chance, and if pressed, would honestly admit that it was one of the few that made him feel fully alive. There were other things that moved him in entirely different ways, of course.
And one of them had brought him here.
* * *
The right-kin’s office was not empty; nor was it in appreciable disarray, although Andrei had informed Hectore that Teller was very recently installed in the position. Hectore had had very few reasons to personally visit The Terafin in the past decade; he had done so as a courtesy, of course, but he was, in any estimation, well enough established that being seen visiting The Terafin personally did nothing to further his reputation.
He therefore allowed Andrei to introduce him to the right-kin’s secretary before taking a seat. Two Priests were likewise seated; they were not god-born, but they were, to his practiced eye, men accustomed to the cathedrals of the Isle. Ah. Three messengers, all wearing the livery of their Houses: Berrilya, Garisar, and Korisamis.
Hectore glanced at Andrei, who nodded; no further words were exchanged. Andrei preferred to play the dedicated and exceptional servant in the presence of any outsiders. The secretary did not move from his desk, and as Hectore was on time, this said something. What it said had yet to be determined; if Hectore was not needlessly punitive, he had a clear sense of his own worth—and the respect that worth demanded. The Ten did not specialize in obsequiousness; nor would Hectore expect it—but he expected to be treated as an important guest.
Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 32