“Will she understand its significance?”
“Yes. Inasmuch as she currently can, yes.”
“How significant is this charge, Evayne? How much danger will she face?”
“If the Lord of the Hells knew the contents of the box existed, he would take to the wild roads himself to hunt her down. He does not know, while such knowledge can still be denied him.” Her voice dropped.
He was surprised to hear the fear and the weariness in her words. At this age, she could make her voice so smooth and impenetrable that even Kallandras could take nothing from it that she did not wish to offer. There were very, very few who could deny his bard-born gift.
He did not touch Evayne; no one did. Her robes rustled at wind that touched nothing else, and her breath came out in a mist that spoke of Winter cold. “Evayne,” he asked, pitching his voice so that it traveled to her ears alone, “Is it soon?”
Her smile was bitter. “Yes, Kallandras. It is soon.”
“And after?”
“I do not know. I surrendered the whole of my life to stop this one event—but I was sixteen and young and isolated. I am older, and not less isolated, but the one event now seems so minor to my mind it is hard to remember why I chose to walk as I walk.”
“You will remember,” he said, gilding his voice with his gift.
But she frowned. “You cannot command it,” was her soft, soft reply. “I am aware of what it might cost to save one small town on the edge of our borders. What I’ve seen, what I’ve done—it makes the fate of a handful of people almost irrelevant: so many will die.” As she spoke, she reached up and grasped something that hung around her neck. It was a lily, a silver lily. Kallandras had seen it a handful of times; he had never seen Evayne without it. Nor did he ask.
Had he his lute, he might have played it; he had left it in Senniel College. He felt, for a moment, the urge to sing; he had sung for the Serra Teresa on the long walk home. But if Teresa and Evayne were almost of an age, if they were two women with spines of pure steel, there were differences. He could not reach Evayne that way, and did not try.
Once, he would have been too angry to care. But time and war had blunted some of the dangerous edges of grief-maddened youth. If the coming war had brought no peace to Evayne, it offered peace—of a kind—to Kallandras. He had abandoned the brothers of his youth in order to preserve them; he had become Evayne’s reluctant, resentful agent.
But now, he understood that if he played his part—whatever that part might be—he would achieve his goal: the brothers who were lost to him would survive.
He wondered, briefly, how lost he might feel if that goal no longer held significance for him, but shunted the thought aside. He had come to the manse—to the front doors of the manse, not the tradesman’s entrance.
* * *
If Kallandras did not cut a fine, patrician figure—and in his current, dust-ridden clothing that was an impossibility—his name carried weight; he used it, with little concern. “My apologies,” he said, to the guards, “but I have come on a matter of some import to The Terafin. I am Kallandras of Senniel College.”
His name, recognized even when he himself was not, allayed some of the obvious suspicion the guards felt. They knew that the bards traveled, often extensively, at the behest of their bardmaster, in support of the Kings. “I have only tonight reached Averalaan from the Dominion, with word that must reach her. I did not even return home before I made my way to Terafin.”
“A moment,” the guard said. He vanished, and was not tardy in his return; clearly the Seneschal had given instructions that the master bard was to be seen inside.
* * *
The waiting room to one side of the foyer was not large; it was, however, very finely appointed. Kallandras felt far more road-worn and weary here than he had when offering the guards his polite deference. He was aware that his errand would take some time—if The Terafin permitted him entrance at all.
He was not, however, prepared when the door opened and Meralonne APhaniel entered the small room. Given the condition of his clothing, he had chosen to remain standing.
Meralonne offered him a polite nod; Kallandras returned a smile. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“No? I forget; the events of the past two months occurred when you were wasting your time in the Dominion.”
“I would not call it wasting time,” Kallandras replied. “You are the Terafin mage?”
“I am. I am under exclusive contract to The Terafin.”
Pale brows rose. “I’m surprised. The guildmaster allowed it?”
“Kallandras, please. Unless my presence were construed as a threat to the Empire, Sigurne is not foolish enough to deny me a simple choice.” He chuckled as he drew pipe from the folds of his robe. “The Council of the Magi is incensed.”
Kallandras watched as the mage set about lining the bowl of his pipe. “How so?”
“I felt events within the Terafin manse were interesting enough that I considered the privilege to be in the thick of things compensation enough for my services.”
Kallandras felt that the words were Weston; he was weary enough that it took a moment for them to assemble sense. “You are working for . . . free?”
“I am.” Meralonne lit his pipe, chuckling. “You would think I’m personally responsible for beggaring the Order. Will you join me?”
“My pipe, along with my lute, are ensconced within Senniel, I’m afraid. I wait upon the pleasure of The Terafin.”
“Yes. I have been sent to retrieve you.”
* * *
The duties of House Mage did not generally overlap the duties of a senior page, but Kallandras felt no need to make this observation aloud. Meralonne, as they strolled up the vast and impressive stairs of the foyer, chose to speak of the minor problems the city had faced in the bard’s absence. He spoke of the events of The Terafin’s funeral, his voice soft and steady; he spoke of the shift in the structure of Avantari. Kallandras stared as the mage chuckled.
“There was also the matter of the Kialli who chose to attack the The Terafin during the victory parade. But these are minor compared to what you are about to see.”
“I’m not entirely certain I anticipate major with any joy. Where exactly do you lead me?”
“The library, as it happens. You will not, however, be in danger here, and the Chosen frown upon the drawing of weapons that are not their own.” He paused in front of two of the Chosen. “Master Bard Kallandras of Senniel College, to see The Terafin.”
The Chosen nodded and allowed the mage to pass through the doors. Kallandras, frowning, followed.
* * *
He was silent when he entered the world. Meralonne had called it a library, and a quick glance at the standing trees in the near distance made truth of the statement; they appeared to be growing shelves, and on those shelves, books had been placed, spines of different heights, textures and colors clearly visible beneath the midday light. The sky was amethyst, not blue, but it was cloudless, and the light it shed, bright and clear.
Avandar met them at the standing arch. “The Terafin is waiting,” he said, bowing. “Please follow me.”
Kallandras had seen this man summon and control the wild earth; he had seen him wield a sword of gold that had a voice, however muted. He had built a bridge all of stone in a matter of minutes, and he had turned the tide of an ugly—and almost hopeless—battle singlehandedly, in the village of Damar.
Very little of that man remained in this one.
Kallandras felt wind. He could hear the whisper of its voice, distant but unmistakable. He had not summoned it; it had not come at his call. He nonetheless offered it a benediction, and felt it creep up to curl his hair. But he glanced at Meralonne as he followed the domicis, and saw that the wind also traveled through the mage’s hair. In this room, beneath this sky, Meralonne APhaniel looked like a young man—dangerous with youth and passion and intent.
“Have I amused you, Master Bard?”
“I so seldom feel kinship, APhaniel; you remind me of myself as a youth.”
“Perhaps you could keep this between us,” the mage replied, with a smile that was all edge. “My youth—and yours—are not generally appropriate conversational fare for appointments such as this one.”
Kallandras laughed. As Avandar crested the end of the rows upon rows of shelves, a plain wooden table came into view. Seated at it, her hair half in her eyes, her expression entirely despondent, was Jewel. Ah, no. The Terafin.
Avandar cleared his throat, and she looked up, bleary-eyed. Exhaustion was replaced by a surprisingly warm smile of recognition as she rose.
“Kallandras, it is you.”
“I should hope that men don’t generally apply to speak to you using my name,” he replied with mock gravity. He bowed. It was a graceful, swift motion that achieved the correct depth without descent into the obsequious. He was surprised by the delight he heard in her voice; it matched her tone. She knew that he was bard-born; she held nothing back. But she had never been good at disguising her feelings beneath an unbreakable patina of words.
“You look like you’ve barely left the desert.”
“That is unkind, Terafin. I have, however, barely left the road.” He glanced past her shoulder and frowned. “You have a fountain in your library.”
“It’s not much of a library,” she replied. “And yes. The fountain came with the trees and the open air.” She held out her hands and he took them, as if both gestures were entirely natural. Then again, for the bards who occupied the courts, they often were.
“It is, as you are aware, an impressive library. It is not, however, architecturally, as . . . closed . . . as many. You are well?”
“I am. If you have time—and you look as if time is an issue, I’m sorry—you should come to the West Wing. Adam is there. He’d be grateful for any sight of you, I think.”
“Adam is here?”
She nodded. “It’s complicated. How was Diora when you left?”
“She was well. No, she was better than well; she was very cautiously happy, I think. She has grown bold, for a Serra, and Valedan delights in it. Her first public act was to acknowledge her brother and her disgraced father’s wives.”
“And the Serra Teresa?”
“She is also in the city.”
Jewel’s eyes widened. “In Averalaan?”
“Yes. I have introduced her to Solran Marten; she is to become a Senniel student.”
Jewel’s smile was unfettered. “I’d love to see her. She’s well?”
“She is still recovering, but she is physically whole.” He let the smile fade. “I wish I could have come just to bear happy tidings.”
The Terafin exhaled. “So do I. What unhappy tidings do you bring?”
“On the road to Averalaan, we were met by Evayne. She was not best-pleased that I was not to be found in the city; she felt that my arrival was tardy, and time was short.”
Jewel stiffened. For a moment, the weight of her title informed the whole of her bearing. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“So she said. She asked me to convey an item of import to you.” He removed the pack from his shoulder and untied its strings. He was aware of the intensity of her stare. Jewel had never been still or quiet; she moved, often restlessly; she pushed hair out of her eyes whenever a conversation troubled her—often when the hair was not in those eyes. But when she held herself in like this, she silently demanded motion and movement from those around her.
The only motion he could offer, he did: he drew the box from the faded, travel-worn bag. It was as it had been: small enough to be a modest jewelry box for a person of middling means. It was not terribly fine; wood had been engraved with runes and symbols, but none of these were obviously portentous.
She stared at it as he held it out to her. “What—what’s in it?”
“I did not ask. You may have noticed that Evayne does not often answer questions. Certainly not questions which are easily answered.”
She looked at him in mild confusion.
“You could open it,” he replied, his voice and smile teasing.
It drew a smile from her. He guessed that she had done very little smiling since she had taken the Terafin Seat.
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I was told that it was a matter of utmost urgency that I deliver this into your hands; I felt it necessary to settle the Serra Teresa before I came. I do not think she would thank me for bringing her to the head of one of the most powerful Houses in the Empire with no pause for a bath and fresh clothing.”
“I don’t think she would have cared.”
“Not when she realized The Terafin and Jewel Markess were one and the same, no. But Averalaan will be strange enough, difficult enough, in the months to come.” He glanced again at the fountain. Jewel had not removed the box from his hands.
She closed her eyes. To her domicis, she said, “Avandar, go to the kitchens, and to the West Wing. Tell Adam, Angel, and Terrick that they are to make preparations to travel.” To Kallandras she whispered, “Hold the box for a moment.”
Kallandras heard raw fear in her voice. Not in her words; she had enough mastery to mask it there. She made her way back to the table, to a book that lay open upon it. Lifting her hands above the page, she signed; it was not in a language Kallandras recognized.
“APhaniel.”
Meralonne’s pipe had gone out. He did not light it. “I will keep watch, Terafin.”
She took the box from Kallandras’ hands and drew it toward her chest; she did not attempt to remove the lid. “They’re coming,” she whispered.
The wind’s voice rose in a howl, but it held no anger and no fear. Kallandras felt it; it was strong enough he could have danced—or fought—in its folds. The ring on his finger was cool. He glanced at Meralonne, saw the slender edge of a smile on the mage’s face.
Into the library, from between the trees that served as shelves—flew two large creatures: predatory cats, in size and color. One was white, one black; were it not for their wings, they might have looked natural and dangerous.
Their wings, Kallandras thought, and their voices. They attempted to land on the same spot ten feet from where The Terafin stood, collided, rolled; their voices devolved into a series of hisses and growls that often contained no words.
The Terafin looked . . . resigned. The presence of flying, talking predators did not seem to invoke any of the wonder the bard himself felt. “Snow. Night. We have guests.”
They paused in their not-so-playful attempt to shred each other’s fur. The white cat’s ears twitched. “Oh? Who?”
“This is Kallandras. He is a master bard of Senniel College. Meralonne, you know.”
The white cat hissed. “Can we eat them?”
“I would very much like to see you try,” Meralonne replied. The pipe vanished from his hand in an instant.
Jewel looked at Kallandras. “They’re always like this. I’d be grateful if you found it unoffensive.”
“There are no known rules of etiquette for dealing with talking, winged cats. Were I not trained in Senniel, I might find myself at a loss for words.”
Night hissed, stopped, hissed and then tilted his head. He padded across the floor toward Kallandras. Kallandras inclined his head. Night butted his side with the top of his head, and Kallandras obligingly reached down to scratch behind the great cat’s ears. He had not lied; he considered them a wonder.
“Do not indulge them, brother,” a new voice said, and Kallandras lifted his chin—but only his chin; he continued to scratch the cat’s head. The cat, however, growled.
“Lord Celleriant.”
“Kallandras of Senniel. Well met.” His smile was sharp and bright and painfully familiar. But he turned and bowed to Jewel as the white stag Kallandras had last seen in the Dominion of Annagar walked into view. He looked a changed creature; his fur was matted in places, and blood crested the hair on his front hooves. Blood adorned the tines of his antlers.
He approached Jewel, head lowered.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice so low only Kallandras could catch it. It, and all the regret it now held. “Meralonne believes that Carver is trapped in lands that only the Sleepers know.”
The white stag lifted its head, eyes rounding. It was clear he could speak to Jewel, but his voice, no bard could catch. “You remember Kallandras.”
Kallandras met the white stag’s steady gaze; he bowed. The stag nodded.
“Tomorrow morning we will travel to Avantari. Most of us will go by carriage. We will not return the same way. I need to speak with the Oracle.” She exhaled. “I will ask to take her test.”
The stag was very still.
“I don’t like her,” Snow said. “Why do we have to go?”
“Because it will be very, very boring in the Terafin manse if I’m not here, and I have some sympathy for the Household Staff: they don’t deserve to listen to you all complain about boredom while they’re working their—while they’re working so hard.”
Celleriant’s smile had frozen on his face at the mention of the Sleepers. “Lord,” he said, “if what Illaraphaniel fears is true, you cannot go to your Carver.”
“No,” she replied. “I can. You can’t. But I am to travel to the heart of the Oracle’s domain, and for that journey, I want you with me. If—” She shook her head. “Kallandras will be joining us.”
He had not said as much, although Evayne’s orders were quite clear.
“What do you hold?” Celleriant asked.
Jewel gazed at the box. In answer, she lifted the lid in one shaking hand.
Light flooded the room, paling the contours of her jaw, her lips, her cheekbones. Meralonne and Celleriant froze in that instant; they were rigid, breathless, silent. They could not see the contents of the box; only Jewel could.
But vision in this case was clearly superfluous.
Meralonne whispered a word. Two. He did not speak Weston, nor Torra, nor Rendish, but Kallandras was bard-born. He understood. “This is what we searched for along the borders of Averda,” Kallandras said softly.
Meralonne did not—could not—speak. Kallandras understood why; at the moment a word left his lips, he would be laid bare to the bard’s talent, and he would not risk it.
Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 85