The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

  “Of course.” He walked to the door and swung it open silently.

  “Gregori,” he said.

  “Devon—”

  “ATerafin?”

  “I meant—later. I mean—”

  A man stepped into the room. He was dressed in Terafin House colors, but his movements were subtly wrong for a House Guard. His hair was dark, his eyes dark, his face slender. He bowed as Devon closed the door behind him.

  “Finch ATerafin,” Devon said gravely, “I would like to introduce you to Gregori ATerafin, the newest member of the Terafin House Guards.”

  Finch looked up; she had to. He was tall. Taller than Devon. “Are you Astari?” she asked him bluntly.

  One of his brows rose; he looked at Devon, and Devon nodded.

  “I serve the Kings,” the stranger replied, his voice slightly higher than Devon’s. “And I serve the House.”

  “You can’t serve both.”

  “No? You serve the House, and you serve Jewel ATerafin.”

  “In case you’ve failed to notice, she is Terafin, so it’s a stupid example. And anyway, Jewel ATerafin would never do anything to harm the future of the House.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. You think I would, ATerafin?”

  “I—”

  “Think carefully before you answer,” Devon told her. “If the House Guards are not always chosen directly by The Terafin, the members of the House are.”

  Gregori ATerafin. ATerafin, same as Finch. She knew what she’d done to earn it. Wondered what he had. Remembered the woman who ruled the House. “I . . . I guess not.”

  Gregori’s smile was sardonic. “I have never made a vow with intent to break it. What I have offered The Terafin, she has accepted.”

  Finch hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said at last, speaking to Devon. “Jay makes all the decisions.”

  “Jewel is not here,” Devon told her quietly, his hand upon the edge of the open door. “You are. She trusts you; think about what has been said here, and decide.”

  It was late.

  Sleep eluded her only because she held it at bay with lamplight and company. That company watched her quietly, his hands behind his back, his shoulders an exquisitely perfect line.

  “Well?” She prodded the edge of her desk with her left toe; her shoes were somewhere under the bed.

  “It is not a decision I can make for you,” Ellerson replied. “What is your own feeling in the matter?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Then refuse.”

  She shrugged, restless. “I don’t want to make Duvari angry. Or suspicious.”

  “You are unlikely to make him angry,” Ellerson replied. “And he is already suspicious. Nothing you can do, short of joining the Astari, will allay those suspicions; they are at the heart of his chosen vocation.”

  She nodded. “What would you do if you were me?”

  He smiled. “I am not you, Finch ATerafin. I am merely domicis, and matters of such a political nature are not a part of my duties. Why do you dislike the idea?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure I like him.”

  “Ah. And if it were Devon ATerafin who offered his services, would you accept them?”

  She thought about this, or tried; she was very, very tired. “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  “I know him.”

  “Do you?”

  Thought about this. After a moment, she shook her head. “Ellerson?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  He was silent.

  “I want to know.”

  “I think you already know.”

  “Okay, I want to hear it.”

  He sighed. “I think,” he said quietly, “that it is likely that The Terafin will die. As she is aware of this, she has gone to some length to protect what she values in the House she has built. You are all that remains of that protection at the moment; you, the den, and your absent leader.

  “If the Astari cannot protect you when such protection is required, I cannot think of anyone who can.”

  “Jay,” Finch replied.

  “Jewel,” Ellerson told her gently, “is not here. It is to be hoped that whatever holds her in the South will release her in time.”

  In time. Finch closed her eyes. “Is it always like this?” she asked him, in the darkness behind her lids.

  “It is often like this,” he replied. “Come, ATerafin. It is late. You have a meeting with the House Council in the morning. I have taken the liberty of choosing your clothing.”

  She nodded. But she wasn’t allowed to sleep yet. There was one more duty to attend to.

  Captain Torvan ATerafin waited in the kitchen.

  Finch joined him there. Although the operations of the den had been moved over the last few weeks into the heart of the rooms she occupied, there were some things that were best done where they had always been done.

  The table was bare; the lamp was the only source of light in the room. Windows were shuttered, but moonlight appeared through the cracks of wooden slats, half turned to allow its entry.

  Of all of the House Guards, it was Torvan she most trusted. Torvan ATerafin, one of the Terafin’s Chosen, had been the first man to show them mercy when they had stood outside of the gates of the manse. Had it not been for his intervention, for his instinctive trust, Arann would be dead. Jay had never forgotten the debt.

  Nor had any member of her den.

  He looked up as she entered the room, and waited in silence while she made herself comfortable. Or tried.

  His smile was gentle. “ATerafin,” he said, the formality of the word eased by its warmth.

  “Angel and Carver are going to join the House Guard,” she told him.

  He nodded. “We were given that much warning.”

  “They’ll attend us at tomorrow’s meeting.”

  “Jester?”

  “I think the quartermaster thinks he’s too short,” she replied.

  Torvan laughed. “He is too short to be suitably attired on short notice, yes.”

  “Is there anyone else we should take? We’re allowed four guards.”

  “Have you any you wish to second?”

  “You.”

  His smile faded. “I am honored by the request,” he said gently, “but it is not a request that I am capable of fulfilling”

  “But—”

  “The Chosen serve The Terafin. I cannot serve you in that capacity, although I assure you I will be present.”

  “But we’re taking Arann.”

  He nodded. “I am . . . aware of that.”

  “He’s been Chosen.”

  Torvan nodded quietly. “He has. And among the Captains, this is known. The Terafin knows it as well. But the House itself has not been apprised of this fact.”

  She snorted. “And you think the others won’t know?”

  “I believe that if they care to do so, they can find the information; she has been discreet, no more. But his presence by your side will raise no brows. He is already considered to be one of Jewel’s people.”

  She had expected as much, but had to ask. “Have you met Gregori ATerafin?”

  He was silent. After a moment, he said, “Why do you ask?”

  “He has . . . offered . . . to serve in the capacity of House Guard.”

  “Ah.”

  “Torvan?”

  “It is not my position to advise you, ATerafin; you are a member of the House Council, and, as such, are deemed worthy of ruling.”

  She snorted. “Enough. Enough already.”

  His smile was genuine, although it was worn with care. “I have met Gregori ATerafin. I did not realize the capacity he would choose to serve in, but having met him, I approve.”

  “You trust him?”

  “That is not entirely what I said,” he told her gravely, reaching for the lamp. “It’s late, Finch.” He lifted the light; it swayed in the crook of his palm. “Sleep, if you can.”

  �
��That is just what I was about to tell her,” another voice said.

  Ellerson. Finch lowered her head to the surface of the kitchen table, and then she rose.

  9th of Corvil, 427 AA

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  “A demon?” Teller said, as he adjusted the buttoned shirt that Ellerson had laid out for his use. It fit perfectly; there was nothing at all that needed adjustment. The colors, a deep blue with gold edges and a pale green insignia, were adorned by a crest in House colors.

  Finch, fussing with her own dress, nodded.

  “What’s being done?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “No, I didn’t ask.”

  Teller shook his head. His hair had been tended by Ellerson, but he was unused to such care, and ran his fingers through it, leaving furrows that refused to fall back into place.

  “I’m sorry. It was late, and I wasn’t really thinking. I didn’t expect to see Devon,” she added, trying to keep the defensive tone from her words. It was a dismal attempt.

  The knock on the door was firm.

  Finch answered it; saw Ellerson on the other side. He looked as perfect as he always did. But to her great surprise, so did Carver and Angel. And Angel looked pretty darned unhappy about the transformation. His hair, his one vanity, had left its awkward spiral; it had been pulled back from the angular lines of his face and knotted, warrior style. Strands had escaped, but they were few; Ellerson had done his work well.

  Carver’s dark hair had been parted in the center, and pulled back over his face; Finch couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to clearly see both of his eyes. The long, silver scar that adorned his jaw was plainly visible.

  “What,” Angel snarled, “are you staring at?”

  “What do you think?”

  He snorted.

  Carver and Angel wore armor; chain shirts, with surcoats that clearly marked them as men who served House Terafin. They wore heavy boots, heavy gloves, and swords.

  The swords themselves were a weighty, awkward decoration; it was the daggers that rested in sheaths on those belts that were their true strength. Only Arann, of the den, had spent enough time training with a sword to be any good at it at all, and the weaponsmaster had made clear that he thought Arann’s size and strength were responsible for his ability with the weapon; he had come late to its use.

  “Where’s Arann?”

  “Outside, waiting.”

  She nodded.

  “There’s another guy with him.”

  Nodded again. “We needed four guards.”

  “Technically,” Ellerson said, with the faintest hint of disapproval, “you are allowed eight. And your math, ATerafin, is up to a simple act of multiplication.”

  “We’ll find the other four later. Right now, I don’t think we need strangers. Or more strangers.”

  He bowed stiffly, the gesture a mild rebuke.

  She ignored him. “Do we look okay?”

  “You look like court fops,” Carver said cheerfully.

  “And you look like House Guards,” she snapped back.

  “Before this degrades further,” Ellerson told them severely, “I would like to point out the time. You have ten minutes longer than is strictly necessary to reach the Council Hall.”

  She looked at Teller. He said, “I thought we could bring Jester with us.”

  She nodded. “He’s your whatever it’s called?”

  “He serves as adviser,” Ellerson said, with just the barest hint of frustration. “He would commonly be called an aide.”

  She nodded. “All right. Let’s go.” Before we lose our nerve, get conveniently lost, and miss the meeting entirely.

  She took the lead; Teller fell in beside her. Ellerson, the domicis who guarded the wing, walked four feet behind. As domicis, his presence was expected, if not required, and Finch had no intention of leaving him behind. She had to work hard not to glance back to make sure he was following.

  But she did the work.

  The halls of the manse had been this forbidding on only one other occasion: the day that the den had first arrived and been ushered through the gates. On that day, as this, she had noticed the stretch of marble and carpet that could have covered the whole of a city block; the grand hall, the hall from which all else could be found if one knew where to look. Above her head, in sconces that shone with the work of a small army of servants, were lights; they were lit, their flames steady and low as befit the hour of the day. Great windows adorned the walls, and light flooded in, glinting off gold, off silver, off the hanging crystals that caught and scattered its pale, bright beams.

  Paintings and tapestries, their colors untouched by years of exposure to light, heat, and the humidity of the Summer months, marked their progress; mirrors as tall as the ceiling reflected it; alcoves, with small fountains and smooth, stone benches, caught and held the sound of their passing feet.

  Money, she’d thought, when she first walked these halls. The other thoughts—of how she might palm something that she could take back to the holdings to sell—were not absent; they returned, as a memory of who she had been on that day, on that daunting walk. Of who she was, on this one. She felt no different until she thought it; wondered if age truly made anyone feel different.

  Yet now, she thought of power.

  What was it? How was it defined? Not strictly by birth, although The Terafin had been born to the patriciate. Not by money, for the merchants who crowded these halls during the months when the storms swept the harbor with abandon, had that in plenty. Not intelligence, for the Order of Knowledge was not the primary Order in the High City; that accolade—if it was one—belonged to the Guild of Makers, and it was jealously guarded.

  Cunning?

  Not even that.

  Desire, maybe. Ambition.

  She took a deep breath. Her steps had slowed; she knew this because Teller reached out for her arm, his own, clothed in too-fine cloth extended and bent. She met his eyes, his dark eyes, and wondered if he thought what she thought in this place. But she took his arm gratefully. It helped.

  The hall had never seemed so long.

  Not even on the day that the grand foyer had been destroyed by the creatures that worshiped the Lord of Darkness. Then, terror had given her feet wings. Then, Jay had been at their head, in charge of everything they did.

  Was it so much easier to follow?

  She closed her eyes. Felt the pressure of Teller’s hand.

  What had The Terafin felt, when she had first walked this hall, on the way to this chamber?

  Powerful? She had certainly been that. But she had carried the title of Council Member, same as Finch, or Teller. Same as Jay.

  Was she ambitious? She would have had to be. She had fought a House War, won it, forgiven or destroyed her enemies. She had taken the seat.

  She would have had to be cunning. Intelligent. Subtle. She would have had to understand the whole of the dance that the powerful performed, in all its variations. She would have had to work, to make ties, to bind the Chosen.

  And what had it gotten her?

  Finch opened her eyes. The hall’s vastness filled her vision, but for just a moment, she saw beyond it.

  What was The Terafin’s power?

  Responsibility. Duty. Fear. Command.

  Jay, she thought, I don’t belong here.

  And she heard Jay’s voice, across a very long distance, telling her to shut her mouth. You understand duty. You understand responsibility. You sure as Hells understand fear. You can do this. I’m counting on you.

  Power.

  Why did people want it so badly?

  She looked at Teller, and he smiled his quiet, wordless smile, encouraging her. Thinking of her.

  And the answer came to her, in the curve of those familiar lips.

  They wanted it so that other people couldn’t abuse it.

  Yes, she thought, for the first time, the halls shortening as sh
e walked them, as they led her to her destination. I can do this. For Jay. For us. For The Terafin.

  The guards at the door were good; they didn’t raise an eyebrow when the den stopped in front of them. The den was known to the House Guards; known to the House servants, known to the people who ruled and the people who served. Although it was true that birth had no place in House Terafin, it was also true that high birth helped; it gave prospective members the opportunity to learn, to gain the skills the House valued.

  But people still loved a story, and Finch was aware that Jay and the den were a part of that story: they were the street urchins who were determined to Make Good. Whatever that meant. Rags to riches. She knew, because Carver still spent way too much time among the women in the servants’ quarters, that the House quietly cheered them on; that they did what they could to make life easier and less bewildering.

  She started to bow, thought better of it, thought better of it again, and stood there, in front of the two armed men. Teller took up the slack; he nodded gracefully at the guards.

  “Roger,” he said. “Albrecht.”

  They did not so much as smile, although the older man, Albrecht, nodded in return. He stepped aside, catching the door’s great handle in a gloved fist.

  It opened, and she stared into the home of the Terafin Council.

  The hall possessed two tiers of seats to the North and the South; to the West and East were windows of such complexity and color the tapestries in the long hall were put to shame.

  And between the seats and the windows, was the grand table, its chairs as tall and fine as any throne old stories boasted.

  The Terafin sat at its head, in a chair that was slightly taller than the others, slightly wider, its arms trimmed in gold and a deep burgundy, its back, hidden by hers, in the crest of the House. She looked up as they entered, lifting her gaze from a small pile of papers that rested beneath her hand.

  “ATerafin,” she said, nodding regally. “ATerafin. Please join us.”

  Join us.

  Finch drew a deep breath and looked beyond the woman who ruled the House. The only woman, the only person, in one of these seats that she trusted. But that wouldn’t be true for long; Teller would take a seat, and she trusted him: Three, she thought. Three of us.