The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “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 worshipe
d 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 she 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.

  Gabriel ATerafin had the seat to the Terafin’s right; the seat to her left was occupied by Elonne ATerafin.

  Elonne, coiffed and elegant, had chosen a deceptively simple gown, one that fell off her left shoulder in an uninterrupted drape of fine silk. Her hair was pulled back and up; it lent a severity to her features that suggested the power and wisdom of experience without actually condescending to notice age. A pale brow rose and fell over the slight widening of blue eyes; if she was surprised, and Finch thought she was, she did not otherwise show it.

  Instead she smiled and nodded, much as The Terafin had done.

  Marrick’s smile was much less guarded. He rose. “Well,” he said, his voice jolly, his face creased in lines of welcome, “I’m happy to see that youth has finally been allowed to grace these tables. Welcome, welcome, youngsters, to the nefarious halls of the Terafin Council, where plots great and small are hatched.” He laughed; there was nothing forced about the sound of his voice.

  Finch’s first impulse was to like him. It had been her first impulse when she had accepted his invitation to lunch a month past. He had none of the perfection of appearance that defined the other three; he was slightly overweight, and his beard was shot through with white. His hair looked like iron, his eyes were dark; he seemed like a favored uncle, a harmless man who might take children upon the flat of his lap and tell them outrageous stories.

  But she had seen him in other guises; had seen the smile fall away from his face in those moments when he thought no one observed him.

  Haerrad took no such pains; he was as grim and dour as ever; his face was frozen in lines of disapproval. Of the four, he was the easiest to dislike.

  And she did. In fact, of the four, he was the only one that she hated. Because of Haerrad, Teller had been confined to the healerie for weeks, a display of power, a threat offered to Jay in the hope that threat alone would buy her loyalty. As if.

  Her eyes skirted his face. She wondered what Teller felt.

  Rymark was last to react, but he was also the most flamboyant; he rose, leaving the confines of the chair that was his by right. Bowing deeply, he said, “Welcome, ATerafin, ATerafin, to the Council of the House.”

  He lifted his head and looked up, his eyes catching Finch’s as she studied him. She felt her cheeks warm; she didn’t like the way his gaze swept across hers. Predator. She had met men very like him in the holdings; too pretty, too powerful. She nodded in silence.

  There were two chairs, side by side, that were empty; they were between Elonne and Marrick.

  She walked toward the first. Ellerson was at her elbow in an instant, pulling the chair out for her. It was a good thing, too; she could tell, by the way it dragged against the carpet, that it was heavy, that it would be an unseemly struggle for her just to move it.

  He waited until she was seated, and then aided Teller in a similar fashion. But he did not speak. He was a man who knew his place, and worse, knew theirs.

  She didn’t want to disappoint him.

  When they were both seated, The Terafin looked up.

  “May I introduce the newest members of the House Council,” she said quietly. “Finch ATerafin and Teller ATerafin.” She turned to Morretz, who waited behind her chair, just as Ellerson was waiting behind theirs. He bowed and left her side, and Finch could sense his reluctance from where she was seated.

  He came to stand between them, and took from his robes two things. These he placed before them on the perfect sheen of the wooden table. Gold caught the light, reflecting it, held in the shape of two rings.

  “What exactly,” Haerrad said bluntly, “will the duties of the new members be?”

  Finch picked up the ring in a shaking hand as he spoke, hesitated for just a moment, and then slid it upon her finger. It fit perfectly, no surprise there. But it was heavy and col
d.

  The Terafin’s pause was significant; she held it as she gazed around the table. Haerrad did not withdraw his words, but he did not make the mistake of adding to them.

  “They will,” The Terafin said at length, “oversee the merchant lines in the Menorans and to the South.”

  “The merchant lines in the South have been severely lessened, of late.”

  “Indeed.”

  “If I am not mistaken,” Rymark said smoothly, “those lines are currently overseen by Jewel ATerafin.”

  “The services of Jewel ATerafin have been seconded by the Kings,” The Terafin replied serenely. “When she returns, an evaluation of her progress will be in order.”

  “Given the current state of affairs, Terafin, was it wise to accede to the wishes of the Kings in this regard?”

  “No motion was put forward in Council about such a placement,” Haerrad added.

  “No motion was put forward; her disposition is not a matter for the Council to decide. She was offered a choice, and she made her decision; she waited upon my leave before she accepted her assignment. Or is more now required, Haerrad? Shall we decide that the private activities of each member of the Council bear public scrutiny—and equally public accountability?”

  “The gifts she has acknowledged in her tenure in the House must surely be considered one of the House advantages, and as all advantages that accrue to the House, one not to be squandered.”

  Finch was almost shocked.

  But The Terafin did no more than raise a brow. “I consider the talents of all Terafin to be of such value,” she replied. “Jewel is not the only talent-born member to preside on the House Council. Would you fetter Rymark ATerafin in such a fashion?”

  Rymark’s smile was grudgingly offered. “House Member Haerrad means no disrespect, Terafin, when he points out that a mage—of any talent—is far less a rarity than one who is seer-born.”

  “Perhaps. But such a talent cannot be owned; it can be valued; it can be cultivated. In some cases, it can be directed.” She lifted her hand. “The meeting is now in session. I have reports in hand about the progress of the armies in the South; they are sketchy, but they will do.”