Battle: The House War: Book Five (5 page)

“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,” Andrei 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
.”

C
hapter One

7th of Fabril, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

T
HE 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.”

Snow hissed.

“I fully intend to have
both
Night and Snow on guard for my first walkabout in the victory parade.”

“You will take Lord Celleriant?”

“Yes.”

“And the Winter King?”

“No.” Although she was grinding her teeth in an attempt to keep half of her annoyance on the right side of her mouth, Jewel found Haval’s obvious irritation a boon. If the servants, the guards, and the Chosen accorded the office far more respect than Jewel found comfortable, Haval did not. “Have you heard anything new?”

“Of relevance? Possibly. It is not, however, of relevance
right now
. Standing still, on the other hand, is. Honestly, Jewel, you might spend more time in the company of young Finch; she adapts. You might absorb something.”

“I would, if Jarven were around less often.”

“I believe he is her central adviser on Council matters.”

“He’s also her boss—I consider it a conflict of interest.”

“Meaning you don’t care for Jarven ATerafin.”

“Something like that.”

“Finch seems fond of him. The inimitable Lucille ATerafin also holds him in some obvious esteem.” Haval stilled; he lost his pinched and parental look as his face became expressionless. “What do you see, Terafin?”

“I’ve had no visions involving Jarven.”

“Ah. Why do you dislike him? I will assume it is not for reasons of petty jealousy.”

Jewel glared down at him; the stool’s height gave her that advantage. “I don’t trust him.”

“Very well; you are obviously not a fool. He is, however, a valuable source of information. It is my considered opinion that he means no harm to either Terafin or Finch personally.”

“It’s not that I think he means harm,” she said, turning as he nudged her. “I just don’t think he cares if harm happens.”

“Astute. Irrelevant, but astute.” He stepped back, examining his work. “I believe Ellerson is waiting as well. The order of guards?”

“Torvan and Arrendas are in charge of that at the moment.” She stepped down, fussed with the skirts; they were a color of blue that most closely resembled the House Colors, but there was a wide swathe of white that ran from throat to ground, and the sleeves and hem were edged in black and gold. Every other member of the House Council was allowed, by mourning custom, to wear white and gold; The Terafin alone was exempt.

“Let me remind you, Terafin, that the victory parade—the return of the Kings’ armies after a significant and important battle—is meant to be a celebration.”

Jewel nodded. “I know what they were facing,” she told him. “Part of me is surprised that there’s much army left to return.” She hesitated and then said, “Did I forget to tell you that the Council of The Ten will convene in three days in the Hall of The Ten?”

“You did. Devon, however, did not.” He fussed with the fall of her skirts, and then folded the cuffs of her sleeves, which she accepted. “The Southern victory was—and is—important, Jewel. You were in the South; you understand why.”

She nodded. Morretz had died in order to deliver the message that had summoned her home from the Terrean of Averda. Summoned her, she thought bitterly, in time to witness—but not prevent—The Terafin’s death.

Haval’s hand tightened. “Remember that you desired the position you now occupy. Attempt to occupy it well. Devon will be situated in the crowd.”

“Devon will? Why?”

Haval pinched the bridge of his nose. “Two of the four attempts would have been successful if not for the speed of your response—and yours alone. I believe he takes this fact personally.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I am grateful, at the moment, for your survival. Do not tax my joy. If I may have a moment of your time after the late dinner hour?”

“You can have an hour.”

“Good.” He set aside his needles and turned to the white sprawl of lounging cat. “Snow, I believe it would be best if you accompany Jewel now.”

Snow hissed. “She’s not
leaving
yet.”

“Very well. You may remain here. If she forgets to summon you—”

The cat rose. “I
like
assassins,” he said as he padded toward the door. “They aren’t
boring.”

* * *

The Terafin garden was almost empty, for the first time in eight weeks. Even the by now familiar robes of the Order of Knowledge were nowhere in sight. Jewel stepped down from the terrace and instantly populated the grounds with her battery of Chosen, House Guards, domicis, and two cats, the latter of whom were arguing and stepping on each other’s feet. As Jewel found it difficult to move without stepping on someone she had some small sympathy for their annoyance, although the resultant behavior was fast destroying it.

“Night,” she said, choosing one of the two arbitrarily, “go find Celleriant and bring him here.”

“Why do
I
have to do it?”

She answered his question with a silent glare, and his belly slowly sank toward the ground. After a minute of this, he moved, complaining as he left. Snow was hissing, because he was spiteful.

A breeze touched her cheeks and hair; not even a full summer storm would dislodge so much as a strand given Ellerson’s work. Leaves rustled as that breeze moved through the tall, tall trees that could be seen from the street—any street—on the Isle; they sounded like the sea. She closed her eyes, lifting her chin as she did; she reached out with one hand from the terrace and felt, for a moment, the rough touch of bark beneath her fingertips. She lost sound, let go of frustration; the scent of undergrowth rose, and with it the quiet of a forest seen in isolation. Birds sang in the distance, wordless and insistent.

“Terafin.”

The single word brought her back to the terrace, the manse, and the reality of the city. Celleriant strode up the path toward where she now stood; she could see Night in the air, weaving his way around the trunks of the great trees.

“Lady.” He bowed.

“Rise,” she told him, and he did. He carried no sword, no shield; he wore armor that seemed, in comparison to the armor of the Chosen, light and trifling. His hair fell down the length of his back in a straight, unfettered drape, and his eyes were the color of silver leaves, sharp and cutting. “We travel into the city, to celebrate the return of the victorious Kings’ armies.”

Celleriant nodded.

If Torvan and Arrendas resented his constant intrusion, they kept it to themselves, wordlessly rearranging their own marching order to accommodate his presence. They accepted Avandar’s presence in the same way, although Avandar was domicis, and they had become accustomed to Morretz. They were less copacetic about the cats, in large part because the cats failed to maintain a peaceful marching order. The cats were, however, more or less respectful in the presence of Lord Celleriant, which is as much as Jewel felt she could realistically ask.

* * *