Battle: The House War: Book Five (64 page)

She faced him.

“You are wiser than you know.” He bowed; it was deep. “And you are correct.”

“Is she?” The Wayelyn asked. His voice was hoarse.

“You are familiar with the skills of the maker-born,” Meralonne replied—if it was a reply. He had found his pipe. Shadow watched him as if he were a particularly odious rodent. Then again, he generally did. “And you have heard—as a bard, there is little way of avoiding it—of the madness and power of the Artisans.”

The Wayelyn glanced at Solran before he nodded.

“You may perhaps have heard songs or bardic lays which imply that immortal Artisans were very nearly gods.”

The Wayelyn nodded again.

“They were—and will always be—wrong. There has never been an Artisan who was not mortal; nor will there be. Magic—as studied and as it is understood in your Empire—is, and was, a force that could be invoked by all: mortal, immortal, god. It can—and could—be studied; it can—and could—be mastered. But the Artisans of the Hidden Courts were, and will always be, mortal. Among the immortals were craftsmen of great renown; among the firstborn, those who could create items of beauty that outlasted their makers. Those items, were you to see them now, might seem the work of Artisans—and perhaps, to your eyes, there would be no discernible difference.

“But to the eyes of the firstborn, the differences would be immediately obvious.” The mage set leaf to pipe as he spoke. “If you are fortunate, you will never have cause to evaluate the difference—but I believe the time for such fortune is passing as we speak.

“The Artisans—and even in the history of the Empire they have been few—are not considered sane by even the makers that shelter them. Yet it is in the hands of dead Artisans that so much of the future now lies. Have you visited Fabril’s reach, within the Guild of Makers?”

“No. I am surprised that you have; the maker-born do not welcome outsiders into the heart of their domain.”

“I have had reason to venture there.” He lit his pipe. “And in future, no doubt, I will visit again. But I digress. I speak of the maker-born because you have seen their work. And I speak of the maker-born because they are, at the height of their power, the closest example to hand. Mortals exist, from birth, for one fate: death. They live to die. No achievement, no power, no worthiness—or lack thereof—can prevent it. You see the distinctions between classes when you traverse the hundred holdings—but it is an arbitrary distinction.”

“It is not,” Jewel said, her voice much colder than his. “Having lived both lives, APhaniel, I will tell you now you speak from the position of power and privilege.”

“Indeed.” His smile was sharp, but he was genuinely amused. “Your sensibilities aside, Terafin, I have stated simple fact. A life of comfort is to be preferred to a life of starvation, but neither—comfort nor starvation—changes the inevitable.

“Death is your muse.”

“It is
not
mine.”

“Is it not? You have so little time, yet you spend much of it attempting to protect those you love from the fate that nonetheless awaits. At best, you extend life by a few decades. At worst, there is no extension. You love ferociously, you love widely, but love—which I am certain you would claim as your motivation—changes nothing. They will die. Every person who walks the streets of the city today, will die. You cannot see it, of course. You cannot see beyond your experience.

“But blind or no, you stand in death’s shadow; every minute is borrowed. In that shadow, in a desperation that you cannot even
perceive
when you feel safe or secure, mortals create. What they create might long outlive them—but it is rooted in the subtlety of an existence that is—that will always be—the art of dying.

“And you love fiercely because you can. You create with the whole of your will when will is bent to create. You sing, and we hear in your song what we see in the flowers that gird your gardens: life. It is a life that is celebrated
because
it is brief. It must be watched, because it is otherwise over so swiftly it cannot be experienced by those it cannot otherwise touch.

“The Terafin is not an exception. Should she somehow live up to the song you have issued as challenge, Wayelyn, she will remain unexceptional. She has lived among the dying in the hundred holdings; she has lived among the dying in Terafin. She has lived briefly among the dying in the Southern Dominion.

“She can make this land hers because of the lives she has lived; she is certain of each of them. It is not the experience that defines her ability, but the certainty. Break that in any way, and she will falter.”

* * *

The Wayelyn and the bardmaster left the grounds at Jewel’s side; they did not, however, remain in the manse. They were silent. The Wayelyn was so subdued Jewel almost offered him the services of the Terafin healerie. She understood that the song he’d offered—the song she barely understood—had required the use of his talent, and it had not been short. Bards, like mages—or anyone born with a talent—suffered mage fevers from overexertion.

“With your permission, Terafin, I may request that the recess of the Council meeting last three days.”

“My permission is not required,” she replied. “But I confess I would be grateful for the time.” She hesitated for a long moment, and then exhaled. “The structural changes within
Avantari
were not the only substantive architectural changes upon the Isle.”

Solran raised a brow, no more. Meralonne, however, coughed. It was a warning. To whom, Jewel was not certain.

“My own House is in some minor disarray, and as things will, minor will segue into major if I am not to attend to the difficulties—but the Kings have not been entirely patient. With cause,” she added. “I am uncertain that the rest of The Ten will find the request as welcome as Terafin does.”

“I believe the Kings and the Exalted will,” Solran said. “But I am not one of The Ten, and perhaps I am less cautious in voicing opinion than I might otherwise be. Your grounds are magnificent, Terafin.” Her glance fell to Shadow, who, aptly named, would not separate himself from Jewel’s side.

The Wayelyn offered the bardmaster his arm, which drew a raised brow. She did, however, set her hand upon it.

Only when they were gone did Meralonne speak. Avandar had been speaking, in the privacy of silence, for some five minutes. “I would not have granted him the three days.”

“Oh?”

“He will support you. It is my belief that The Ten will support you as well, if not unanimously. The support of The Ten will have some weight with the Kings, if they have not yet made their decision. In like fashion, the decision of the Kings will have grave weight for The Ten. You cede control of the field to the Kings by agreeing to a prolonged recess.”

“I cede some control,” Jewel agreed. “But if I have three days, I can pay my respects to Levec at the Houses of Healing. I did not lie to the bardmaster; time is a commodity that I do not have in any abundance.”

“Lord Celleriant has not returned.”

“No.” Nor had Snow, Night, or the Winter King.

“You will require his presence, Terafin. You will require his vigilance. The Wayelyn’s song will travel in ways—and to places—you cannot comprehend. You are a threat that the Shining Court could not have foreseen, but you are not yet unassailable.”

“Will I ever be?” she asked. The question was almost flippant.

The answer was not. “It is a possibility, Terafin.”

She did not ask him what he meant; she knew. “I will visit the Houses of Healing upon the morrow. I will, with Levec’s permission, spend some time there.” She glanced down the public gallery; it was almost deserted. “And I will spend some time in the office of the right-kin before dinner. Thank you, APhaniel. I do not believe your services will be required.”

* * *

She spent two hours in Teller’s office, perched on the edge of his desk. Finch was at the Merchant Authority, or Jewel would have asked her to join them. She filled her right-kin in on the only events of the day he’d missed, took his reports, and discussed Jarven ATerafin and his demand that he be ceded the open Council chair. In Finch’s absence, that discussion was of necessity brief.

“Write to Levec and ask if I may be permitted to visit the Houses of Healing within the next two days,” Jewel said, rising. “I have a guest.”

“Hectore of Araven.”

She glanced at the signet ring that sat so heavily upon her finger and smiled. “Yes. I should cancel the dinner; there is too much that requires time and attention.”

He did not speak of Carver or Ellerson; nor did Jewel.

“House Araven is one of the most important of the merchant houses,” Teller replied. “But Terafin and Araven have never enjoyed a close relationship. It would be very much to your benefit were that to change in the near future.”

“That’s not why I want to see him.”

“I know.”

* * *

Jewel returned to her rooms. The library had not markedly changed; there were no storm clouds upon the horizon of the amethyst skies that opened above it. Shadow, silent, was on the prowl; he did not take to the skies as she left the unaltered portion of the manse that had been her home for over half her life.

Her maid was waiting for her when she reached her rooms. She had selected three possible gowns for the dinner hour, along with three pairs of shoes, and hair ornaments that were sturdy enough to remain in the tangle of Jewel’s hair. Jewel selected one of each in near silence, and the woman nodded. She was brisk; she oozed competence.

She did not, however, do so with any warmth or affection.

Amarais had not required it. Amarais, Jewel thought, required exactly what this senior member of the Household Staff now offered. Thinking of Ellerson and his inexplicable absence, Jewel thought she finally understood why. She did not want to become attached to this stiff, cold woman. She did not want to feel the warmth of attachment if it came hand in hand with the bitter pain of its loss.

She allowed her hair to be taken down, to be ironed again, and to be bound; she allowed the woman to help her with the fiddly parts of a dress she didn’t like. She allowed her to choose and place ornaments for her hair, to brush her face with faintly scented powder, to carefully clean her hands.

She did not, however, allow her to choose jewelry. Jewel already wore the only two pieces of any significance: the House signet of Terafin, and the House ring of Handernesse, the latter on a long, golden chain around her neck. She wore a bracelet of hair that might be worth more than any piece of jewelry in the Empire, but like the two rings, no money, no power, would persuade her to part from it.

But she thought she would give them up,
all
of them, if they were the price demanded for the return of Carver and Ellerson, den-kin and domicis. She rose when the maid stepped back. She did not declare herself satisfied; she simply retreated to a wall, and stood with her back against it.

Shadow, banished to the same wall, sauntered across the carpet, no doubt adding years to the wear and tear simply by walking.

“Avandar,” she said, for the benefit of the maid, “we will take dinner in my personal dining room.”

He bowed. He had a few words to say, but none of the sentiment seeped into his perfectly neutral expression.

* * *

It was a bold choice of venue, and Jewel regretted it the moment she left her rooms and found herself in the library. She had not yet entered the informal room in which she and The Terafin had frequently dined, and she therefore couldn’t be certain it was still there. She should have chosen a different room. The Terafin manse had a lot of them, many for public entertainment. Any of those rooms were more accessible to the servants than her personal rooms had become.

She looked up at the sky. It was a paler shade of purple. She had yet to see sunlight or moonlight, a sign of beginning or end. No clouds troubled the sky, and she wondered if they ever would. Knew, as the thought flitted past, that they would. That there would be dawn and twilight. She froze.

Shadow butted the space between her shoulders, and she stumbled in a very unpatrician way. She also spoke a few choice words in low Torra, to which Shadow hissed in reply. “Cut it out,” she said, again in Torra. “I need to
find
the dining room.”

The office—which was now a forbidding stone armory, with a table meant for war, not dinner—had been replaced by a single, freestanding arch made of black iron; she expected the new entrance to the dining room to be similar, if it existed at all. What had she been thinking?

But she knew, as she walked in the direction of the war room’s arch. The only place in the Terafin manse where Rath’s name had not been forbidden was that small dining room. The only person to whom Jewel had been willing to speak it was The Terafin herself, and The Terafin had summoned her for that purpose. Amarais was Rath’s beloved sister. Amarais was Rath’s betrayer. She had loved him, as sisters might, and she had left—as any who sought power within The Ten must.

Her only connection with the brother of her childhood and youth was Jewel. They had both loved him, in entirely different ways, and they both grieved at his death.

Hectore of Araven had been Rath’s godfather. What Jewel wanted from Hectore was what Amarais had wanted from Jewel: Rath. Memories of Rath that were not her own, because those memories made him real. They made him relevant to someone who was not her.