Battle: The House War: Book Five (90 page)

“The Terafin is not a woman who likes to be beholden to others; nor is she a woman to whom rule comes easily. The Chosen are part of
Terafin
to your master. They are inextricably linked. Where she goes—and I see, by your decision here, that she
will
go—the Chosen cannot follow.

“I will argue for it,” he added. “I will demand that she take at least a handful of the Chosen with her. I do not think in the end I will be successful.”

Angel said nothing. He waited, knowing that Torvan had not yet reached the end of a speech that was difficult for him to make.

“You are, therefore, the only one of us who will accompany her.”

“I am not—as you said—of the Chosen.”

“Not hierarchically, no. But in spirit, you are equal to the very best of us. Perhaps you are better. We are proud of the Chosen, Angel. We are proud of what we
are
in
her
service. You exist as hers without rank. She will tolerate you. Where she walks, she will take no one
but
you, if I understand her intent at all.

“We will guard her seat in her absence. We will protect Finch and Teller as if they were The Terafin herself. We will do everything in our power to prevent a House War in her absence; we will hold the home she has vowed to both rule and protect. There is nothing more that we can offer her, and indeed, nothing she would value as much.

“We will do this because it is all she will allow us
to
do. You will, therefore, stand in our stead.

“Bring her back to us,” the Captain of the Chosen commanded.

13th of Fabril, 428 A.A. Port Authority, Averalaan

Terrick Dumarr was a man of middling years, with more gray than color in hair that had been pale to start with. He had taken on the ruddy complexion of a man who lives by wind and sun, and if his position behind the open window of a wicket in the Port Authority was not unassailable, it was not because of his demeanor; he was still a man whom the Port Authority guards found intimidating if he did not approach them with care.

It was not that he was large or threatening, although with ease he could project size and danger; it was his origins. He was, in their eyes, a friendly barbarian: a man from Arrend, the country of Northern barbarians. Time had softened the edges of the accent with which he spoke Weston; time had given him the experience—and knowledge—with which he might better blend with Averalaan society. But in truth, he had no desire to blend in. He spent some time each weekend in the Temple of Cartanis, and he spent six days a week in this wicket; he spent six days a week eating lunch in the much roomier and much quieter environs that customers of the Port Authority could not access.

He was therefore surprised when someone not wearing the teal of the Port Authority entered the lunch room and came directly over to where Terrick now sat, bread and its crumbs scattered over the table’s surface. He had water in a tin mug, and half of a round cheese, although the cheese was well-aged. The meat, cured and smoked, was spare, as it often was during the colder months. The rich could afford the various spells of preservation and enchantment that meant their food was less seasonal—but if the Port Authority kept a roof over his head, it did not propel him into their ranks.

He did not recognize his visitor for a minute, although he rose instantly; the visitor was carrying a bundle—a blanket wrapped around something that was clearly not conventionally wrapped in such a fashion. The Port Authority guards might not have recognized this disguised burden; Terrick did. Instantly. But the young man carrying it did not unwrap it, did not draw it, and made no threatening moves. He simply gazed at Terrick, and then, past him, to the remainder of his lunch.

Terrick laughed.

He seldom laughed, but it was that single glance that made clear who his visitor was. “Angel.”

Angel nodded. He had filled out over the past decade and a half; he no longer looked the boy. The awkward slenderness of youth was gone.

So, too, the Weyrdon crown. Terrick had seen Angel with his hair down before, but only after cleaning; he did not leave the apartment—any apartment—with his hair down. But there was no identifying spire, now. Nothing at all to mark the boy as Rendish; even the Southerners wore their hair in the nondescript braid that Angel had chosen. At least he had not sheared his hair, the way many of the Essalieyanese did. Terrick dragged a chair over to the table; he sat, and indicated Angel should join him.

He did not ask about the hair. It was far too personal a question.

Angel said, “I can’t stay. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should bother you at work—but I wanted to give you warning.”

“Warning, is it?” Terrick asked, as he ate. He offered Angel food—bread and cheese—as he had unexpectedly lost his appetite. He had been alarmed, the first time he had seen the Weyrdon styling on Garroc’s son—but he felt its loss as an unexpected blow. The chick had, at long last, left the nest.

He saw no shadow of Garroc in his son’s face.

If Angel was aware of how Terrick felt, he showed no sign; instead, he ate. He could reliably eat, Terrick was certain, in any circumstance. The well-stocked larder and kitchens of the very patrician Terafin manse had not cured him of this habit.

“Warning,” Angel said. “I don’t know how much notice you have to give the Port Authority to leave without censure.”

Terrick raised a brow. He glanced at the bundle Angel had set on the ground beside the chair. “What word have you brought, boy?”

Angel was old enough now that he did not stiffen with resentment at the word. “It’s for you,” he said, chewing with haste and swallowing just as quickly, as if suddenly remembering his manners. “I think you’ll need it, where we’re going.”

“We?”

“Jewel needs to leave the city,” he replied, his voice heavy with gravity. “I’m going with her when she leaves. And, Terrick, I want you with me.”

“Why? Is she daft enough to travel to Arrend?”

“Not on purpose, no. But if I understand things—and I don’t—she won’t know where she’s going until she gets there.”

“You’ll tell me more.”

“I can’t. I’d tell you everything but you’d miss the end of lunch call. And dinner. And possibly breakfast.”

“So you say you want me to go with you—but you can’t tell me where.”

“Or when,” Angel replied, grinning slightly. “I know in the old days you had to be ready to move with almost no notice. This is like those days. The only normal guards she’ll have are us.”

“Us, is it?”

Angel nodded. “She means to hold this city against the—”

Terrick held up one hand. “Let me see what you’ve brought me.”

Angel laughed. His laughter was nothing like Garroc’s. But there was a look in his eye, an excitement, a focus that had meant, on his father’s face, that the waiting was
done
. It was time, at last, for action. Angel bent, the braid batting his cheek as he retrieved the bundle. He pushed what remained of Terrick’s lunch to one side—it was mostly crumbs, and the mice would clean them up—and set the blanketed object between them.

“It’s not a gift,” he said, voice grave, laughter gone. “It’s a burden, Terrick. It’s a responsibility. I’ve told you what I want. Give me your answer.”

“When?”

Angel fell silent.

Terrick’s hands did not tremble. They ached when the sea air was cold—a sign of encroaching age—but they never trembled. They were, therefore, steady as he carefully drew back folds of heavy cloth. The dyes were shades of blue that were rare enough only the patrician Houses of note used them for something as simple as blankets.

But it was not the dye, not the blanket, that was significant. Angel’s hair was styled in a
braid
. He had undertaken the last of Garroc’s final mission, but he had sworn no oath to Weyrdon. Weyrdon had
asked
the boy to do what Garroc could not. He had permitted Angel to style himself a man of Weyrdon without demanding the substance.

Now, Angel had released all hold on the claim.

He served The Terafin. He served Jewel Markess.

* * *

Angel watched as the cloth fell away from the ax. He saw Terrick’s reflection—and only Terrick’s—across the blade’s unscarred flat, but the room in reflection seemed brighter, harsher; the light was like Winter light, in the first fall of snow.

The older man stared at the ax for a long, transfixed moment. His hands were still; they touched nothing. But the edges of the blanket fell from them and over the edge of the table, like cloth meant for that purpose. Angel, watching his face, noted his loss of color.

It had not been Angel’s reaction to the ax—but the ax was not meant for him. It was Terrick’s. It was Terrick’s, while he lived. He knew it with a certainty born of both desire and instinct. He wasn’t Jay—but he didn’t need to be, not here.

Terrick clasped hands behind his back as he straightened. “Where did you get this ax?”

“I took it from a wall in the Terafin manse.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes.”

Terrick shook his head. “You are lying.”

Angel was surprised. Had he truly been Rendish, he would have been both insulted and angry to be so. “I am not. If you will see the room, I will take you there. I have permission to house you in the manse until we are due to depart; it will save us all from having to travel by Terafin carriage to the blacksmith to terrify him into opening your door.” He hesitated. “It looks, to my eye, like a very, very fine ax. It doesn’t look like more. You think you recognize it?”

“The blade, yes.”

“How?”

Terrick was silent for long enough Angel wasn’t certain he would answer. “Did Garroc teach you nothing of Arrend?”

“The language, and some few of its customs,” Angel replied.

“But none of its stories.”

“Some of the stories—but my mother preferred less martial tales.”

“In the North, it is the women who tell tales of war to our sons,” Terrick replied, sliding into Rendish as he spoke. “Women do not weep in Arrend.”

“You think this ax is from those stories? Terrick, an ax is an ax.”

“I am grateful on some days that your father met his end in battle,” Terrick replied, through slightly gritted teeth. “Else I might be tempted to strangle him myself. There were three weapons that were granted the three sons of Arrend. Weyrdon bears one; he does not carry it if he does not ride to battle.”

“You said men are always prepared for battle.”

“All men are prepared to
fight
.” He ran his hands through his hair, which Angel found shocking. He had never seen Terrick so discomfited. “Why did you bring this to
me
?”

“I needed a sword,” Angel replied.

Terrick couldn’t connect the reply to the question that had spawned it. He waited for the rest of the information that would make sense of the words.

“I needed a sword,” Angel said again. “I can’t wield an ax, not without cutting off my feet. I could use it to split wood—no, I’m joking, I’m joking.” He exhaled. “The House Mage believes all of the weapons in the room that contained the ax are significant in some way. I asked The Terafin if I could borrow a weapon or two, and she gave permission.”

“I will accept your Terafin’s offer,” Terrick said abruptly.

Angel forgot what he was about to say. “You will? You’ll leave the smithy?”

“Yes. If you return to the Port Authority at the close of the day, you may vouch for me when I arrive at the manse; I assume you did not otherwise prepare a letter of introduction for my use.”

“. . . No.”

“Meet me here, then. We’ll go back to the smithy and I will inform the smith that I will be absent to conduct family affairs in Arrend. I will also inform the Port Authority officials.”

“Terrick—”

“No, boy. I wish to see the room in which you found this ax. It is, as you imply, impossible that this ax be the ax I know it to be. When I see where you found it, I will have the answer to the only question now on my mind.”

13th of Fabril, 428 A.A. Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

“He’s older,” Jewel said. She was the only person in the room who seemed inclined to speak at all; the Chosen, of course, would remain silent. She glanced up from the page and saw that Avandar was staring at her, his expression carefully neutral. His inner voice was silent.

She looked at Meralonne; what Avandar hid, the mage did not. His expression was one of active loathing. She had seen him argue, shout, wheedle, and laugh. She had never seen raw hatred on his face before. “APhaniel,” she said, gentling her voice almost automatically.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, that is a representation of Adam, and yes, he is older. He is not, by mortal reckoning, much older.”

“You think this book was meant for Adam?”

“I think you do him no kindness if you make that assumption.”

“Is it active, Meralonne? Is it, as you suspect, scribed in part on a page whose donor still lives?”