Battle: The House War: Book Five (99 page)

“The one in the air? Much less, in my opinion. Not all
Arianni
are created equal; no more are dragonkind. There is one who is equal to the Sleepers in the destruction he can unleash, should he so choose, but he is not asleep beneath the streets of your city, and he has not—yet—emerged from the hidden lands.”

The Chosen retreated.

Angel joined his Lord; he lifted his hand and his fingers danced a moment. Her reply was shorter and swifter, but she spoke no words.

For the first time, Terrick thought he understood why Angel had chosen this particular Lord. She had heard—and felt—the dragon’s roar, and she had not even blinked. She called it by its Southern name, and not its Rendish variant; she understood what it was. She understood what it meant.

But it was not, he saw, her concern. She was not in awe of it; she was not afraid.

“Terrick?” Angel said, and Terrick, chagrined, shook himself. “The ax?”

The older man smiled. It was a winter smile. “I understand, at last, what Garroc sacrificed his life to achieve: You, Angel.” His smile was the wolf’s smile; there was no kindness in it. “And I understand and forgive Weyrdon for the choice he made.

“But this ax was not, I think, meant for me. It was meant for you.”

Angel shook his head. “The sword is mine. I can wield it without cutting off my leg. I
could
use the ax to split firewood—and where we’re going, that would probably be useful.” He laughed at the expression on Terrick’s face, but sobered quickly. “My father left Weyrdon. He left you. He offered no explanation—to you—for either act.

“You waited. You’ve waited for all of my life—for longer, if I think about it. You’ve kept yourself in fighting shape. You’ve endured the demanding idiots who plague the Port Authority. When I saw the ax, I thought of you. Only of you.

“I won’t remain in the Terafin manse for much longer. When Jay leaves, I’m going with her. But I’ll take my sword. The ax is yours. If you feel its too much for you, go home. Take it to Arrend. Deliver it to the man you feel would be worthy of its edge.

“I did. I didn’t know what the blade signified when I pulled it off the wall, but I think it was crossed with this sword for a reason.”

Terrick turned to The Terafin. “When you leave,” he said, “do you have room in your party for one more? I am accustomed to winter camping and life on the road. Or I was before I was swallowed by the Port Authority.”

“Do you understand where I must go?” she asked softly.

He glanced out the open air windows.

“Yes. There, or places much like it. I don’t know what we’ll encounter, if we encounter anything at all. I don’t know what we’ll face. We may be forced to forage for food, something I’ve done only in the streets of a very mortal city.”

“I’ve done it in the North, and in the Northern snows. I doubt that a valley, even one that contains such a creature as that, will be more of a challenge.”

She lifted her hands and her fingers danced again.

Angel said, clearly, “With my life.”

“Then, yes, Terrick. Yes, if you are willing to take the risk and wield ax in my defense, I have room in my party, as you call it, for one more. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

E
pilogue

25th of Fabril, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

T
HE MAN CAME DOWN the well-tended road on which carriages usually traveled. He walked. On his shoulder he carried a bag that had seen better years, and over it, a cloak that the road had paled with dust. His hair was likewise lank with dust, his boots caked. What he needed, at this moment, was a bath. A bath, a meal, a good night’s sleep.

He highly doubted that his needs were of import.

He had received harried instructions: he was to come immediately to the Terafin manse upon his arrival in
Averalaan
. He had not; he had made one short stop at Senniel College to introduce his companion upon the road to the bardmaster. Disentangling himself from the bardmaster’s questions had taken more time than ideal. Nor was Solran likely to be best pleased when he immediately took to the road again, and for that reason, he had neglected to inform her.

The sea air was cool at this time of night; the salt it carried reminded him of the small scrapes and cuts that the road almost inevitably produced. He could, if he listened with care, hear voices upon the sea breeze; he did not. Instead, he spent some time listening to the distinctive rustle of leaves.

He was bard-born; he knew that that rustle contained voices. Not so many voices as the city itself, when day was in full swing—but voices as deliberate, and far older. He found it disturbing.

She will be waiting for you
.
She will be waiting, and wasting time she does not have. Deliver this one item into her keeping.

He had not asked what it was. Evayne was, by nature, mysterious. She walked roads that cut across the ages, age receding and returning to her visage like an unpredictable tide. When she had met him on the road from Annagar, he had been surprised.

She was not young. In her prime—for he had never seen her close to dotage—she was a force that made the voice of the wild wind seem tame in comparison; she had come at the height of her power. She seldom arrived at such an age, and when she did there was almost always death or violence.

But not this time. This time, there was a simple box. Kallandras recognized it instantly: it had traveled, hidden and guarded, from the ancient stores of the Tor Arkosa, risen from its bed of earth, in the keeping of the Serra Diora en’Leonne. “You wish me to take this to The Terafin?”

“Yes. The current Terafin is a woman with whom you are familiar; you traveled by her side for some leagues in the Dominion.”

Jewel Markess ATerafin.

“I would not task you with this; nor would I have any other bear this burden—but the ways are closed to me now. I did not realize—” she shook her head. “There are some things that cannot transcend time. While I carry this, I can only move forward. It is an anchor that I cannot afford; in the Northern Wastes, the enemy gathers. And at this time, I cannot enter lands which are all but lost; I thought to move forward, or back—but it is forbidden.”

He did not ask by who; long experience had taught him there were no answers to such questions.

“While she bears this burden, Kallandras, guard her with your life. Preserve it, no matter the cost of the preservation.”

“Will she understand its significance?”

“Yes. Inasmuch as she currently can, yes.”

“How significant is this charge, Evayne? How much danger will she face?”

“If the Lord of the Hells knew the contents of the box existed, he would take to the wild roads himself to hunt her down. He does not know, while such knowledge can still be denied him.” Her voice dropped.

He was surprised to hear the fear and the weariness in her words. At this age, she could make her voice so smooth and impenetrable that even Kallandras could take nothing from it that she did not wish to offer. There were very, very few who could deny his bard-born gift.

He did not touch Evayne; no one did. Her robes rustled at wind that touched nothing else, and her breath came out in a mist that spoke of Winter cold. “Evayne,” he asked, pitching his voice so that it traveled to her ears alone, “Is it soon?”

Her smile was bitter. “Yes, Kallandras. It is soon.”

“And after?”

“I do not know. I surrendered the whole of my life to stop this one event—but I was sixteen and young and isolated. I am older, and not less isolated, but the one event now seems so minor to my mind it is hard to remember
why
I chose to walk as I walk.”

“You will remember,” he said, gilding his voice with his gift.

But she frowned. “You cannot command it,” was her soft, soft reply. “I am aware of what it might cost to save one small town on the edge of our borders. What I’ve seen, what I’ve done—it makes the fate of a handful of people almost irrelevant: so many will die.” As she spoke, she reached up and grasped something that hung around her neck. It was a lily, a silver lily. Kallandras had seen it a handful of times; he had never seen Evayne without it. Nor did he ask.

Had he his lute, he might have played it; he had left it in Senniel College. He felt, for a moment, the urge to sing; he had sung for the Serra Teresa on the long walk home. But if Teresa and Evayne were almost of an age, if they were two women with spines of pure steel, there were differences. He could not reach Evayne that way, and did not try.

Once, he would have been too angry to care. But time and war had blunted some of the dangerous edges of grief-maddened youth. If the coming war had brought no peace to Evayne, it offered peace—of a kind—to Kallandras. He had abandoned the brothers of his youth in order to preserve them; he had become Evayne’s reluctant, resentful agent.

But now, he understood that if he played his part—whatever that part might be—he would achieve his goal: the brothers who were lost to him would survive.

He wondered, briefly, how lost he might feel if that goal no longer held significance for him, but shunted the thought aside. He had come to the manse—to the front doors of the manse, not the tradesman’s entrance.

* * *

If Kallandras did not cut a fine, patrician figure—and in his current, dust-ridden clothing that was an impossibility—his name carried weight; he used it, with little concern. “My apologies,” he said, to the guards, “but I have come on a matter of some import to The Terafin. I am Kallandras of Senniel College.”

His name, recognized even when he himself was not, allayed some of the obvious suspicion the guards felt. They knew that the bards traveled, often extensively, at the behest of their bardmaster, in support of the Kings. “I have only tonight reached Averalaan from the Dominion, with word that must reach her. I did not even return home before I made my way to Terafin.”

“A moment,” the guard said. He vanished, and was not tardy in his return; clearly the Seneschal had given instructions that the master bard was to be seen inside.

* * *

The waiting room to one side of the foyer was not large; it was, however, very finely appointed. Kallandras felt far more road-worn and weary here than he had when offering the guards his polite deference. He was aware that his errand would take some time—if The Terafin permitted him entrance at all.

He was not, however, prepared when the door opened and Meralonne APhaniel entered the small room. Given the condition of his clothing, he had chosen to remain standing.

Meralonne offered him a polite nod; Kallandras returned a smile. “I did not expect to see you here.”

“No? I forget; the events of the past two months occurred when you were wasting your time in the Dominion.”

“I would not call it wasting time,” Kallandras replied. “You are the Terafin mage?”

“I am. I am under exclusive contract to The Terafin.”

Pale brows rose. “I’m surprised. The guildmaster allowed it?”

“Kallandras, please. Unless my presence were construed as a threat to the Empire, Sigurne is not foolish enough to deny me a simple choice.” He chuckled as he drew pipe from the folds of his robe. “The Council of the Magi is incensed.”

Kallandras watched as the mage set about lining the bowl of his pipe. “How so?”

“I felt events within the Terafin manse were interesting enough that I considered the privilege to be in the thick of things compensation enough for my services.”

Kallandras felt that the words were Weston; he was weary enough that it took a moment for them to assemble sense. “You are working for . . . free?”

“I am.” Meralonne lit his pipe, chuckling. “You would think I’m personally responsible for beggaring the Order. Will you join me?”

“My pipe, along with my lute, are ensconced within Senniel, I’m afraid. I wait upon the pleasure of The Terafin.”

“Yes. I have been sent to retrieve you.”

* * *

The duties of House Mage did not generally overlap the duties of a senior page, but Kallandras felt no need to make this observation aloud. Meralonne, as they strolled up the vast and impressive stairs of the foyer, chose to speak of the minor problems the city had faced in the bard’s absence. He spoke of the events of The Terafin’s funeral, his voice soft and steady; he spoke of the shift in the structure of
Avantari
. Kallandras stared as the mage chuckled.

“There was also the matter of the
Kialli
who chose to attack the The Terafin during the victory parade. But these are minor compared to what you are about to see.”

“I’m not entirely certain I anticipate major with any joy. Where exactly do you lead me?”

“The library, as it happens. You will not, however, be in danger here, and the Chosen frown upon the drawing of weapons that are not their own.” He paused in front of two of the Chosen. “Master Bard Kallandras of Senniel College, to see The Terafin.”

The Chosen nodded and allowed the mage to pass through the doors. Kallandras, frowning, followed.

* * *

He was silent when he entered the world. Meralonne had called it a library, and a quick glance at the standing trees in the near distance made truth of the statement; they appeared to be growing shelves, and on those shelves, books had been placed, spines of different heights, textures and colors clearly visible beneath the midday light. The sky was amethyst, not blue, but it was cloudless, and the light it shed, bright and clear.

Avandar met them at the standing arch. “The Terafin is waiting,” he said, bowing. “Please follow me.”

Kallandras had seen this man summon and control the wild earth; he had seen him wield a sword of gold that had a voice, however muted. He had built a bridge all of stone in a matter of minutes, and he had turned the tide of an ugly—and almost hopeless—battle singlehandedly, in the village of Damar.

Very little of that man remained in this one.

Kallandras felt wind. He could hear the whisper of its voice, distant but unmistakable. He had not summoned it; it had not come at his call. He nonetheless offered it a benediction, and felt it creep up to curl his hair. But he glanced at Meralonne as he followed the domicis, and saw that the wind also traveled through the mage’s hair. In this room, beneath this sky, Meralonne APhaniel looked like a young man—dangerous with youth and passion and intent.

“Have I amused you, Master Bard?”

“I so seldom feel kinship, APhaniel; you remind me of myself as a youth.”

“Perhaps you could keep this between us,” the mage replied, with a smile that was all edge. “My youth—and yours—are not generally appropriate conversational fare for appointments such as this one.”

Kallandras laughed. As Avandar crested the end of the rows upon rows of shelves, a plain wooden table came into view. Seated at it, her hair half in her eyes, her expression entirely despondent, was Jewel. Ah, no. The Terafin.

Avandar cleared his throat, and she looked up, bleary-eyed. Exhaustion was replaced by a surprisingly warm smile of recognition as she rose.

“Kallandras, it
is
you.”

“I should hope that men don’t generally apply to speak to you using my name,” he replied with mock gravity. He bowed. It was a graceful, swift motion that achieved the correct depth without descent into the obsequious. He was surprised by the delight he heard in her voice; it matched her tone. She knew that he was bard-born; she held nothing back. But she had never been good at disguising her feelings beneath an unbreakable patina of words.

“You look like you’ve barely left the desert.”

“That is unkind, Terafin. I have, however, barely left the road.” He glanced past her shoulder and frowned. “You have a fountain in your library.”

“It’s not much of a library,” she replied. “And yes. The fountain came with the trees and the open air.” She held out her hands and he took them, as if both gestures were entirely natural. Then again, for the bards who occupied the courts, they often were.

“It is, as you are aware, an impressive library. It is not, however, architecturally, as . . . closed . . . as many. You are well?”

“I am. If you have time—and you look as if time is an issue, I’m sorry—you should come to the West Wing. Adam is there. He’d be grateful for any sight of you, I think.”

“Adam is here?”

She nodded. “It’s complicated. How was Diora when you left?”