Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (11 page)

Still, the arrival of his mages had been timely. Over half of the trees had been untroubled by the battle that had raged across the less contested grounds; of the fallen, there was some hope that the knowledge of the magi might save or heal some few. The Common would be scarred by the loss, its voice stilled. But in time, the fallen would be forgotten.

In time. He stopped the wind from doing anything more harmful than tearing at the wide hand-shaped leaves.

As he brushed the edge of branches, as he cajoled the angry wind, he felt a change in the composition of the men and woman who toiled below; he looked down.

Sigurne Mellifas, leader of the Council of the Magi, had set foot upon the Common's ground. She rarely deigned to display her power, and when she did, it was so often offered as an act of mercy, not an act of war. She was frail, but not fragile; she played upon the weaknesses that age had given her, making them cunningly disguised strengths. He knew the games she played, but he was not above being bound by them. Although the person did not exist for whom Meralonne would give his life, he acknowledged with a grimace that he would give much to protect hers.

Just as there was not much she would not give to protect what she had chosen to dedicate her life to. It was complicated. At first, he had thought her like other magi, but colder. Of the magi, she faced death, even painful and violent death, with a calm unperturbed by human pain or suffering. Just as he himself might. But they were not kindred spirits. She accepted what she could not change; she made plans to change what she could; she wasted no energy— none at all—on the gray area between the two that tormented lesser people.

Yet she did not give her heart to the magi. He knew— although she had never said as much, and he doubted she would, even when questioned by Mandaros himself—that she had taken the helm of the Council of the Magi to guide and control them, not to protect them.

It was these, these broken and helpless mortals, these talentless, visionless men and women, that she had made her life's responsibility.

She had never approved of his warriors. She had never approved of the tactics he had used to train them. She had nearly disbanded them three times when injuries had been, in her word,
unacceptable
. As if they played boys' games.

She was right, of course; they were games. His own students could not see it; he did not choose to enlighten them. Instead he filled their heads with glorious nonsense, all the more powerful for the truth it contained: that they were the men who would stand between the
Kialli
and the city when the
Kialli
at last showed themselves; that their lives were the lives that would shield and protect what the Twin Kings, over the centuries, had struggled to build.

A just society.

A free society.

His laughter was taken by wind. Sigurne, watching, had said nothing at all. But she had, in the end, given him leave to let his students prove their worth in the only way that mattered: against the enemy they had been trained, since a dark Henden many years ago, to fight.

Being old put him at a disadvantage.

There was a bitter, fierce joy that lingered at the edges of his awareness; he had met his chosen enemy, had named him, had defeated him. As promised, that name was committed perfectly to memory, as was the struggle itself.

But into the enjoyment of the battle had entered something that he had never thought would hamper him.

He had watched these callow, and often useless, students make mistakes and die for them, and he felt their deaths as if they were the physical blow his enemy had tried, unsuccessfully, to land. It came, a rawness and a regret that had never marred his composure on the field of battle. The wind sensed weakness, of course; he would have, in his youth, when all he understood was power.

Sigurne
, he thought, with a bitter envy,
what life shaped you, that you can be so cold in your failing years?

He could not afford to land while any of that weakness governed him, or the damage done by demons and magelings would pale in comparison to the damage done by the wind.

But he
wanted
to land. He wanted to go to the fallen,
his
fallen, and honor them. He wanted to see their faces, and commit them to the same memory that now held the details of his combat and his victory.

* * *

The Terafin was absolutely silent.

One step from her side, close enough at any time that he could reach out and touch her, could—had she been a different woman—offer her physical comfort, was her domicis, Morretz. He carried one thing for her; a simple, heavy _ cloak, proof against the sea wind and the inclement weather.

She almost never wore it; it had a value that only history could give an item. She would ask for it soon. The lights that mages had cast were dimming; the lamps that guards carried, flickering. The noises in the Common were night noises. Many weaknesses were forgiven in the darkness. He had thought in his youth that he had found a woman without weakness; he had learned with the passage of time that the ability to reveal weakness—for a woman of Amarais' stature—took a different form of strength. She understood the demands of her rank. She waited; he waited, watching in protective silence.

From a bitterly cold sunrise—surprisingly cold, given the geography—to a cool, star-broken nightfall, The Terafin watched her Chosen work at the side of Jewel's den. Noting the difference in armor, in arms, in the deference they were trained to give: The Chosen were perfect, and the den, handpicked in no less careful a way given the circumstances in which it had formed, far less polished. But she saw the potential in them. They were terrified. They worked through it, hid it. Served.

He knew what she observed by her expression. She knew, for instance, that when Captain Torvan ATerafin approached her and knelt beneath the rising face of the narrow moon, he would report failure. She knew that the Council of the Magi, represented by Sigurne Mellifas, would likewise offer no comfort, but she offered words to the woman who wore the quartered moon. To her Chosen she had offered a grim silence, no more.

"Were they hunting your girl?"

"I had hoped that the Council of the Magi would offer an answer to that question."

"We are not all-seeing, Terafin. We labor under an understanding of the demon kin that is very little improved since the last time we were forced to deal with their presence in the streets of Averalaan."

"A motion was made, or so rumor would have it, that the forbidden arts be once again a subject of study within the Order. It was defeated by a narrow and forceful margin."

"You have, as always, impeccable sources, Terafin. Enough so that you will refrain from insulting my intelligence; you know the vote carried, and the head of Council exercised her right of refusal."

"You credit me with better sources than I have," The Terafin said quietly. "I was not aware of the rule in Council that allowed the head of council such a veto."

Sigurne Mellifas was frail; her skin was the color of light on water. Hard to imagine a woman such as this could successfully veto the decision of the most powerful members of the Order of Knowledge. Until she smiled, the amusement mixed with momentary appraisal. "We are both too blunt, Terafin."

"Indeed. Perhaps because we can be."

"You haven't the excuse of age and ill temper."

"Nor have you, although as any ruler does, you choose the excuse that's expedient."

"The excuse, yes, but not the veto, it seems."

The Terafin was silent. At last, she said, "I would know when to trust my own and when to have them watched. But I am not a mage; my sense of the expedient, where magical study is concerned, would be tempered by ignorance."

Morretz's brow rose a fraction; fell again before either woman could notice the ripple of expression.
You trust this woman, Amarais
.

Silence. "I don't know whether or not they were hunting, as you call her, my girl," The Terafin said quietly. "But I would have to guess, without further investigation, that hunting or no, they found her."

"Oh?"

"Terafin has ways of contacting its ranking members during a crisis." As was proper, she offered no further comment.

"I see. I will, if you desire his aid, offer Member APhaniel the choice of service to your House. I believe he has already served your House in some capacity." She knew, of course, what capacity he had served in, and when; the only detail she was unlikely to know was the amount of money that had exchanged hands, although Morretz would not have been surprised if she did.

"I believe that Meralonne APhaniel has pledged service to the Crowns in the South."

"True. And you think that the two—your girl and the South—are unconnected?"

"A good point."

"Would you know if she was dead?"

"I am considering the purchase price of such an enchantment in future, but understand me; I would not waste your time with questions if I already knew their answers. We have too much to do to waste each other's time with such tests of knowledge or power."

Sigurne smiled. "You chastise me, and I accept it; you have no idea how envious most members of the Order would be." The smile vanished. "I have trusted my instinct for all of my adult life. I do not think Jewel ATerafin is dead."

"No?"

"No."

The Terafin was silent a moment, and then she offered the unexpected: a smile.

"Let me clarify that. I do not believe that she died
here
."

The smile froze and then vanished, like northern ice sublimating. "Please explain," she said softly, in a tone of voice that belied the possibility that the two terse words were a request.

"You are familiar with translocation?" Sigurne unexpectedly turned and began to walk to the west. The Terafin fell in step by her side; Morretz fell in behind them.

"I am unfamiliar with most of the magi's arts, but if you mean the passage from one place to another as if nothing existed between the two points, yes. I am also aware that perhaps a handful of the mageborn will ever attain the power necessary to cast this spell; the attempt would kill them."

"Indeed. I am not one with that power. Meralonne, as I suspect you know, is. Your Jewel ATerafin was with someone who cast the spell."

"You know this?"

"We deduce it. Power is always a personal trait. How it is used is also personal. You are not The Terafin your predecessor was, and your heir—should one ever be chosen—will not be the woman you are. Power makes its mark. Here, Terafin, power has left its mark."

Morretz came to stand beside the woman whose service had become his life's work. The slight narrowing of her eyes told him all he needed to know—but he was certain that Sigurne knew it as well; she was frustrated with the superficiality of her knowledge. "I see nothing."

"No. I doubt that even Jewel would see it, and her natural sight is unrivaled. But a spell was cast here of power sufficient to move two men. And we do not recognize its signature."

Clearly this was a significant statement. To save his lord from the appearance of ignorance, Morretz spoke. "Is this unusual?"

Sigurne's gaze brushed his face. "That we cannot identify with ease a mage of that power? I should leave that for you to deduce, young man. But think on this: Why have there been no sorcerer kings, no blood barons, in the last three centuries? It is certainly not because the magi have become pure and untainted over the course of time.

"You have spent time within the Order's walls; you are bound by the laws that bind us. You know that the paradigm of each mage's magic is unique.

"So, too, is evidence of its use. Those who understand people enough to want a particular type of power
also
have a clear understanding of cause and effect. If they wish to misuse power, or to seek it by the unfortunate… losses… of others, they must do it by conventional methods." Her expression clouded a moment. "There are, of course, many conventional ways of gaining power—but the use of one's own power in the commission of a crime is only done by the young or the foolish."

"Or the desperate," The Terafin said softly.

"Or the desperate."

"We believe that Jewel ATerafin left here injured, but we don't believe that she left dead."

Injured.

"Many of my mages have been trained to deal with minutiae. There is blood on the ground, here and here."

"There's blood everywhere."

"Yes, but within the circle of the power's signature there appears to be only one person's. There were no people here; or rather, there were no bodies."

"Inconclusive."

"Yes. But hopeful. We will pursue this, Terafin, to the best of our abilities."

"You have my gratitude."

The older woman caught the younger woman's hands; spoke three words, all of which were empty of resonant sound.

Morretz could not hear what was being said. Not that this magically induced inability bothered him. The domicis were trained to notice everything, and something as simple as the absence of sound did not hamper their observation.

Sigurne said simply, "I want more than your gratitude. I think it's obvious now what you intended for her; you are present."

The Terafin said nothing.

"If this was an assassination attempt, it is clear that someone has a vested interest in having a… different ruler for Terafin in future."

Again, The Terafin said nothing; Morretz had to stop himself from speaking by force of habit. There were many things spoken about in the presence of The Terafin, but one of them was not, by implication, her death. Not unless she broached the subject first, and she did not do this with strangers.

But… he was not supposed to hear the words, and an interruption of that nature would be awkward. Amarais did not forgive that type of awkwardness easily. As long as he did not break the illusion of deafness, she ignored the fact that all information accrued to him; he stepped around her so that he might also be privy to her response.

"It is not advantageous for the leader of a House such as mine to be obvious," The Terafin replied.