Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (44 page)

The other, more practical half, was that she'd managed to cram so much into the pack that every piece of clothing, every small pot, every piece of flint, was like the keystone in a large arch: if so much as one thing was pulled out, the whole would follow in a messy, inevitable spill.

She sat up in bed and pushed her hair out of her eyes. Reached for it, bound it back, and watched out of the corner of those eyes as the shorter strands popped free immediately. Shaking her head— which freed half the rest—she rose and dressed. The clothing was hers, or as much hers as anything in this place could be. She was happy to have it.

Avandar came in through the doors carrying a tray.

"You've missed breakfast," he said, obvious disapproval in the lines of his frown. Familiar, comfortable disapproval.

Jewel had discovered, over the days that had passed, that Avandar was most himself—or most the man she knew—when he was in these rooms with her. The farther away from them she got, the farther away from himself he got, as if all that bound him to the man she knew
was
what she knew of him, until—at the edge of the picture gallery that should have collapsed under the weight of its adornments—he lost Weston entirely and spoke in broken something-or-other, the language he never identified. His mother tongue, she was certain of it.

His whole demeanor changed. If she had ever needed proof that words had power—in and of themselves, and not wrapped in enchantment or bardic talent—it was there in the way his voice broke around syllables, like water around river rocks.

She thought about this now, her sleeves unrolled right to the wrists to cover the mark on her arm. She rarely wore her sleeves full-length; she liked to roll them up. Made her feel as if she was about to start working, even if the work she was doing didn't actually require it. But rolled up, she could see the stretch of red and gold and silver that disquieted her. The anger had passed. The explanation—that the mark was necessary to identify her in a way that would save her life—had been offered. She'd almost accepted it.

But it bothered her.

It was going to cause problems. She
knew
it, but didn't know how.

"Jewel?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Food. Sorry."

Asking him questions was tricky. Ask the wrong question, and he'd start to answer in the wrong language. Language was the first sign. It went downhill from there. But ask no questions, and she was certain they'd stay here forever, or for at least the next two weeks, after which it wouldn't matter much. In a bad way.

"Avandar?"

"Food first."

"I can talk and eat at the same time."

His raised brow was a clear indication of how poor a liar she was.

"I didn't say I could talk and eat
neatly
." He put the tray down on her desk. "Look, it's not like there's anyone to offend by my manners."

He raised a brow.

She ate first. Picked up the tray and started to walk to the kitchen before she remembered that there was no kitchen here— or at least not one she had access to. Wondered what the kitchen here was like—if there was one at all. It wouldn't have surprised her if food had magically appeared from the ether. In fact it would have surprised her if it hadn't. Not much place to grow things here.

"Avandar?"

"Yes?"

"You've eaten."

"Yes."

"You look—you look better."

His smile reminded her of the shadow candlelight cast. But the gaze that followed it reminded her of nothing in their long— well, friendship wasn't the right word for it. In fact there
was
no right word for the way they related to each other.

"Avandar," she said, knowing this was a bad question, but not knowing how to avoid it, "you've already said I can't leave the same way I came."

"Yes."

"Is there another way for me
to
leave?"

Silence.

"Can
you
leave at any time?"

"I would have said yes," was his quiet reply. He rose. Walked to her closet. Began to methodically straighten the dresses and coats that hung there, as if he, too, were aware that it was the familiarity of his routine in her life that made him a part of that life.

"And now?"

"This room, Jewel."

"Mine."

"Yes. But not even my—wife—was able to exact such changes in so short a time as you have made here."

"Maybe she wasn't as desperate."

"Perhaps. It is not a matter of will; she was not a weak woman in
any
way."

"Meaning that you think I am."

"Meaning," he said, lifting the shoulder of the dress she least liked and carefully realigning it on its hanger, "that I've seen every weakness you have, and I can guess at those you've never dreamed of."

Her hair stood on end.

"You would be," he continued, no words from Jewel said to break the stream of his, "so easy to break. The right threat, and you would crumple; there would be no need at all to carry it out, although I confess a certain bored amusement might cause your enemies to consider it. When her child was killed," he continued, and the way he said the word "her" made it clear he spoke of his dead wife, "she did not so much as blink an eye, and by that time, the only thing in the world that commanded any of her affection, any of her loyalty, was that child."

"You say that as if it were a good thing."

He turned, the dress gripped in one hand, the hanger in the other, as if they were weapon and shield.

"It was… an admirable thing. She had no defense against her enemies. They killed the child to cause her pain, and only to cause her pain. The only attack she could offer them was her absolute, her unwavering, distance. She gave them that. They took little pleasure out of what should have been a pleasure."

"And the child?"

He raised a brow.

"The child died knowing his mother didn't care at all."

"The child, as you say, was not so young as all that at the time of his death. He understood."

"And this is a good thing."

"Yes."

"Something you want from me?"

He turned his back to her. Placed the dress on the left rack. Turned back. Spoke to her in a language that made no sense. She privately thanked the gods for their momentary mercy.

"So you won't leave me here because this place has made a room for me and you're afraid it will turn the entire place into Terafin behind your back?"

"No." Language reasserted itself quickly; they were in her rooms. "If it turned the entire place 'into Terafin' as you so quaintly put it, I would have little concern."

"But?"

"You have not walked the breadth of my vision," he said quietly, "and I am not—have not always been—sane."

"But I—"

"You have seen the world that I am willing to share with at least one other living woman," he replied. "There are parts of this mountain's vastness that I share with no one. And not because I hoard. Are there not secrets, Jewel, that you would guard from even yourself if you had the ability?"

"The ability?"

"To lie," he answered softly. "To lie to yourself."

"Gods, I hate it when you talk."

Both brows rose slightly.

"You never talk this much," she explained, as she turned away.

"Except when you're telling me why whatever I'm doing is political suicide. I'm used to that. I never realized—I never did— how little I knew you."

"Does it matter? I serve you. I have always served you."

She turned to look at him. "Yeah," she said softly. "It matters. I don't know you. I know everyone else."

"Kiriel?"

"Even her, Avandar." She faced him now, drawing the hair out of her eyes, resting one hand loosely on her hip. "I know that she's half the dark god." The words that left her weren't the ones she meant to say; a sign of the gift and talent that she had always struggled to control. Good thing control wasn't everything. "But I know that there's more to her, that there could be
so much
more. That she's not the one to stand by while her child is killed and show nothing or do nothing; there's a rage in her that comes from a place that love hurt."

"Eloquently put. Half a dark god," he said to himself. "I sensed the darkness; I assumed she was half kin. More, perhaps."

"I know who she is. I don't always know what she'll be—and I'm afraid of it. I admit it." She laughed. "I know my den, Avandar. I know Arann. I know that he'd die for Terafin, and I know, I know that he'd take her orders over mine if it came to a choice."

Avandar raised a brow. "I would not be so certain."

"I am. I don't think he knows it. I'm selfish. I don't want him to know it. It would change what
we
have, because he'd feel different, not because I would. Angel would kill for me and die for me without thinking. Carver would do the same, but he'd complain a lot more. Finch and Teller and Jester? They'd have different, quiet lives."

His smile was thin, sharp. "You keep them to yourself."

"Yes. I do." She shrugged. "But you—you I don't know. And I thought I did because I could predict everything you'd do. I knew what you'd say when I wouldn't wear the council ring to Alea's funeral. I knew what you'd say when The Terafin—when she—before we left." She turned, the thickening in her throat unexpected and painful. "But knowing what you'll do isn't the same as knowing you.

"I don't."

"No."

"There's a way out that doesn't involve whatever it was you did to get me in."

"Yes."

She waited. "You think it's worse."

"I know it's worse," he said softly. "But I think we'll have little choice."

"What is it?"

"It's a very simple door." He rejoined dress to hanger, contouring its shoulders so that its fall was perfect. Showed her his back while he put it away. "Twice my height, ten times my width. It is covered, from height to depth, with runic symbols, each speaking of mystery, promise, wonder, and at the end of each, death. It was the door I discovered when I sought a place of safety; it was shown to me by… by a woman with vision much stronger than even yours." His expression froze a moment. "It was not an easy door to find. The path that led to it had been lost for… many years. Or almost so. I encountered… difficulty in making my way here, and when I chose to return to the world without, it was by alternate means."

"And the door?" she asked, because suddenly she
knew
what it looked like. The words, in runes she shouldn't have been able to read because they seemed the epitome of ancient and she hadn't mastered most of modern yet, were glowing with a light that seemed part sun and part the blood it went down on after battle's end, when corpses were strewn as carrion for the waiting and the watchful. But she could read them.

"Jewel?" His voice was sharp.

She was staring at the door that she could see in a vision that had nothing to do with reality; reading words that she knew would make no sense whatever were she to encounter them in the solidity of the here-and-now.

Two words stood out. Two words, warning, homage, mystery. Ownership. A cold, cold wind blew through the room; one that she alone felt. She shook herself, hard, and then turned to Avandar.

"Who was the Winter King?"

He closed his eyes.