Skirmish: A House War Novel (63 page)

Maybe wisdom was always a matter of context.

She rose, and made her way to the shrine of Reymaris, Lord of Justice. Tonight, she didn’t pray, because tonight she knew that there was no way to divide Justice from vengeance in her thoughts. But she remembered as she offered the shrine a brief bow that she had once come here in helpless rage. She’d been just as unable to divide the two—but beyond caring.

She always felt as if she were the same person she’d been on the day she arrived at the manse. The years had passed, and she’d learned how to navigate the complicated political climes of the House and its Council, but those lessons hadn’t changed her. Or so she’d thought.
I’m still me
. But what did that mean? How much
me
could she still be, knowing so much more than she had? She was at home in the manse, and at home, at last, on the Isle—a place she had never visited in her youth.

“Jewel.”

She nodded without looking back. Instead, she looked up, and up again; she could now see faint starlight through the branches of the towering trees; new trees, all. Yet their leaves weren’t silver, gold, or diamond; they were living—dying—leaves. These trees had roots that grew into the Isle’s soil, branches that did not sting or cut. Wherever they had come from, they were here now, as real and as improbable as Jewel Markess herself.

She’d been afraid to enter the garden until this moment. The breeze blew hair from her eyes, and a leaf fell, touching her upturned face. For just a moment, she could hear the babble and chatter of the Common at its busiest; could feel the gnarled and callused hand of her Oma in her own.

It was fancy, nothing more; her Oma had never returned as more than a voice and a sharp, biting memory. But the sense of touch was as visceral as those necessary words; it was just rarer. She felt the tug of that hand, smiled ruefully.
Yes, Oma. Yes, I’m ready
.

She walked down the path toward the last shrine.

At the height of the rounded dais, a lone man waited, and even at this distance, his eyes shone.

Jewel left Avandar on the path. It felt natural, and he didn’t argue; Morretz himself had seldom accompanied The Terafin to this shrine when she chose to visit the garden of contemplation. She approached the altar atop the concentric, marble circles, and when she reached it, she turned to face the spirit of the man who had once founded the House.

“You know why I’m here.”

He smiled. “I do.”

“They made their oaths upon this altar.”

He nodded. “But they made their oaths to Amarais. She made her oath to me, to my House, and that carried them.”

“They are not forsworn,” Jewel replied, glancing at the altar. Of the four shrines in this quartered garden, this one had received the least attention.

“The guests will not come here,” he replied, as if she’d spoken aloud. “And Amarais herself will never return.”

“They’ll bring her body here at the end of the final day.”

He nodded again. “But she will not be in it, and even I have little use for corpses. She did not remain, as I have remained. Where she is now, only Mandaros knows—and the judgment-born are unlikely to now be called to question her. What will you do, Jewel?”

“I’ll address the Chosen.”

“And then?”

“I will pay my respects to the woman who made this life possible.”

“Ah. It is unlike you.”

“Is it?”

“In your youth, you knew that a corpse was just a corpse.”

“Yes. And in my age I understand that corpse or no, forms must be observed for the sake of the patriciate. No, for the sake of those that grieve. It’s not for the dead that we gather, after all.”

“They come, soon.”

Soon was two hours later. Jewel stood at the height of the shrine, waiting, her hands clasped behind her back. Above this shrine, the trees also grew. The landscape of the garden had changed. It hadn’t changed completely,
in large part due to the ministrations of the very overworked Master Gardener and his staff—but it would never be what it was.

Torvan and Arrendas came down the path, walking almost in lockstep. They were armed, armored, as focused as if they prepared for battle within the grounds itself. If they saw her at all, they showed no sign, and because they didn’t, she couldn’t. The air was chill, but this time, she’d dressed for it; Haval had, years ago, made her a very fine, very dark cape. The clasp was loose because she’d tugged it off her back once too often. Haval had made clear, the last time he’d done his repairs, that he wouldn’t do it again in the very near future. It was as close to a dire threat as the dressmaker had been willing to offer.

It warmed her now, as she waited, her hair once again falling across her forehead and into her eyes.

The Chosen came, in the wake of their captains. Like their captains, they were armed, armored; like their captains, they wore their duty faces. She searched for some sign of Arann in this mass of large, moving men, but if he was present, his helm obscured his face. Once, she would have known him by his gait—but a decade and a half in the House Guard had changed it, step by step.

She missed Angel, and it surprised her. But she didn’t ask Avandar to find him, in part because she knew the domicis would not leave until she did. He was willing to let her stand—and speak—on her own, but only in his view.

She heard steps on the marble behind her back; light, quick steps. She stiffened, but didn’t move, and Lord Celleriant came to stand at her side, his hair caught in a breeze that touched nothing else, not even the leaves above. He was wild now, and like wild creatures, near silent.

“ATerafin,” he said, in a voice that didn’t carry beyond her ears.

“No,” was her soft reply. “Your sword is not necessary here.”

The Captains of the Chosen now approached the shrine; they stopped at the foot of its stairs, slamming fists against breastplates like synchronized thunder. They drew swords in the same way, and laid them at their feet before they dropped to knee, bowing their heads.

Did I want this? Did I ever want this?

Did it matter? She bid them rise, in a tone as cool and distant as any she had ever heard Amarais use. They obeyed her quiet command. “Join me.”

She turned toward the altar, and saw that the Terafin Spirit remained; she wasn’t at all surprised when neither of the captains seemed to notice
his presence—although given they were Chosen, there was some small chance that this was deliberate.

“Wait,” she told them, watching the grounds before the shrine as they filled, at last, with the Chosen. She counted perhaps fifty men and women.

Seventy
, Avandar said.

More than ten.

She felt his brief chuckle. “Captain Torvan, are the Chosen fully assembled?”

“Yes, ATerafin.”

“Good.” She turned toward the gathered men and women, wishing she recognized more of them, and knowing it didn’t matter. They were watching their captains. They were also, she realized, watching her. Waiting. She wanted to ask Torvan what he had said to them, but knew the answer: assemble at the shrine. Nothing more. They had come at his command.

She could not be certain they would remain at hers. Two at least would, and she faced the first of those, seeing the years that had passed as lines in his face and gray in his hair. “I am not The Terafin,” she said, clearly enough that her voice carried beyond the shrine which contained them. She couldn’t be certain how far, but wanted the words to reach every man and woman who stood waiting in the silence.

She waited for Torvan’s response; it was a simple, silent nod.

“I am not The Terafin,” she said again, glancing at the other Chosen assembled on the grounds. “Each and every one of you offered The Terafin your oaths of fealty at this shrine when she chose you. You felt those oaths deeply; you risked your lives, time and again, to live up to them, to fulfill your promise.

“Amarais Handernesse ATerafin was born to the patriciate. She was born to the wealthy, educated by the wealthy, and introduced, in her season, to the powerful. She understood the corridors of power, both in Terafin and in
Avantari
as instinctively as she understood how to walk or breathe. But she was fair, and she was just, and in her fashion, she could be merciful; she was wise, and as she understood power, she could hope to wield it
well
.

“But I? I was born to old-stock Voyani refugees in the hundred holdings. I had two names, not five; I was taught to read, but given very little to practice reading with. I was taught to write, but again, with sticks and dirt and the occasional slates and chalk when they could be afforded; in the winters of the holdings, that was never. I was not given fine silks and
jewels. I was not given introductions to the men and the women who hold the purse strings of the Empire or the ears of the Kings.

“But I was born with a singular gift. That gift, in the end, brought me to The Terafin’s doorstep. This House became my home; The Terafin became my mentor. What I have learned of power, I have learned by her side. When she knew—when
we
knew—that she would die, she did not cry or weep or plead; she did not bend knee to the gods in hopeless pursuit of their intervention. She planned, as she had always done.

“She asked, of me, one thing: that I declare my intent to rule the House she would, by death—and only death—abandon. I was never Chosen; I did not, and could not, serve her in that fashion. But if I did not have the qualities and the qualifications that would make me fit for such a position, I revered her no less, in the end. I gave her my word that I would do as she asked.”

They watched her now. He voice had dropped; she knew it. She wasn’t accustomed to speaking in front of large crowds, and although she had learned some of that skill from simple observation of Amarais, she had never fully mastered it. But they heard her nonetheless.

Torvan was utterly still as she spoke, but not in his usual way; his attention wasn’t turned outward, as it was when he stood guard. He watched her, and only her.

“You have followed the Captains of the Chosen since your creation. You have
never
disgraced the vows you made.” She turned full to Torvan. “What did The Terafin ask of you, before her death?” She spoke clearly, cleanly, but forcefully. She meant to have the question answered.

He hesitated, but it was brief, and when he answered, his voice was the louder of the two. “She asked—as her final request—that I hold the Chosen for you.”

“And as a gesture of respect, of fealty, you agreed.”

He nodded.

She took a breath, glanced once at Celleriant, and then said, “It’s not enough.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“She’s dead, Torvan. If her last command to you was to support me, you are bound to a dead woman—one who will never give another command. Even so, her word will hold sway over mine. And as it’s me you’re going to serve, it’s me who’s saying: It’s not enough.”

She turned, once again, to the Chosen. “You no longer exist to serve
Amarais Handernesse ATerafin. She is dead. You serve the House, but the House is divided. Two of your number have fallen in their attempt to assassinate Gabriel ATerafin, and I
will not
have it, not of the Chosen. The House Guard, yes; they stand to make their fortunes here, if they back the right leader.

“But
not
the Chosen.” She took a breath, and said, “The Chosen will disband. They will disband this eve.”

Into the silence that followed her proclamation, came one sound: hooves against marble. The Winter King mounted the steps and came to stand to one side of her; it was becoming crowded.

“By what authority,” a voice came from below, “do you seek to disband the Chosen?”

“By my own. The Chosen were left intact so that they might guard and support me in my attempt to seek the House rulership. But without The Terafin, they are no longer Chosen. I am not—yet—The Terafin. I don’t have the authority to raise House Guards to the level of—of oathguard. I seek it. But I am not Amarais Handernesse ATerafin.”

To her side, Lord Celleriant drew not sword, but shield. A whisper traveled through the onlookers; breeze made heavy with syllables. Leaves drifted toward armored men from the heights above as the Winter King lifted his antlered head and gazed into their midst.

The Chosen shifted, their gazes suddenly reaching for the sky as something large flew above their standing unit and skidded to a screeching stop on cold marble. It wasn’t terribly majestic, but a winged, gray cat didn’t require majesty. Still, Shadow didn’t speak; he merely came to sit by her feet—closer to her person than either the Winter King or Celleriant.

“I will seek the House,” she continued, reaching out to lay one hand on Shadow’s head. “And I will do it with—or without—your support. But if I am to be given your support, it will not be because you feel obligated to honor the wishes of a woman who can no longer lead you. Pay her your respects, as is her due and her right, and then do as I have done: decide your own path and your own future without her.

“If you will serve me, you will serve
me
. I will take your oaths upon the same altar, and I will treat them with the same respect—but I will never be Amarais Handernesse ATerafin; she cannot be replaced.”

She turned to Torvan, who waited. “ATerafin,” he said gravely.

She smiled and shook her head very slightly. “Are you mine?” she asked him, her voice as soft as his.

He drew his sword and laid it across the altar; it was followed by his helm. He once again dropped to one knee—or he would have. But she’d done enough, endured enough, for one night; she caught his arm—made heavy and cold by metallic joints—and held it. He could have knelt anyway, but it would have been extremely awkward.

He couldn’t therefore offer her the one-kneed bow that served as very deep respect. He smiled as she touched the altar with her fingertips, her hands inches from the hilt of his sword. To lift it was to accept him.

“I understood your potential on the first day I saw you at the gates, with your ridiculously mismatched clothing, your den-mates, and your dying. But I was yours the night you came to the shrine to save my life.”