Skirmish: A House War Novel (64 page)

“You didn’t appreciate it at the time, as I recall.”

A glimmer of pain tightened his lips, no more. “We often learn to value what we’ve been given only years after the fact. I will serve you with my life, ATerafin. What you want for and from the House, I honor as I can by my choice.”

She lifted his sword. The altar beneath it was far warmer than it should have been, given the cool air. She had seen The Terafin do this before, but The Terafin had always made the swords seem so weightless; Torvan’s was heavy. Her hand shook, although she’d been prepared for its weight. She returned it to him. “Will you be my Captain?” she asked, voice trembling slightly. She lifted his helm and returned it to him; he held it in the crook of his left arm.

He nodded and she turned to Arrendas. Arrendas was watching her with an expression very similar to Torvan’s. She felt less certain of herself as the minutes passed. But he, too, drew sword and laid it across the altar; his helm followed. “You never saw her when she was younger,” he told Jewel. Mindful of her intervention with Torvan, he didn’t sink to one knee. “You can’t see the ways in which you’re alike.”

“And you can?”

“Yes, ATerafin. You’re right—you’ll never be her. But she,” he added, and turned, and met the gaze of the Winter King full-on, “would never have been you, either. I swear that I will serve you and defend you with my life.”

“And will you be—”

“Captain? If the Chosen are disbanded, you may have little need of one, never mind two.”

“I don’t know how many men you need under you before you get to call yourself a captain; apparently you need several thousands before you get to call yourself The Terafin.”

His gaze was measured, almost calculating. “How many of the Chosen do you think you’ll retain?”

“At least one more,” she replied, voice low. “I wasn’t even certain you would stay.”

“If we’re being that honest, ATerafin, I was not entirely certain either. I think it unwise to disband the Chosen, but you have already made that decision.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“No. Unwise and wrong are not the same. Understand that your age works against you among the Chosen; you are young.”

She nodded.

“But your companions work in your favor, because they feel ancient, and they are willing to serve you.” He looked at the assembled Chosen. “You will not retain many,” he finally said.

“No. But I can’t use them as they are.”

“When you rule,” he replied, “it is a skill you will need to learn. Most of the men and women who bear the House Name serve the House; not you, not The Terafin, but the House itself. Each such man and woman has opinions and ideas about how the House is best served.”

“I know. But I can’t watch my back while I’m fighting.”

“That, too, is a skill that would benefit you—but we will watch your back, ATerafin.”

Shadow snorted. Loudly.

She drew breath and once again spoke to the crowd. “I have said you are not forsworn. Your oaths were given to Amarais Handernesse ATerafin, and received by her; I am not her. What you owed The Terafin, you do not owe me. I will ask it,” she continued, as murmurs once again wound their way through the Chosen, “but I will hold no grudge, bear no ill will, to any who do not choose to offer me their service in the way they once offered it to The Terafin. Stay, or go, in honor.”

She watched as the Chosen conferred with each other, trying hard not to catch their words. She knew—who better?—that she wasn’t Amarais; knew that she couldn’t be. She’d given the fate of her den into The Terafin’s hands; she’d trusted her almost absolutely. It was a trust that she’d
been incapable of extending to herself, a decade and a half past. She didn’t honestly feel that she could trust herself that way now. But she did feel that there was no one else that came close, and that was enough.

The Chosen began to slip away, down the path and toward the other shrines—or the manse. They were lost to sight beneath the open sky. It was dark, and if starlight and moonlight shone in the crisp, cool air, it silvered everything, and illuminated only one fact clearly: of the seventy men and women who had gathered at Torvan’s command, perhaps two dozen remained upon the short grass and the interlocking stone.

Two dozen, she thought. It was better than she had hoped for.

The first to mount the stairs was Arann; she recognized him because he had removed his helm. He looked pale and tired, which is about how she felt. She smiled, weary; his smile was stronger. He set his helm upon the altar first, and then unsheathed his sword and laid it down as well, and she thought it fitting: armor first, weapon second.

She wanted to tell him that she didn’t require his oath, but it wouldn’t have been true: she did.

“We’re supposed to have three days to decide,” he told her.

“I don’t have three days. And I don’t think three days is going to change anyone’s mind—not in my favor, at any rate.” But she drew an even breath. “I chose you,” she said quietly. “Twenty years ago, I chose you. You followed me. You stayed by my side when we were almost starving. You stayed when we suffered losses, and when we faced death. You stayed when you realized I
couldn’t
protect you.”

“I knew you would try,” he replied, his voice soft where hers was pitched to carry. “I knew you would never stop trying. I couldn’t do less, Jay. I won’t. Whatever you need me to swear, I’ll swear.”

But the altar was warm against her palms. “I think this is enough.” She lifted his sword and returned it to him, dismayed by its weight. When he’d sheathed it again, she retrieved his helm. “Arann—”

“I’ve always been one of yours.” He saluted, a full Imperial salute. She both hated and loved it, at the moment. But he didn’t remain beside Torvan and Arrendas; he saluted them both in turn and then retreated. That was probably for the best, given the size of the shrine and the number of men who waited below, but she wanted to call him back.

She didn’t.

Gordon came next, and his smile was broad, loud; he had a voice, when he bothered to pitch it, that could have been bardic, it carried so cleanly.
He didn’t have a quiet voice, on the other hand. He set his sword and his helm on the altar, and then he saluted her.

“Will you serve me?” she asked.

“With my life.”

“Will you bear the burden of my trust and my faith, even if you feel it misplaced?”

His blue eyes rounded at this departure, and he glanced at his captains. If their expressions gave him any answers, it didn’t show in his. But his face grew more thoughtful. “Yes, Jewel. I will keep my faith with you even in the gravest hour of my doubts.”

“Thank you.” She lifted his sword and returned it to him as Marave approached the shrine behind him. Marave was older than Torvan, but not as old as Alayra had been when she had been assassinated. Her hair was iron gray, now, and it was very, very short. She unsheathed her sword, held it up a moment, and then placed it on the shrine. Her helm followed.

Jewel asked the same questions she had asked of Gordon; Marave’s answers were slightly different, because Marave generally had no time for something like doubt. It served no purpose, in Marave’s mind, since it wouldn’t change her course of action.

After Marave, came Corrin, and after Corrin, Kauran. She took their oaths and their salutes and watched as they retreated into a looser, but obvious, formation. Arrendas left the pavilion and joined them, standing at their head as they faced the shrine.

But when Elton placed his sword upon the shrine, the Terafin Spirit moved. He came to stand across the altar from that sword and the helm that followed; his face was the white of death, his eyes the black of loss, as Elton gave his oath to serve and succor.

The sword’s blade cracked and blackened as Jewel’s hand hovered above it.

“There was a reason,” the Terafin Spirit said, in a remote and cold voice, “that The Terafin took the oaths of her Chosen upon this altar. These are the men and the women who
must
be trusted, and they must be worthy of that trust.”

Elton took a step back, narrowly avoiding a tumble down the stairs; his mailed heel wobbled. He had enough balance to retain his footing, but not enough composure to shutter his expression; his face had paled and his eyes had widened. It was those eyes that now sought Jewel’s.

“It appears,” she said, almost wryly, “that your oath was false.” She raised her voice. “I have said that I will hold no grudge against those who will not vow to serve me. I am not so generous with those who have attempted to deceive. So I say to those remaining, those who wish to serve another master, leave now. This is the shrine of the House, and your will and intent will be known.”

Elton’s eyes were still wide, but this time, he spoke. “This is impossible. It must be magery. Only The Terafin can command the properties of the altar, and only The Terafin—”

“If by magery, you mean magic, then yes, of course it’s magic.” Jewel almost spoke in Torra, and reined herself in with effort. Her hands were clenched in the type of fists that implied someone was about to be hit, and soon. “If you mean to imply that it’s
my
magic, you’ve been drinking, smoking, or you’ve always been a
moron
.”

Torvan cleared his throat; Jewel ignored him.

Shadow said, “Can I
eat
him?”

“You’ll just choke on the bad bits,” she snapped, her eyes never leaving Elton’s face. “I haven’t demanded anything of you. I’ve asked. I’ve asked politely,” she told him, in as reasonable a voice as she could muster. “As far as I can see, the only liar here is you. If you feel guilty or humiliated,
good
. But don’t confuse
my
actions or motivations with yours. I intend to serve the House. I intend to rule it. I intend to rebuild the Chosen. I’ve made this clear; I can try to use smaller words if it’ll help.”

“You aren’t The Terafin—the altar should do
nothing
.”

“Demonstrably whoever told you this was wrong.”

Elton’s jaw snapped shut. It would have been gratifying if it had been because of anything Jewel had said; she was aware, however, that it had more to do with Celleriant’s sudden motion. She caught his shoulder. “No one is to be harmed here. Not in this shrine.”

“I have no objections,” the Terafin Spirit said.

“
I
have,” she snapped back. “And last I checked, the dead don’t rule here.” Shadow, however, had also risen to his feet; only the Winter King and Torvan—gods bless Torvan—stayed their ground. Turning to Elton, she snarled, “
Leave
.”

He did. He was visibly shaken in his retreat.

Grim, Jewel addressed the rest of the men and women who waited to mount the shrine’s stairs. “If you have nothing to offer me, leave.” She lifted the hilt of his sword; it was cold. The blade, in the shrine’s light,
was obviously damaged beyond repair. She set it down on the shrine’s marble floor and rose.

Three of the Chosen detached themselves from the men who remained and headed, in silence, down the garden’s path and away from a meaningless vow. But one—in the darkness, she couldn’t clearly see who, turned at the edge of that path. He tendered her not a salute, which would have been meaningless, but rather, a perfect bow.

“Twenty-one,” she told Torvan quietly, the fires banked by the unexpected gesture.

“Twenty-one, ATerafin,” he replied. He was smiling, although the smile was both slight and sharp.

“Is twenty-one enough?”

“It will be.”

She then took up her place by the altar’s side, and in the growing darkness of the night, she accepted the oaths of the men and women who remained. When it was done, she was both tired and hungry, but as the men didn’t complain, she felt she couldn’t. Her stomach mostly agreed as she descended the stairs and joined the not-quite-Chosen on the grass.

Torvan joined her, but Celleriant and the Winter King retreated. Shadow, however, did not—and he made certain he was walking between the Captain of these House Guards and their Lord, or at least he did until she told him to walk on the
other
side, as she had two.

She knew that the men who had left the gathered crowd would report to whomever they meant to serve; her announcement of her candidacy had been made earlier than she’d intended, and not perhaps in the most well-thought out way. But it was done. She led the men to the West Wing; they followed in a sober silence.

Ellerson’s silence was less sober when they began to file in through the wing’s doors; she sent them into the great room. Only Torvan remained on the same side of the doors she had. Ellerson glanced at Torvan, and then turned to Jewel.

“I have taken the liberty of having a meal—a simple meal—prepared, as you’ve missed the late dinner hour in the halls. I was not certain as to the number of your guests, but Avandar guessed there might be twenty in total.”

There were more. Jewel’s stomach complained again, and she ignored it. “I suppose we’d be breaking all the rules of etiquette if we just ate in the great room?”

Ellerson failed to hear her for a minute, after which he nodded. “Not all of the rules, no. But the food will be laid out on the dining table, and if you feel the dining room is too small, some accommodations can be made.”

Angel and Carver were waiting for her in the dining room when she entered at the head of the Chosen. No, she thought, grimacing, she couldn’t really call them that anymore. Ellerson had set up a sideboard with plates and cutlery, and she pointed the guards in the direction of the food. Arrendas paused long enough to tell her that Gabriel was also in the great room, and would be joining them for food shortly. This was the only thing said that made Ellerson almost visibly cringe, but he made no comment.

“Ellerson said you were looking for us?” Carver asked. Angel was eyeing the food—or the guards; with Angel, it was sometimes hard to tell.

“I was—a few hours ago. Where did you two go?”

“We were down in the holdings, with a side trip to the Port Authority. Are you planning on fighting a small war here tonight?”

“I’m not planning on it, no—but to date, none of my plans have been reliable.”