Skirmish: A House War Novel (90 page)

Because she’d wanted to pay her respects to a woman who was in no way capable of receiving them?

This
was the reason her Oma returned to haunt her, or at least things like this; her Oma’s voice had been dangerously absent.
The dead are just dead,
she thought. Her shoulders slowly began to unclench.
Only the living give meaning to death.

Yes
, the Winter King said. She lowered her chin, listening to the familiar timbre of his voice.
But look, Jewel; look well. Here, enemies are gathered upon the same ground; they do not lift sword or voice; they have set aside their subtle war. If the dead are just dead—and I will not argue such a fundamental point—the living are alive; this juxtaposition is a reminder. It is necessary, even for you.

Especially for me,
she thought.
It shouldn’t be, but it is. Rath, are you waiting for her? Will you finally speak?
Somehow, she doubted it; her smile was brief and hollow. The Exalted of Cormaris continued to speak, and as he did, she heard the low strains of simple music: someone was playing a harp. The details of the funeral—details which she, as a Council member, should have memorized—had been left entirely in Gabriel’s hands; the music came as a surprise to her. The bards of renown used their voices as weapons; strange, then, that the music itself could compel so strongly.

But it did. It was soft, somber, strangely gentle. She thought she could listen to it forever. The Exalted of Cormaris did not sing—but the music wound round his words, lifting them, elevating them. There were things that could be sung that couldn’t be said, and the flat, rhythmic patterns of a centuries-old sermon—at least—were given a sense of urgency and life by the notes that attended the syllables.

Jewel closed her eyes. In the darkness of lids and attention, she could suddenly see The Terafin, dressed in dark blue, her hair in a net, her face less aged, less harsh. She could see, clearly, the expression she wore; it was the first time they had met, and it had occurred in the safety of Amarais’ stronghold. House Terafin was Amarais’. But she had been confident enough that she had opened her home to Jewel and her den at the request of a brother she had not seen for decades—a brother she would never see alive again.

Rath had hated her. Hated her the way that only the loved can be hated.

She opened her eyes to see coffin, Exalted, and banner, and closed them again to see Amarais in the armor of Terafin, the sword of the House
strapped to her side beneath the glittering lights of the Terafin foyer. War had come to her House, and she intended to lead, to fight. She had seemed invulnerable at that moment—and less than an hour later, she lay dying, the marble floors broken, the chandelier strewn across what was left. She had survived that attempt on her life only with the intervention of a healer.

And that healer was also dead.

Amarais had been
so strong
, so wise, so certain—and there she was.

Alowan—dead. Morretz—dead. Courtne, Alayra, Alea—dead. Jewel forced her eyes open; it was so dark, suddenly. The three had lived to protect Amarais, each in their fashion. Was her death, then, their failure and a failure of their lives? She had given the whole of her life to Terafin; she had fought and survived one House War to win the right to rule it. She had built a Council that was strong enough to weather the wars that merchant houses fought in the streets, and there had been no war to depose her. She’d built well.

What did it mean now? She was dead; did everything have to crumble with her?

No,
Jewel thought.
I gave her my word.
But the truth? She wasn’t a strong enough person to live solely by word. Alowan, Alea, even Morretz—they were stronger than she; even Gabriel was, in his way. She needed more, and always had.

But she had built what she loved here. She had built around Amarais, and beside her. What Amarais valued, Jewel valued. Oh, not everything; Amarais loved the arts, and the very few pieces she personally chose to own did not, and would never, speak to Jewel in the same way. But the sword was named
Justice
, and it did. Amarais had given Jewel the House Name, and it had become so much a part of her, it
was
hers, now; it was part of who she was, and even part of who she wanted to be.

When she had first arrived at the front doors, literally penniless, all she had wanted—desperately, viscerally wanted—was a roof over her den’s head, a place where they could be safe.

What she wanted now was not so different; what had changed was the knowledge that it had to be built and it had to be defended. She could do both. Breath filled her lungs as she lifted her head, opened her eyes. Yes, she could do this. But she didn’t want to have to do it; she wanted—oh, she wanted what children wanted: Amarais back. She wanted the opportunity to tell her all of the things she should have told her before she left
for the South; she wanted the chance to ask advice, and to receive her oblique and sometimes harsh comfort.

What she had, instead, was this: the Exalted of Cormaris fell silent, bowing his head for a long, long moment above the coffin. Then he stepped back, lifted his arms, and called sunlight. In the gray and threatening clouds above the magical barrier, it was in very short supply—but it came at his call. A golden, diffuse light surrounded the bier upon which The Terafin had been laid. As the light spread, Jewel felt the warmth of summer breeze—without the stultifying humidity that usually accompanied it.

The Exalted of Cormaris spoke three long words in a language Jewel didn’t recognize. He then bowed to The Terafin and said, “Go in peace, daughter.” Shrouded in the brief, brief Summer, the Exalted of Cormaris turned to the other two sides of the triad; the Mother’s Daughter and the Exalted of Reymaris. They joined him, silent, their robes brushing flattened grass. Their priests remained by their thrones; they stepped into the soft, slow radiance alone.

They then began to speak.

Jewel had heard a variant of this speech very seldom; it was delivered, start to finish, in a language specific to the temples and cathedrals of the gods, and her Oma didn’t hold with churches. She had both admired and disdained the men and women who labored under the auspices of the Mother, and when ambivalent, her Oma kept her distance. In her Oma’s home, her distance was a distance observed by anyone who wanted to live in relative peace.

The light grew as the Exalted of the Mother and the Exalted of Reymaris joined the Exalted of Cormaris, and Jewel finally remembered where she had last seen it: in the Terafin manse, hours after the attack of the demons, their mage, and their
Allasakari
had all but destroyed the grand foyer. The Exalted had come to examine the bodies of the dead—Chosen, House Guards, and
Allasakari
, all—and they had labored under the warmth of just this light. Jewel stiffened; her hands did become fists. Did they think The Terafin somehow defiled
by
her death?

But she could not hold on to that anger. She had chosen to go South, and her understanding, in any visceral sense, of the events that had led to The Terafin’s death was therefore secondhand at best. She had no right to indignation, and it served no purpose. The Exalted of Reymaris and the Exalted of Cormaris fell silent; the Mother’s Daughter continued to speak.
The words she chose—in the strange, strange language of churches, hit Jewel, dislodging memory in the way striking events sometimes could. She had heard these phrases before.

Duster had spoken them in the undercity, while the earth rumbled and the distant sound of breaking stone grew closer and closer. At their backs were the biers upon which three preternaturally beautiful men lay at rest, and Jewel’s eyes widened as she turned, at last, to catch a glimpse of Celleriant.

He was there, in the distance, at the periphery of the space set aside for visitors. Gray-eyed—steel-eyed—he watched the Exalted, unaware of Jewel’s sudden, sharp glance. But his lips turned up in a slender smile—a smile as sharp as his narrowed eyes—at just that moment. He did not otherwise speak or move, and she slowly forced herself to relax; she quickly forced herself to turn her visible attention back to the Exalted, whose prayer was now coming to a close.

And what an odd prayer to grant Amarais Handernesse ATerafin—not a paean to the glory of the powerful, not a meditation on the admiration due the dutiful, but rather, a prayer for the homeless, the orphans, and the lost. Jewel didn’t understand the Exalted or the god-born; she was certain that if the House Council knew the full import of those words, they would have taken—silent—offense. She was ambivalent, in a way that reminded her uncomfortably of the sharp-tongued old woman who had raised her, and that lasted until the Mother’s Daughter turned—to her—her eyes golden and luminescent with open tears.

They were the tears one might shed for a child, and Jewel found herself transfixed. Amarais did not cry. She did not allow herself to show—and share—that weakness. Jewel, raised on the opposite end of the City in all ways that counted, hated to cry, for the same reason. But the Daughter of the Mother shed tears without fear; it was almost as if she shed them for Jewel, for Amarais—for all of the people here who had loved, lost, and could not reveal how deeply that loss affected them.

It was an act of generosity that almost broke her resolve.

But she knew, if Amarais truly watched from the confines of Mandaros’ long hall, that giving in to the overwhelming sorrow and loss would not please her; she held herself as stiff, as still, as she could.

Finch did not; Teller did not; Angel did not. Angel wept openly, although he stood as erect as Jewel herself. His hair, bound in its customary spiral,
attracted the odd glance from the patriciate; he was so inured to their reaction he failed to notice it. This woman had offered him her name, and had made clear upon his first refusal that it was his to take at any time he chose.

Like Alowan, he had never taken her up on the offer, but unlike Alowan, he could see a time coming—swiftly—when he might at last do so. Alowan had survived one House War; the rumbling skirmishes that heralded a second had taken his life. But he had prepared Daine to step into the breach his death would leave. He had been a peaceful man in all senses of the word, yet he had found a way to fight a war that he believed in.

The Terafin’s war.

The Kings approached the coffin when the Mother’s Daughter at last retreated; they did not speak in the strange language of the triad. They spoke in Weston, and they might have been bard-born; their words carried. The praise that the Exalted did not openly offer, the Kings did; they praised The Terafin for her loyalty, her vision, and her mercy. They acknowledged her as first among equals—words which did not rankle the visiting Ten. She was dead, after all; her House was now in the turmoil that death always causes among Councillors of ambition and power. They might benefit from her loss, for they were not themselves in a similar situation—but they would move with care, because they would be, in future.

Angel did not think them vultures, although had anyone chosen to ascribe carrion traits to them, he wouldn’t have objected. They were men—and women—of power. This is what the powerful did. Even The Terafin. Perhaps especially The Terafin, a woman who was sensitive to the shifts of power in other Houses, and in particular, the weaknesses that resulted.

She was a Lord worthy of the following she had built; he knew that, and acknowledged it. But he glanced at Jay, just once, while the Kings spoke, because Jay was not The Terafin—and Jay would need to build a following at least as strong if she meant to survive this day’s work. He would be there. The whole of the den would be there. Finch, with her roots in the Merchant Authority; Teller with his in the right-kin’s office; Carver, the den’s eyes and ears among the servants—through whom significant news traveled like fire across a dry, drought-stricken plain. Arann would be part of her Chosen, and what remained of the Chosen, she had.

But she had the cats, as well; Night and Snow were silent sentinels
now. They exuded power and danger—mostly because they were silent and still. She had Avandar, who was part of the den, and entirely separate from it; she had Lord Celleriant and the creature she called the Winter King. Any one of these would have been cause for fear and suspicion among the patriciate—but she had the trees, as well. He knew she would never surrender any of these while she lived.

Although the light that surrounded not just the coffin but the dignitaries that now rose around it shone like the heart of midday, Angel thought of night, of endless night. Of war, and its harbingers. Of the deaths that war inevitably caused. Although he acknowledged the loss of The Terafin with the tears Jay herself would not shed, he also thought it might—just might—be better, this way: this war was Jay’s war, and she had already begun to arm herself.

6th of Henden, 427 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

H
ANNERLE WANTED TO GO HOME. The finery of the manse—its carpets, its paneled halls, its profusion of both plant life and magelights—did not suit her; nor did the cavernous room in which she had woken to find herself situated. She had spoken, briefly, with Jewel ATerafin, but the small talk had done nothing to calm her nerves; worse, it had produced nothing useful with which she might ward off the worry that all but consumed her.