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.
Epilogue
6th of Henden, 427 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
HANNERLE 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.
Haval knew. He had lived with this woman for decades, had watched her slow shift from young, practical woman, to older, practical woman; he had watched her widen, watched her height slowly dwindle the way height will with age. Her hands, callused and strong, lay palms down across the folded counterpane; her face was pale, drawn. Had it only been that, Haval could have deferred a conversation he did not want to have, but Hannerle’s lips were compressed in a thin, thin line. She spoke seldom, answered in monosyllables, and took no company; Haval thought she would enjoy the company of either Finch or Teller, but both had been much occupied with the funeral. Nor would its aftermath leave them much time to play visitor.
It was evening, now, although the sun had only barely set; the sounds of merriment—and music—could be heard within the walls. The third day of a funeral was not supposed to be about death; it was a celebration of life, both one’s own and the life of the deceased. As such, the wine rooms of the manse had been opened—and possibly emptied; Haval, used to excess, was still moderately surprised at just how much men and women could drink.
But Hannerle, invited, had declined to attend; nor had Haval expected otherwise. She glanced at him when he entered the room, and then let her gaze drop to the hands that tightened, briefly, across the bedding.
“I want to go home,” she said quietly.
He was not surprised by her words; he was surprised that she had held them in for so long. The Terafin was not a woman to whom social visits to a clothier were a possibility, and Hannerle therefore had no personal attachment to her funeral. Nonetheless, she had waited until the end of the three-day rites to say what had so clearly been on her mind. Haval moved a chair closer to the bedside, and sat in it in silence, thinking, as he did, that she would sleep tomorrow; without Adam’s intervention, she would not wake.
“You know why that would be difficult,” he told her quietly.
“I know it would be, but I am willing to return to the Terafin manse—on my own—at the end of three days. I have no desire to sleep my life away, Haval.”
“Hannerle, we cannot say with any certainty that you will be wakeful for the whole of the three days, and if you return home and fail to wake—”
&nbs
p; “You can have me brought back.”
He was silent for a long moment. “Tell me, then, how am I to explain?”
“To who? Jewel already knows, and I can’t see that it’s anyone else’s business.”
“Hannerle—”
She now lifted one hand from its place in her lap. “I heard Jewel,” she said quietly.
The urge to misunderstand her came and went. “You heard her bespeak the water.”
“I heard every word she said, clear as church bells on my wedding day.” Having made her quiet statement, she waited, watching him, her lips still thin, her brows gathering above the bridge of her nose. Had it been in folds of anger, he would have found it easier. They were not; she was in pain, and had not yet worked the strange alchemy by which pain became anger. “You mean to help her take the House.”
“I do not think at this point she requires much help.”
“Haval—answer the question.”
It wasn’t a question, but he failed to correct her. “I mean to advise her, yes.”
“Is that all you mean to do? Advise?” These words were sharper, harsher.
“Hannerle—”
“You promised you were done with your old line of work. With all of it—the lies, the secrecy, the dangerous games. The deaths.”
“I have not broken that word. I am here in a different capacity; I am here because Jewel ATerafin considers me knowledgeable, even wise.”
“And she is fool enough to trust you.” The words were bitter. He had expected at least that much.
Before he could answer, however, the door opened. It had been pushed on its hinges by the white head of Snow, surely the world’s most unusual dressmaker. Hannerle’s hands became rigid, but she said nothing.
Haval, however, rose. “Snow,” he said, in the carefully modulated and respectful tone he used with the cat. “Why are you here? Why are you not beside Jewel?”
The cat hissed and flexed wings. He also flexed claws, causing visible damage to the carpet. “She told me to leave,” he said. “She wanted privacy.”
“And you obeyed her?”
“I was bored,” he replied, gaze sliding sideways and away from Haval’s inspection.
“She is now alone?” Haval glanced at the door, which was still ajar.
Snow snorted. “The ugly one is watching.” He hissed in a way that indicated laughter in the great winged beasts. “She told him to leave first.”
“Ah.” Haval resumed his seat. “I am afraid that if you are bored, we will be unentertaining. We mean to simply talk—quietly—for some time.”
“Oh, talk.” His ears twitched. “What about?”
“Sleep.”
“Talk, talk, talk. All anyone ever does is talk.”
Haval glanced pointedly at the door, and Snow, complaining the entire way, took what was only barely a hint. Haval did, however, rise to close the door firmly at the cat’s back.
Hannerle was watching the door. “They’re beautiful,” she unexpectedly said. He heard an echo of a much, much younger girl in her words—and voice—and was genuinely surprised. Hannerle was not a woman given to speaking about the beauty of anything.
“They are fractious, difficult and,” he added, glancing at the damaged carpet, “expensive.”
“They’re not meant to be house cats.” She clenched fists briefly, and then swung her legs to the side of the bed, abandoning it. Haval rose to offer her aid, and sat quickly when he received her thunderous glare in response. He hid his smile. This woman was the woman he had married. Her ferocious sense of personal dignity had not yet deserted her; it would do so only upon her death. Her death. He glanced at the floor and when he lifted his gaze again, she was watching his face, her eyes so narrow one could be forgiven for assuming they were closed.
“I like the girl,” she said. “I’ve always liked her. I disapproved—greatly—of her association with Ararath. I have never asked her to what use she put your lessons; I thought I might strangle you if she answered.” She set feet gingerly on the carpet. Her own weakness frustrated her, and she was perfectly capable of shunting that frustration to one side or the other, where it might fall on the unwary. “What have you done here?”
“We have never spoken openly about my work—”
“Haval.”
“I have made clothing, Hannerle—not the dress that Jewel herself wore, to my great despair. I have spoken at length with Jewel, and in brief with Teller and Finch. I have observed. More than that, I have failed to do.”
“And when will you start?”
Haval said nothing for a long moment. “My sources are not always exact when it comes to the interior working of any of the great Houses. I have every reason to be here; I have made use of it.”
“And you think you’re necessary, somehow? You think she’ll fail without you?”
A lie would have comforted her; Haval considered it. But she was Hannerle, and if he frequently omitted truth, he could not bring himself to lie to her. Not yet, although it might have made his life simpler. “She has allies that I did not expect; she has the cats, which I feel a very, very mixed blessing. But she has enemies beyond the scope of my experience, as well as the enemies I feel I understand quite well. I cannot aid her in any way I can see with the former—but given the situation, I feel it essential to aid her with regard to the latter.”
“It’s only advice?”
He was utterly silent. She understood. She stood, shaking slightly—he wasn’t certain if it was due to her weakness or the strength of her anger. But she did not order him out of her room; she did not attempt to leave it herself. Really, it was the best he could hope for.
“And when will it be over, Haval? When she’s Terafin? When she’s more? When will you stop?”
He said, without guile, “I will stop the moment you can wake on your own.”
She was silent, rigid, for a full minute. When she spoke—she started three different sentences before she gained traction with the fourth—she said, “Are you saying that you’ve made this choice because of me? Are you laying that at my feet?” He thought she might hit him; there was very little here she could bear to throw, none of it being her own.
“No.” He was careful not to touch her, but it was hard. She had always been so prickly in her pain. One had to almost pace around its walls, seeking a way past it. “This is, in its entirety, about me. I was—I am—content in our life. I know that I still pay far more attention than you’d like to gossip, but it is a small foible, surely? I enjoy making dresses. I enjoy running our shop.”
“But?” she demanded.
“I am not you, Hannerle. I cannot do it without you. The life that we lead—we lead it because I can be content in it if you are by my side. If you leave me, it would hold very little.”
“I won’t—”
“If you die. You cannot be woken by any power in this city except one, and it is only available here. I do not think it coincidental at this juncture.” He lifted both hands, as if in plea, although no trace of that action touched his expression. “I will not lie. I find it challenging. But I found the smaller life we built challenging as well, in different ways. I give you my word, Hannerle, the moment you can wake on your own, Jewel ATerafin, be she The Terafin or no, can come to my shop by carriage and take her fittings there.
“I will not say I will not give her advice, if she seeks it; I have given her what advice I can for half her life now. But I will not take part in her Councils.”
Hannerle, like Jewel, did not cry. “I want our life to mean more than that, to you.”
“You are the heart of life, Hannerle. But I am not a dramatic man; if you are gone, I will continue. I will build what I require in this House. I will begin anew.” He paused, and then said, “I want our life. I have always wanted it enough to give over anything I had built on my own. I want it enough now to be here, to have you here. I know it is not what you want—but can you not accept it, for now? I have sat by your side, I have given you water
, I have made the broths that you might swallow, and I have watched you dwindle.
“I will not watch you die if there is anything I can do to prevent it. This is what I can do.” It was almost enough. He sighed. “What I can offer Jewel is education; I cannot transform her into someone who might be more naturally suited to halls of power. What you cannot live with, Hannerle, she could not live with. What you would—barely forgive—she would never forgive. The entire situation must be handled with care—from the moment we engage, we engage without a full array of weapons at our disposal. I will not lie to you—I may lie to her. It is in my nature. I will not, however, perform services in her name—”
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