Nice to see that at least that custom had not changed, although Torvan ATerafin noticed the slight space between two open doors not because he was overly watchful—although today, he was—but rather because the low, deep laughter of a familiar voice wafted through them like an autumn breeze after a scorching summer.
The Terafin raised a peppered brow, her lips turning up in the only half-smile that had reached her face since news of Alea’s death had become known.
Torvan said nothing; he was well-trained to present the perfect dress face when the occasion demanded it. Today, if ever, was such an occasion. But he wondered, inwardly, what Jewel was laughing at, and hoped that it wasn’t—as it so often was—another one of the Council members. She could take laughter, herself; she always said she hadn’t much dignity to lose. But the men and women who marked the Council with their powerful presence were not in the habit of joining a social inferior in a joke at their own expense. She had offended Elonne and Haerrad more than once in the past year; she had offended Rymark and Corniel a dozen times each. Cormark and Alea had indulged her; Alea’s indulgence was over. It left Cormark as her sole staunch ally on a Council that had suddenly become more dangerous than any Southern Empire. Marrick had a wicked sense of humor, and dealt well with her gibes. Unfortunately, the only thing to recommend him over the others was his sense of humor, and Jewel ATerafin was no idiot, for all that she had come to the Council a young girl. Charm alone didn’t buy her allegiance.
What did?
Torvan smiled, and the smile was also genuine. Of all the ATerafin High Council—as opposed to the Merchant Council, for instance, although the High Council itself was a subset of what was usually considered the “working” body of Terafin—Jewel ATerafin held a special place in his memory.
She had, after all, saved his life when both he and the lord he both served and admired had determined that the only wise course was to end it. Why?
Because she was moved by a simple act of kindness. And he was impulsive enough to have offered it to a street urchin and her den of petty thieves, all desperate, one dying.
He had become the Chosen of choice when she required a special guard—and because of her talent, which was so very, very hard to keep hidden, it was required often. She was irreverent to the point of offense, but he found it hard to take any; there was about her the same dogged determination and the same sense of duty and responsibility—albeit to entirely different things—that he had long admired in The Terafin. If she had only taken to the finesse of political life as well as she had taken to the duties of merchanting routes—but she was Jewel ATerafin. Might as well ask for pigs with wings.
The Terafin paused, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin ever-so-slightly. It surprised Torvan; it was almost a gesture of . . . vulnerability. He gazed at Morretz, but all Morretz presented was a finely but simply dressed back.
It came to him for no reason, and it came with force. Jewel, he thought, almost missing a step between the threshold of hall and hallway, stay clean. Keep out of the politics.
They were gathered there like vultures, and she saw them clearly as exactly that for the first time in years. It was not a comparison much to her liking. Courtne had been cunning; his had been the formidable intellect. But Alea had had the heart of the House, its pulse her pulse, its people her people.
Beheaded, heart stilled, the Terafin responsibility fell across the shoulders of the woman who had once been merely Amarais Handernesse like a blow and a mantle. It had aged her, the taking of power, but not so much as the keeping of power had. She was tired.
But she was not yet dead.
The anger surprised her, although she had lived with anger for much of her life and had learned to make a weapon of it that was single-edged, aimed outward. She drew herself in now and looked at them all.
Cormark was old. Over the course of a day and a night, the age that she denied had seeped into his face, his hair, the line of his shoulders. She trusted him, but she thought, seeing him this day, that she could not lean heavily on him for support.
She was The Terafin; support was not required.
Elonne was, in carriage and poise, her match. She did not raise her voice, did not resort to tactics of raw power. Her size was diminutive; the only person in the room smaller than she was Jewel ATerafin, and Jewel ATerafin had never been considered a threat. Her hair was as dark as Amarais’ hair had been fifteen years ago; her back was unbowed by the daily requirements of labor. She was responsible for the merchant routes in the far South and the far West, and she had gained much in prestige and power by her handling of House fortunes in those areas.
She sat now with one hand, palm down, upon the surface of the table. Her House Ring caught the light of the chandelier above; a quiet statement. She met The Terafin’s eyes without flinching; without offering any reaction at all save a very, very slight inclination of head.
Was she capable of murder? Certainly.
As was Marrick, easily the most charming of the House Council, and almost as physically perfect as Devon ATerafin; he wore his age like the glowing patina on her most perfect silver. Nothing stooped or bowed him. He dressed well, but not flamboyantly, and spoke in a soft enough voice that he could seem, for long stretches at a time, to be almost self-deprecating; certainly self-aware. She liked Marrick; she had always liked Marrick. But she labored under no illusions. His heart was as remote as Elonne’s, and his ability to take a life with the same charm and good grace that he hosted a dinner had never been in question.
Still, it would hurt to know that Marrick was Alea’s killer. A pain she would never share with him.
Much better, for her, if Haerrad were the killer. Much better for them all. He was the throwback to the earlier years; there was not much in the way of civility about his temper, and his temper was prone to peak at unfortunate times. He was a brilliant strategist, Elonne’s equal where, sadly, Marrick was not—but he played too close to the line, and there had been an unexplained caravan slaughter or two that had forced her to political extremes in order to protect her House from censure. It had also forced her to remove Haerrad from all but the Southern routes. In the South, the deaths were often not reported, and it was just as likely that the caravan lost would be Terafin; the Voyani and the poorer clansmen were bandits by less pretty names. There, battle driving him to prove himself in the way he loved best, Haerrad shone.
His nose had been broken at least twice, his jaw once; his face bore scars of early encounters on the trade routes. He had a rough charisma about him—but it was the charisma that came with power, not the charisma that led to it. She had taken him onto the Council because her only other choice had been to kill him—and she had considered it very, very carefully. His death, on balance, would have hurt the House, but it was a near call.
She regretted that decision. Unfairly, but the silence behind the perfectly composed mask that she now wore was a safe place in which to be unfair.
That left only Rymark; Rymark ATerafin.
Of the four Council members with strength in numbers, support, and financial means, Rymark ATerafin was the most careful to keep to the shadows. She herself did the same; to hide behind a careful, studied neutrality was a trait that in most cases evoked respect, if warily given.
He was his father’s son in looks; taller than any other Council member, gaunter in build. His hair was streaked gray—and it had always been gray, even in a youth that she did not clearly remember. But he was his father’s son in looks alone, and the family resemblance was superficial enough that she only saw the father in the son when she turned to look at her oldest adviser, her oldest supporter, her most trusted ally.
The father had never sought power. The son sought little else. He had taken his first step on the road under the tutelage of the magi. That had been a relief to her, for it was the only strain that lay between her and Gabriel in their long year
s together: he had wanted his blood son to be ATerafin, and she, as always, was cautious about the giving of her House name. Of her name.
But the magi had given him a skill, and that skill was a thing of value; in the end, and perhaps foolishly, she had granted Gabriel his one selfish desire. And it was a single desire; he had never asked her for anything else so purely personal in the long years of silent service he had offered. Gabriel. Right-kin. And compromised.
Do you suspect your son, Gabriel? Parents could be so blind where their own children were concerned, but she could not—not quite—believe him so willfully blind. She wondered, idly, if Rymark was his mother’s son.
And her gaze passed on. Three Council chairs stood empty. Courtne’s. Alea’s. Corniel’s. The last she had shed few tears for—the same tears, in fact, that she might shed if any of the four who remained were to perish: Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, or Rymark. But beyond those empty chairs, set apart—as always—by the most convenient method given to her, sat Jewel Markess ATerafin. No longer the young girl, she seemed, still, an embodiment of things youthful. A sign, The Terafin thought, of age, that a woman over thirty can feel so much the defiant youngster.
Jewel’s dark hair was not so unruly today as it usually was, and her clothing was, indeed, of a fine material and an acceptable cut. She alone had chosen to bring no guards or attendants, but Avandar towered over her like a shadow, like a death for any whose approach was careless or inimical.
Of the four—Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, and Rymark—The Terafin thought that it was Marrick who stood the best chance of protecting the House and gaining for the House what the House needed in the future from the both the Council of The Ten and the Crowns.
But it was to Jewel ATerafin that her gaze returned, time and again, before she at last began her address.
Council meetings were often bearable because they represented a rare opportunity to catch up on sleep—if she were subtle enough about it not to catch Avandar’s attention which was, admittedly, not often.
But today there were no odious reiterations of a previous meeting’s minutes, no descriptions of what was to be discussed (although this often proved more interesting than the discussion itself), no maneuvering behind the scenes (which in this case often meant causing one) for presentation position, or worse, for “support.” There was The Terafin, and there were the ATerafin, separated by the chairs they occupied across the gulf of the suddenly huge table.
She sat; they sat. She rose, and when they moved to rise, she gestured them down with a cutting motion of hand through air.
“This will be a brief meeting,” she said softly, and for a minute Jewel could almost believe it would end in an execution. She cast a glance at the right-kin, but his complexion was going through a serious color change—enough of one that she knew he was as surprised by The Terafin’s tone as any of the other members of her Council.
For just a minute, The Terafin seemed to shake her age, gaining inches and power in the process.
“Courtne is dead. Alea is dead. Corniel is dead. For the last, I offer no great grief, as you are all intelligent enough to suspect. I will do you the favor, behind these very closed doors, in the privacy of a Council chamber that it is in your best interest to leave private, of not insulting your intelligence. Or taxing it overmuch.”
Stiffening, there, especially across Rymark ATerafin’s features. Jewel was certain that once Haerrad figured it out, he’d be purple. Elonne’s face did not change at all, and Marrick, damn him, actually smiled.
“I do not understand why you choose to play these games now—and they are games, make no mistake. A war of succession is generally held after the death of the ruler one wishes to succeed.
“I will remind you all that the decision of heir is made in Council by the council’s recommendations in accordance with my decision. I will further remind you that the last time a House ruler was assassinated, the House in question lost prestige in the Imperial Court, and for that reason, lost a great deal of both power and influence.
“The question of succession has been—and in future will be—left to the House; it was agreed upon when The Ten came to the Kings at the beginning of their reign over four hundred years ago. But in turn, it was agreed that the Houses would abide by the greater martial laws imposed by the Kings we had chosen to support.”
Restive movement from all of the House members but Elonne. Jewel didn’t much like Elonne, but the woman was made of steel, and steel was necessary in the rule of a House.
“Ah. I see you understand the rudimentary costs of a House War. I will, in that case, refrain from belaboring known history.” She put both hands, palm down, upon the table and leaned toward them, captive audience by force of her will alone. “Courtne was a reasonable choice as heir. He is obviously out of the succession. You will now, no doubt, argue among yourselves for the honor of a clear recommendation and a clear choice. I have no . . . difficulty with this.
“I have difficulty imagining that when the heir is finally chosen, there will be more than two of you left standing, and again, I have little difficulty with this. But Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, Rymark,” she said, her voice soft, her gaze harder than Elonne’s, “I will not see this House torn apart by your ambitions. Whether you die or not is of little consequence to me; it will be a loss to the House. Do not kill those who follow me because they have chosen to throw their future in with you, or worse, because they will not.
“Do I make myself clear?”
Silence.
Haerrad said quietly, “And if they die, Terafin?”
Jewel held her breath. It was not a question that needed asking, but having been asked, it was not a question that could be ignored. The Terafin did not utter threats; she did not rule by such extremes. What steel there was in her was sheathed until the last possible moment, and if she was capable of death—and she was—it was the death that more than simple expedience demanded.
She thought that The Terafin would make no answer; the silence stretched. Stretched for long enough that Jewel realized she’d forgotten to breathe while she waited.
And as she drew breath, The Terafin replied with a single word. “Justice.”
She turned then and left the room.
CHAPTER TWO
Evening of 10th of Lattan, 427 AA
Averalaan, Terafin Manse
Jewel had not had dreams like this for almost fifteen years, although she woke often from nightmare, and some of those nightmares twisted truth. No dreams like this since she had started to learn the limits of the talent she was born to. Not since she had accepted that the instincts by which her life was ruled could, occasionally and with great cost, be pointed. Not since she had run from the streets and the warrens of the twenty-fifth holding, the remnants of the gang of children—her den—that had survived their first contact with an old and terrible magic under the thin stretch of her shadow.
Seer-born.
The days with the den returned to her. Years in the most powerful House in the Empire would never remove them entirely; she had come to know, and accept, this truth. It made her something of a mystery to most of the powerful men and women who partook in the rulership of House Terafin; truthfully, it made her something of an object of disdain. But the disdain that there was was whispered and hidden—as if she was too stupid to be aware of it—because if she was from the streets, she was also of value to the House.
Seer-born.
She was Jewel, born Markess, raised to ATerafin, and she still felt the rawness of a scream against the walls of her throat as she sat bolt upright and waited in the darkened bedroom for the wing to come to life around her.
It happened slowly; the swing of doors in the distance, doors well-oiled enough that they did not creak, but not stiff enough that they did not slam—either into their frames or into the walls as they were pushed open or slammed s
hut. Then the shouting: There, Teller’s voice, just outside of Finch’s door; Jester’s voice outside of Angel’s. Carver was—ah, there. Swinging lamplight bobbing beneath the crack of her door. Light.
Her own lamp was guttered.
And, of course, no matter how familiar these friends, no matter how welcome, they would not be the first to arrive. There were three doors that led to this room. The first was the door from the sitting room beyond which lay the hall and the rest of her den. The second was a door that opened into an office—a room she still rarely used, preferring the comfort and the familiarity of the late night kitchen seen through oil-lamp light and sleep’s lack. The third door opened into the chambers which her domicis occupied.
And always, always, always it was that third door that opened first.
No exception tonight; in the shadows, Avandar crossed the threshold, neither lingering in the doorway nor appearing to hurry. She could see in the dark about as well as anyone else, but if Avandar was a shadow, he was a shadow who had substance and color and personality, all rooted firmly in memories, most of which still irritated her.
As domicis, he was, technically, her servant. As Avandar, he was like a keeper, but of what, she had yet to determine—and they had been together, as uneasy allies, since her sixteenth year. There probably wasn’t another domicis in the guild’s long and honorable history who could abide by technicalities so well without conveying any of the spirit of the law.
He’s handsome, Finch had said, and powerful; you can feel it.
Yeah. So’s a demon, and I wouldn’t want one serving me—you never know when the damned thing’ll get loose and rip out your throat. Or worse.
If the Terafin thought he’d be the best domicis for you, it probably means she thinks you’ll see a lot of trouble, Jay.
The years hadn’t made him any uglier.
Or any less arrogant, for that matter.
“Jewel,” he said. He knew better than to touch her.
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