“And he has not chosen to speak against her.” The single Lord in Allasakar’s service who had asked for no demesne offered the glimmer of a rare smile. “Kiriel has long lived by the law of the Hells, Etridian. You have offered her no alliance, made no pact, granted her none of the respect due her position.”
“Position,” Assarak said, “is a function of power.”
“Indeed. And had she none, she would have died long ago.”
“She has yours, Isladar.”
“Not now.”
“No. Now, she holds—”
Silence descended at once, cold and sudden; all eyes glanced a moment off Cortano’s still curiosity, off Ser Pedro’s implacable good humor.
“Enough,” Lord Isladar said. “Enough, Lord Etridian. This bickering is pointless. The kin will be taken from both the ranks of yourself and Lord Assarak—and the Lord has graciously agreed to summon one who can take the physical form of another creature, and not the mere appearance.
“The boy must die. His existence is an affront to our ability, and our strength.”
“And your . . . student?”
Isladar was silent a moment; Cortano watched with interest—always interest—as the will of Ishavriel and the will of Isladar clashed openly, and in complete silence. It was the only way he had seen them test power against each other. Of all, Ishavriel was Isladar’s greatest threat, and it was hard to gauge the depth of that threat; Cortano had seen each of the Generals display more power, and at that openly, than Isladar had ever displayed.
Which is why it should have come as no surprise to him that Isladar spoke first. But it did. “If Kiriel is hunting the kin, and I suspect there is a chance that she will do so out of spite, we must be prepared.”
“How much can she sense, Isladar?”
Again, Cortano caught a flicker of glances, all touching him briefly.
“I do not know,” Isladar said at last. “But I believe we can circumvent it—or better, use it against her.”
“How?”
“She is young; she is not experienced; she has not dwelled long among the humans. I believe, with the expedient use of magics, we may be able to convince her that there are kin where indeed none exist.
“In the event that we have that success, I believe she will likely kill—and with some obvious force—an innocent human, perhaps several, and in Averalaan, that will mark her. Let her run from our enemies, and draw their attention to her unique capabilities in the process.”
“And what,” Etridian said coldly, “makes you think that our enemies will be her enemies? It was in the hall of their Kings that she chose to attack me.”
“True enough. However I believe that until that moment the allies that she had did not realize her true colors; it may be that they will never do so without our . . . aid. They will look, and closely, when that same girl is busy slaughtering the citizens of their city with talents that only the darkness-born might possess.”
“They believe there is no such thing as one darkness-born.”
Isladar’s frown was a momentary crease of smooth skin. “Indeed,” he said softly. “Perhaps,” he added lightly, “they will assume her to be Allasakari.”
Etridian spit. “They will not. They will know—or the triumvirate will—that she is god-born. Just as you, or I, would know the kin, whether they chose the talents of the kialli or the use of man-made sword to spread their law.”
“Then let us pretend that our enemies are not fools. They will know her for what she is, sooner rather than late, with the aid of our misdirections.”
“And her death?” Ishavriel said quietly.
“If they can kill her,” Isladar replied, “then they will kill her. She has been raised in the Shining Court; she understands the price of that particular weakness.”
Lord Etridian nodded, well pleased; there existed no fondness for Kiriel in any of the kialli, save Isladar—and what his interest was, what his plan, none comprehended.
Not even Cortano di’Alexes. But he was, in this case, in the company of his peers; he found the ignorance on his part equally galling.
He turned and caught the profile of the chubby merchant’s still face; all smile was dimmed, and in the recess of a flesh formed partly of magic and partly of reality, the Sword’s Edge saw a glimmer of the knife’s edge, and was disquieted.
Who are you, Pedro di’Jardanno? What do you want from the Lord? More questions. He felt he would have their answer, and even that made him uneasy.
CHAPTER EIGHT
15th of Lattan, 427 AA
Averalaan Aramarelas
“Uh, Jay?”
She was up from the kitchen table in an instant, nervous at the sound of uncertainty in Finch’s voice. It was hot enough that the papers she’d been writing on clung to her hands as she lifted them. “Is it Teller?”
“No—he’s fine. Honest, sit down, he’s fine. Torvan’s set up a guard around the healerie; subtle, but definitely there.”
“Torvan wouldn’t know subtle if it tried to run him through.” Pause. “How did you know that?”
“Arann told me.” She was silent for a moment, and then she shrugged. “You’ve been really busy,” she added, in a tone that meant she was about to offer an explanation.
Jewel hated it when Finch felt she had to explain something—because in Finch’s book, an explanation was in line with an apology or an excuse. “And?”
“Well, we thought—with Kiriel and all—you’d need some help.”
“What kind of help?”
“Well, Carver’s ATerafin, and Angel’s not. So Angel’s gone out hunting in the thirty-second and the thirty-fifth.”
“Alone?”
“Not quite.”
“What the Hells does not quite mean?”
“He took Jester with him.”
“Finch—”
“We figured if there are kin, there are likely to be disappearances, deaths—something suspicious. We know those holdings better than almost anyone.” She took a breath. “Those and the twenty-sixth. Right next to our old holding.”
“Finch, I told you—we can find them.”
“Doesn’t hurt to find out how they got there. Look, Angel fits in there.”
And I don’t? Jewel wanted to say it, but she didn’t like the way Finch’s gaze skittered off her face. Better not to ask when she didn’t have time to be pissed off about the answer. “Okay. Arann and Carver?”
“They’re in charge of the watch around the healerie.”
“Well, at least you know how to mix good with bad. They’ve got a clue. Torvan doesn’t.”
Finch smiled. “We can take care of our own, Jay. You take care of—”
Silence. Jewel hated it. Because she knew what they were all thinking. They were like Chosen to her because she’d chosen them. They weren’t, and could never be, counselors; they didn’t have—excepting only Teller—the skill it took with numbers, the understanding of the broader political concerns, external or otherwise, that seemed to dictate the House course. But she didn’t need another counselor beyond Avandar, and she could barely stand him.
“Oh, and Jay?”
“What?”
“One more thing before you go back to your papers.”
“What?”
“There’s a long-haired mage waiting in the sitting room to see you.”
“Long-haired—Finch! Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
She smiled. “I hate the way he thinks his concerns are more important than anyone else’s. But I suppose his temper’s worse, too. I’ll send him in now.”
“You’ll do no such thing! I’ll meet him in the—”
But the door was swinging in the wake of the slightest, and most cunning, of her den. Oh, no. None of Jay’s den would ever
make a good politician; pool their skills, and you’d come up with one mediocre politico among them.
Excepting only their leader. Their leader, damn her, had shown some skill at word-dances and postures.
Meralonne APhaniel came into the kitchen.
It was not the custom of Jewel Markess to meet him there; indeed, anyone she did not consider part of her circle of intimates was confined to the library or the small meeting hall, where she could wait upon them in all manner of correctness.
She had servants assigned by The Terafin to her wing; that they were, each and every one, ATerafin, had escaped no one’s notice, least of all Jewel’s. None of these servants came, however, to the kitchen without her express permission, and very few—except to cajole her with food—interrupted her by so much as knocking. Their pay was from the allowance The Terafin granted, and Jewel was generous enough with it, seeing in them as much ready service as she did in the Council members themselves.
Jewel rose as the unmistakable sheen of long, white hair caught the light that came in through the windows. “Member APhaniel,” she said, covering her momentary discomfiture with a low bow.
He favored her with a perfunctory one in return, fixing her face, as she rose, with the cool gray of steel eyes. “ATerafin,” he said.
She was comfortable around Meralonne APhaniel in the same way she was comfortable around Duvari; she knew that she could trust him absolutely to do all in his power to protect the things he had vowed to protect. If that meant throwing her life away, she could count on that as well—but she knew where she stood, and that was something.
Meralonne was tall; old, although age seemed to be a thing he could slough off at will, and his presence was such that she always wanted to take two steps back when she drew his particular attention.
In fact, the only time she was ever truly comfortable with him was when he’d forgotten himself enough to curse like the rest of her den did; it made him seem human, when so little else did. “W-what may I do for you?”
“I believe that you are about to embark upon a dangerous task—one which it is in our best interests that you not fail.”
Jewel pushed the hair out of her eyes and exhaled. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“You should be, Jewel ATerafin; you are not, as most of your compatriots delight in being, dense and unobservant.”
True enough, although she could do without the gratuitous insults to her den. On the other hand, Finch had kept him waiting. Observant. She looked at Meralonne APhaniel and didn’t at all like what she saw there, because she knew, of a sudden, that he was girded for battle. His robes were not the usual robes, and he wore, of all things, a shield. No scabbard.
“You have,” he continued, when she didn’t take advantage of his silence quickly enough, “two full days until the running of the gauntlet. Three days, including this one. The hour is still quite early, but I see you’ve not chosen to depart.”
“Depart?”
“Jewel—ATerafin. Duvari, the Lord of the Compact, chose this morning to deliver—in person—a writ of some urgency. It seems he wished to demand a writ of exemption from the Mysterium and the Magisterium.”
Jewel ran her hand over her eyes. It was a gesture that was becoming far too familiar. “Let me guess,” she said. “The Council of the Magi was only willing to bypass the necessary investigations and magisterial seals—even though the demand came from as close to the Kings as possible—on condition that one of the Magi selected, of course, by the Council, accompany the person or persons the writ’s intended for.”
“Very good.”
“Not acceptable.”
A silvered brow rose. “I see you pay the same respect to authority you always did.”
She shrugged. “I joined it.”
And was rewarded by a smile. “Yes. Jewel Markess ATerafin, this is not the first time we will have worked together, looking for signs of the kin in the streets of the city. Indeed, one might say that we have the leisure of knowing that this time, only a few lives, and not the whole of the Empire, are at stake.”
She wasn’t fooled by his manner.
“I don’t need your help, Meralonne.”
“You don’t have a choice. You want the writ, and I accompany it.”
Before she could speak, there was a gentle knock at the door; an expected knock. She bit her lip—bad habit, that—and looked at the mage. His legs were planted slightly apart, his arms crossed. She didn’t much care for pipe smoke except on odd occasions, when the day was lazy and the hint of a father long dead was carried by it. As she was never that peaceful around him, he chose not to smoke. He’d ignored it, when she was younger. She couldn’t remember, suddenly, when he’d started to pay attention.
Jewel. Markess. ATerafin.
“Meralonne—”
The door swung open.
Framed by it, frozen in place the moment her eyes lit upon Meralonne APhaniel, was the newest, and the youngest, member of Jewel’s den.
Kiriel di’Ashaf.
“I see,” Meralonne said softly, but completely without surprise. He gave Kiriel a bow that showed Jewel just how little respect a member of House Terafin garnered by comparison; it was a deep bow, a thing of back and head, an elegant, graceful movement that somehow seemed too fine for Imperial courtesy.
Her dark eyes moved from his bent form to Jewel’s face at once.
Jewel didn’t like what she saw there, but she wasn’t surprised by it either. Suspicion and certainty. “I didn’t send for him,” she told Kiriel.
Meralonne, damn him, said nothing at all.
But then again, she didn’t need his corroboration. She took a breath, feeling her age for the first time in years. Thinking that at sixteen this would have been easy, because at sixteen it wouldn’t have occurred to her that someone she’d taken as one of her own could ever doubt her intentions. She had to find the sixteen-year-old in the thirty-three-year-old, and for the first time, realized that they weren’t the same. Oh, she knew it, she’d always known it—but the intellect and the heart didn’t learn at the same pace.
“Why is he here?”
“I told you about the Magisterium, right?”
“Yes.”
“The Mysterium?”
“Yes.”
“The Council of the Magi?”
Suspicion gave ground to irritation. “Yes. Why is he here?”
“Use of magic in the city—where it can be proved, or where it’s reported—is illegal without the writs. Certain places get writs the way we get fresh bread, and you expect to suffer through magic if you go to them.”
“And?”
“We need a writ of exemption.”
“Then get one.”
“We also need a writ of execution. In combination, if we’re to—” She exhaled heavily. “Meralonne,” she said. “Leave.”
“No.”
“Leave, or I’ll summon the Chosen and have you escorted out the hard way.”
His smile was thin, his gaze thinner. “I don’t believe that that would be the wisest course.”
“And I should care what you believe?”
Kiriel drew her sword.
It should have been silent, dammit, it was silent—but the sword drew the attention and held it. It was not in motion, but it was; there was about the blade an eternity of a darkness that Jewel had seen only once. Her hands were in motion as her gaze was held captive; she knew that she was drawing dagger by the cold feel of its hilt in her palm. Stopped, then, because no matter what, Kiriel was one of hers. You could hit 'em, shake 'em, shove them if you had to to get their attention—gods knew it wasn’t always easy—but you didn’t pull a weapon on them.
Especially when the weapon they’d pulled was theoretically pulled in your defense.
; “Kiriel—”
Meralonne APhaniel did the unthinkable.
He pulled his sword. Or rather, he called it. And she remembered his sword. His shield was dim and ordinary, as if it could no longer be touched or tainted by magic, but his sword was a match for Kiriel’s, day to its night, blue light to its black darkness.
“She asked you to leave,” Kiriel said softly.
Meralonne did not reply.
“APhaniel,” Jewel said, “this is a poor way to start.”
“Is it?” He did not look at her; did not look away from Kiriel or the weapon she bore.
“Yes,” Kiriel said softly. “There is truce between us. We fight the same enemy here.”
“Then you must have no complaint about my inclusion. We are, after all, allies. Do you know who she is, Jewel?”
“Does she know,” Kiriel countered, stung, “who you are?”
Silence.
Jewel broke it. Jay broke it. “Yes. I know who she is.”
“Oh?”
“She’s Kiriel di’Ashaf, and she’s taken the only oath I ask for. She’s part of my den.”
His momentary surprise was palpable. It did not last. “Have you seen fit to mention this . . . shift in allegiance to The Kalakar, or her Ospreys?”
“Arann ATerafin is one of my den,” Jewel replied, defiant, and irritated to be so. “He serves the House with no less binding an oath.”
“You do not know the oath Kalakar requires.”
“I don’t much care. We’re not talking about Kalakar here.”
“Kiriel will be Kiriel di’Ashaf AKalakar if she serves well, and if that is her desire.”
“So?”
“Jewel—”
“Meralonne, leave it be.”
“No.”
“I know what I—”
“You are perceptive, as befits the talent you were born to. But might I remind you that you did not see the near-death of young Teller?”
Stung, she opened—and closed—her mouth. Years under the service of The Terafin gave her at least that. “How do you know about Teller?”
His smile was disarming, not so much because it was sudden and unexpected—although it was both—but because it was almost rueful. “We are all on edge, and the edge dulls our caution and our wit,” he said softly, turning to face her. “Devon.”
The Uncrowned King Page 22
