“You are certain of this?” The Terafin asked.
Arrendas nodded grimly. The moon was almost full, and the light it cast still considerable in the personal library of The Terafin. At her back and to the left, Morretz stood, arms behind his back. He looked up as the sound of heavy steps broke the silence.
The Terafin nodded, her eyes dipping to tabletop and back. Morretz detached himself from her back and walked toward the door. After the events of this evening it was almost disquieting to see them separated; it was as if shadow cast by light had peeled itself off the ground and gone its separate way.
Which was stupid. Fanciful. Jewel was too old to shake her head, but not too old to call herself an idiot. She did so freely but quietly as she watched The Terafin’s face.
Tonight, she looked old. There were lamps, both on the table and the wall; there were mage-lights, but they’d been spoken into a softer glow, being of the expensive variety where words actually had an effect. Combined, they cast the worst kind of shadows—the ones that brought out the hollows rather than hiding the flaws.
Arrendas rose; the sound of his chair brushing floor caught her attention.
Torvan ATerafin entered the room. He walked to where The Terafin sat and fell to one knee before her, bowing his head. Breath didn’t come easily to him, but that wasn’t surprising; Jewel hadn’t expected to see him for another hour at best.
“Terafin.”
The woman who ruled them all reached out then, placed a hand on his head. He lifted his face, and their eyes met. Jewel couldn’t see his face; his back and the table obscured it. But she could see The Terafin’s, and it scared her.
“You have not failed me,” The Terafin said, “and you will not. Rise.”
He rose; in all things, he did as she commanded; he was one of her Chosen, and would do no less. “Captain Arrendas,” she said softly, and he nodded; he had already risen, as if expecting something.
“Captain Alayra was poisoned tonight, probably by the same hand that sought the death of Alowan. My apologies, Jewel, but I believe it clear that Angel and Teller ATerafin were an afterthought, a way of ensuring no witnesses to the deed.” She raised a delicate hand to forehead, fell silent a moment, then took a breath, bracing herself by the arms of her chair.
“We have had two captains for almost ten years now.”
But Alayra had been retired. She was accorded the honor of her rank, and more; she was given the responsibility of training the House Guards from which, in time, the Chosen would be selected. She was an excellent weaponsmaster; she had been an excellent Captain. They had been together, Alayra and Amarais, a long time.
That was what was wrong. They had been, in as much as they could be from such disparate backgrounds, friends. The Terafin had just lost one of her oldest friends. That was not a surprise to Jewel. What was—and she was ashamed to realize it—was that The Terafin was grieving.
She had never seen grief, not like this, not from this woman. She’d resented the Hells out of its absence time and again, but she had accepted it; The Terafin was, in the end, the woman against whom all strength was measured. And against all odds, she’d been strong.
She’s allowed, Jewel thought. She’s allowed to be human, gods curse it. But she felt it as a blow, as a loss, to see this woman laid bare, even in as subtle a way as this.
The lamplight caught the tears that hovered in her eyes; they were unshed, yes, but they were there.
“Torvan ATerafin,” she said, “you have served me well; you have survived the most difficult events that the House has yet seen, and survived your unwilling part in them.”
Old history: Torvan had once been a demon’s momentary vessel, and the weapon by which that creature had struck at Terafin. At The Terafin. Arrendas bowed his head. Torvan did not bow his.
“It was not easy. But I think it will be easy compared to this.”
He said nothing, waiting. She looked at his face, and then beyond it. Beyond them all. “Do you remember what the House at war was like? Were you there, Torvan?”
“Barely,” was his soft reply.
“I remember,” she told him. She took a deep breath and then seemed to shake off the gloom as she straightened her shoulders.
“I choose, therefore, to continue the tradition of two Captains for the Chosen.”
Jewel glanced at Arrendas; he had grown still.
Torvan was silent for a moment. And then—typical of Torvan to be so slow, in Jewel’s opinion—he realized what she was offering him. “But—”
The first smile of the evening graced The Terafin’s face. “You think I honor you. You think I offend Arrendas, and you may well be correct—if you believe him to be so small-minded as that.”
He offered no reply, and her smile broadened. “You have not yet said you will accept this honor.”
“I am—I am Chosen,” Torvan replied. Then, with more confidence, “I am Chosen; I will do whatever you believe is necessary.”
Her smile dimmed somewhat. “I know it,” she said softly. “All of my Chosen would. Do you remember what happened to his Chosen?”
It was such a strange question they all stared at each other in confusion before they realized that The Terafin spoke of her predecessor.
“No,” Torvan said softly.
But Arrendas bowed his head.
“Captain Arrendas?”
“Yes,” he said. “Alayra made it clear to me when I took my rank.”
“When I die,” she said quietly, “what do you imagine will happen to my Chosen?”
“If you die at the hands of one of them,” he said, tossing his head in the direction of the library door, and through it, the ATerafin who were gathering for war, “we’d die.” He shrugged. “One way or the other, we’d die.”
“Yes,” she said starkly. “You are all ATerafin, and when I die, those who seek the high seat will not be able to trust you enough to keep you as part of the House—but they will not be able to expel you either; to take your names from you in such a fashion devalues the name, and my memory—it is too public. Easier by far to kill you all.”
“And you made that choice?” someone said unexpectedly. It was, of course, Jewel.
“I? No,” The Terafin said softly. “But The Terafin before me did not fall to unnatural causes. The Chosen—his Chosen—retired; they left the House, or at least the city, because they had no desire to choose another master to serve—because the choice would have split them, and they had served most of their years with the Chosen as an indivisible unit.”
“Would you do that?” Jewel asked abruptly, turning in her chair to face this newest of Captains. “Would you retire if she died?”
“No,” The Terafin said softly, “they will not. The Chosen of my predecessor retired because he died peacefully—and they ascertained that by whatever means necessary; they were not, as my Chosen are not, stupid. Had he been murdered, they would have had one more duty.”
Jewel stared across the table at her Lord, finally hearing what had been said, although she’d been trying to ignore it. Maybe they all had. She bowed her head, and when she raised it, there were tears on her cheeks. Because she knew, she knew, that The Terafin was right.
“They won’t choose well, you know,” she said softly.
The Terafin met her gaze. Waiting.
“They—none of them—are capable of choosing men and women who are worth the title of Chosen. What kind of a man or woman chooses to work for a murderer?”
“Jewel—” Torvan said, lifting a hand.
“They’ve proved tonight that they aren’t even worthy of the name Terafin.”
“One of them has,” The Terafin replied reasonably. “And now,” she added, rising, “I would have two men summoned. Gabriel, because I wish his strength and wisdom, and Haerrad.” The two Captai
ns exchanged glances. “No, gentlemen, it is not as simple as that. I like Haerrad no more than you, and in fact, a good deal less. A good deal. But I have never understood him to be a stupid man. To use his own, his easily identifiable men, in a slaughter of this type—that would be, in my opinion, inexcusable stupidity.
“Therefore we are looking at someone who had already managed to offend Alowan, and who fears that Haerrad is the most likely contender for the high seat in my absence.”
“That would be all of them,” Jewel said, without thinking. Jewel, who wouldn’t admit for the world that she had assumed that Haerrad was the guilty party.
Captain Torvan—Captain in the space of minutes—said, “But, Terafin, it’s clear that they didn’t expect resistance. Had the eight arrived with no warning, they would have easily killed Angel and Teller, and almost as easily removed Alowan’s head from his shoulders. Done quickly, they could have left.”
“They were eight men. They were seen by someone on the way to the healerie.” She lifted a hand to her forehead. “I am concerned, at times, but I have faith in my retainers. Jewel, you will attend as well.”
Jewel ATerafin bowed her head. “I don’t suppose,” she said, turning to Torvan, “that you brought—”
The door swung open. Avandar stood in its frame, two Chosen at his back. He was, from her brief inspection of his expression, in a foul mood.
“Never mind.”
He understood what it meant. When Jewel ATerafin left the room at the side of a domicis who was as close to murder as he’d ever seen one come, Torvan turned to The Terafin. Watched her watching the doors as they closed, in a strained, an uneven, silence.
“We didn’t all retire,” he said softly.
“No.”
“You didn’t tell her all of the truth.”
“No.”
She met his gaze squarely, evenly. Arrendas came to stand beside her. It was the Captain—the acting Captain—who spoke first.
“You know Jewel ATerafin better than any of the Chosen,” he said quietly. Clear to Torvan, then, that The Terafin and this particular Captain had already spoken. “You know the other . . . candidates.”
Torvan was as stiff as Morretz; he offered nothing.
“She trusts you,” Arrendas continued. “Of all of us, were she to choose a Captain, you know who she’d offer the position to first.”
Torvan ATerafin was silent a long time; he was habitually honest in the presence of both his best friend and his Lord, and they waited.
At last, he said, “Yes.”
“Yes?” Arrendas; The Terafin had already closed her eyes.
“Yes, she would offer me the rank of Captain. Yes, I would accept it. Yes, she would take the Chosen of Terafin as they stand now, and keep them intact. And yes,” he added, for he thought he understood The Terafin now, although she had not, and would not, speak further. “If your death were not natural, she would use us against your killers, and she would take the House. She would have the only force that has trained together, in adversity and otherwise, for decades: The Chosen. The others have House Guards, their own factions—but they are not our equal. If we stand together.” He met Arrendas’ gaze squarely. “What would your guess be?”
“If Jewel Markess ATerafin takes the House,” the Captain replied evenly, “I believe that we will lose less than ten percent of our number—to retirement. We will lose more than that to the succession war.” He smiled grimly. “But it is rumored that she is the chosen heir of Terafin, as well as of The Terafin. At heart, I believe that she will lose no one, and that the continuity of the House and what it stands for will pass unbroken—” He stopped. Stared back at his Lord as if realizing only then that he was openly speaking of her death.
The Terafin smiled grimly. “And if I offer her the House? The Council waits my decision, and it is mere weeks in the making.”
“If you offer her the House,” Torvan ATerafin sad quietly, “she will accept it. But, Terafin,” he added, “you have done the best you can do: You’ve let her come to that decision herself. Give her a little more time.”
“She’s made that decision?” A quickening of expression across his Lord’s face caught the light, sent it out.
He exhaled. Turned his back upon them both to stare at the closed doors. “Yes. Yes, I think she has. But she doesn’t know it yet, and Jewel Markess ATerafin is not a woman who can be forced to admit in public what she’s barely begun to admit to herself.”
“That she wants the House?” Arrendas again, the clank of his armor drawing closer to Torvan’s turned back.
“No,” he said starkly. “That war costs lives, and that she’s beginning to be willing to fight a war.” He turned back to the woman who sat, Morretz a motionless statue at her back, and he bowed. “I will be your Captain, Terafin, and after you, I will be hers.”
He saw her nod, then. Thought that—hoped that—the relief in her expression wasn’t just a trick of both light and his imagination.
News traveled. Servants carried it. ATerafin carried it. The men and women who frequented the healerie with their pathetic aches and scrapes carried it.
The Terafin spoke at length with each member of her Council; with each man or woman of power who had already begun the negotiation of the dispute that would end in several deaths and a new House ruler. He had not expected that. Should have seen it; Amarais was a cunning woman, and not to be tricked by foolish display. Of course he’d intended to have the men killed once they finished their duty. They would be silent bodies—bodies that he, in fact, had some part in apprehending for their heinous crime. He could produce proof of their loyalty to Haerrad—but it was useless now.
Useless.
He was not a man given to grand gestures or to grand rages, but if anything could drive a man to either, this was it, this failure.
“My Lord.”
He turned quietly, irritated that he had been unaware of the messenger’s interruption. That irritation had already fallen fast beneath the surface of a benign expression. He turned. “Rise,” he said.
“I bring word from the merchant Pedro di’Jardanno,” the messenger said. He did not hold out a roll of paper, did not offer a scroll, which was common in the Empire. There was no privacy between the man who sent the message and the man who received it, and he liked it not a bit.
But to kill another man’s property was not, given the abject failure of his internal plans this evening, a wise decision; he refrained.
“Give your message,” he told the waiting seraf, “and then leave quickly. I am already under some suspicion.”
The man bowed in the Southern fashion, and had to be ordered to rise again before he would speak. A lifetime of slavery to another’s will probably had that effect. Or a certainty that failure in any little grace was death.
He was fascinated by the Imperial culture. Repelled by it. He wished to rule men, not these shadows of men, not these intelligent cattle.
“Speak,” he commanded.
“Jewel ATerafin, Commander Allen, Commander Ellora, and Commander Devran are still alive.”
He’d seen at least the first for himself, but he’d assumed that the assassin had had to hunt them separately; indeed he’d sat through the interview with The Terafin, her right-kin, and Jewel ATerafin thinking about the fact that she would not have the younger ATerafin as a weapon for much longer. Amused by the thought.
“Yes?”
“And the brother who was hunting them has died.”
“What?”
“It was reported to the Kings’ Swords. He is said to have been killed in the attempted commission of a crime.”
This profound a failure.
“Thank you,” he said softly. Wondering, idly, if he now had either the contempt or the enmity of Pedro di’Jardanno to worry about. Neither was desirab
le. He alone of all Terafin had seen what that man might do. Could do. Had done.
“Do you have word to send to my master?”
“I will send word as I am able. Tell him . . . he has my profound apologies. It appears that there are forces at work here that neither of us are fully aware of.”
He rose, this seraf, this half-man, and was gone.
22nd day of Lattan, 427AA
Averalaan Aramarelas, Coliseum
It seemed incongruous to Serra Alina, watching the foot race, that men of ungainly size and stature should in fact be faster than those whose build seemed, on the surface, to suggest fleetness of foot, grace of movement, light quick steps.
The Northern barbarian, for instance, was large and broad; he was tall, for he cast a tall shadow, but seemed shorter than his height to the eye because he had that barrel chest that seemed so admired in Imperial standards of male beauty. She thought he looked heavy, and heaviness implied lack of speed. Clearly, her sheltered life, both here and in the harem of her oldest brother, and her father before him, had not prepared her for the truth of the race: Such size and such muscle counted, yes, but for more, and not less.
Valedan’s muscle was youth’s muscle; he was taller, or seemed taller, to the Serra, and—although she never said it aloud—he was graceful in the sinuous, unaffected way few men are.
She also knew that he was fast.
The oddsmakers had placed Eneric of Darbanne in the lead, and indeed, these men were men who knew how to make their money, although they had lost much in the test of the sea.
Here, they placed Valedan either first or second, but with a greater likelihood of second place. Carlo di’Jevre had actually been ceded third place, but he had withdrawn, and that left Ser Anton with only Ser Andaro. He was ranked lower, between fourth and seventh, with some probability of either third or second, and some very small chance at first.
Miri had once explained these numbers to her, the why and the wherefore of them—but she had barely listened then; she had a head to remember numbers, and to listen for results. That was enough. She rarely forgot a thing once told.
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