“Actually,” she muttered, as she began to climb down much rougher hewn stairs, her hand still using the wall as a guide, “I don’t like it, much.”
“It’s just the absence of light.”
Yes, and death is just the absence of life. She bit her tongue. It took effort. It took more effort to accept the fact that he was right: she was afraid of this darkness. Not because of the magic. She knew, as she made her way down, that she had seen the last of it; the manse was guttered. There was safety, of a sort; she could run off and leave the mages to their work, and no more of them would die from anything but their own carelessness.
It was therefore with some relief that she came to the narrowed gap caused by fallen rock; whatever had shaken the manse had also shaken its foundation. “We can’t get through,” she began as she turned. She almost ran into Meralonne APhaniel’s chest.
His eyes were slate gray, and his expression was cool. “Jewel.”
“There’s no way into the maze here,” she said, voice thin.
He stared at her for a long moment, and then his voice softened. “What do you see, Jewel?” He pushed her gently aside and sent light through the leaning stones. “There is room enough, if the rest of the foundation is solid.”
“The dead,” she said softly and almost tonelessly. Her hands were shaking, and she bunched them into fists, which didn’t help. “None of the servants made it out.”
He raised a brow. He didn’t, thank Kalliaris, ask her how she knew. Instead, he said, “Go find Devon. I will return to Sigurne to obtain a few necessary items.”
It was a gift, and she took it, running up the stairs and out of the building as if her life depended on it.
Devon ATerafin came out of the manse with Meralonne APhaniel; Jewel watched them outside the odd circle composed of shards of glass, twisted brass, splinters of painted wood. They were silent, but they were grim. She wanted to loiter beside one of the unharmed trees, but it would have been too obvious; instead, she housed her nerves, her terrible fear, and she waited.
They came to her.
Devon said, “It is time for us to return to the manse.” Just that.
But Meralonne lifted a hand. “ATerafin,” he said quietly.
Devon turned. Jewel couldn’t see his expression, but she knew he must have mouthed something, because Meralonne shook his head, once, in measured denial.
Devon did not turn back to her; he clearly hadn’t finished.
“You cannot protect her,” was Meralonne’s reply. He looked beyond Devon’s shoulder, and Devon shrugged and turned. “We found some part of what we seek.”
She tensed, but she nodded.
Meralonne now began to speak as Devon fell silent. “There are rooms at the base of the stairs, and they extend some way in darkness. There is one, in particular, that looks like an altar room.
“I do not know what you know, Jewel Markess. But the dead were there. We believe that they are the servants who were in the manse at the time of Lord Cordufar’s departure.
“I will not,” he added, as she paled, “speak further on the subject; it is in the hands of the Magisterium and Mysterium now. But beyond those rooms, we found what we seek. The demons are not kind; they are deliberate in their cruelty.” He did not appear particularly upset about it; it was a statement of fact, like weather. “There is an entrance to the maze of your experience beneath the Cordufar manse. It is not safely reached.
“It is also protected by a magical barrier of a type that the Order of Knowledge has no direct experience with. We cannot breach it. I believe the Kialli might have chosen to unmake this entrance had they desired to do so; they did not. I believe they left both their dead and the magical barrier as a statement.”
She stared at him.
“We will work, as we are able, to break it.”
She said, mouth dry, “You can’t.”
Devon’s brows rose, but Meralonne nodded. “I suspect as much,” he replied. “But at the moment, it is our only option. It is not, in my opinion, a good one.” He offered her a little half bow. “Return to House Terafin; should you be required, we will send word there.”
The return to the manse was quiet. Devon didn’t speak at all. Nor did Jewel. The dead weighed heavily on her, and she wasn’t even certain it wasn’t because of the nightmares that had plagued her for what seemed weeks now. She wanted to hole up in her room with the lamps burning, even if it wasn’t dark.
Devon, unfortunately, had other ideas. To be fair—and this was a struggle—the ideas weren’t entirely his; The Terafin, it seemed, was waiting for their report.
Devon detailed, quickly, what he and Meralonne APhaniel had discovered. Jewel said nothing. “We suspect that the slaughter started a week ago—not more, but certainly not less. There were day servants who did not reside within Cordufar proper. We’ve spoken more at length, with those who survived the fall of the estate and we can ascertain that Lord and Lady Cordufar were not among the dead. Their children were, and recently dead.”
The Terafin accepted this without comment. “The fires?”
“Were not responsible for any of the servant’s death’s.”
Jewel hesitated, biting back words.
“The deaths occurred before the manse was destroyed.”
“Jewel,” The Terafin said quietly, “What do you think?”
Jewel looked up at the woman who ruled the House. “I think that they have to be stopped. They all have to be stopped.”
Devon reached out and caught her hand, and she remembered that he would have spared her the knowledge. All of it. Her hand tightened around his for a moment, and then she let go, drawing breath. He would have spared her, yes, and she greatly desired the comfort of ignorance—but it wouldn’t do them any good. It wouldn’t help.
“And that,” The Terafin said, rising, “is just what we cannot do. Were you not what you are, Jewel, I would not tell you this. But I value any insight that you might have, however and whenever it might come, and I wish you to feel free to interrupt any meeting I might have, should any insight of relevance arise.
“If we can make our way into the maze that your den used to travel, the mages of the Order—guided by Teos, Lord of Knowledge—believe that we would be able to stop the enemy from completing his ascent. But we have searched, and searched again, for a way into the undercity; we have the entire Order, from Fourth Circle up, attempting to break the barrier that the—that our enemy has imposed.
“Not even the combined power of the Exalted has been able to achieve the smallest rupture.”
Jewel understood that the deaths in the Cordufar manse would be the start, and they would spread across the city—across the Empire—until very, very little was left alive. “Can’t they call their gods, the same way the Allasakari have?”
“They can,” The Terafin replied. “But at the best guess of the Lord of Wisdom, it would take twenty years for the gods to answer in a like fashion. And he believes that if we have twenty weeks before the Lord of the Hells takes Averalaan, we are very, very lucky.”
Chapter Thirteen
14th of Corvil, 410 A.A.
The Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
IT WASN’T LATE. In fact, it was early enough that Jewel shouldn’t have been sleeping. But Ellerson had implied—where in this case implied meant bluntly stated—that she looked peaked and exhausted. He had offered her dinner, which she couldn’t touch, and then he had all but ordered her to bed. In his servile fashion.
“I’ll try to sleep,” she told him dubiously. It was easier than actually saying no. Or telling him, in any detail, about the day she was trying so desperately not to think about.
She wasn’t sure how long the attempt lasted, but nightmares robbed sleep of any restfulness. She’d had enough. Ellerson didn’t insist she try again. Nor did he insist that she remain caged in the wing when she finally rolled out of bed and grabbed for the nearest clothing.
“Jewel,” he said, as she headed to the doors, �
�trust your instincts.”
She stopped, hands on the handles beneath the dimmed magelights. And then she turned to face him. “To do what?” she demanded, voice low. “This is too damn big for me. For us. This House. This war. The magic—all of it. What do we know how to do, Ellerson? Pick a lock, pick a pocket, accept handouts when we need them—how is that going to help anyone?”
He was silent, and she thought her bitter, frightened words had warned him off. But she should have known better; he was Ellerson, after all. She wondered, then, as she often did, who else he had served in his long life. She’d never asked because she knew he’d never answer.
“How did it help Teller?” he asked, quietly. “How did it help Finch?”
And yes, she’d known he would say that. But she was prepared. “How did it help Duster or Lefty or Fisher or Lander? They’re dead.” And Duster haunted her dreams, sleeping and waking. She had haunted them now for weeks, with about as much mercy as you’d ever expect from Duster.
“You’re young,” he told her. “You think there’s nothing worse than death. You think that death is just death; that the life that led up to it counts for little. Jewel, you will always know failure. But you will also always have success. There is no end to either. You choose how you define your life based on both of these things.
“But Teller and Finch—and Arann—are alive, now, because of you. They are not significant players in the political arena, I grant you that. But neither were the servants who were slaughtered in Cordufar. Neither are the men, women, and children who will be slaughtered in Averalaan if the demons cannot be stopped.
“Measure them as you measure your den: one life at a time. I ask you, again, to trust your instincts.”
She had no further arguments and no desire to make any. She wrenched the doors open and fled into the hall, feeling the weight of his words as a burden that she literally didn’t know how to carry. Den leading, yes. She understood that. What did it mean, after all? Being like Oma. Being like an older sister. Telling people what to do and remembering to listen when they had something to say. Counting the coins in a cold, metal box. Watching as clothing shrunk and thinned over time. Trying to keep a roof over their heads.
But none of that had prepared her for this.
Oh, Rath—and how long had it been since she’d truly thought of Rath?—had tried. She saw that now, as she walked—quickly—toward the gardens in the back of the House, with their damaged but functional shrines. He had taught her the names of The Ten and of most of the important noble houses that weren’t part of The Ten. She’d had to memorize colors and standards and political things that had made little sense at the time.
All of which meant nothing to her now.
She felt as she’d felt the day her father had left her for the last time, except this time she couldn’t see the end as clearly. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her failure.
But Ellerson’s words . . . No.
The halls at this time of night weren’t crowded. They weren’t entirely deserted, but no one attempted to stop her. Most of the servants and most of the House Guard knew the den well enough to nod a polite—and distant—greeting. She didn’t want more.
What she wanted was to be outside. There were no streets here, and she’d seen the streets of the holdings for all of her waking life. But there were also no people. Nor did she expect to see any; the small army of distressed gardeners who had been working to restore the grounds in the wake of the attack had all turned in for the day several hours ago; they would be up just before the sun was.
She made her way to the shrine of the Lord of Wisdom and paused there, beneath the scorched emblem of the Eagle, rod in his claws. The god wasn’t here, of course, nor could she call him. But she hesitated a moment, seeking wisdom. Hearing her Oma’s voice as she did. If you know what to ask for, she’d said, you have most of your answer.
Her Oma didn’t hold with Northern gods. The gods of the South had never demanded coin as proof of allegiance, after all. What use did gods have for coin? They demanded blood, and, one way or another, the Southerners paid. Jewel remembered the scars, her Oma’s scars, worn openly the way jewelry might have been, had they been able to afford any.
And why think of that now? What wisdom was there in that?
The eagle was stone, and silent. The pillars were scorched, but they would be cleaned; some cleaning had already been done.
Don’t make me pay in blood, she thought, head bowed by the gleaming brass bowl that lay beneath the eagle. And then, because she was Jewel, an angrier thought intruded. I’ve already paid.
Wisdom, however, eluded her; anger dislodged it.
She rose and moved—quickly—because she didn’t want to share that anger with a god. Not when they needed the gods.
Three shrines. She visited the Mother’s next and then the shrine of Reymaris, Lord of Justice. Her anger had not dimmed. But here, at least, it had focus: Men and women went to the temple of Reymaris seeking redress for wrongs done them all the time. Surely the god was used to anger?
But here? The anger was different. All those people had died. She’d seen them, briefly. She had sent Devon to do whatever it was he would do in The Terafin’s name; she could not have stayed either sane or quiet had she descended with him. What did they do to deserve that death, she demanded of the absent Reymaris. What did you do to help them?
The wrong anger, yes. The wrong question. She should have prayed for Justice for those dead. But Justice? It was bent and broken, like a sword caught in an earthquake; twisted almost beyond use. What Justice truly existed in a world where the helpless could die so horribly? Was Justice just power?
Her Oma had believed that. Her father hadn’t.
Her father was dead. Her Oma was dead. Her mother. And following them, leaving Jewel behind, so many of her den, the family she had chosen. But not just them. Not just them. It never ended.
She rose, angry that she had bent knee at all, and she fled, walking stiffly and quickly through the empty flower beds. It was cold now; they would remain empty.
She wasn’t even sure where she was going, but she should have known. Angry or not, she had visited all of the shrines; she was, in her shaky fury, making the circuit. There was one shrine left, and the path, broken in places, and repaired in others, led there. She had followed it blindly, seeking escape from nightmare; she had retreated from each god’s small shrine, seeking escape from anger. The nightmare had receded; the anger would not.
She was shaking.
Let it go. Her father’s voice. Her father’s voice almost never came back to her; it was always her Oma. Let what go? Ah, no. Her anger. He had never been a truly angry man. Let it go, Jewel.
How? It wasn’t as if she’d picked it up and was struggling to shoulder its burden—it clung to her; it burrowed into her insides; it shredded her with claws that she couldn’t even reach to remove. She didn’t like being angry. She never had. But there it was: she was. She wanted to hit something. To slap the gods.
And so she made her way at last to the Terafin shrine, and there she stopped, because she could hear voices. She wasn’t alone.
She should have left. She meant to. Because one of the voices was The Terafin’s, and she’d seen enough of The Terafin in the last little while to last a long lifetime.
But the other voice was Torvan’s.
And Torvan had carried Arann into the House, when the den couldn’t. Torvan had listened to the words of a bunch of ratty street urchins, and he had let them all in. Torvan, she thought, had been the means by which the demons had almost killed The Terafin.
“Look at me,” The Terafin was saying. “What am I to do with you?” There was a pause, as if she expected him to answer. He didn’t, which was no surprise to Jewel. “Fully half of my Chosen are dead or dying, and were it not for the creature that possessed you, they might be standing with me today.”
Jewel drew breath. It was sharp; it cut through the anger that had walked her this far. But it
didn’t allow her to shed it. Anger was primal; it existed. It could be changed or shifted more easily than it could be killed.
“Shall you be held responsible for the Lord of the Hells? Shall you be held responsible for the reavers? Shall you be held responsible for the Allasakari ? I have been to the shrines that quarter my gardens; this is the last one. At the shrine of Cormaris, I knew that I must lose you—whether in disgrace or by your own hand, in honor. The Chosen know what you did. They know what drove your hand, but just as you, they believe that fighting harder might have somehow spared them your fate. To have you in their midst—
“Look at me!”
Jewel edged closer, holding her breath, her hands balled in fists.
“What they believe is wrong. It is simply not true. Were I to meet that darkness, it would consume me. Meralonne might have a chance against it. And even he is not so certain.
“Understand what I am saying, Torvan. I know that what you did was not your choice; I find no fault with you. But knowing it doesn’t necessarily change the wise course of action.” She lifted a hand as Torvan looked up.
Jewel could see them both now: Torvan, kneeling upon the grass, his sword awkward across his lap, The Terafin, standing, her back draped by an old cloak that was far too large for her shoulders.
“At the shrine of Reymaris,” The Terafin continued, “I knew that I must keep you, that the action of the enemy should not deprive me of a man I know to be loyal—a man that I chose, and in choosing, did not err.
“This is what the Kings face,” she added softly, “this terrible choice—between the wise and the just. If I keep you, it will weaken the Chosen who are the backbone of my House, and if I condemn you—and we both know it is death I speak of—I weaken myself.
“What would you give for the Chosen?” Her voice was hard, now. “Would you die to keep them whole?”
Jewel was frozen in shock. She was cold, but it was not the cold of fear; it was the cold of a slowly growing fury.
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