“What is it, Jewel? What do you see?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. But the earth did: The ground shook beneath their feet.
“Terafin,” Morretz said again, as if there had been no interruption. Jewel recognized the tone, and it startled her; it was almost like . . . Teller’s.
And it had the same effect on the woman who ruled the House as Teller’s might have had on Jewel. She rose, stiffening; you could see her don the mantle of office, although she spoke no other word, made no other gesture.
“Jewel, come. We must attend the family.”
This time, Jewel rose, understanding the truth of those words. What she’d seen didn’t matter. It changed nothing. They had their responsibilities, and at a time like this, those were the only things that counted.
She nodded, and together they made their way down from the open freedom of the roof, their words once again caged by the necessities of their chosen ranks.
But they didn’t immediately join the rest of the House, and Jewel understood why only after a few moments of utter confusion. The Terafin dressed. Or rather, she changed. The finery appropriate for any meeting of import—even one at midnight in the cold sea winds by the Sanctum of Moorelas—was not appropriate for First Day rites. Historically, the First Day was the end of the reign of the Blood Barons. But people came to that end through the darkest of days the Baronies had ever known; they came hungry, and poor, and afraid.
It was hard to bear hope when hope itself seemed like deception.
The Terafin, like the people who now found shelter in her manse, understood the Six Days and their significance, and she emerged unadorned; she wore no rings, no necklace, no bracelets. She didn’t even bear the House Sword.
Jewel had far less to shed. She waited, and when The Terafin signaled, she followed in her wake.
The servants have gathered, and the family. They are many, this year.
Morretz had given them warning. Clearly the warning had meant something to The Terafin; to Jewel, it just as clearly hadn’t meant enough. As she approached the newly constructed stairs of the foyer, she saw . . . people. Not all of them were ATerafin; she knew that from Carver. She knew that the Master of the Household Staff, a woman more feared than admired, had chosen to turn a blind eye to the influx of families from the holdings.
Those families, small children attached to adult legs, smaller children borne in arms, were waiting in the foyer. So, too, the servants—cooks, gardeners, maids—who made the mansion run, day in and day out. Jewel recognized only one or two because there were so many people. Even market days weren’t so damn crowded.
Only the children made any noise at all.
Glancing at The Terafin, Jewel saw that she’d expected this; she wasn’t surprised, intimidated, or frightened. The den had learned that crowds, like daggers, had two edges; The Terafin had not. Here, it was The Terafin’s experience that ruled. Jewel followed her like shadow.
She went down the stairs. Morretz spoke her name once, and she nodded, but didn’t look back. Instead, she looked forward, and as she came into view, people began to make the noise that they’d held in.
“Terafin!”
“TERAFIN!”
She waited until they were quiet, which took some time; people approached her, and one man touched—or grabbed—her elbow. There were no Chosen who served as her guardians here. Jewel glanced at Morretz; he did not interfere. Because he didn’t, she wouldn’t.
But when there was as much silence and respect as fear allowed, The Terafin lifted her voice. She could be heard across the foyer, but it didn’t sound as though she was shouting.
“Come to the shrine.”
She led, and they followed. They passed through the dark and somber manse. The windows had been shrouded, but Jewel didn’t expect much light would have come through anyway. Not tonight.
What they watched for, what they silently—or not so silently—prayed for, was dawn. Dawn, silence, and a lifting of the shadow. The grounds had seen damage, as had the foyer; the foyer had been repaired much more quickly—and if Teller’s information was right, at far more expense. But the shrines to the three gods still stood, and to get to the shrine Jewel suspected The Terafin was leading her people toward, one had to pass the three.
Prayers were said at each as the line moved—slowly, and messily—but they came at last to the House shrine. The grass would be flattened, in the best case. No one, however, cared. They watched The Terafin. The Terafin, in turn, watched them. She promised them nothing, not in words—but there was a certainty to her movements, a certainty to her bearing, that brought calm just by force of presence.
She mounted the steps to the altar; no one joined her. Not even Morretz. When she reached the altar, she bent before it for a moment, offering her respect to the House she ruled, as if all rulership were a singular gesture of respect, no more. She did not, however, plead.
Instead, she rose and turned, the altar at her back, framed by the rounded dome of the shrine’s roof, its ever-burning lights, and its pillars. Those lights were, in theory, forbidden during the Six Days, but Jewel understood why they burned; it was almost impossible to argue with a ghost.
“This,” The Terafin said, “is the First Day as we have never seen it, and we wait—as our ancestors waited—for the coming of the Kings.
“I have been to the mainland, and tonight I have heard the voice of Moorelas. Through his Sanctum and his agency, the Kings have led the Exalted and the magi into the darkness that has festered and hidden beneath Averalaan.
“I was not given leave to join them; my sword was neither requested nor desired. Instead, I have returned to Terafin, and with you I wait the dawn, when we may pull the shrouds from windows and lamp and see light once more. I am grateful, and honored, to be here. I can think of no finer men—and women—with whom to wait out these late hours.” She nodded to them, as regal in her fashion as the Queens, and then—to Jewel’s surprise, she sat on the marble steps and motioned for Jewel to join her.
Jewel, however, was gazing into the gathered crowd for the people she hadn’t automatically seen: her den. Her kin. Here, the servants had gathered as much of their families to them as they could; Jewel had only The Terafin and Morretz.
They were the heart of the House, it was true; but the House was not yet the whole of Jewel’s life. Most of her life had been lived in the holdings. Her worth to the House was practically defined by them, or what now lay beneath them.
But she hadn’t become valuable in isolation. She hadn’t found the entrance to the undercity by any cleverness of her own. Rath had shown her. She hadn’t made it on her own in the holdings; she’d had Rath and, later, the whole of her den. It was the Sixth Day. Come dawn, it would be the first of Veral, and the start of the new year.
Or it would be over.
She stared into the crowd, passing over unfamiliar faces that nonetheless felt familiar in their fear and their desire to protect those they cared about from that fear. On the Isle, the children didn’t play in the streets, and their grandparents didn’t watch from stairs or doors or porches; they played behind gates—if they played at all. Here, they huddled in the dark, sleeping or fitful or restless, but yes—even in the dark, in the edges of the light cast by the altar, some did play.
She remembered snow and snowballs, and Lefty, the day they found Teller. And she didn’t resent the play or the joy in it, even here. She glanced at the altar, remembering the Terafin Spirit’s words.
When she glanced back, she saw a ripple in the crowd, and in spite of herself, she smiled, because pushing their way through—the usual, subtle movements didn’t work as well when densely packed people were still, and not on the move—was a spiral of white hair she would have recognized anywhere.
Angel was here. And beside him, or just behind, was Carver.
“Jay?” It was Carver who spoke. Angel just slid in beside her and offered silence and the hint of a smile. She couldn’t see the others; she knew Aran
n must be on duty someplace in the manse, because he was junior enough to get all the crappy late shifts. But Finch, Teller, and Jester didn’t follow Carver and Angel.
She thought about waiting for them, but she wasn’t certain they’d show up, and if they did, they wouldn’t shove their way through a crowd like this. A normal crowd, yes, but these people? No. Not just to stand a little closer to her.
“We started this together,” she said to Carver.
“Yeah.” He glanced at the crowd as well, as if seeking the rest of the den. “How’s it going to end?”
“Wrong question,” Angel said. He smacked Carver between the shoulder blades. “Are we going to win?”
She had no answer to give them; she wanted to say yes, but since it didn’t slide out naturally, it would have been just a pathetically hopeful guess. She turned, started toward the steps she’d abandoned, and stopped. Froze there.
They knew what it meant.
But she gazed past them, past the crowd, pass the manse, as if these things had been rendered so insubstantial they were as transparent as ghosts in stories. She could see the waters of the ocean that surrounded the bay on which the Isle sat, and beyond it, the form and shape of the city’s skyline, as translucent as the manor, the manse, and all its people.
There was only one thing that was solid, and it lay coiled beneath the city, growing and rising as she watched. It was not the shape of a man, not yet—but it struggled toward that solidity.
She could hear the screams of the dying in the distance, and she almost lifted her hands to cover her ears.
“What—what is it?” someone asked. Not one of hers. Not The Terafin, not Morretz.
“The Shining City,” she said. “It’s rising.” But she had no strength for words; they came out so softly only those closest to her heard them, and no one repeated them.
28th of Henden, 410 A.A.
The Undercity, Averalaan
Isladar watched the standing arch. The keystone had taken much time and much effort to invest with the power it now held, and that time had been a concern to Lord Karathis and Sor Na Shannen. They had not challenged him openly; where their control was too poor to contain their displeasure, their underlings had suffered. Nor was he surprised; they had taken the form and shape of mortals, and they had purported to live as mortals for a mortal life span, but in the end, they were of the Hells; mortality was a lesser form of life, one stripped of power or majesty because it lacked eternity.
They had therefore learned little.
Oh, they had learned to exploit the weaknesses they found, and, in particular, Sor Na Shannen had become adroit—but she was honing an edge that already existed.
Soon, he thought, it would not matter. The darkness was growing; light was cast by fire or not at all, but they little required it. The Lord was almost upon this broken, crippled plane.
And yet. Isladar’s smile was slight and subtle. He had always professed an interest in the brief ephemera that was mortal thought and mortal life, and he had seen the potential in it. The Kialli feared power, yes, but they did not understand the elusive ways in which the weak might become powerful.
But they would, he thought.
He did not turn or start when Karathis-Errakis appeared, bound by flame, upon the coliseum’s floor. The kin abased himself instantly, his fire reflected by marble and gaze as Lord Karathis and Sor Na Shannen immediately turned their attention upon Karathis’ servant.
“Lord.”
Karathis was not pleased. Here, in the darkness, the sacrifices continued unabated, and the pain brought an almost meditative pleasure to those denied it for so many decades. He did not wish to be disturbed in the midst of the Contemplation. If Errakis was a kin of flame, it was candle to the bonfire of his Lord’s power; that power literally burned.
But Isladar saw the appearance of the kin as a counter, a move in the long game, and he lifted a hand. “Enough, Karathis.”
Between Lords, honorifics were not a necessity; they were not a matter of form. Karathis’ fire burned a moment longer, as if he sought to make a point. He did; he did not, and would not, press it further. Not now. The Lord could hear all that was said, and done, without effort, he was now that close.
“Speak,” Karathis told his servant.
“Strangers approach from the southeast.”
Karathis’ eyes burned brighter. “What is this?”
“We think—we think at least one hundred, at most three. Humans.”
“Impossible.” Karathis’ claws began to grow darker, longer, and harder. They glinted in the guttering fire that surrounded the prone Errakis.
“From the southeast?” Isladar asked.
Errakis did not respond, which was wise, given the mood of his Lord. He had made his point.
“Answer him.” Karathis said.
“Yes, Lord Isladar.”
“Interesting. Were they armed?”
“Yes. But—the armed men have not been fighting in the tunnels. They move with speed and in complete silence.”
“How were they discovered?”
“Arradis-Shannen was destroyed in the seeker’s cavern. Before he died, he sent word.”
Isladar glanced at Karathis, no more; he did not speak. He was not surprised.
“They have mages.” The words were cold and flat.
“Yes, Lord.”
Karathis nodded. Isladar waited for further comment and realized that none would be forthcoming. Ah, well. “Karathis, do not be a fool.”
Karathis stiffened and turned from his servitor.
“Arradis-Shannen was Kialli. If he were brought down in battle by mere human mages, we would have felt the ground breaking beneath our feet.”
Karathis still did not speak.
“No. They have Summer magic. They think to bring light with them into the Winter’s haven.” Isladar spoke in sharp, strong words, but he watched as he did. He was not angry.
Nor, he thought, was Karathis. The Duke of the Hells smiled. “Let them bring light. We lost many to the cursed bardic voices—let them supply the final sacrifices that our Lord requires.”
And here it was: Isladar’s opening. He had so few, and they had to be navigated with care. But care, among the Kialli, meant many things. “We cannot afford that. Think: The one who carries the Hunter’s Horn may lead the human pack.”
Karathis stilled. Isladar waited, wondering if wisdom would now undo this subtle, fragile web. Silence continued for a beat. Two.
But it was broken on the third as Karathis lifted his head and roared.
Isladar closed his eyes. In spite of himself, he felt the momentary wonder of Karathis’ voice, unleashed; in its fashion, it was a thing of beauty, and it had endured the aeons. He remembered it. Their enemies might have horns or flags or light; this Lord had voice to raise above them all, and it might be heard in the farthest corner of conflict should he care to make it heard.
But Sor Na Shannen paid no head to the splendor of this unleashed echo of the past. “This is not possible.” Her tone was soft, but it vibrated with her fury. “Karathis—”
“I closed the tunnels personally. I saw each unmaking. Or do you challenge this?”
She did not and would not. She was subtle, yes; her power was not one to break rock or physical body. Her method of destruction was slow and thorough, but it would not stand her in good stead here. “We cannot hold that tunnel,” she said at last, and her eyes went to the arch and to what it contained. Her Lord for eternity.
“We have no choice.”
“Look at it,” she snapped, as she turned away. “There are no crawlways above it and none below; it is too low to properly shadow. If Isladar is correct, the strongest of our number will not be able to wield full power there.”
Karathis snarled. “You are not required to hold it indefinitely. A few weeks—”
“You will not have weeks,” Isladar said, speaking quietly now.
“How long?” The last syllable was an elongated growl, barel
y a syllable.
“Hours, I think.” Isladar glanced at the arch. “And at that, few.”
Karathis looked to the gate as well, and through it, to the heart of shadow, its motion elliptical, indefinite. Before it, altars had been erected, and they bore blood; around them, piled like the refuse they had become, bodies. There were not enough of them. He roared again, and as he did, wings unfurled between his shoulder blades; Karathis had ever been a Lord who disliked the dictates of gravity and the bindings of earth.
“Isladar, you know what must be done. Do it. I will attend to the intruders.”
The Kings’ forces had seen battle. Here, in the dark, uneven tunnels that led—that were said to lead—to the summoning stones of the Allasakari, they had found their first demons. And had been found by them. Among the priests, some fifteen would no longer fight, and five would no longer do anything.
Devon was armed with the ceremonial daggers of the Exalted, but he had not yet used them; the Exalted were armed with the magic that imbued those daggers, and it made the daggers the lesser weapon. The magi were gifted with fire, and to Devon’s surprise, they could fight; they were silent; the fractious nature of the Order of Knowledge was utterly absent. They looked to Meralonne for their lead, when they sought it at all, and they were efficient.
Silence made efficiency seem cold-blooded.
The tunnels had narrowed and widened in places, as Jewel had described, but they at last opened into what appeared to be a hall. The ceiling above was obscured by shadows, which the Exalted indicated were natural.
Evayne, who had walked regardless of interruption, slowed now. Her glance took in the whole of the cavern; she lifted a hand, no more, and then turned to the Kings.
“Here,” she said quietly, “we will face opposition.”
Since they had already faced opposition, and enough opposition to leave five dead and fifteen incapacitated, Devon raised a brow. Evayne did not appear to notice.
Meralonne APhaniel said, “Opposition?”
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