She raised voice. “Meralonne.” She called Eva’s name as well, but Eva didn’t turn; she stilled. She understood.
Not all of the merchants did, and four died running to the open doors. Their deaths answered the brief doubt Sigurne had entertained—and such a doubt was folly. Hope often was.
The wind did what Sigurne could not; it bore down upon the armed men who had entered the hall, driving them back into their comrades. Armor clattered against armor, and at least three swords flew in the wind’s folds. Fire answered, but it was an imperfect tool; the men could not breach it without burning.
Sigurne did not look up. She shortened the Summer path. She did not intend to offer any succor to men who had sold their swords to a demon. They had; they evinced no surprise at the aerial combat confined—for the most part—to the ceiling’s height; nor did they seem surprised at the fire. The wind, yes—but the wind was no part of their forces.
They regrouped, attempting to navigate the fire that now reached for the wind—as it had, in patches, since they’d breached the shattered door. The demon shouted perfectly clear Weston orders. The merchants were to die. All of them. No exceptions.
Orders were barked—in the same Weston. They were passed back through the open doorway through which more men poured. As fire flared, as blue light flashed, Sigurne recognized the tabards half a dozen men wore: they were Merchants’ Guild.
The merchants—those that could move, with or without aid—clung to the path that Sigurne had made, fear of the most mundane of the threats they faced speeding their movements. The golden light on the floor did not seem to the unschooled to offer much in the way of protection—but it led away from the armed men. One or two of the merchants sported daggers that had been drawn only in the face of the new arrivals; many of them had faced bandits, and they had all demonstrably survived.
Because they had, they knew survival was never guaranteed. Yes, she thought, as she heard Kalliaris’ name raised. Pray if you must, but move.
Sigurne did not pray. She had long since discovered there was no efficacy in it. Prayers were offered when all other avenues had failed, because at that point, efficiency signified little. All that was left was the pain of raw hope.
It yawned before her now.
Demons were not careful about their merely human servants; fire rose, sweeping across the guildhall floors; what it touched, it consumed. The flooring fell away in large patches. Wood, blood-soaked carpets and the corpses that lay strewn across them, turned to ash, bone, black rising smoke.
She felt a distant, grim satisfaction as armored men fell through the floor to the basement rooms beneath it. The second layer of Sigurne’s cast protections maintained the solidity of her Summer path under the feet of the merchants; she had expected this. It had come later rather than sooner, allowing her to husband some of the power she now spent in earnest.
“Matteos!”
He answered, his voice attenuated.
“Tell Gavin—enter the main hall through the front doors; use whatever force he deems necessary. There will be resistance. Very little of it will be magical in nature.
“Eva.”
The merchant was now less than ten feet from where Sigurne stood. She herded—there was no other word for it—the last of the merchants toward the gaping hole in the wall. The floor beneath her feet was solid—but the gaps that opened up to one side of it yawned, waiting for a false step. Waiting, Sigurne thought, for the wind that could not—yet—pass her barriers.
“The fire, Guildmaster—”
Sigurne exhaled. “It will die when the demon does.” And let that be soon. Let it be before the exultance she heard in Meralonne’s voice reached the ears of the rest of the merchants. “The halls beyond this room are not yet contested. Matteos will tell you where to go—make sure as many of your cohort follows his instructions as you can.”
Eva nodded. She wanted to argue—no doubt to demand more information—but that was just instinct, and a stronger instinct overwhelmed it: survival. If Sigurne did not believe that prayer was beneficial, she would nonetheless offer a benediction to the triumvirate for any who survived this evening’s work. She held the path. She held it, although her arms began the involuntary shuddering that indicated that she had pushed past—far past—her reasonable limits.
Now was not the time for such weakness. It was, however, the time for such risks. “Meralonne!”
She didn’t look up, although she desired a glimpse of the most fractious, disorderly member of her Order. She knew that he was almost unconfined here, unfettered by the trappings of life as a mortal. And yes, it stirred her; the ancient and the wild both elevated and diminished her. She could never be what he was; no amount of study or power could change her essential nature.
Yet she could stand, as she might stand in a storm, in awe of a force that was so much beyond her it might have been tidal wave or earthquake. She could no more command a tidal wave than she could command Meralonne; what authority she had, he ceded her. He tolerated it. But obey or no, he had always heard her voice.
He heard it now.
He replied: the wind roared. Fire had been summoned and fire had scorched floor and charred corpses, adding to their count when the living, too traumatized to comprehend basic commands, failed to stand on the only safe ground marked by three different magics. But the fire that had been called was bound to the voice and the power of a ghost.
The wind was not.
Sigurne retreated to the wall; it was far simpler to sustain protections in the gap there, and the moment they were no longer necessary—and that time was coming—she could allow them to lapse without fear of perishing herself. She did not count the merchants who passed her by; she did not tell them to hurry.
Eva did that, her voice strident and clear. She led—harshly—where leading was necessary, but she returned to the stragglers and the back of the line. She was not gentle; if she had ever been gentle, travel with caravans had cured her. Where her words couldn’t reach the last of the merchants, her hands could; the sharp sting of her palm was silenced by the wind’s anger and the crackle of fire.
She led, cajoled, and dragged. Each merchant clambered out of the gaping hole that had once contained both doorframe and door, passing Sigurne, until only Eva remained. Her dark eyes narrowed as they met Sigurne’s.
“Where the hells are the rest of your magi?”
“On the other side of the far doors,” Sigurne replied. “Do not tarry here, Eva.”
Eva snorted. “I should throw you out first, myself.”
“Go. I will follow.”
“You’re practically unconscious as it is, Guildmaster.”
It was true; Sigurne did not waste breath denying it.
She listened. She listened to what she heard in Meralonne, his voice familiar, even if the words that it uttered were—and would always be—beyond her. He rode the wind, and it carried him in graceful, sudden arcs; his sword left a trail of light in her vision, a ghostly lattice, a map, of sorts.
He was as wild, here, as the wind; as wild as the fire. There was beauty in savagery as compelling as storm and mountain and the vast depth of ocean on a clear day. She could not own it; she could not touch it. But she could bear witness.
“Sigurne, come away.” The words were no part of the wild; they contained no magic, no majesty. The voice that spoke them was older, rougher; it dipped and faded as the wind roared. It was not the voice she wanted to hear, now.
But she could.
“Sigurne, Eva has taken the last of the merchants. Meralonne cannot finish this combat while you are here.”
“He does not see me,” she whispered.
“No. But he knows. Come. I cannot maintain the path for nearly as long as you have, and we must be away before the floor collapses.”
She did not have the strength to repeat the words of a distant god. But
Meralonne was here; she did not have to try. She could listen. She could listen to things that would never, ever hear her voice in their turn.
“Sigurne.”
Matteos gripped her arm, pulling her through the ragged hole. Splinters of wood lodged themselves in the backs of her calves and caught in the hem of her robe. Clumsy, really. Had her spells unraveled so much in so short a time?
“Sigurne.”
Ah. Yes. Yes, she thought. They had. But the time was not so small a span; she was not in the Northern Wastes, and the demon was not her master; the only thing the past and the present had in common was the white-haired man with the sky-blue sword and the shining, silver eyes. She had watched him in the Northern Wastes, where the snow was so white it caused the eye to water. She stood, tall, as tall as she had ever stood, her hands by her sides, her eyes dry—and wide. She had known he would come for her.
But not before he killed the Ice Mage.
Not before he killed the Kialli. The demon lord did not fear him. She wondered if he understood that the white-haired man was his death—if death had any meaning to a creature who claimed that he had died when the world was young and the gods still walked the earth. She had been sixteen years of age. She had had no expectation, at that moment in time, that she would see seventeen—and she did not care.
So many years between that day and this one. She was old, now, bent with the weight of age.
The only thing she waited for was death, but death—ah, death had not come. Not for her, not yet. Sigurne Mellifas had her pride; if death avoided her, she would not walk toward it; she would not beg for mercy. Not then, when death would have been a welcome relief, and not now. Not when she still had work to do.
“Matteos.” She did not look at him; she tried. But she spoke his name in a voice that was shorn of all strength.
He spared no glance for Meralonne as he shouldered the greater part of her weight, turning her toward the servants’ exit. Toward life. Touch alone confirmed what he was too observant to miss, but he did not coddle or otherwise undermine her.
That would come later, in the privacy of her Tower, when the undamaged halls of the Order of Knowledge once again enfolded them both. “Sigurne.”
“I know,” she whispered. “We are almost done here.”
“You are done here.” He glanced past her, sliding an arm beneath her arms and taking as much of her weight as she was willing to allow him. Her knees were weak; she locked them. She was accustomed to being treated as if she were old and frail, and it had its uses.
It would not be useful here.
“Meralonne?”
Matteos glanced back. “. . . The damage to the guildhall will be extensive.”
“And Gavin?”
“I am not certain there will be anything left for Gavin and his magi to detain.”
Sigurne grimaced. “Gavin is not a fool. He understands what the Order—and the Mysterium—now require. We cannot capture or compel demons; we can, however, interrogate mortals. The men in guildhall tabards were no demons.”
Matteos nodded; it was a gesture meant to stifle discussion, rather than to indicate agreement. The nimbus of orange that had surrounded them both brightened around only Sigurne. “Let your protections go,” he told her.
Her nod was mirror to his, and he did not press her. She watched Eva’s back until her vision was too blurred to continue. Her eyes closed almost of their own accord as she listened. She had not stopped listening.
“Sigurne.” Matteos’ voice was thin and rough.
She did not lie to comfort him. “Yes. I was . . . unwise. I did not realize how much of a drain the first cast spell would be. It was not an act of folly,” she added, although her voice shook. “The damage done to the Empire if all of the merchants had perished here would be catastrophic.”
Matteos did not argue. And Sigurne, shuddering, let the last of her protections lapse as his enfolded her. He was, she thought, her knight, her liege, her oathguard. He would not argue with her here. He would not ask her what spell she had cast, or how; why was enough of an answer. He would not ask her what Meralonne APhaniel meant when he spoke of danger.
He would not ask her what she heard, when she listened. She was grateful. She knew who their enemy was. She knew what he was. She even understood what he wanted, inasmuch as a mortal could. But she could not relinquish the sound of the god’s voice, although he was her enemy. Not until she at last surrendered consciousness—and even this, she fought.
Chapter Seven
8th of Morel, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
JESTER AND MORNINGS WERE not the best of friends; had he the luxury of choice, they would have been nothing more than nodding acquaintances. He tended to spend too much of the early morning hours with bards or the less fractious merchants, and he required time to sleep off the worst of his excesses.
On this particular morning, he was stone cold sober. He had returned from the Merchant Authority and retreated immediately to the West Wing for a quiet and isolated meal. His retreat did not go unnoticed. One of the junior pages, a girl or boy of perhaps ten, stumbled on the carpets in the long, public gallery; Jester was there to catch her before the stumble became a fall. She apologized profusely, clearly terrified that such clumsiness had been witnessed. But as he helped her to her feet, she slid something into the palm of his hand.
He failed to notice. He failed to notice it as he entered the West Wing, passing between the Chosen who now stood guard at the doors; he failed to notice as he bypassed the dining room and the great room and headed directly for his personal chambers.
He also failed to notice it when he dropped it in a drawer in the pristine desk which was used for very little else. He disliked the desk on principle. Teller had a new desk that was very similar to it—but Teller had insisted that all of their desks be replaced.
Jester understood why and saw no point in arguing; then again, Jester seldom saw much point in arguing. He had his own way of dealing with things, none of which involved an empty stomach. At the moment, none of them involved company, either. He had dinner sent to his rooms, and he hunkered there, eating and thinking about the day’s events.
They required thought, but he kept returning to Finch. Someone had tried to assassinate her. Jay had been The Terafin at the time—although technically she was still The Terafin. Jester didn’t take notes—not written ones. But he thought about Ruby and Verdian. About Ludgar. About Jarven ATerafin, a man he was never going to trust.
The odd thing was that Finch didn’t trust him, either.
When he finished eating, he brooded. He considered heading out for the evening, but the events at the Merchant Authority had unsettled him enough that he wanted to sort through the questions that arose from it. The obvious questions, he discarded. Everyone would ask those. But absent the obvious—who was responsible, and what they could possibly gain—subtle questions remained.
Those, he would have to approach with care, and the first step of care was deciding which questions would yield information. Once he had questions, he would have a clearer idea of who his drinking companions for the next week were likely to be.
• • •
Evening had surrendered very few questions of use by the time it gave way to morning; it had also offered very little restful sleep. Jester considered catching Teller in the breakfast nook, but decided against it; Teller was likely to ask about his meeting with Haval, and Haval Arwood was not the man Jester wished to discuss. Not with Teller.
In an attempt to put that discussion off, he lingered in bed until he was fairly certain Teller had finished. He then rose and asked that breakfast be sent to his room. Given the dark circles under his eyes, the servants no doubt assumed he was hungover, which happened with less frequency than they suspected, but probably more frequency than was wise.
He was, therefore, less
than well pleased when breakfast arrived with company. He was not terribly surprised at the company itself, and briefly considered attempting to discard that company in the same way he’d discarded the message. “I wasn’t really expecting visitors,” he said, glancing pointedly at his dressing gown. It was too much to expect that Haval would take the less than graceful hint.
“You should have been.”
“Yes, well. Did you bring food for two?”
“No. I breakfasted with my wife. With,” he added, sharpening his voice, although his face was almost expressionless, “my extremely worried wife. You perhaps have some inkling of what has caused her latest concerns?”
Jester, like any of the den, could eat on the literal run, if necessary. Eating while an inscrutable bloody tailor interrogated him wasn’t going to be a problem, even if his appetite was fast approaching zero. He walked over to the trays that had been set on the small table, and lifted their silver lids, glancing at a distorted reflection of Haval as he did. “I got your message.”
“You did not reply.”
“No; no reply was demanded. I’m not sure I approve of your method of delivery.”
Haval said nothing.
“I don’t recall that I agreed to work for you,” he continued, when the long pause had grown awkward, even for Jester. “If I’m to do so, some discussion about compensation is in order.”
Once again, Haval failed to respond. Jester dragged a chair across the rug. It was a battered piece of furniture of purely middling quality; he turned its back toward the table. He then sat in it, draping his arms over the top and folding them. “Did you know that the Merchant Authority would be under attack?”
“I did not. It is my guess that Finch suspected there would be difficulties. I doubt that even she expected the scope of them. It will not, today, be her chief concern. You have heard about the difficulties the Merchants’ Guild encountered?”
Oracle: The House War: Book Six Page 18
