Jewel was in a fury.
They all knew it. They could hear her clattering about the kitchen in isolation; she'd purged it entirely—in one sweeping curse— of both her den-mates and the one or two servants she grudgingly allowed to clean and tend it. Carver hadn't moved fast enough, which is how they'd learned that fury was the right word: she'd sent a tureen—an empty one, but nothing in Terafin was cheap and light—flying into the wall four inches to the right of his head just to catch his attention.
Caught it, too. He left. They all left. No one stayed to ask questions.
Luckily—in a manner of speaking—she'd thrown Avandar out as well. First, of course. He wasn't the den favorite—he had never become part of the den in any significant way—but they'd developed a sneaking admiration for his ability to deal with her graceless temper; he wasn't a man who looked like he was used to hearing a single angry word, let alone what Jewel usually said in the heat of the moment.
"What happened?" Angel said, straightening out a spire of hair and looking at the closed door beyond which a small army's worth of noise could be heard.
Avandar Gallais looked back over his shoulder before he shrugged. He was older than any of 'em, dressed better, spoke better, and knew how to read every language they'd ever encountered even better than Jewel did. They suspected that he could actually use magic; he sure as hells recognized it when he saw it coming. They didn't know, though; no one had ever asked him directly. He wasn't a man who usually answered direct questions— even Jay's, which really pissed her off.
Avandar was, as he most often was, silent and thin-lipped. This meant he was both angry and resigned. Angel had already turned away, and almost missed the answer; it was curt and to the point.
"Alea ATerafin."
"Oh."
They knew what it was, then. Alea ATerafin had been about the only member of the upper echelons of Terafin that Jewel Mark-ess ATerafin had actually liked. Quiet woman, in her own way, and in Finch's opinion a little on the watery side, but she was probably better than any of the rest of 'em.
And Jewel, seer-born, had never learned to accept that the only life her gift would ever let her save for certain was her own. They all had, and they all did. But not her.
Carver shook his head. "Glad I'm not you," he said, as he pulled away from the kitchen door. "Funeral's in two hours, and you're going to have to dig her out of there and get her ready."
The phrase "if looks could kill" took on significant meaning only if one knew Avandar Gallais well enough to understand the subtle sourness of his expression.
It wasn't a rainy day; it wasn't a dark one. It was the type of day that was so mild and so beautiful it made toil of any sort seem almost an insult to the benevolence of the weather gods—whichever gods those were at the moment. Changed a bit, with time.
Jewel hated it.
There should have been rain, storm, something that showed the displeasure of the heavens at the unjust, the unfair, the unacceptable passing of a decent woman. There should have been mourning, and if not that, than at least weather drizzly and gray enough to keep people from good cheer and ease. Petty thought, that. But Alea was dead, and the death should mean something.
She hated black. She hated gold. She wore them both for Alea because Alea would have insisted on it. For the good of the House, of course. For the sake of solidarity.
What she'd chosen not to wear spoke volumes, and indeed volumes had been spoken by Avandar all the way from her rooms to the edge of the grounds.
"You cannot leave your House Ring; it is the mark of your status as part of the House Council."
"The House bloody Council," she'd replied, "can choose to go straight to Allasakar for all I care."
That silenced him for a moment. The name of the Lord of the Hells was rarely, if ever, spoken. In matters of protocol, however, he was rarely silenced for long.
So she tried a different tack. "Look," she said, "you're not an idiot. I'm not an idiot. We're standing on contested turf right now, and Alea's death was just like Courtne's—part of a turf war. There are two dens forming up. Maybe more."
He was quiet another minute—which allowed her to get from her room to the great hall—before he spoke again. "Four."
"Four. Or five. I don't know. But I do know this. I don't have the funds or the soldiers to throw away in a turf war over a House that's not even up for grabs. The Terafin's not dead, Avandar."
"But the—"
"And the House Council is the collection of den leaders who are sharpening their knives. Who've already blooded them. Alea is dead because they've started their skirmishing. Who's left that's worth respecting? Courtne's dead, and he was considered the unimpeachable heir to the title. Gabriel? Rymark's his blood son. And I've already said enough about Rymark.
"Look, I've seen it before. I thought—because I was an idiot— that I'd never see it again. You think I want to be part of them right now? Think again. You want the ring?"
"You don't insult them," he'd said, "You insult her." Avandar spoke of The Terafin, not the dead, and Jewel knew it. "You are her choice, as you well know, and your inclusion on Council was a matter of harsh words and politics."
That almost worked.
Almost.
But she ached when she thought of Alea, and she could think of nothing else to offer her. She wanted to make a gesture. So it was childish. So it was a waste of time. It didn't matter. She wanted to, and this was the only one she could think of.
"If she's insulted," she told the domicis gruffly, "I'll grovel in private later. But I have to say something, and if I can't say it this way, I'll actually say it."
He didn't surrender gracefully. Never did. But he shut up, which was the best she could ask for.
They made it to the grounds in the relative chill of his anger and the relative heat of hers; her den were smarter than he was and walked about five yards behind her temper, letting her cool off the only way she knew how.
She was glad of them. Glad that they understood what she just didn't want to put in words. Not now, not ever. Loss—it was the worst thing. The thing she hated most. Even speaking about it was somehow letting it in.
But she discovered that the strength of her loss was selfish, centered around her own fear and her own rage; discovered, to her surprise and her dismay, that she was not the only member of Terafin that somehow felt a gesture must be made.
That she was by no means the most powerful member either.
It should have comforted her, to see it, to see the act of defi-ance and anger and to know that even The Terafin could be pushed too hard, too far.
But when she saw the sword, her heart froze. She'd thought there wasn't anything left in her heart to freeze; she was Jay, and she was stupid sometimes, and she constantly underestimated her ability to be surprised. Being a seer did that.
But this sword she'd only seen girded once before, and that time was one time too many. It still came back to her in nightmare: darkness and death, the madness of the mage-born, the god-born and the Allasakari. The deaths of too many of the Chosen.
Justice shall not sleep.
She knew Morretz just well enough to know that he disapproved of the sword, but it barely registered; her eyes were caught, everywhere, by the faces of the men and women who lined the walk in preparation for her coming: the Chosen. The men and women handpicked and trusted absolutely by The Terafin. The men and women who had each seen that sword at least once in their tenure: It was the sword upon which their oaths were taken, and to which a ceremonial amount of their blood was given. A sword of war, yes, but much, much more.
It chilled her.
"You see?" Avandar said softly, quietly. "A gesture has been made. How does it comfort the dead?"
Later, she'd remember to keep her face completely rigid in Avandar's company; she usually managed it, but the sonofabitch could see so damned clearly it only took a twitch.
The phrase "cold comfort" took on a whole new meaning. I'm not sixteen anymor
e, Jewel thought. And she looked across the grounds to see that The Terafin's gaze had stopped a moment to meet hers. Saw herself in those eyes.
Jewel lifted a ringless hand in salute.
10th of Lattan, 427 AA
Kalakar, Averalaan Aramarelas
The Black Ospreys were the lone company that had not been given leave—indeed, given specific orders to the contrary—to expand their number. Duarte had expected no less, and was resigned to the lack before recruitment started. Secretly, it did not displease him; the Ospreys were a handful at the best of times, and an increase in their numbers usually called for a pruning that he found, over time, he had lost stomach for. Dangerous that.
An Osprey was, after all, a bird of prey—you could fly it, hunt it, give it freedom in which to take its kill, and even force it to feed from your hand, but the relationship was a delicate balance of will and mastery, a subtle acknowledgment that, at the right time, the bird's flight was the bird's flight, and all the more breathtaking for the uncertainty it inspired.
But the Black Ospreys were more than just captive killers; they had their pride.
Duarte was no fool. When Fiara burst into the room, her eyes narrow and cool enough to freeze water where it stood in the pitcher on his desk, he knew exactly what was coming, and wondered briefly if holding both halves of the conversation—if such an encounter could be graced with that word—would make his point. He doubted it.
"Sentrus." A warning, of sorts.
She snorted. "Duarte," she began.
"Sentrus."
It stopped her, but not cold. "Primus Duarte."
"Better."
"Duarte—"
He sighed. "What?"
"Every company in Kalakar is recruiting in the streets of this city. Every company in Kalakar is going to be recruiting in the West—and in the North—after the King's Challenge." Fiara, dark-haired and dark-eyed, was an anomaly; she came from the Northern kingdoms where a sword served as well as most speeches, and the people were as pale as the ice and snow that surrounded them for so much of the gods-cursed year. Duarte had done his time in the North, and had no desire to return to it; the ice had crept into his hair there, and the wind had frozen lines into his skin.
/ am not a young man, he thought, accepting it as truth although it troubled more than his vanity. War was coming.
"I am aware of that, Fiara. It may surprise you, but as Primus and therefore commanding officer of this company, I actually do manage to hear a few words before the rest of you do."
She had the grace to flush, but that was about as much grace as he could hope for; she was an Osprey, after all. They all were. Misfits, killers, mercenaries more than soldiers—their only real law was the loyalty they held to each other. And, by extension, to the Kalakar House Guards. He had gathered them; they were his.
But it had been well over a decade since he had pulled their hoods from their faces to let them see the light of the open sky. To let them catch sight of their quarry.
And that, he thought, was taking the analogy about as far as it could go without losing it entirely.
"Sentrus," he said quietly, in a tone that brooked no interruption—even from an Osprey. "the time for peace is almost past. If you wish to be offended by The Kalakar's order, be offended in silence. What I accept from you in peace, and what I accept from you in time of war are, of necessity, two different things. It's been long indeed if you've forgotten it."
"Primus," she said, tapping her chest with the curled tips of her fingers.
He closed his eyes a moment. House Guards were expected to drill and present. Even the Ospreys. Given their reputation, probably especially the Ospreys.
Still, no war had been declared, and the Callestan Tyr, or so rumor had it, was certain that if war was to be declared, it would be declared by the height of the Festival of the Sun. The eighth day of Lattan had come and gone; it would be two days yet before word could be expected to arrive in Averalaan, carried most likely by members of the bardic college. The Kingdom had time to mobilize.
No doubt that was what the Dominion intended to do as well.
"Primus Duarte," Fiara said, her voice rather chilly, "permission to speak?"
"Granted."
"We've never been allowed up to our full tally. We took the brunt of the slaughter in the valley—"
"We were one of three companies, Fiara."
"We were the only company that counted, as far as the Annies were concerned."
"Ah, Alexis. I was wondering when you would decide to join us." His smile never started. "The term Annies is not to be used under this particular tour of duty." His tone and his expression indicated clearly that they'd both agreed to this at least a dozen times.
Nor did she argue now. "News," she said grimly.
"What news?"
"You aren't going to like it."
"Alexis."
"Do you want to finish with Fiara?"
Fiara's dark gaze had started to drill a small hole in the side of Alexis' face—or it would have, if eyes had that particular strength. Alexis, apparently, did not notice. Which fooled neither the woman standing beside her nor the man sitting in front; she was sharp as a Maker's blade; she missed nothing.
"Yes," he said at last, hoping that he'd remember to tell her that, as Sentrus, she was being unconscionably rude—hells, as Decarus, before she'd been busted down a rank, it would still have been poor behavior among Ospreys. Of course, correcting Alexis in public had its own special consequences. It made Duarte uneasy a moment. This woman was his companion, as much of a soul mate as he had ever allowed himself to find. But that bond had been built after the war's end—formed in the fires and grime of the Annagarian dead. Formed, he thought, by a need to escape the war's cost, the war's loss.
They had never faced combat together as a couple; he'd half-thought they never would. And he wasn't at all certain that the shift from peacetime friction to wartime rule wouldn't destroy what they'd built. He wondered, idly, if she ever thought about it.
"Duarte?"
"My pardon. Sentrus," he said, turning to Fiara AKalakar with a grimace, "You might recall that not one of these soldiers came to me without passing through the ranks of either the House Guards or The Berriliya's regiment first. You might, if you care, further recall that more than a handful of those that did come to me were given, without pause, to the Kings' Justice.
"I built the Ospreys. I know how to build the Ospreys. But they're built out of war, in war. They cannot be tempered in any fire weaker than that. The Ospreys are mine, Fiara. It appears that you've forgotten that."
She stared impassively at his face for a moment; he thought she was actually going to argue the point. And then her face cracked into a sudden grin. Her salute was far less feeble—if far from perfect.
"It seems that Sentrus Alexis also has her concerns, and I would like to take them in private."
"Primus."
How the hell was he going to beat them back into army standard? And had they ever really been up to army standard, or was his memory being exceptionally—and uncharacteristically—kind? He leaned back in his chair and gazed up into Alexis' neutral expression. It was the one he least liked. Temper, if unpleasant in every other way, lent a color and a richness to her face. Also a certain deadliness, but as Duarte had founded the Ospreys, he was not a man to shy from danger.
"Well?"
"It involves our… current tour of duty."
She was right. He didn't like it at all. The current tour of duty was one that most of the Ospreys were not completely confident in to begin with: instead of killing, covertly or otherwise, they had been assigned to preserve and protect. And the boy—which, as he was fully of age, was an unfair word, but used regardless— whom they'd been assigned the protection of had already tangled with one of the Ospreys, been wounded, and kept his mouth shut, placing, by that action, one foot across the circle that separated the Ospreys from outsiders.
Unfortunately, it was a tour of duty th
at couldn't be failed. There had only been one assassination attempted since they'd taken over their role as personal guards. It had cost them one life; it wasn't an amateur attempt.
It had its value, though. If it wasn't war, the single death of one of their own cemented their dedication—such as it was. It made the shadow enemy a real one. He waited for Alexis to continue. Waited a bit longer.
He hated these games, small though they were. "Alexis…"
"I'm not certain if you're aware that the Kings' Challenge is just around the corner. You've been kept so busy," she added sweetly.
"Alexis." She knew damned well he was aware of the Kings' Challenge—there wasn't a House raising troops for the Kings that wasn't. All of the hopeful young men with any brawn and little enough brain made their trek across the continent in search of a challenge, a way to make their names, and a golden reward. Those men, disappointed in their attempt to reap a greater glory, were often easy pickings for army recruiters.
As a mage-trained scholar, Duarte had avoided recruitment; as a man indentured to Kalakar by the cost of the Order of Knowledge's training, he had not.
"You've too much on your mind, Duarte. Let me spell it out for you.
"First: Take the Kings' Challenge. Big contest, full of young men with more brawn than brain. Contestants arrive from as far away as the Western Kingdoms and the Southern Terreans of Oer-ta and Sargasso—even this year, when war is so close, and the Kings should damned well know better than to risk the influx of spies or assassins. But I digress—and that's your trick. So, take the Kings' Challenge, in which everyone without a real brain feels he should try to prove himself to every other person without a real brain.
"Next: Take one young, very fast, very competent man, who's been sword-trained and dagger-trained, born to the saddle and gods alone know what else. Make him a man who, of all these entrants, does have something to prove." She smiled as Duarte went suddenly pale.
"Alexis, if this is a joke—"
"Not even I have a sense of humor this grim." She waited, and then, when Duarte did not deign to interrupt her silence, added, "Valedan kai di'Leonne has undergone the trial, before judges, and has been chosen as one of the hundred men who will undergo the King's Challenge."
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 6
