She thought, suddenly. How many men died? How many men did you order to their deaths in the war twelve years ago? But she did not ask it; it was a young girl's question, and it would not be as easily forgiven coming as it did from the lips of a woman past thirty.
"Commander Allen," The Terafin said, bowing slightly. "Commander Berriliya. Commander Kalakar."
"Terafin," The Kalakar said, her lips rounding slightly in a familiar smile, the lines around the corners of blue eyes crinkling. "This is a change of venue."
"And a change of topic, as I suspect our merchant lines are not an issue in this discussion." The Terafin's smile matched The Kalakar's; that they were peers in all things was made clear by the ease of their discourse.
"They weren't entirely at issue in the last discussion," The Kalakar said, but shortly.
The Berriliya's frown was both slight and unmistakable. Jewel had seldom seen a man look so continually sour. Well, if you didn't count Avandar, and she didn't. She looked over her shoulder and saw, without surprise, the center of his chest; he stood closer to her than usual. Her colorful shadow. Protector, of sorts. Domicis, whatever that meant.
How had she gotten so used to him?
Commander Allen left the three—Berriliya, Kalakar, and Terafin—speaking; he moved to the table upon which lay a large.
marked map. Maps like these were probably scattered across Averalaan Aramarelas. Merchant caravans and their inroads into the Dominion were the best source of the lay of the land—with the possible exception of the bardic colleges—and each House had merchants who used slightly different routes, or visited different Tors or Tyrs depending on the goods that they traveled with. Members of the Order of Knowledge—and members of the Imperial army—were at work combining the knowledge that was, in most Houses, more carefully guarded than all but the persons of the ruling members of the Houses themselves; it had been, and remained, a very tricky subject, and Jewel suspected that at least one or two of the merchants had deliberately been less than truthful. Knew it for fact, although she hadn't bent her mind to finding out which ones.
Because, of course, the Houses were to see the finished map in its entirety; they'd insisted on it, as The Berriliya and The Kalakar would be so privileged in the course of their duties.
It was hard, to have two Commanders who were also the heads of their Houses. In the history of the Empire—the brief history, Jewel thought, and knew that her understanding of its history had indeed changed her—it had only happened once before, and that at the Empire's bloody founding. The Ten had ridden to war.
The Kalakar ruled her House; there was no question that it belonged to her. No question that it would be there, loyal and unswerving, upon her return. The Berriliya's hold on his house was no less secure, but Jewel was not as certain that the House itself would not require some careful cleaning when the war was over.
If, she added bleakly to herself, they won.
"We must win this war," she surprised herself by saying. And, as usual, the words immediately silenced the conversations that had dappled the room with their little noises. There were days when she hated the gift she'd been born to.
The Kalakar smiled. "Then we will."
The Berriliya frowned but said nothing; Jewel wasn't certain she wanted to see the day when they both smiled in unison. But she knew, suddenly, that she would.
Commander Allen turned from the map to the younger ATerafin as if the map had never been of much interest to him. His eyes, she thought, were bright with something other than color; it was as if he saw clearly a thing which no one else in the room could.
Unfortunately, that thing was Jewel.
She-felt, rather than saw, Avandar take a step to her left, coming out of her shadow, as it were; becoming more solid. He did not speak; it was not his place, and in that he was almost always painfully correct. But the warning in his presence was clear; perhaps too clear.
Jewel could not recall Morretz ever being so threatening in his silence. In fact, until this moment, she had—as she habitually did—forgotten that he was in the room. Their eyes met, and The Terafin's domicis actually smiled, as if Avandar's presence had drawn from them both the same thought.
Commander Allen chose not to notice Avandar; it was the wisest course of action, and she thought that he, like The Terafin, was a man who favored the Lord of Wisdom, if he clearly otherwise followed the god Cartanis, Lord of Just War.
"ATerafin," he said, offering her a nod.
"Commander."
"Your tone of voice suggests some further knowledge."
Not a question. She shrugged, and caught, for her trouble, the minute frown on The Terafin's face. "We've done this one before, Commander."
"We have." He waited; it was clear that she could speak as formally or informally as she liked and his reaction would be, as it was to most things, opaque. She had the sense that he could wait like that forever, as if he were Morel's statue.
And she would be damned if she was going to stand in his shadow for another minute. "My tone of voice is always going to suggest further knowledge that I don't have. If we're going to work together, get used to it."
"Jewel," The Terafin said, her voice, and Avandar's expression, blending into a stern warning that could—almost—not be ignored.
"I resent," Jewel continued, "the implication that I'm withholding information, if I can't immediately explain to your satisfaction something I've said. You aren't a stupid man—at least by all reports—so I'll grant you what little knowledge there is of the powers I've been born to. You requested them, after all. But we might as well begin here. I don't like to be treated like a lowly House spy.
"I'll work with you anyway; I don't have a choice." Not entirely true, though true enough on ethical grounds. "But I'm not your soldier, I'm not your adjutant, I'm not part of your Flight."
"Jewel."
"I'm not beholden to you, and I'm not going to be questioned by you as if I were a common criminal; you don't hold my oath. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly." he replied, his voice dry as Northern winter.
"Good."
The Berriliya's expression was also as cold as Northern winter, which was fine. The Terafin's was even chillier, which was not. Oh, she was going to suffer for this later. She didn't even bother to glance at Avandar.
But she was surprised to see that The Kalakar's expression, if anything, was—faintly—approving. Approval was worse, in some ways, than disapproval, because it meant you had something to lose.
And loss was something that Jewel had never dealt well with.
"I don't think," Jewel said, as cautiously as she could, "that this war is the only war."
"Meaning?"
"It's a big battle."
"And you say this because?"
"Commander Allen, I say it on instinct. It's the instinct that I was born with. If you asked me to bet my life on it, I would."
"And how many other lives would you bet on it. Jewel ATerafin?"
"As many as you have," she replied. "If we don't win this battle, somehow, we've lost the whole thing."
" 'Whole thing'?"
"The Empire," she said. "The Western Kingdoms. The Dominion. Everything." It settled upon her, around her, within her: It was truth. Having spoken it, she could not turn back, and she knew, as her glance skirted The Terafin's stiff features, that the spirit of Terafin had known it when he had given her permission, even indirect orders, to go South.
"You will," the Commander said quietly, "allow us to speak privately for a few moments before we continue this interview." The Berriliya and The Kalakar had already drawn closer to his back, but he didn't turn that back upon her; he waited. Showing, no doubt, that his manners were vastly better than hers.
Still, it wasn't a request. She nodded, afraid. Because she knew— not as a seer, but as an intelligent young woman—that the war that was coming was in his hands as much as anyone's, and if they were to win it, it must remain that way. The Eagle was the only thing that co
uld effectively bind and lead the other two. The Hawk. The Kestrel.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
"Well?" Commander Allen turned to the man known as the Hawk.
"She's known for her capabilities. It is rumored that when she is certain, she's infallible." Dry now. The Berrilya had the best information-gathering network in the capital; he valued it with a cool sort of pride.
"Infallible. Ellora?"
The Kestrel's eyes were still upon the door that had just closed. "I wouldn't," she said, half to herself, "want to be the unfortunate fool sent to kill her. That domicis of hers is only barely a servant, if I'm any judge of character. I wouldn't have had him if he hadn't come from the guild."
"You wouldn't have him if he did," Commander Allen said; her scruples were well known.
"We are not speaking about the domicis," The Berrilya said, a bit too sharply.
"They come as a pair, Devran."
The Hawk subsided. The Kestrel continued. "But the young woman?"
"She's at least thirty, Ellora."
"She's young for thirty, in some respects."
Commander Allen did not argue the point. Instead, he waited. Ellora AKalakar—no, The Kalakar—had instincts that had been tested in battle; honed by death, by the dying. The Berrilya relied on structure, on order, on a clean rationality; The Kalakar took her chances upon the sword's edge. Both had survived, which was the test, perhaps the only true one.
"I'd trust her."
The line of his shoulders fell ever so slightly; he lifted a hand to his eyes a moment, as if to clear them of dust. "With your life?"
"My life, certainly."
"The lives of your men?"
Her answer took longer, but he knew her well enough to know what it would be; he wasn't disappointed. "Yes. Even if she swore no oath to me."
"But?"
"But I'm not certain that I would trust that girl with the deaths of my men. Or yours. Or his."
To someone who had never been a Commander in time of war, the words might have held no meaning. But to Commander Allen they were cutting.
"Devran?"
"Concur. The girl can barely follow The Terafin's command; I doubt that she will follow ours if it does not suit her purpose."
"That's not what I said." The Kestrel dropped her hand flat against the tabletop, slapping Devran's reflection. They were powerful, these two, but they were not above heat and ire. To Commander Allen's abiding regret.
"It Is not at the heart of what you think you said," was The Berriliya's cool reply, "but it is at the heart of the matter. She will do what she perceives to be 'right,' rather than what we perceive to be necessary."
"And do you counsel that we leave her behind?"
The Berriliya said nothing.
"Bruce?"
"No."
"Why?" Devran turned his back upon Ellora.
"Instinct," the Eagle said, his smile sharp. "Hers and ours. She means to come, and I think that means we need her."
"How will we control her?"
"Crowns' mandate."
"The Crowns' mandate," The Berriliya said balefully, glaring at The Kalakar, "doesn't even keep our own in line."
Ellora's smile was cool. "It doesn't keep us under your control, Devran. I believe you've forgotten what the Crowns' mandate is." Before he could answer—and there was no doubt whatever in Commander Allen's mind that a reply was forthcoming—she turned to the man whose lead they both followed. "We've given you our opinions, and as usual, they're… diverse. I note that you've withheld your own."
"Perhaps because I haven't formed one."
"I don't believe you."
At that, Commander Allen smiled. It was something that Ellora, direct and to the point, would say; Devran would think it, but keep his own counsel. Neither of them would be fool enough to believe that he had drawn no conclusion. "Time hasn't dulled you at all, Ellora. You're right."
"You like her." No question.
"Yes."
"You think she'll make a terrible soldier."
"Yes."
"You never had any intention of leaving her behind."
"True."
"Then why this discussion?"
"Because I've been wrong on occasion, and my understanding of people like this Jewel ATerafin is often… limited." He raised a hand and placed it almost absently upon the hilt of his sheathed sword. "She is no soldier."
"And that," Devran said unexpectedly, "is a pity, because I believe by the end of her tenure in Terafin she will either learn to be one, or she will not survive."
Commander Allen turned sharply. "What do you mean?"
"The girl is not a killer. You are, Bruce. Ellora is, I am. The Terafin is."
"Why, thank you," Ellora said wryly.
"This is House business, not Crown business," the man called the Hawk added, his eyes sharp and clear as his namesake's. "But the rumors are stronger than they have been in fifteen years."
"What rumors?"
Ellora and Devran exchanged glances, and Commander Allen reminded himself that they, these two and he, were not yet upon the field of battle; they were The Kalakar and The Berriliya, and his concerns and theirs, in this so-called civilian life, did not meet or touch often.
It was Ellora who replied. "Even Kalakar has heard the rumors— and fielded requests."
"Requests?"
"For support."
"Ellora, Devran—time has passed if you've forgotten how little patience I have."
Devran answered. "The Terafin is being pressured to choose an heir. There are, that we know of, four candidates, and of those four—Rymark, Haerrad, Elonne, and Marrick—two have emerged as the true contenders: Rymark and Haerrad. Regardless, all four have quietly petitioned The Ten for aid and support should they be the chosen heir of Terafin."
"I see. And?"
The silence was uncomfortable.
At last, Ellora said, "You serve the Kings, Bruce. As do we when we wear these uniforms. But the requests came not to the uniforms, nor to the Crowns; they came to us. It is House business."
Which meant, Bruce Allen thought bleakly, House succession war. The Kings did not interfere, not directly, in a House War, unless it grew out of proportion. And proportion, to the Wisdom-born King, was a hundred deaths, not ten. It was within The Ten that those who sought power tested themselves, and weeded themselves out. The Twin Kings were proof against the succession wars that had devastated human empires for centuries, even millennia, before the birth of Veralaan. "Were there only four?" he asked.
Ellora and Devran glanced to and away from each other so quickly their expressions hardly had time to shift. It was Ellora— always Ellora—who finally said, "There was a fifth. Possibly a sixth."
But more than that, she would not say. And his intelligence, within the Houses, was not up to the task of Finding what she did not offer. He could ask Duvari, the Lord of the Compact, but that would draw attention of a type that neither the Hawk nor the Kestrel ever gracefully accepted.
He would say nothing.
But he wanted, in his own way, the simplicity of a war that could be fought in the open.
"We'd best speak with the girl, then," he said at last. Thinking of Duvari, he added, "we won't have her services until the last serving member of the Kings' Court has been officially cleared by the Lord of the Compact-—and I believe he intends, with The Terafin's permission, to use the girl's peculiar vision."
12th of Lattan, 427 AA
Avantari
Five days.
Valedan kai di'Leonne rested a moment beside the fountain that had never once ceased its quiet cry. Blindfolded, the carved statue that had been an affront to so many of his compatriots stood in the center of the water that came from his cupped hands. Justice, its maker had called it. Tyrian Justice. They translated Tyrian to be Annagarian, and perhaps it was; either way, it was clear to those who had come from the Dominion what its intent was. An insult. A slap in the face.
Usually th
e intent of such a slight was lost if you were not from the North, with the rain's water and the frozen winter for blood— after all, slavery was a fact of life, the Lord's will; the Lady's stricture. This statue had been carved by the branded hands of an escaped slave—one of the few who had probably stolen enough that he could bribe the Voyani to bring him across the borders.
No. Be honest. He knew, because Mirialyn ACormaris had chosen to tell him, that although the man's hands had been those of a slave, he had been revered in his fashion, for he could make, out of stone, an almost living, breathing boy, an accusation that could not be ignored.
Not even by the clansmen of the South.
North, Valedan thought bleakly, or South. Where did justice fit in at all?
He was exhausted. His joints, even with no movement on his part, ached; he carried bruises that had only just turned yellow-gray. Purple, the more common color, decorated his shins, his forearms, but Commander Sivari was no longer able to touch his chest, his ribs, the side of his head. That much, he'd won for himself. He had hoped to hide his skill; had hoped to take them by surprise. A boy's hope. A fool's.
Five days. He could run the footpaths until he was exhausted, and then continue his run, the heat of the sun bearing down upon his clothed flesh, his dark head. This was Avantari, the palace of Kings, and in it, he was as safe as he could be. But the gauntlet was not to be run within Avantari; it was to be run within the hundred holdings—and beyond.
Five days.
Ah. He rose and turned, twisting his back slightly as he plunged his hands into the waters of the fountain, cupping them beneath the surface and drawing water toward his face. He felt guilty because he hid here, instead of returning to his rooms—but he could not bear the teary sight of his suffering mother for an instant longer than was completely correct.
It was hard enough to have made the choice, to have petitioned the Kings, and to have been accepted into the ranks of the many who would attempt to qualify themselves as worthy contenders for the wreath the Kings offered their Champion. Hard enough to know what the cost would be if he failed, worse to know that every step of the way he was exposing the entire fate of his clan—and he could say it now, with a perverse pride, a quiet and dogged determination, his clan—by the turn of his back beneath the open sky.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 13
