She tried not to listen.
Because The Terafin and Devon were both doing it. They were talking about Jay and Angel as if they were just two weapons; Jay was the House sword, and Angel was a well-made, but common, dagger.
She thought—she thought that Avandar would join them. That he would demand, because everything with Avandar had the weight and feel of demand, no matter how he worded it, that the healer heal Jewel. But he seemed content to let The Terafin speak for him. To let Devon speak for him.
"Neither of you understand. I expect that lack from you," Alowan said, frowning at Devon ATerafin, "but from you, Amarais, I expect better."
"Better?"
"You should know who this young woman is."
"She is thirty-two or thirty-three by her own reckoning, Alowan. She is not a child."
"No. But she is not a power, not yet. She is useful. She is necessary—but she is not a weapon that can be reduced to the value of its obvious function. You do not know the steel that goes into her; you do not understand, either of you, that this is the time when the sword is being tempered." He lowered a voice that was seldom raised. "But you should, Amarais. You should. Ten years from now, I would tender a different answer. But I know what you intend, as she refuses to know it, and I tell you now that if I choose differently, the sword will be poorly tempered; the edge will be brittle."
"If she dies, Healer, and she (Joes approach death, she will not survive the temper." Devon's voice.
"Yes."
"Alowan—"
The old man looked across at the woman that he had served, without name, for half of his adult life. "Call me a coward," he said softly, "if you must. But I have done what you ask of me once—twice—in my life, Amarais. It is how I came to be trapped here, when I abhor things political.
"I offer no lie. What I have seen in healing you, I have seen in her. If you could force this choice upon me, it would break her for the House purpose. Understand it. There are sacrifices that one must come to on one's own. You did."
"If the House does not have that time?"
"Then, either way, the House will fail. Accept it, Amarais; what is precious in her cannot be forced."
She fell silent then; she did not flinch or blush or pale. She was, in Finch's eyes. The Terafin.
"The boy," Alowan said softly. "The boy I will save. But if you do not leave us, they will both die."
Devon stepped forward and reached out; Finch held breath as she realized that he was going to grab the older man. But his hand stopped, froze suddenly, as if the hand and the man were struggling. The man won.
"You have money," Alowan said, as he bent down to place his hands upon Angel's broken chest. "And time, if you wish to save Jewel ATerafin. The boy's injuries are worse."
Time, but not much of it.
Avandar stirred. "You've decided, then."
Not a question, not really. "It's not what Angel would've wanted," Finch heard herself say. She bit her lip; she'd meant to stay out of it entirely.
"No," Alowan replied, without looking back, his voice as gentle with Finch as he himself always was. "And I can guarantee that when I've finished, it will be the last thing he will be willing to face again. Remember, Finch; he is not the first member of your den that I've called back from death's lands."
And she did remember. Arann.
She walked over to the bed. Sat down on the other side of it— or tried to; she had to scramble to find a chair. "I'll wait."
He didn't answer.
But as she watched the lines of his face deepen, she realized that sometime in the last decade he had crossed the line between old and elderly; that his power, the power to heal and comfort, was as tenuous as his life. Angel.
Damn, she wished she could see.
"Your pardon," Avandar said softly. "Before you begin?"
"I have little time," Alowan replied, but the heat had given way to a tired coolness.
"I understand why you choose as you do. We both understand her that well, healer, and I will not argue against your judgment; it is, I believe, the least costly of the two choices. But you know that there are very, very few of your kind—and of those, fewer still who will—who are willing—to call a man back from death."
"Yes," he said. "And I know that there are three people in this room who will move heaven and earth—and Hells, if need be— to find one. For her." Softer, so softly that Finch could barely catch the words, he added, "Ten years from now; a decade, and she will be wise enough to understand what it is she must endure. But try to train a man too harshly before his time, and more often than not you break the spirit you wish to nurture."
And Avandar said, again, "I know."
And Alowan replied, "It wasn't to you that I was speaking. Go. She has time, but not much."
Carver came to take up watch. Jester. Before the end of his shift—and they all knew when his shifts ended—Arann walked in, no armor, no sword, nothing to mark him as a House Guard.
Arann'd never been much of a talker. But he'd seen more fighting than any of them—most of it scuffling, some of it fatal—and he knew when he set eyes on Jewel that she wasn't going to make it without help.
"Torvan sent word," he said. "Gave me leave." Always Tor-van, among the den. No title. No rank. "What happened?"
They told him. Halting, interrupting each other and falling silent in awkward hesitation; they were nervous. They'd never had an emergency meeting without Jay before.
"Kalliaris," Finch whispered.
"Hells with that," Carver snarled. "Devon. Avandar. The Terafin." They clenched their hands into fists, and waited, watching the old man as he sat like a trembling statue over one of their kin, while the other bled slowly away.
The Queens' Court boasted a healer of skill and renown; the Kings' Court, three. But the healers of the Kings' Court were bound to the Kings' lives, and the lives of their heirs; not even the Queens were given leave to visit, and be visited, by these men.
It was, Devon thought, a good thing that healers were notoriously difficult to assassinate; the three had been targets before, and would no doubt be targets again. Still, they were chosen by the Astari, after intensive scrutiny, and with great care, and they served as law dictated. He knew them, of course; they were not invisible in the court—but the closest they got to healing was in the training of the young men and women who saw to the lesser injuries in the Kings' and Queens' Halls. By law, they could heal no one but the Kings.
He wondered, idly, what would happen if that law were contravened. Realized that he didn't particularly care. They were not useful to him. There was only one man in Avantari who might be.
Dantallon, the Queens' healer.
The halls were full; it was always this way the day before the biggest event of the year. Not even the Day of Return boasted such a pride of activity, such a fever of last-minute panic. He could hear the heavy soles of the Kings' Swords as they ran from one end of the palace to the other; this particular year had been difficult, and would be more so before a Champion was crowned.
But for all that they were busy—and irritable—they did not slow the passage of Devon ATerafin, a man they recognized as the most senior of Patris Larkasir's advisers in matters of trade and Royal concessions. A man in his position was a man who was privy to both the secrets of power and wealth—if any of the Kings' Swords could easily understand how these two were separated— and they did not so much as question him.
Dantallon, on the other hand, was never quite as circumspect.
He was busy. In the humidity of the summer, he was often faced with certain diseases that, when not contained, could kill far too many of the city's vulnerable inhabitants: The old, the very young. At the moment, he stood, arms folded across a chest that had always, and would always, be slender, his forehead creased, his eyes narrowed as he stared down at the tabletop before him as if it would provide answers, and now.
There was a map on that table, and it was marked in several places with slender pins, each of which bore a re
d flag. The two men to either side of him wore uniforms; one was definitively the red of a magistrate, and the other, the deep blue of a member of the Kings' forces, a circle quartered and lined up across a diagonal. Across from Dantallon was a man whose back was bent; he dressed well, but simply. Devon waited a moment; the man stood. Dark-haired, then, but grayed. Tall, broad-shouldered.
Devon ATerafin could walk into a room and remain unnoticed as long as no one was looking for him; he chose that moment to make the normal noise of entry into another's abode. His feet fell more heavily and his breath came regularly; he cleared his throat.
The magistrate did not hear him; the Sword and the healer did.
"ATerafin," Dantallon said curtly. "I hope this is not an emergency."
"You are already embroiled in one?"
"In two, if I understand the Sword and Healer Levee correctly."
The man in no uniform turned then, and Devon smiled. "Healer Levee." His bow was low, graceful.
"The Swords are attempting to ensure that a foolish young man survives a foot race. Or survives any injury he takes during that race." It was clear what Dantallon thought of that.
"I see."
"The healer and the magistrate are here to coordinate, with the Swords, an attempt to contain the crippling disease. It is late in the season for it, and it is more virulent than it has been in fifteen years."
"But they—"
"They would not normally be at the palace, no, but they require the cooperation of the Swords at this particular time; the affected areas cross into the areas whose security has come under the Kings' jurisdiction.
"I trust that you have nothing to add to this difficulty?"
Devon was silent a moment. "I do," he said softly at last. "But it is not Kings' business. I bear a message from The Terafin, and it is to be delivered either to you or to the Queen Marieyan."
"Deliver it, then."
Devon crossed the room; placed the burden of his Lord's words into the hand of another man. Bowed. Rose. Watched that man's face. He knew how to watch a face; how to read the thoughts that would become words—and the thoughts that never would—in the shifting lines of expression. He did not know, not completely, what Amarais had written, but he knew before Dantallon had finished what the answer would be.
It had been a faint hope, not a real one.
And this season, with so much at stake, they would not risk the strength of the only healer that was theirs to command as they chose.
Dantallon's hands very carefully rolled up the scroll. "You will express my regrets," he said, "to The Terafin. But unless you can convince the boy not to run that race, I will receive no permission to use my skills in the service to her House." From his expression, and from his own knowledge both, Devon knew that there was no way to dissuade the boy, everything short of incarceration had already been threatened. Dantallon was polite in his refusal: gentle. Pressed, he would show his steel.
Devon ATerafin turned to the man whose healing House was known throughout the Empire. "Healer," he said. "Dantallon?"
Dantallon's frown was momentary, but it was there; so was the hesitation, the heartbeat between the understanding of Devon's request and the follow through. He handed the message to Healer Levee, who read it—scanned it. The seal, he would no doubt recognize.
The healer frowned. "I am here to save lives, not to politic," he said, as he set the scroll aside like so much refuse.
"I have come to save a life," Devon replied. "And the fact that that life has value to Terafin does not make it less of a life."
A peppered brow rose and fell. Healer Levee rarely smiled; he did not smile now. But he said, "Granted. I have my students spread thin throughout the city, and everyone with an injury worse than a hangnail has been sniveling at their hems."
"Violence?"
"Twice. Contained by the magisterial guards." He shrugged. "The students are new, for the most part; they're too soft. They'll learn to grow calluses." He shrugged. "Luckily, they don't have to do it much. I say no for them. What do you want?"
"One of them."
"Any particular one?"
"One who isn't afraid to walk into death."
"No."
"We have a young woman who has been serving the Kings' interests. Today, saving the life of a child, she was almost killed by a—by a rogue mage."
"That is not my affair. That is the affair of the Order of Knowledge. My affair is the crippling disease. If you don't mind?"
"I do mind."
"ATerafin—" Dantallon began.
"We would not have won the last war fought in this city without the aid of the young woman who lies dying now," Devon said, through clenched teeth. "You might remember it. Healer. It was the Henden of—"
"The year 410." Levee was silent again. "I… remember it. No one who lived in this city then could do otherwise." He shook himself. "But she did her service. She made the choice. I will not sacrifice one of my students to her."
"Don't sacrifice them, then. Give them a choice."
Levee snorted. "And you don't think that one or two of them aren't fools? No one who's done it—who's walked that close to death, and been that entwined with a stranger—ever survives unscathed. Do you let an infant swim out to sea? No. But they want to. They even think they understand what that want means. These students—they weren't given into the care of my house to be turned into tools. They've their own lives, and I intend to make damned sure they live them."
"Levee—"
"ATerafin." Dantallon now. Using a tone of voice that he rarely used.
Devon fell silent, letting the heat drain from him, from the words that would have followed the name. "If not for her," he said softly, "you would not be here now. Nor, I think, would your precious students. She is not a political entity, Dantallon. She is not an evil powermonger—not even by your definition."
"Will you tell me, with a straight face, that she is not involved in the war of succession that Terafin now fights among its own?"
Devon was white, then. Silent.
"They all have money," Levee said coldly. "And they come to me when they bleed. To my House. Tell me that she's not one of your Council. That she's not one of your contenders. That she's not political."
"She's not what you think of when you think of that. If she were, you would already know it, I think. You insult her because you've never met her, or because your dislike for the patriciate colors your perception. But I tell you now that you need not protect your students from her; they will not be blackened or darkened by the experience. To know her, if that's what it takes—would be the privilege of a student's life, not the ruin."
The healer looked across at the ATerafin; they were of an age, or so it had first seemed to Devon. But there were lines in the healer's face that were more than the product of sun and sea wind. "What do you mean, ATerafin?" he said at last. "Are you… fond… of this girl?"
"If you mean am I personally involved with her, the answer is no." He did not add, although he wished to, that it was also none of the healer's business. Because he was aware that Levee was •known for his temperament, and little things offended him easily. Aware that if there was any chance at all that Levee could, or would, perform this thing, or see it done, he could not afford to offend. "But she has been a part of Terafin, ATerafin, since she was, to the best of our knowledge, sixteen."
At that, Levee did raise a brow. And then, to Dantallon's amazement—and it was amazement; even a man who was completely unobservant could not have failed to note the way his jaw went slack as it fell open—Levee said, brusquely, "I will meet this girl. We do not have the time for it, but I will meet her."
Devon moved. It was only when the streets of the high city opened up before them that he realized how odd it was; Jewel ATerafin was in no condition to meet with, speak with, anyone, and the healer must have known this.
Hope, bitter and sharp as a keen blade, made him hold his tongue.
Alowan met them in the healerie, or ra
ther, they met him; he sat on the edge of his fountain, in the quiet of the arborium that he had designed for just this use: the recovery and the care of the patient.
Levee had not spoken a single word from the moment they left Avantari, in haste, until he set eyes upon Alowan; then, and only then, did he speak: A word. A name.
The old man looked up at the younger one.
Had Devon the luxury of time, he would have let the moment pass in silence; would have granted them privacy. The vulnerability in the older healer's expression was almost painful to look upon.
Is this at the heart of Angel? he thought, because he could not help but think it. And then, What would you see, Alowan, if you were to come to death, seeking me? What would you take from the experience? Would you be glad that we were parted?
Alowan rose. Devon was privately pleased that it was Levee who offered the old man the brace, the strength, of his arm.
"I did not expect to see you," Alowan said quietly. Weakly.
Levee shrugged with his free shoulder; his arm was rock solid. "I'm surprised you waited here."
"I cannot help but wait," Alowan said softly. "Because she is dying, and she was the center of Angel's life."
"Angel?" And then he stopped. "Of course. There would be a reason that you would not choose to heal the girl. There were two?"
Alowan nodded.
"But you chose this—this Angel?"
"Yes."
"Why?" The word was soft; the suspicion in it was not.
"Because the boy is worth nothing to the House," Alowan replied, matter-of-factly. "The girl, everything."
It was not the answer that Levee expected; this much was clear. "You serve the House," Levee said. "Surely the House would have say?" He turned to Devon, then. "I assume that The Terafin would have chosen to save this girl's life over the other's."
"You assume correctly."
"I will warn you," Alowan said, "that Meralonne and Avandar have been working here the past hour: the member of the Order has left, but Avandar remains. They are attempting to slow the passage of time in the space that surrounds her."
"And?"
He shrugged. "I heal; I am not a mage. I know only that she is not dead. Not yet."
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 30
