Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  Angel turned. “There,” he said.

  But Jewel already understood why Meralonne had asked. “Is this ever going to stop?” she asked softly. There was no empty space on the wall; the wall was still fully adorned with weapons of various descriptions.

  Angel headed toward the wall, carrying the spear.

  Avandar, watching, said, “I do not believe your Angel will find a mount on the wall for that spear.”

  “Do you recognize it?” she asked.

  “The spear? No, not as such. Illaraphaniel?”

  Meralonne, however, was watching Angel, a strange smile at play around his lips. “Yes,” he said softly, “I believe I do. Did he truly just grab a random long weapon from the wall?”

  “The wall he was standing closest to, yes.”

  “I suggest that, as Terafin is already accustomed to the unusual sight of Rendish hair, they might accept an equally unusual weapon.”

  “Terafin will. I imagine the Kings—and any of the rest of The Ten—won’t, if he’s out in public. It’s not going to hurt him, is it?”

  “It will cause him far less harm than those against whom it is wielded. Did you watch him fight?”

  She nodded.

  “Did anything strike you as unusual?”

  “Besides the shrieking, half-armored winged creature that flew through the window?”

  “Besides that, yes.”

  “No. I didn’t expect to see him leap into the fight . . . but no. He stayed at the reach of the spear, and he never tried anything beyond pointing, stabbing, and getting out of the way.”

  “You noticed nothing unusual—at all—about the weapon or its blade?”

  “Nothing. Nothing besides the fact that it cut through part of the creature’s spine.” She turned to Shadow. “Now you can go join your brothers.”

  * * *

  Angel found no place to put the spear. He walked up and down the length of the wall three times, stopping at the spot where he was certain he’d jumped to grab it; there was no empty space where it might have been. “This would be a damn impressive armory,” he said. “It replenishes itself.”

  He put the spear up, letting most of its weight rest against the flat stone.

  “No armor,” Jay said, approaching him. Shadow came with her; he took a swipe at the spear. Angel moved it before his claws connected. Jay clamped a hand on the gray cat’s head.

  “Oh, fine.”

  “You don’t like the spear?” Angel asked. It was possibly the best reason offered to keep it.

  “I don’t need a spear.”

  “You don’t need to play with a spear, either,” Jay told him. “We need to head back to Teller so I can find out just how bad my day is going to be.”

  “And the spear?”

  She hesitated; he marked it. “It’s up to you.”

  “If it were you holding the spear?”

  “Unless it belonged to an ancient ancestor—or my Oma—I’d hide it under the table and pretend I’d never touched it.”

  He laughed, and she signed, I’m serious.

  * * *

  She returned to the right-kin’s office by way of the healerie. It was not generally considered the most direct route there, but Jewel wanted to check in on the Chosen before she spoke with Teller. Daine and his two assistants were in the infirmary, and she left Torvan outside of the healerie doors. If Alowan was gone—and he so undeniably was, it was still difficult to cross the threshold without a sense of mourning—Daine had happily adapted to the rules by which the healerie had been run under his command. Weapons were not allowed in the healerie.

  The Chosen did not disarm themselves when in the presence of The Terafin.

  Angel, who was perfectly happy to disarm himself gave the wooden box on the wall a very dubious glance; it was meant for daggers and short weapons. It had no room for long swords and it certainly wasn’t meant for pole arms.

  Leave it? He gestured at Jewel.

  No.

  She left him in the hall beside Torvan and the three Chosen who had come to replace those he’d ordered to the healerie. As Avandar and Meralonne were by her side, the Chosen were willing to remain there. It was, however, grudging. Jewel well understood why, but could not bring herself to order Daine to abandon Alowan’s rules.

  He was waiting for her when she made her way around the fountain in the arboretum.

  “Gordon?” she asked, without preamble.

  “Three broken ribs, a lot of bruising.”

  “Did he—”

  “Two ribs pierced lung, but only one lung. He accepted my aid.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “When will he be ready to return to active duty?”

  “If you accept his own medical estimation, now.”

  She smiled. “I will accept the estimate given me by his healer.”

  “In two days.”

  “Is it safe for you to have him here?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t in any immediate danger. If you could have his captain threaten to demote him if he doesn’t sit still, though, you’d have my gratitude.”

  She laughed. Shadow, who had been expressly forbidden to come within six inches of anything green and growing in the healerie, nudged Daine. It was, given the way Daine staggered, like being gently nudged by a battering ram. Daine, like the rest of the den, had grown accustomed to the cats’ demands for due deference. He dropped a hand to the cat’s gray fur.

  “Torvan won’t enter the healerie without his sword; he’s on duty.”

  “A pity, then.” Daine smiled. His smile surprised her; it was solid, the edges slightly hard. The healerie was Daine’s, now. He was ten years her junior, but he had chosen his domain. Its rules and customs had been handed down by Alowan, a man beloved by almost everyone except the Chosen, and he had accepted their weight.

  She saw, now, that it wasn’t just acceptance. Those rules and those customs were home to Daine, just as the Terafin laws were at the core of Jewel, although she had had no hand in their creation. “Will you,” she asked him softly, “accept the House Name? It is mine to offer, now.” Amarais had not, in part for Daine’s safety.

  In part, Jewel realized, with a pang, for this moment. Amarais was not seer-born, not talent-born, but she understood the human heart, even if her entire life had necessitated that she hide her own.

  “What answer do you think I should give you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What answer do you think I will?”

  “You will give me Alowan’s answer.”

  Daine nodded. “I didn’t understand it when I first met Alowan. I understand it, now. Alowan was The Terafin’s, Jay. He was hers. He served her. But he served her entirely within his own paradigm as healer. He was not without temper. He was not without steel. He served Terafin because he chose to offer her the support he could, but he was not of Terafin.”

  “And you?”

  “I know what some of Terafin is,” he replied, his expression darkening. “But I know what The Terafin stands for. I’m not Alowan.”

  “No.”

  “But I hope, in time, to be like him. And no, that’s not why I won’t use the House Name. I know you; you won’t order me to do anything that would damage the healerie, or myself. But . . . I am not Terafin. I am healer-born. I never understood why Angel refused the House Name.”

  “You understand now.”

  “Yes. I even feel guilty for thinking of him as an idiot.”

  “I don’t,” Shadow interjected.

  They both ignored him. As long as Daine was actively scratching behind his ears, he was likely to let them continue. “Levec would be happier if you left this place.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t even believe he would be, anymore. I’m not trapped in Terafin; I’m not a prisoner. He believes everyone who isn’t healer-born is a threat to those who are—but he understands the ways in which the healed and the healer-born are tied. What I now want to build, I can’t build in the Houses of Healing. If, however, I allow myse
lf to be assassinated, he’s going to hold a grudge against you forever.”

  “If only that long. I’ll leave you with Gordon. If you’d like, I can tell him he’ll be demoted.”

  “That, in my opinion, would not help. It would be effective . . . but no.”

  “Marave?”

  “Her injuries were superficial enough that I saw no need to detain her. Gordon was not impressed.” He hesitated. “Jay.”

  She waited.

  “The House Name isn’t about the House. It’s about me. I know its value. I know what it means to walk the city streets as ATerafin. I know what men—and women—believe themselves willing to do to gain it. Some of me wants it as well. And this is how I’ll know where my priorities are. It’s a check.”

  Daine was not, and would never be, Alowan. For just this moment, though, she loved him as if he were.

  * * *

  Angel was still waiting, spear conspicuous against the wall, when she emerged.

  “Go back to the West Wing,” she told him softly.

  “I don’t—”

  “I’m going to talk to Teller. And Barston. I have no prior appointments for the rest of the day, and if I’m lucky, I won’t have to look at Duvari. If I’m unlucky,” she continued, as he lifted his spear, “and I expect that, given my day, I’ll be mired in appointment making and veiled or not-so-veiled threats, none of which will come to fruition now.

  “Go back to the Wing and tell the others what happened.”

  * * *

  When she arrived in the right-kin’s office, Barston had the expression of a man under siege, although the office was almost empty. He rose the minute she stepped across the threshold and tendered her a perfect bow. It was one of the few ways in which he expressed annoyance. Barston did not stoop to obvious incivility where relative rank demanded none; he merely sharpened every polite gesture in his arsenal.

  Given he was Barston, that arsenal included obeisances that probably hadn’t been used at Court for two centuries.

  “Is it very bad?” she asked when he rose.

  “Teller has granted the Lord of the Compact an audience. They are in the right-kin’s office now.”

  Duvari—and a woman Jewel didn’t immediately recognize—were waiting in Teller’s office. Teller was seated behind his desk. He rose when Jewel entered the room, and offered her a full bow. Carrying a large, crudely painted sign about the high levels of danger would probably have been a less effective warning.

  Jewel, forewarned, nodded him back into his chair before she turned to face Duvari. “Lord of the Compact,” she said, inclining only her chin. She glanced at the woman.

  “Terafin,” Duvari replied. “May I introduce Birgide Viranyi.” It was, in theory a question; it sounded like a command. The woman, however, now turned to Jewel, and offered her a full, flat-backed bow. She was about six inches taller than Jewel; her hair was cropped. She had two visible scars on her face, one along the line of her jaw and one just under her left ear. She was not particularly finely dressed, but of more relevance, she was not dressed as a member of the patriciate at all.

  “You are a member of the Astari, Birgide?”

  Birgide said nothing.

  “She is,” Duvari replied. “That is not to be discussed outside of this office.”

  “If she arrived with you, it will be.”

  “It is not to be discussed by you or your right-kin outside of this office. As it happens, she did not arrive with me.”

  Jewel turned to Teller. “Under what pretext was she granted an appointment?”

  “. . . As a possible new member of the gardening staff.”

  Jewel stared at him for a full fifteen seconds before she turned back to Duvari. “Out of the question.” Duvari clearly expected this.

  “She is, in fact, renowned for her skill in gardens across the Empire.”

  “At her age?”

  “Even so. She is only two years older than you, yourself, and you are now known as the ruler of the most powerful of The Ten.”

  “The gardening staff is decided upon by the Master Gardener.”

  “I wish you to introduce Birgide to that Master Gardener—and allow him to make his own decision with regard to her employ.”

  “Duvari, you have at least three members of your Astari in various positions in my House. Why—why on earth—would you now plant a fourth here as a gardener?”

  Avandar coughed into his hand.

  Birgide lifted her chin. “It was not the request of the Lord of the Compact,” she said. Her voice was low, but it was musical. “It was entirely my own; he has reservations.”

  “Yours?”

  “Entirely. I am aware that the Astari form part of the Household Staff for any of The Ten—as you yourself are. I am not considered martial enough to join the Kings’ Swords.”

  Jewel folded her arms across her chest and raised a brow.

  “I don’t do my best work in heavy armor. Until last week, I worked on the edge of the Empire’s border, near the Free Towns.”

  “And you are here now?”

  “I heard, of course,” Birgide replied, “Of the Ellariannate. I wished to study them.”

  “I’m surprised Duvari cared.”

  “Strictly speaking, he does not. I will not be forced upon your House. I have brought a resume, and a few samples of my work, and I am willing to approach the Master Gardener with only an introduction and no pressure on your part.”

  Jewel almost pinched herself, she felt so dumbfounded. “The grounds here are unusual,” she finally said. She turned to the Lord of the Compact. “This is the sum total of the reason you are now in this office?”

  “No, Terafin. It is an adjunct of little significance. I am here to deliver an invitation.”

  “Invitation?”

  “A royal command. Tomorrow, in the morning, you are to present yourself to the Kings in the Hall of Wise Counsel in Avantari. The Exalted will also be present; they have chosen to allow the concerns of the Kings to outweigh their demands for your presence. If you are once again severely indisposed, the Kings have chosen to take the unusual step of visiting you, within the Terafin audience chambers.”

  Jewel let the words settle into a stiff silence before she held out her left hand. Duvari placed a heavy scroll case in the fold of her palm; she twisted it open and removed what lay within. It was parchment, but its texture was more cloth than leather, and it bore two seals, both of which were instantly recognizable to anyone standing in the room. She broke those seals, and to her great surprise, heard the command; it was spoken as she unfurled the scroll.

  It was also written, but the written words were like an afterthought. The voices were undeniably those of the Twin Kings. Duvari had not exaggerated; his only tendency in that regard he saved for the Kings he served.

  Duvari waited. Jewel was content, for the moment, to let him wait; it was the only way to signal theoretical defiance.

  “Birgide,” she said. “Why did you not simply approach the Master Gardener directly? Why did you choose to accompany Duvari at all?”

  “The choice was not mine. It is my belief that the Master Gardener would be willing to accept my work. I believe that Duvari has some hopes that you will deny my petition.”

  “I . . . see.”

  “And if you do not, you will have a clearer understanding of the ways in which you might support me should support be required. I do not understand the change in your grounds, but I believe they are extensive.”

  “And my acceptance of your employ in this regard would be a concession to the concerns of the Lord of the Compact.”

  Birgide’s smile was wry; it transformed her face, an acknowledgment of the fact that no concession would address the concerns of that man. It made the Astari difficult, for Jewel. If the Astari were all like Duvari, dismissing them out of hand would be a simple matter of introduction. Devon was not like Duvari. Inasmuch as a man could devote his life and his intellect to two masters, Devon had. She had no doubt
at all that he would continue to do so, providing only that the interests of Terafin did not clash directly with the interests of the Kings.

  Jewel admired the Kings; she honored them. She had no difficulty believing that men and women of integrity and intelligence would choose to do the same. Nor did she have any difficulty believing that those men and women might dedicate the whole of their lives to the Kings, as the Chosen did to The Terafin. She had some issues with some of what the Astari purportedly did in that service, but as that was hearsay, she attempted to suspend judgment. Birgide’s wry smile made it easier than it should have been.

  She exhaled. “Lord of the Compact, you may offer my acknowledgment of the Kings’ command, and my acceptance of their right, as sovereigns, to command me. I will, barring a situation not of my own making, present myself before the thrones in the Hall of Wise Counsel directly after the early breakfast hour in the morning, if that is acceptable.” She turned to Birgide. “The Master Gardener is extremely important to the House—and extremely particular. If you are willing to meet him on short notice, I will take you there myself.”

  * * *

  Birgide had not lied; she had several baskets of different weight and textures which required attention; the walk to the Master Gardener’s office was not particularly brisk. As Birgide insisted on carrying a clay urn of some weight in her own arms, Jewel slowed her customary pace to walk by her side. “How is it,” she asked, “that Duvari, a man who defines the absence of charm, has managed to gather people who exemplify it to his service?”

  Birgide chuckled. “We obey Duvari,” she said, the lines around her mouth clearly marked, over time, by that smile. “But we serve the Kings. We are aware—in a way that Duvari will never openly acknowledge—that your interference in Avantari preserved the lives of the Princes of the Blood; you served as the only effective defense of the future Kings we will also serve, should we survive to do so.

  “It is why,” she added, the smile fading as her expression became much graver, “word of the . . . changes . . . in the physical structure of Avantari itself have been minimized where possible. Had those alterations occurred in any other circumstance . . .” she failed to finish the sentence, and because she carried something heavy in both hands, also failed to shrug.