“If the dreamers are killed in the dreaming, they die. During my sleep,” she added, forcing her voice to retain both volume and steadiness, “he demonstrated this.”
“How many?” King Reymalyn asked. “How many did he kill?”
“I don’t know, I’m sorry. At the time, the dreamers had taken the form of butterflies; they flew to him, and he crushed a handful. I wasn’t close enough to interfere.”
“Five died,” Duvari said.
She accepted the information without acknowledging it.
“But no others have awakened without intervention.”
“No. Leading them out of their dreams is not a trivial undertaking. The healer who attempted to wake me was dragged into the dreaming with me.”
King Cormalyn glanced at Duvari. At a Duvari who was clearly not pleased to be offered information he didn’t already possess. Audiences like this were a test, for the Lord of the Compact; he wished to know all pertinent facts before they occurred, so he could gauge not only the lies offered, but the shades of truth. He did not, however, accuse her of lying.
“How, then, did you wake?”
“I was within the heart of my own domain,” she replied. “The Warden of Dreams might kill me in my sleep, but he could not hold me there.”
“And the healer?”
“He was with me,” she said. “He was, in the waking world, in constant contact with me; when I woke, he woke as well. There will be no new sleepers,” she continued. “And I am in discussion with the Houses of Healing—although Healer Levec is extraordinarily busy—to arrange a schedule whereby the others might be released. It is, as I said, not a trivial undertaking, and some internal House difficulties require a vigilance that does not lend itself to ad hoc intervention.”
King Cormalyn offered a slight, pained smile. “If the assassins sent against you are similar to the demon in the Common, I imagine Levec has all but forbidden you access to the Houses of Healing.”
“He was not markedly enthusiastic, no.”
“And we come to one of the gravest of difficulties in untangling the question of your fate.”
“My fate?” Jewel asked, voice cool.
The King did not reply. Not directly. “In the opinion of the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge, no demonic attack has been so much of a threat to the Empire. Were the demon who appeared during the victory parade not so focused on your destruction, many of The Ten would now be without their leaders, and the most trusted members of their governing Council.” Of the threat to the Kings, he did not speak.
Nor did Jewel.
“But he was focused upon your demise, and when you retreated, he chose to pursue. What you did to drive him off—unless you claim his destruction—you could not have done in the Common.”
Shadow growled.
“If you cannot behave,” Jewel whispered, “you will wait outside in the hall.”
He compromised; he lay down, curling his body around her skirts.
Sigurne lifted hand; King Cormalyn nodded. “I believe that supposition to be in error,” she said.
“Guildmaster?”
“I believe that it is possible for her to do exactly that—in the Common, certainly. There is some evidence that she could do the same within Avantari, and given the protections laid against the very stones of the palace, it implies that she could stand her ground anywhere upon the Isle. I am less certain that her influence would extend to the entirety of the hundred holdings.”
Shadow said, “It will.”
The King fixed the cat with a golden stare. “Why are you so certain?” he asked, speaking to the cat as if he was at least as worthy of respect as the Guildmaster of the entire Order of Knowledge.
“These are her lands,” Shadow replied.
Jewel opened her mouth to disagree, vehemently, with his assertion. She closed it, in silence. She could not bring herself to speak the words of denial. They would not comfort Duvari—at this point, nothing short of her death would. Instead, after a pause in which to gather words she had not expected to speak, she said, “The lands that the demon walks are not the lands that you govern. They overlap,” she added quickly, “but they are not the same.
“The lands that I walked in my dream are the lands that the demons have used to enter our city. To enter the palace, the manse, and even the Common. I have claimed them as mine. They are mine. It is not a claim that is understood by lawyers, merchants, or the patriciate.”
“I believe almost all notable members of the patriciate were present at The Terafin’s funeral,” King Reymalyn pointed out. “What you said during the . . . unusual . . . first day rites, they heard. What you said,” he continued, when she failed to reply, “was heard across the Isle. It was, our investigations imply, heard across the hundred holdings. If you feel that your claim does not coexist with the realm of the citizens of Averalaan, you took no care to diminish it.”
She hadn’t. She’d no idea at the time that the words would carry so damn far. Nor could she now safely own that ignorance.
“You are aware that alterations were made within Avantari itself, without the permission of the Crowns.” It was not a question.
She nodded.
“Are you aware of the extent of those alterations?”
“I have not had the opportunity to view them all.”
“We will now provide you with that opportunity.” King Cormalyn rose. King Reymalyn joined him; the Queens, utterly silent, rose as well. King Cormalyn turned to the Exalted. As one, they rose. “Lord of the Compact.”
Duvari bowed stiffly.
School your expression with more care, Avandar warned her.
She didn’t argue. She understood what was at stake. The doors at the end of the hall rolled open as the Kings approached; waiting in the hall were Swords in perfect formation. The Kings exited the room, followed by Duvari, the Exalted, and the Queens, in that order. Sigurne Mellifas waited as Jewel, Teller to her right and Avandar to her left, also joined the procession. They left little room for Shadow, but he corrected this oversight by inserting himself between Jewel and her domicis. As he told her often, he liked Teller.
Her Chosen fell in behind, and with them, Sigurne and Meralonne.
* * *
The floors and the columns Jewel had seen, she passed above and between without comment. The Kings did not speak; nor did they pause to watch her reaction. They led, and she followed, matching their stately pace. Funeral marches were more cheerful. The wide halls allowed for easy passage of both guards and guarded, but when they left the public galleries, they entered a part of the palace that was unfamiliar to Jewel.
We have not entered this wing before, Avandar confirmed.
She looked for signs, and found none; there were, above one arch, engraved letters. They were Old Weston, by look; she couldn’t read them beyond that. Nor did she ask Avandar if he could.
Teller was silent; he appeared to be entirely at ease. She knew it as a front, but it wasn’t one she herself could manage.
The halls here were narrower; the formation of the procession changed, the flow of progress slowing to accommodate the shifting of the Swords. The Chosen were likewise forced to walk no more than two abreast; Teller fell back, and as he did, he tapped Shadow’s shoulder. Shadow sighed; it was, with the exception of the heavy sounds of booted feet, the only audible expression.
She did not recognize the halls; they were sparer in all ways than the halls that had preceded them. The ceilings were vaulted, the walls stone; no wood adorned them. They were gray, tall, and broken only at the heights and at the pillars—unaltered, to her relief—that served to support those heights. Here, the decor was decidedly martial; there were gleaming weapons across the walls where tapestries and paintings might otherwise be displayed. The weapons, however, were ornate; they did not seem like they were meant for use.
Given the presence of Swords—not to mention Duvari himself—they wouldn’t be necessary.
She wasn’t prepared for the s
tairs. That the palace had stairs was not a surprise; the Terafin manse had many, and many of those were hidden behind the rooms occupied by the House members. But these stairs lay to the left of the martial hall, as if they were an afterthought; there were no visible doors, no possible reason for the existence of the stairs themselves implied by the otherwise impressive, if spare, architecture.
The Kings Swords’ led the way, and the Kings followed, as did the Exalted, the Queens, and the Lord of the Compact. Jewel, however, reached the top of the stairs and froze there, placing her hand against the nearest wall to steady herself.
“Terafin?” Sigurne said. She had pushed her way past the Chosen, Teller, and Shadow; Avandar had stepped aside to allow her passage.
The stairs were wide and flat; they did not curve—as stairs often did within the palace. They traveled down, in a gentle slope, the darkness alleviated by magestones. There were no rails, stone or otherwise; they were hugged by wall on either side. But their end, from their height, could not be seen.
“Jewel.”
She swallowed.
“What is it? What do you see?”
She shook herself. “Stairs,” she said softly. “Were they—were they always like this, these stairs? Or did they—did they change when the columns changed?” She looked past the guildmaster. Avandar, Shadow, and Teller were waiting; it was Teller’s gaze she sought. He lifted a hand in exquisitely graceful den-sign: Yes, same. He knew what she saw, here; he knew what it reminded her of: the undercity.
She could not, and did not, say as much, although Sigurne’s presence by her side made clear the full failure of her composure.
“These stairs are, to my knowledge, unchanged. They are not remarkable, and they are not, beyond the magic required for illumination, enchanted in any way the Order could discern.” Sigurne frowned as Jewel slowly withdrew her hand. “Why are they of concern?”
Jewel shook her head. Perhaps because she spoke with Sigurne, and not with the Kings, she said, “I’ve seen stairs like this before. The same stone. The same slope. They’re not as wide, but—” She shook her head again. With the marching order, such as it was, changed by Jewel’s hesitance and Sigurne’s concern, she continued down the stairs in the wake of the Kings.
* * *
The descent was not steep, nor was it short. Jewel was aware that basements were often used for food storage, and for records storage when records considered of minor import were retired for filing considerations. The Terafin manse had several such rooms. She assumed the palace had more.
But basement rooms did not often require the height the descent implied. The Chosen could, once again, walk four abreast; Avandar continued to hold his position to Jewel’s left, but Sigurne now took the right, and Jewel granted it because Sigurne was much older and could use the wall as a rail. Jewel, in theory, didn’t require the support.
The air was cool. It was not damp; it was dry. A hint of a breeze blew up the stairs, chilling her. She glanced at Avandar. Did you feel that?
He nodded. His jaw had set in a tighter line. No one who was not familiar with the domicis would mark it. Shadow shoved Avandar out of the way. Jewel glared at the cat, but his eyes—eyes that were as golden, now, as the Kings’, failed to meet hers; they were scanning the stairs ahead.
“Terafin,” Sigurne said. “We tarry.”
Jewel nodded and began to walk more quickly. The air grew colder; she was not attired for the outdoors.
“Be careful,” Shadow told her, voice dropping into a low growl.
“Did the stairs always descend this far?” she asked Sigurne. When the guildmaster failed to answer, she turned. “Meralonne.” She couldn’t see him; he was behind the line of Chosen, themselves behind Teller and Avandar.
“I have never been asked to study Avantari in any depth,” the mage replied. “I cannot therefore answer your question. Trust your instincts here.”
Her instincts told her to turn around and head back up the stairs, leaving the god-born and the Kings’ Swords to their exploration.
“These stairs are old,” Meralonne continued, as she forced herself to ignore his advice. “I would have said, if asked, that they predate the Empire of the Twin Kings.”
“And the Blood Barons?”
“Even so. I do not think they now lead to dungeons.”
“Did they, once, in your opinion?”
He was silent.
She continued down the stairs. “If it were Summer,” she asked, “would it be so damn cold all of the time?”
To her surprise, he laughed. His laughter bounced off bare stone to either side; Shadow’s growl deepened. She understood why; there was something in Meralonne’s laughter that felt diametrically opposed to mirth or amusement.
* * *
To her surprise, and to her great relief, the stairs came to an end. The flat, smooth gray of descending stone gave way to a floor that was not much different; the walls continued to either side. Magelights in ornate brass claws were spaced evenly three quarters of the way up the walls; the ceilings were high, but flat. Jewel placed a hand on Shadow’s head and left it there because the cat was warm. He radiated heat.
The Kings’ Swords could now be seen in the distance, and Jewel, mindful of dignity, closed the gap between them as quickly as she could. If the stairs had been long, and the descent deep, the hall was shorter. It ended in an arch that was a carved relief protruding from otherwise featureless stone. No runes, in any language, graced it.
To the right and left of this arch, two similar arches stood; they, however, opened into something other than gray stone. The Kings’ Swords separated, standing with their backs to either side of the hall, facing outward. Jewel, Shadow, and Sigurne passed between them, followed by the rest of the Terafin party.
Only when she stood between the two open arches did Jewel stop. She glanced to the left and right, and saw that the Kings and the Exalted currently occupied the room on the left. She wanted to ask Sigurne how drastic the changes in these rooms were, because the answer might tell her how the rooms had once been used. Instead, she passed beneath the arch of the leftmost room, entering it.
It was illuminated from within, and the light was bright and even; there were no obvious magestones along the walls, none embedded, as was the current spare style, in the ceiling. The ceiling itself was high, but unlike the one that capped the hall, it wasn’t flat. The Kings stood in what Jewel assumed, upon entry, was the center of the room; the Exalted were not far behind. They were silent as they watched her enter.
The walls were not flat, bare stone; they were, like the back wall of the Hall of Wise Counsel, intricately carved. Unlike the wall in the Hall of Wise Counsel, none of the reliefs in this room shed the ambient glow that spoke of enchantment. Like the Hall, these walls were adorned by figures who seemed to be emerging from the wall itself. Some were faint, a hint of clothing or armor, a slight protrusion of hand; their faces were delineated by nose, chin, eyelids. But others were carved so completely they almost appeared to be standing statues set as close to the wall as possible. Were it not for the continuity of the relief, they might appear to be entirely separate from it.
The Crowns watched as Jewel passed them and began to walk around the room’s perimeter, the great cat by her side. Avandar followed behind, his eye on the panorama of figures that had been carved here by—it appeared—the hands of the earth itself. Teller chose to stand beside Sigurne in silence. He wasn’t watching her; his gaze was absorbed, whole, by the room itself, and judging from his expression, was likely to remain that way unless the room suddenly disgorged a demon—or worse.
The floor was of stone, but it wasn’t gray; it was a dull copper color. It was flat and smooth, except where runes had been engraved across its seamless surface. She glanced at the partial figures as she walked, and stopped once: she recognized the woman carved in stone. Almost without thought, she lifted her hand, her fingers stopping a hair’s breadth from the hands of the figure itself.
“
Ariane,” she said, the word rising slightly, as if there were any question at all of her identity. Of the figures, she was the most prominent; she wore armor the color of her skin; her left arm was lifted as if in greeting or farewell. She wore sword, and a slender horn; neither of these were remarkable. But her hair seemed to move as it trailed down her back; strands of fine stone raised in a wind that touched only her.
Shadow hissed. “I don’t like her.”
“I’m certain the feeling is mutual,” Jewel told him. She stepped away from the Winter Queen, wondering as she did what the Summer Queen might look like. She didn’t ask. Instead, she followed the curve of the wall—and it was curved; it followed no straight edges—until she reached a second figure she recognized. This one was not yet free of the confines of stone; her back was part of the wall. But her hair, like Ariane’s, flowed freely over her shoulders, curling in its fall toward her waist.
“Calliastra.”
She continued to walk.
“Corallonne.” Of the three she had named, Corallonne was the most remote. And of the three, she was the only one Jewel actually touched; she rested her fingertips against fingertips of stone, mirroring the tentative gesture. Where Ariane was cold and forbidding, Corallonne was not. It wasn’t that she looked weak; she didn’t. But there was, to her, the hard, weathered quality not of stone, but of ancient trees; she endured, and in enduring, she might offer shelter from blistering heat or driving wind.
Jewel continued to walk. At the curve of the wall farthest from where the Kings now stood she approached the figure of a man. He had no wings, but she recognized him anyway. The Warden of Dreams. She wondered, then, if he had a name at all. She felt no need to stop; she was awake. She walked, glancing up at the ceiling; it was shadowed in a way that suggested a dome, the only part of the room that was not well lit.
Battle: The House War: Book Five Page 46
