Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “You are The Terafin.”

  “Yes. The responsibility for the House—and its losses—are mine.” She paused. “I can’t with certainty say the cats and Lord Celleriant will survive their search, but they search the lands that birthed them.”

  “You think I’ll be a liability. You don’t think I can help.”

  Jewel nodded. “Believe that I understand the need to act; I feel it now, and I am, instead, to attend The Wayelyn and the Bardmaster of Senniel College. I am to travel to the Houses of Healing.”

  Meralonne emerged from the closet. ‘The way is closed,” he said.

  Something in his tone had her lips in a frown before she could smooth it away. “Can you open it, APhaniel?”

  In reply, he lit his pipe.

  “If I receive any word—for good or ill—I will summon you to the West Wing,” she told Merry.

  “The West Wing?”

  “Yes. Because if I have any word, it is to the West Wing I will carry it. The den are my kin; they are Carver’s kin. If he has any other living, he has never mentioned them.”

  Merry swallowed and nodded. She had an expressive face, but attempted to mute the expression that now crushed it. It was an act of kindness.

  “Avandar, please escort—”

  “No,” Merry said quickly. “I require no escort.”

  “The library—”

  “And if I accept one, I’ll lose my job. I might keep the House Name,” she added, just as quickly, “but it won’t matter. I won’t be able to do the only work I’ve been trained to do.”

  * * *

  Miriam arrived some ten minutes after Merry left. She abjured all of the things Merry did not, chief among them openness or friendliness. Dour and stiff as the Master of the Household Staff, she offered Jewel a very formal, very precise bow. Jewel ignored it. Miriam was not Merry; nor was she one of the servants who tended and—in subtle ways—guided the den through the politics of the patriciate. She was one of the elite within the Household Staff, and she set boundaries that only the blind or willful breached. Jewel did not have the energy to be either at this moment.

  “APhaniel,” she said, as Miriam began to work on the unruly mass of curls which was her hair, “You did not answer my question.”

  “No, Terafin, I did not. I considered it unwise at the time.”

  “And now?”

  “I consider it unwise, but I will accept the terms of my employment if you demand an answer.”

  “I do. Can the way that was closed be opened?”

  “Yes.”

  “By me?”

  “By you, certainly, although your lack of knowledge poses a very real threat to the security of your House.”

  “By you, then.”

  “Possibly.” He paused to blow rings of smoke into the still air. “Is it your desire that I make the attempt immediately?”

  “No,” she replied, voice low; it felt like a yes. “What I desire, for the moment, is your expertise. I wish to know if there are other, similar, passages open to lands beyond my control within the lands that are.

  “There is one other that I am aware of,” she continued, when he failed to speak. “You will not touch it; you will not explore it; you will not cast magic upon it in any way.”

  She could see the lift of a brow in the mirror. It was followed by concentric circles of pale, translucent smoke. “Where is this passage of yours?”

  “Beyond the small meeting room.”

  “I admit my curiosity is piqued.”

  “Do not attempt to satisfy it except in my presence.” She glanced at Torvan in the mirror; he nodded. It was a slight dip of motion, and she almost regretted the command; he didn’t need a fractious, temperamental mage dropped on his head. Sadly, she did.

  Miriam worked quickly; Ellerson might have done the same, had she not felt the need to converse—or complain—while he worked. She was the perfect master to Miriam’s stiff and proper servant; she allowed the older woman to be a competent, prominent shadow. When her hair was considered thoroughly presentable, Jewel dressed; she allowed Miriam to fuss with the dress, its laces, its buttons, and the fall of its hem. She exchanged one pair of boots for shoes that were only slightly more comfortable, and allowed a change of jewelry. Jewelry was the one thing she frequently failed to take into consideration.

  It was a deliberate failure, and this, too, she set aside.

  When Miriam was done—and she made this clear by a curt nod and a visible, physical retreat from The Terafin’s presence—Jewel made her way back through the small hall and wide doors and into the library proper. Meralonne accompanied her, pausing beneath the open sky as Shadow made his way down, in a wide, lazy spiral, to join her.

  He landed on Torvan’s foot and shouldered the mage out of the way, but did so without insulting either man. For Shadow, this was an act of enormous self-restraint; Jewel therefore placed a hand gently on the top of his head. He hissed anyway.

  Avandar walked behind her, as he usually did within the manse; Meralonne, eyes a flash of silver, chose to ignore the cat’s insulting behavior and walked to Jewel’s right. He gazed up at the sky, his expression carefully neutral.

  “I believe I am annoyed,” he told her.

  “By?”

  “The Wayelyn, of course. You will not put him off or have him sent to his own unremarkable manse, and you will not give me the tour I seek until his business is done.”

  “No. If it is any consolation, it is not The Wayelyn that I fear to offend; it is Solran Marten. She has the ears of the Kings and the Queens, and the loyalty of the only master bard who can sing to the wind and hear its answer.”

  “You speak of Kallandras.”

  “Do I?” She smiled. “Yes. I wish you had brought him with you from the South.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has some part to play in what is to come.”

  “Of that,” the mage agreed, “I have no doubt whatsoever. Many, however, have some part—large or small—to play.”

  “He’ll survive it.”

  Meralonne raised a brow.

  “Solran has often said that nothing can kill Kallandras; she’s certain she could send him alone and unarmed into the midst of a fully mobilized army, and he’d pass through the other side without injury.”

  “She thinks highly of him.”

  “She does. You do, as well.”

  “Do I, now? Have I become so transparent?”

  “No, APhaniel. Never that. Attend me,” she added, as a page approached her. “The Wayelyn and the bardmaster are now within the manse.”

  * * *

  The Wayelyn had not retired to his own manse to change; nor, apparently, had the bardmaster. Jewel found them in the rooms she had asked be prepared for the purpose of entertaining them, and refreshments had been served. Teller sat beside Solran, and the two appeared to be engrossed in the type of conversation that bored the titular head of Wayelyn; he brightened when he saw The Terafin standing between the open doors.

  “My apologies,” she told them, nodding as she entered the room. “I was delayed. I hope you have not been kept waiting long.”

  “We have,” The Wayelyn said, amusement filling the spaces in his lovely, low voice. “But the right-kin has opened the wine cellars of Terafin in recompense for our time, and, I must say, you do not husband your vintages with any great care; the wine is excellent.”

  Solran’s glass, full, had not been touched; Teller’s had, but only in sufficient quantity to assure that The Wayelyn was not left to drink on his own. The bardmaster glanced at Shadow as he padded across carpet, taking very little care not to damage it. It was one of the ways in which the cats were expensive. He sniffed the glass on the table, his nose wrinkling. He then sneezed into it. Jewel inhaled sharply, but the bardmaster merely raised a brow.

  “Do you sing?” she asked the great cat.

  Shadow hissed.

  “Shadow.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Jewel.

&n
bsp; “It was not a challenge,” she told him. “Nor was it meant as an insult.”

  “Then why did she ask?”

  “She sings. She teaches the greatest minstrels of the Empire, and they answer—when they answer at all—to her.”

  “I don’t answer to anyone.”

  “Believe that we are aware of this,” she replied, with some exasperation. He had, in common with the felines kept as pets across the hundred, an ego that was at once ferocious and delicate. Crossing the room, she took a chair; Meralonne did likewise, pausing to tender both The Wayelyn and the bardmaster a bow. It was not an obeisance, but for a member of the Order, it was respectful.

  She had chosen the reading room not because she might put distance between herself and her guests, but because of all of the rooms within the manse proper, it had the strongest magical defenses; no one listened here without her express permission unless they were also in the room. She had taken the liberty of invoking the extensive protections before the doors had opened. She was aware that the Astari had spies within her manse—Duvari’s reach was such that it could safely be assumed he had spies within any House of power. Let him work for the information she did not choose to hand him.

  It would, no doubt, make him far less suspicious of said information when it at last crossed his desk.

  Shadow sat heavily beside Jewel’s chair, staring at the bardmaster. She impressed Jewel; she met his gaze as if he were a wearisome child. “I remember a white cat,” she said, the words trailing up in question.

  “You remember correctly. Snow is not present at the moment. This,” she added, “is Shadow. Of the three brothers—”

  “We are not brothers,” he hissed.

  “—He is the most cunning.” This met with Shadow’s approval, although he stared at her with suspicion, as if looking for the hidden insult in the words.

  “Do you guard her dreams, Shadow?” the bardmaster asked softly.

  The question appeared to surprise the cat; it certainly surprised Jewel. It was, however, Jewel who answered. “He does.”

  The Wayelyn bent and retrieved a large, worn case from the floor to one side of his chair. It was a natural leather, but cracked in places, and darker in color around the handle and the edges that touched floor. Opening it, he retrieved his lute. It, like the case, was of obvious age, but no cracks could be seen anywhere upon its wooden body. He began to tune the strings, and as he did, Solran spoke, as if to accompaniment.

  “Understand, Terafin, that I mean no disrespect either to your office or your House. I allowed the song to be widely disseminated without regard to either.”

  Jewel nodded, watching Solran with care.

  Meralonne emptied his pipe and began to fill it.

  “I ask a boon,” the bardmaster continued.

  Jewel stiffened. “Ask.”

  “I would have you hear The Wayelyn’s song—but I would have you hear it in a less . . . confined . . . space.”

  “You do not intend to gather an audience?”

  “Not as such. But I wish to return to the grounds for which House Terafin has become famed in so short a time, and I believe they would be a suitable location in which to sing. Or to listen.”

  Jewel considered the request with care. The song itself, Duvari had heard. Of that, she had no doubt. But any comments she might make with regard to the song would be severely limited in such unguarded environs.

  You are wrong, Avandar told her. Should you desire it, none—not even the firstborn—would be witness to what was said or spoken within your grounds. You rely on the magics of the Order, here, but even within your manse, they are the lesser power.

  The greater power, unknown and unharnessed, led to closets that devoured her kin. She did not say this aloud; instead, she rose. “Very well, Bardmaster. Wayelyn. If you will accompany me, we will take your song to the Ellariannatte. APhaniel?” she added, when he failed to rise.

  “I speak as your House Mage,” he replied, “but I will tell you now that I am not certain this is wise.”

  “Are you certain it is unwise?” she countered.

  “No, Terafin. I feel there is some risk, but it is possible that there will be some benefit.” He rose then. “And you are willing to take that risk.”

  “I am. I am unwilling, at this point, to take such a risk anywhere else within my domain—but within the forest, I am comfortable.”

  * * *

  The trees for which Terafin had achieved such instant awe and fame were visible before the small party had cleared the manse; The Wayelyn and Solran Marten stood on the terrace to one side of the fount, looking up at the heights the Ellariannatte graced. Wind could be seen in the movement of branches and leaves; the air around the terrace itself was still.

  Shadow nudged Jewel. She braced herself and maintained her footing. She expected either admonition or criticism, but the cat glanced at her visitors and remained silent. He did step on Avandar’s feet, but Avandar didn’t so much as blink.

  There is a risk, her domicis told her.

  What risk? The last thing I need is difficulty while The Wayelyn is present.

  I judge the possibility of mortal danger to be low; this is the heart of your domain, and only the very, very powerful will attempt to breach it.

  She was tired of riddles. As she nodded to The Wayelyn, she examined the warning, turning it over as she looked for hidden barbs. Avandar, however, had no need to rely on the hidden to make his point. She was not yet concerned with any future but tomorrow’s, and even were she, tomorrow would take precedence. The rule of her House depended on it.

  And not your life?

  They will not kill me, she replied. As the words left her, wrapped in the intimacy of silence, she realized they were true. It should have been a comfort. But she glanced at the set of The Wayelyn’s uncharacteristically still jaw, and felt uneasy instead.

  “They are the marvel that I remember,” Solran said, her face upturned, her voice hushed. “I envy you your grounds, Terafin. Do not tell me they are not worthy of envy; I assume they exact a price, the whole of which I might never know. But they are peaceful; they contain the quiet of a day without conflict or the burden of responsibility.”

  “How would you recognize such a day?” Jewel asked, with a wry smile. “Given The Wayelyn and the only other master bard with whom I’m familiar, I imagine that you don’t have many of them.”

  Solran laughed. Her laugh was a surprise; it was low, deep, and suggested reserves of genuine delight. “Have I done something shocking, Terafin?”

  “No, Bardmaster. I apologize for staring—you are familiar with my early history. Occasionally, the strict etiquette demanded by the patriciate is beyond my grasp.”

  “Your grasp has grown stronger, with the passage of time—and your reach, longer. If it eases you at all, Terafin, I trust you implicitly.”

  “On so little acquaintance?”

  “Yes. I am surrounded by the bard-born, and not a single one of them has heard more than the hint of a lie in your words when you choose to speak in their hearing.”

  “And I so casually came up in conversation?”

  “Not casually, no,” the bardmaster replied, the last of the joy once again completely submerged. She stopped walking, her mouth half-open.

  Chapter Nineteen

  JEWEL STOPPED AS WELL. She had—she would swear she had—followed the bardmaster into the grounds transcribed by the Master Gardener and his staff. She glanced at the path beneath her feet; it was made of interlocking stone. In shape, in width, in length, it was very like the paths that wound their way through the garden of contemplation. It was adorned by short, standing lamps, their round, glass globes surrounding small magestones, keyed to radiate light when evening fell. Flower beds were laid, in careful order, to either side of the walk, although the garden would not reach the full riot of its tended color for weeks.

  She hadn’t stepped off the path, but apparently it no longer mattered. Where the small, cultivated trees so
dwarfed by the Ellariannatte had once stood, there now stood trees of living silver and gold. Standing among them was a solitary tree on which roses were in bud. It should have looked ridiculous; it didn’t. Accents of red—for the buds were a deep, deep red—glinted off silver, were warmed when seen in gold; it was almost as if the trees had grown around this single bush in a ring, to give it glory.

  “Your garden has grown wild since the funeral,” Solran said.

  “Since just before,” Jewel replied. She felt Avandar’s disapproval. “But they didn’t take root here. Not initially.” She lowered her head. “Don’t touch the trees,” she said softly.

  “I would not dream of doing so. Neither, I am certain, would The Wayelyn.” The Wayelyn so mentioned was approaching the trees, but stopped, armoring himself with his lute and an unrepentant smile better suited to a child than a man of wealth, experience, and power.

  “You are incorrigible,” Solran said, her tone equal parts affection and exasperation. “We have come this far to play to an audience of one—but for all that, an extremely significant audience. This is not perhaps the stage we would have chosen, but it seems fitting.”

  “I’m not certain—”

  “No, Terafin, you are not—but it appears that roses can grow encircled by such wilderness, and even remain unharmed and unaltered. They are not, to my eye remarkable, but they are—like the rarest of gems—in their perfect setting. Is it because of you?”

  Jewel shook her head. “I’ve always thought gardens like this were a waste of time and money.”

  Solran appeared to be genuinely surprised; The Wayelyn laughed. “You would prefer, perhaps, a farm?”

  “I would, truth be told. I am aware of all the reasons why it would be highly inappropriate; apparently to maintain wealth and power, one must exercise it in obvious and ostentatious ways. Growing food is not one of them. If you think my own attitude toward decorative flowers is at the heart of this . . . encroachment, I admit that I fail to see how.” She turned to The Wayelyn. “Apologies, Wayelyn, but I have one more appointment this eve, and my time grows short.”