Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “But you are not aware of who those genuine and legitimate sources are.” It was not a question. “Patris AMatie was a shrewd and somewhat ruthless businessman. He disappeared.”

  “Yes. His concerns were absorbed by his patron, Lord Cordufar.”

  It had been years since Hectore had heard that name. “The last time I saw my godson alive,” he said quietly, “was the night of the last Cordufar ball. I received no further word from him, and I am aware of the eventual fate of the Cordufar family and its manse. Were you aware, at the time, that Ararath had dealings with the Cordufar family?”

  “No. I was aware of almost nothing, at the time. Rath did his best not to involve me in his personal business; I remained ignorant until some of that business arrived in my home in the twenty-fifth holding. He’d left one letter for me, and it brought me here.”

  “You feel Ararath’s death is connected, in the end, to your assassins.”

  “I feel, in the end, that everything is connected. The events in Cordufar, Rath’s death, the slow rumbling of the war in the South—which was only tenuously concluded in our favor. Meralonne feels it a staying action, not a decisive victory. The Terafin’s death. The events at The Terafin’s funeral. Even the sleeping sickness. I’ve spent over half my life involved peripherally with the plans of demons and those who’ve summoned them.

  “Even the ascension to the House Seat did not decrease that involvement; I think nothing short of death would do so. My death,” she added. “The plans themselves will continue.”

  “Give Andrei the specifics of the attempts against you, if you are willing to trust us that far. And tell me how you came by that ring.”

  “Amarais left it for me. I believe she came by the ring honestly; it was still on Rath’s body when what was left of that body came to the Terafin manse. He arrived the same day I did.” She closed her eyes briefly. “I have the sword he was given by his grandfather. I have almost nothing else of him.

  “But without Rath, I would not now be The Terafin.”

  “No.” They ate in silence for several minutes. Andrei joined them mid-course.

  “Andrei, what do you know of demons?”

  “Not more than the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.”

  “And not less?”

  He didn’t answer. But when dinner was brought, he said, “Hectore, you meddle in things you do not understand.”

  “I don’t need to understand them; that’s why I pay you.” He concentrated on the food in front of him as he considered what he had offered The Terafin. She was quiet, stiff. He understood that the conversation had taken several turns she had not expected; the visit itself had thoroughly unsettled Hectore. He wished to spend some of his time in the library, perusing its vast shelves; he did not ask. Instead, displaying the patience which he’d learned, at some cost in his youth, to cultivate, he began to speak of his godson.

  And his godson’s sister.

  She fell silent, listening; her face lost its brittle neutrality. He was a capable conversationalist, and in truth, speaking about Ararath was no burden: he had loved the boy almost as a son, and he understood that her interest in Ararath was all but a child’s interest in the life of a parent—one lost to death, early. She laughed several times—an open laugh that robbed her of years and necessary dignity; nor did she remain silent. She offered Hectore proof that the Ararath he knew and the Rath who had rescued her were connected by recognizable character traits.

  When the dinner drew to a close—and at a far later hour than was Hectore’s norm—he rose. “When you have more time, Terafin, I would love to peruse your library, if it is at all possible; I would also like to visit your grounds. At the moment, an invitation to do so would elevate me above my peers and increase my consequence.”

  She laughed. She had an open laugh that was in no way delicate. “Would you actually care?”

  “About the grounds, yes. About the consequence, as you have divined, no. I have reached a position in life in which, absent severe catastrophe, I can ignore such things in safety.”

  “I haven’t,” was her rueful reply.

  “No. If I desire it, I may gain the ear of almost any of The Ten just by asking. But you have entered the loftiest of social circles, and every movement you make, every dress you wear, every word you utter, will be examined and judged. In time, Terafin, you will grow accustomed to this.”

  She smiled; the smile made her look altogether too fragile. The fact that the appearance of fragility was entirely unconscious on her part was unfortunate, but he understood why: Ararath had built a bridge between them. Nor was she, in truth, fragile; had she been, her reign would have been measured in days. He understood why she had succeeded Amarais. After The Terafin’s funeral, the House Council had little choice. She spoke with the voice of command, and it was a command that not even the Kings could utter with an expectation of obedience.

  Any patrician of any consequence whatsoever had heard her words. Against this public display of her disturbing authority, any sane ambitions must give way. Yet she did not understand this herself; that much was evident. Nor did she completely understand the awe her winged cats inspired.

  “Ararath would be proud of you,” he told her, as he turned toward the doors.

  Her smile was almost heartbreaking. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Believe that he would.”

  “He despised the patriciate. And he hated Terafin above all, for what it cost him and his family.”

  “Yet in his moment of desperation, he sent you to the sister who abandoned Handernesse and achieved so much outside of its bounds. He might have sent you to me.”

  Her smile deepened. “And would you have opened Araven and its resources to my den?”

  “Jewel—if I may be permitted the impertinence of your name—understand that Amarais did not do so purely out of the goodness of her heart. I will allow for the possibility of sentiment, although she was not prone to act upon it in her later years. She understood what you were. Housing a handful of undemanding urchins in return for the only known seer in the Empire was a bargain. I would have done the same, but sadly, a godfather is not a beloved and resented older sister.”

  “She would have welcomed him,” The Terafin said, in the softest of voices. “She would have opened her doors to him.”

  “Yes,” Hectore replied. “That is the tragedy. Ararath had a ferocious and almost unequaled pride. You were the closest he could come to either apology or forgiveness. Do not, in your time, let pride become a wall without windows or doors.

  “I must thank you for this dinner. I saw little of my godson in his later years—and not for lack of trying on my part. He cut all ties with Handernesse; he made no attempt to create a family of his own—until you. You were his child, Jewel. What I could not do for Ararath, in the end, I will do—in his name—for you.”

  “He would not—”

  “No, of course not. He loved his sister to the end and could not force himself to reach out to her; he asked almost nothing of me. But it is true that we often desire to give to those who will ask for nothing, especially when they take all burdens upon their own shoulders. What I could not do for your Rath, I will do for you. He would, I think, be gratified.” He lifted a hand before she could speak again. “I am an old man, now.”

  Andrei coughed.

  “An old man with a servant who appears to have taken poorly to the chill. I enjoy a position among the Houses that few reach, and I have maintained that position for over a decade. Let me put it to use; if I can, I will have justified lean decades of effort. Let me fancy, in so doing, that you will be my godson’s daughter when we are together.”

  She hesitated. She bit her lip. Hectore stole a glance at her domicis, and was highly amused at the rigidity of that man’s expression. “I’d like you to meet my den,” she said, as if she were still a child of the holdings. She closed her eyes, and added, “My kin.”

  “I will. I will make an appointment to speak with Finch ATer
afin at her earliest convenience. Do you wish to be present for the first of our meetings?”

  “If I can,” she replied. “I will see you out,” she added, as he offered her an arm.

  He had not lied to her: he intended to devote his attention to the difficulties she faced, where it was possible to do so. He expected Andrei to argue against such interference. But he felt, this eve, his many failures: the failure to protect his granddaughter, and by so doing, to shield his daughter from the pain of grief and loss; his failure to succor his difficult, proud godson. In truth, given his suspicions, he had not expected to like The Terafin. On the day of the funeral she had been unapproachable; everything about her had been so perfect, so utterly rigid, she seemed above the foible and folly of simply being mortal.

  But he knew, having met and conversed with her in such an intimate, familial way, that she would, without thought, throw herself against the Warden of Dreams to save even the lowliest of citizens. His granddaughter would have been safe in her hands.

  * * *

  It was a luxury to wake in the morning in her own bed without facing the prospect of a full Council of The Ten, which made rising and dressing an act of war. The Kings had not, as of late last evening, demanded her presence. She had had an almost entirely self-indulgent dinner with a man who knew most of the details of Rath’s early life—a man who had come to visit because of the loss of a beloved grandchild. She liked Hectore.

  Far, far too much for such a short acquaintance, and far too openly.

  “Good morning, Avandar.” She crawled out from under Shadow’s wing; it lay across the whole of her upper body. “You,” she said, attempting to push him out of the bed, and having the luck she usually did, “have to go visit Ariel.”

  Shadow rolled his great, golden eyes and leaped surprisingly lightly to the carpeted floor. He headed toward the door, which opened to allow him to leave.

  “Has Barston sent up today’s schedule?”

  “He has. You have a meeting with Levec after the late lunch hour—at the Houses of Healing. I’ve taken the liberty of informing Adam.” Avandar laid out the dress she was to wear for the day, and she grimaced.

  “I’m not meeting Kings,” she said, “only an irritable bear of a healer.”

  “You are The Terafin,” a familiar voice interjected. “You are expected to dress as if you are a royal.”

  “Good morning, Haval.” Judging from his expression, it wasn’t going to remain that way. She accepted Avandar’s choice, and dressed quickly.

  The dressmaker inclined his head.

  “Stay with Hannerle this afternoon?” she asked, as she sat before her mirror. The maidservant was waiting, brush in hand. Beside it, heating, were irons.

  “Do you believe she will wake?”

  “I have hopes that she’ll wake and stay that way.”

  Haval’s brow rose. Nothing else about his expression changed—but Haval could be dying of an excess of joy without giving any of it away. As if to bolster this assessment, he said, “Rumor has it that you spent last evening with Hectore of Araven in your personal quarters.”

  “I did.”

  “You are aware that Hectore is one of a scant handful of people who have bested Jarven at his own game?”

  “I am. Hectore implied that it was not the only outcome when they clashed.”

  “Indeed, it was not. What did Patris Araven come here to discuss?”

  “His granddaughter, and his godson.”

  “His godson would be Ararath of Handernesse.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “Was there a reason—beyond the obviously sentimental—that you chose to entertain Patris Araven in your personal chambers?”

  Clearly not a good one, in Haval’s opinion. “Haval, eventually people are going to have to know. I intend to use these rooms as my predecessor did, while it is safe to do so.”

  “And you considered it safe to do so? With Patris Araven?”

  “Tell me why you feel this was the wrong decision.”

  “Patris Araven is known for his sentimentality. In most men of power, it would be a remarkable failing; that it is not is due in no small part to his cunning. He is a threat. How much of your personal quarters did he see?”

  “He saw the library—there’s no way to reach the dining chamber without traversing a large part of it.”

  “And what did you discuss?”

  “Mostly? Ararath.” She hesitated. “We also discussed the assassination attempts and the possibility that Hectore might use Araven’s resources to curtail some of them. Rath was his godson. Rath is the reason I’m part of House Terafin.”

  “In how much detail did you discuss the assassination attempts?”

  “Very little.”

  “The gods are to be thanked for small mercies. Tell me what occurred during your visit to Avantari yesterday.”

  She frowned. “Haval, it’s unusual for you to come directly here.”

  He nodded. “It appears that the audience with the Kings was eventful. Your head is apparently still attached to your neck; it was therefore not disastrous. What happened?”

  She told him. Avandar was willing to supply details she had overlooked, none of which changed Haval’s severe expression. “And the song?”

  “You’ve already heard it.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I have. I considered it unfortunate, but given The Wayelyn, survivable. I am no longer certain that is the case. A game is being played, Terafin.”

  Jewel nodded. “Games are always being played.”

  Haval inclined his head.

  She sat in a brittle silence until the maid had finished with her hair. She then dismissed the maid; her room now contained her domicis, her Chosen, and the world’s most difficult dressmaker. “There is one game being played that I haven’t had time to mention.”

  “There is surely more than one,” Haval replied.

  “Sit, Haval. You are making me nervous.”

  He did as bid, but without any marked enthusiasm for making her less nervous.

  “Rymark.”

  He lifted a brow, his expression shuttered.

  “Rymark came to me two days ago. He made me an offer.”

  “And that offer?”

  “He has worked, for an indeterminate length of time, as an agent of the Shining Court.”

  Haval did not appear to be surprised at all. The disappointment Jewel felt was unworthy of her title. “And he has offered information about that august body to you in return for a commensurate reward.” It wasn’t even a question. “What information of value do you believe he offers the House?”

  “The House?” She frowned. “In a concrete sense, very little. But the information might be relayed to the Kings, and I believe it to be of value to the Empire.”

  “How so?”

  “He knows the names of the mortal members of the Shining Court; he knows, almost certainly, the names of the Kialli. If we knew who willingly served the Court, we might feed information to the North, or we might cut them off entirely.”

  Haval nodded. “Has he also volunteered to detail his acts against the House, in service to the Court? Or his acts among his colleagues in the Order of Knowledge?”

  “He has offered everything.”

  “And in return you are to reward him with?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He expects that I will be able to gift him with land and an appropriate title, although I am not the Kings.”

  “You are not telling me the whole of what he asked.”

  “I am, Haval.”

  “Very well. Let us assume that the offer made for services rendered to the Shining Court was similar. In the event that the Lord of the Shining Court is victorious, and Rymark continues in his service, there would be no Kings with which to contend. The whole of the city might be laid to waste.”

  “He considered that inevitable when he joined the Shining Court. He was beguiled by a living god, and felt that our survival—the survival of any of us—was
an impossibility. He could serve the god or he could perish. He chose to serve.” Her lips twisted. Even speaking the words recalled the rage they’d engendered.

  “Very well, Terafin. What game do you believe he plays?”

  She was silent. After a moment, she rose; Haval did not join her. Standing or seated, he was the more intimidating of the two.

  “He did not make his offer—and its implied confession—to you without reason. You may not credit his reason, but that is not at issue, at the moment. He made the opening move in his negotiation because he believes it will be in your power to grant what he has asked.”

  “I believe I made clear that I do not.”

  “He therefore believes he knows more about your ability than you do, Terafin. It is likely he knows what the Shining Court fears.”

  She was silent. After a pause, she said, “Come to the library with me, Haval. I need to walk.”

  * * *

  “If you are attempting to shock me,” he said, as he walked sedately by her side, “you may stop. I was sufficiently impressed by the rearrangement of the Terafin library that I spent some moments composing myself before I entered your chambers. They, at least, seem to be spared as obvious a physical transformation.”

  “Rymark saw the library.”

  “Ah.”

  “He also saw the former private office; I now call it the war room.”

  “Is it as impressive as the library?”

  “Differently impressive. It appears to be a large, stone room, set into the side of a building at the height of a cliff, given the distance to the nearest visible ground. It has one open window, the width of the wall, through which my cats can fly. And through which other things can likewise fly. I believe it was that room that fully convinced Rymark that his attempt to offer his services was worthwhile.”

  “How necessary do you feel the information is?”

  She shrugged uneasily. “We’ve managed so far.”