Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (11 page)

He was his father's son in looks; taller than any other Council member, gaunter in build. His hair was streaked gray—and it had always been gray, even in a youth that she did not clearly remember. But he was his father's son in looks alone, and the family resemblance was superficial enough that she only saw the father in the son when she turned to look at her oldest adviser, her oldest supporter, her most trusted ally.

The father had never sought power. The son sought little else. He had taken his first step on the road under the tutelage of the magi. That had been a relief to her, for it was the only strain that lay between her and Gabriel in their long years together: he had wanted his blood son to be ATerafin, and she, as always, was cautious about the giving of her House name. Of
her
name.

But the magi had given him a skill, and that skill was a thing of value; in the end, and perhaps foolishly, she had granted Gabriel his one selfish desire. And it was a single desire; he had never asked her for anything else so purely personal in the long years of silent service he had offered. Gabriel. Right-kin. And compromised.

Do you suspect your son, Gabriel
? Parents could be so blind where their own children were concerned, but she could not— not quite—believe him so willfully blind. She wondered, idly, if Rymark was his mother's son.

And her gaze passed on. Three Council chairs stood empty. Courtne's. Alea's. Corniel's. The last she had shed few tears for— the same tears, in fact, that she might shed if any of the four who remained were to perish: Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, or Rymark.

But beyond those empty chairs, set apart—as always—by the most convenient method given to her, sat Jewel Markess ATerafin. No longer the young girl, she seemed, still, an embodiment of things youthful. A sign, The Terafin thought, of age, that a woman over thirty can feel so much the defiant youngster.

Jewel's dark hair was not so unruly today as it usually was,, and her clothing was, indeed, of a fine material and an acceptable cut. She alone had chosen to bring no guards or attendants, but Avandar towered over her like a shadow, like a death for any whose approach was careless or inimical.

Of the four—Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, and Rymark—The Terafin thought that it was Marrick who stood the best chance of protecting the House and gaining for the House what the House needed in the future from the both the Council of The Ten and the Crowns.

But it was to Jewel ATerafin that her gaze returned, time and again, before she at last began her address.

Council meetings were often bearable because they represented a rare opportunity to catch up on sleep—if she were subtle enough about it not to catch Avandar's attention which was, admittedly, not often.

But today there were no odious reiterations of a previous meeting's minutes, no descriptions of what was to be discussed (although this often proved more interesting than the discussion itself), no maneuvering behind the scenes (which in this case often meant causing one) for presentation position, or worse, for "support." There was
The
Terafin, and there were the ATerafin, separated by the chairs they occupied across the gulf of the suddenly huge table.

She sat; they sat. She rose, and when they moved to rise, she gestured them down with a cutting motion of hand through air.

"This will be a brief meeting," she said softly, and for a minute Jewel could almost believe it would end in an execution. She cast a glance at the right-kin, but his complexion was going through a serious color change—enough of one that she knew he was as surprised by The Terafin's tone as any of the other members of her Council.

For just a minute, The Terafin seemed to shake her age, gaining inches and power in the process.

"Courtne is dead. Alea is dead. Corniel is dead. For the last, I offer no great grief, as you are all intelligent enough to suspect. I will do you the favor, behind these very closed doors, in the privacy of a Council chamber that it is in your best interest to leave private, of not insulting your intelligence. Or taxing it overmuch."

Stiffening, there, especially across Rymark ATerafin's features. Jewel was certain that once Haerrad figured it out, he'd be purple. Elonne's face did not change at all, and Marrick, damn him, actually smiled.

"I do not understand why you choose to play these games now— and they
are
games, make no mistake. A war of succession is generally held after the death of the ruler one wishes to succeed.

"I will remind you all that the decision of heir is made in Council
by the council's recommendations
in accordance with my decision. I will further remind you that the last time a House ruler was assassinated, the House in question lost prestige in the Imperial Court, and for that reason, lost a great deal of both power and influence.

"The question of succession has been—and in future will be— left to the House; it was agreed upon when The Ten came to the Kings at the beginning of. their reign over four hundred years ago. But in turn, it was agreed that the Houses would abide by the greater martial laws imposed by the Kings we had chosen to support."

Restive movement from all of the House members but Elonne. Jewel didn't much like Elonne, but the woman was made of steel, and steel was necessary in the rule of a House.

"Ah. I see you understand the rudimentary costs of a House War. I will, in that case, refrain from belaboring known history." She put both hands, palm down, upon the table and leaned toward them, captive audience by force of her will alone. "Courtne was a reasonable choice as heir. He is obviously out of the succession. You will now, no doubt, argue among yourselves for the honor of a clear recommendation and a clear choice. I have no… difficulty with this.

"I have difficulty imagining that when the heir is finally chosen, there will be more than two of you left standing, and again, I have little difficulty with this. But Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad, Rymark," she said, her voice soft, her gaze harder than Elonne's, "I
will not
see this House torn apart by your ambitions. Whether you die or not is of little consequence to me; it will be a loss to the House. Do not kill those who follow
me
because they have chosen to throw their future in with
you
, or worse, because they will not.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Silence.

Haerrad said quietly, "And if they die, Terafin?"

Jewel held her breath. It was not a question that needed asking, but having been asked, it was not a question that could be ignored. The Terafin did not utter threats; she did not rule by such extremes. What steel there was in her was sheathed until the last possible moment, and if she was capable of death—and she was— it was the death that more than simple expedience demanded.

She thought that The Terafin would make no answer; the silence stretched. Stretched for long enough that Jewel realized she'd forgotten to breathe while she waited.

And as she drew breath. The Terafin replied with a single word. "Justice."

She turned then and left the room.

Evening of 10th of Lattan, 427 AA

Averalaan, Terafin Manse

Jewel had not had dreams like this for almost fifteen years, although she woke often from nightmare, and some of those nightmares twisted truth. No dreams like this since she had started to learn the limits of the talent she was born to. Not since she had accepted that the instincts by which her life was ruled could, occasionally and with great cost, be
pointed
. Not since she had run from the streets and the warrens of the twenty-fifth holding, the remnants of the gang of children—her den—that had survived their first contact with an old and terrible magic under the thin stretch of her shadow.

Seer-born.

The days with the den returned to her. Years in the most powerful House in the Empire would never remove them entirely; she had come to know, and accept, this truth. It made her something of a mystery to most of the powerful men and women who partook in the rulership of House Terafin; truthfully, it made her something of an object of disdain. But the disdain that there was was whispered and hidden—as if she was too stupid to be aware of it—because if she was from the streets, she was also of value to the House.

Seer-born.

She was Jewel, born Markess, raised to ATerafin, and she still felt the rawness of a scream against the walls of her throat as she sat bolt upright and waited in the darkened bedroom for the wing to come to life around her.

It happened slowly; the swing of doors in the distance, doors well-oiled enough that they did not creak, but not stiff enough that they did not slam—either into their frames or into the walls as they were pushed open or slammed shut. Then the shouting:

There, Teller's voice, just outside of Finch's door; Jester's voice outside of Angel's. Carver was—ah, there. Swinging lamplight bobbing beneath the crack of her door. Light.

Her own lamp was guttered.

And, of course, no matter how familiar these friends, no matter how welcome, they would not be the first to arrive. There were three doors that led to this room. The first was the door from the sitting room beyond which lay the hall and the rest of her den. The second was a door that opened into an office—a room she still rarely used, preferring the comfort and the familiarity of the late night kitchen seen through oil-lamp light and sleep's lack. The third door opened into the chambers which her domicis occupied.

And always, always, always it was that third door that opened first.

No exception tonight; in the shadows, Avandar crossed the threshold, neither lingering in the doorway nor appearing to hurry. She could see in the dark about as well as anyone else, but if Avandar was a shadow, he was a shadow who had substance and color and personality, all rooted firmly in memories, most of which still irritated her.

As domicis, he was, technically, her servant. As Avandar, he was like a keeper, but of what, she had yet to determine—and they had been together, as uneasy allies, since her sixteenth year. There probably wasn't another domicis in the guild's long and honorable history who could abide by technicalities so well without conveying
any
of the spirit of the law.

He's handsome
. Finch had said,
and powerful; you can feel it
.

Yeah. So's a demon, and I wouldn't want one serving me
—
you never know when the damned thing'll get loose and rip out your throat. Or worse
.

If the Terafin thought he'd be the best domicis for you, it probably means she thinks you'll see a lot of trouble, Jay.

The years hadn't made him any uglier.

Or any less arrogant, for that matter.

"Jewel," he said. He knew better than to touch her.

Before she could answer, the door to the outer hall flew open; Angel and Carver stood abreast in the wide frame. Lamplight was at their back, held aloft by a slender, strong arm: Finch's, she thought. She smiled as she saw the light glinting off steel too short to be sword. It was her first smile.

"Jay?" Teller's voice. He sidled around Carver, shoving his forelocks out of his eyes and squinting into the shadows. In the darkness, she was sixteen again; so were they. There were instincts, she thought, that they'd never lose because more than half their life had gone into the making.