Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (23 page)

Kiriel spoke the truth. Jay'd heard and accepted it.

Hearing, and accepting, she invited Kiriel to leave Eagle's Remove, and together, they adjourned to the kitchen.

She'd told them all as much when she'd asked them to gather there; that this young woman had asked for help and offered her own in return; that she was to be considered, in any way they could, as a member of her den. A new member.

Hadn't been a new member for almost twenty years.

Twenty years? He didn't feel twenty years older. Didn't feel twenty years smarter. He was thirty—near as anyone could figure— and it only showed on the outside.

Kiriel, he could tell, was uncomfortable with the idea of the gathering but Jay insisted: These were her den; she trusted them all with her life, just as they trusted her, as they
could
trust her— and they'd accept Kiriel if she did because she was—

She was Jay Markess, their leader.

Oh, her hair was longer and maybe even a little bit straighter most of the time—not during the humid season, mind—and her back was a bit more bent; she had a couple of new lines and a woman's body, not a girl's—but something burned at the center of her eyes when she spoke—a window into a past that you could only share if you'd been part of it.

They were hers. She was theirs. It worked.

Teller ATerafin watched them almost silently as they spoke. He found that he did not much like Kiriel di'Ashaf, although he couldn't say why; there was something about her that made him feel more naked than he'd felt since—since his life had been a lot harder and a lot more desperate.

Not a feeling he wanted to relive.

Angel and Carver had the same half-neutral expression on their faces; they sat back from the table, chairs on a tilt, soles of worn boots facing inward from the edge of the tabletop. Teller knew them both well enough to know they'd crossed arms over their chests to prevent their hands from straying weaponside and staying there. Arann couldn't be summoned on short notice, and Finch and Jester were out in the Common, doing gods only knew what. It was a tough time to go out to the holding's markets and back; the streets were lined with merchants big and small who'd come to the capital for the Challenge itself, following the trail cut by hopeful, too young men who wanted a life outside of farming a small stead in the middle of nowhere. Movement in Averalaan was at a premium; horses were forbidden during the Challenge season unless one could prove Royal Exception, and there were few enough of those to go round. Certainly none for either Finch or Jester, who hated riding anyway.

But Finch was going to be angry.

He looked up from the notes that he was taking to study the side of Kiriel's face—as if the only time he could examine her face at all was when it was turned away from him. Her eyes were so dark a brown they were black—to his vision, anyway—and she had about her the wary air of a trapped predator. Hungry predator, at that.

I'd better not be food.

As if she could hear the thought, she snapped 'round, meeting his eyes even as he sought to attach his gaze to anything else in the room. He swallowed air, steadied his hand, and thought, clearly, that he hadn't felt this uncomfortable since the day that Old Rath had smashed through the boards over the windows of their old haunt, and gazed down at them as they fled through the city's Streets at Jay's unfathomable command.

Jester, Finch, and he had run; Arann had dogged their steps like an overgrown shadow, until he'd heard the scream.

He could still hear the screaming; could feel himself freeze at the sound of it, the terror it contained, the certain death. He could hear Arann's breath, see his shadow suddenly recede from theirs as he twisted the club in his hands and started to head back. To Duster.

Duster.

We don't say good-bye to the dead
, he thought, as he stopped trying to evade Kiriel's gaze. Dark-haired young woman, blem-ishless face, hair that fell heavily enough across her shoulders it looked entirely out of place given her weapon, her armor, the ease with which she wore both.

He knew who this woman was supposed to be, even as she turned away from him, back to the conversation that she could only barely share with the rest of Jay's den.

Oh, Jay
, he thought. It had been easier, when he'd been younger. He could look at Duster, bruised and bloody, shaking with anger— or the need to outfight whatever it was that put fear into her— and accept that this killer was
their
killer, that she would do for the den what some of the den couldn't do for itself. Be the heavy. Be someone who could face down—permanently, if necessary— other people's enforcers.

The idea of right or wrong hadn't come into it.

Just survival. Survival was everything.

Jay, we're not the same den. We're not boys and girls, anymore
—
we're adults now; we don't live in the shadow of fear
.

Even as he thought it, he set aside the thought. They didn't live in that shadow, but who they were had been tempered by it. And if they were all fifteen years older—more—they all remembered, more clearly than the vows they'd made to Terafin—the vows they'd made to Jay.

Angel hadn't chosen to take the Terafin name, although it had been offered to him. He, of all of them, was truest to the youth that Jay had rescued them from. He knew that he served
her
, and if she served the House, that was her business, not his.

Watching the young girl, Teller wondered.

She wore the crest of Kalakar across one shoulder—and that crest, the House Guards' crest, one didn't just get for free. It wasn't service, but life, that you swore by.

He didn't see that commitment to Kalakar in the young woman. He didn't see much of any commitment about her—except in the line of her shoulder, the tilt of her head, the oh so slight change in the timbre of her voice when she spoke to Jay. Had Duster been like that, truly?

Jay
, he thought, as he turned his attention, at last, to his leader, and not the girl she'd brought in from the heights of Terafin's contemplation room, Eagle's Remove.
One day, some day, the dead have to be dead. You can't just see 'em in the living
—
not when the living are so bloody dangerous
.

He chose to say nothing, as usual.

Because he knew it wouldn't do any good. And he knew that this girl, this Kiriel, had given Jay her word that she could trust her, and that Jay'd accepted it.

You couldn't lie to the seer-born.

Please, Kalliaris, you couldn't lie.

Later that afternoon, army business and den business aside, Jewel isolated herself in her kitchen to think about what she least wanted to dwell on: House politics. Had to be done sometime.

Rymark, Haerrad, Elonne, and Marrick.

She spoke the names to herself as if they were a mantra, something to meditate on, a collection of syllables that made no sense, and promised to make less sense with repetition.

"Jay?"

"What?"

"Someone here to see you."

Jewel pulled her elbows off the kitchen table—where else?— and rose. Finch was a bit too quiet. "Who?"

"Haerrad ATerafin." It was not Finch's slightly delicate voice that answered her question—but given the lack of surprise she felt, she was certain on some level she'd expected it. She motioned with her head, a slight toss of loose, dark curls, and Finch stepped quickly out of the path of the oncoming visitor. Much as if he were an oncoming wagon pulled by maddened horses.

There was more than one door that led to and from the kitchen— something Jewel insisted on. Fires started in kitchens, after all. Finch passed Jewel's back and headed for the nearest door.

"I'm afraid," Haerrad ATerafin said, in a tone of voice that belied his words, "that I believe it best if your young… aide… remains here. The interview will be brief."

"My aide," Jewel said, as carefully neutral as she could be, confronted by another's orders in the heart of her territory, "is not your prisoner, Haerrad. If you've come to negotiate, this is a poor first stance to take."

"Your value to me is not, at this moment, high," was the older man's response. He cast a short shadow in the daylight; it was the color of his hair, his eyes. "Girl," he added, as Finch moved again toward the door, "don't take that risk."

She took a breath; Jewel saw it clearly in the slight tightening of her shoulder blades. And then she pushed the door open. It swung, loosely, on well-oiled hinges.

Between the open frame and the hall stood a man with drawn sword; Terafin by crest, a guard. Not Chosen. He did not utter a threat; the sword did it for him, catching the sun's light and breaking it. Jewel did not think she recognized him, but she was certain she would in the future. Very certain.

"Finch."

"He wouldn't dare."

"Finch."

Finch nodded reluctantly and stepped back, wary in her movement, angry.

"I do not wish any unfortunate interruptions," Haerrad said genially. "Especially not those tendered by your domicis, whom I note is thankfully absent.

"Let me come to the point. The Terafin has agreed that she will announce her heir shortly. I intend to be The Terafin. You may join me, or you may follow your current master when she dies."

"Neutrality?"

"There is no such thing in House politics, Jewel, not among the powerful. You serve me, or you serve no one. You are far too dangerous as an opponent, and even if you chose not to serve me, you would still remain far too dangerous in an opponent's hand."

"The Terafin still lives," Jewel said, keeping her tone even.

"The decision, for one or the other, has not yet been made. I do not feel a great pressure to make one."

"You should. You have her ear, where so few of us do. You will begin before her death as you mean to continue, and I will note it."

"And you?" she said softly. "Will you begin, before her death, as you mean to continue?"

His smile was soft. "I already have." There was nothing to like in the smile; there was no veneer of civility, no veneer of legality. She could not remain in Terafin should Haerrad somehow rule.

"I do not advise you to leave the House either," he said, just as softly as he smiled. "But I believe that our interview is at an end. I have come to offer warning."

"I've been offered a good deal more than warning and threat," Jewel said, the words sharper than she'd intended.

"No doubt. Rymark has offered you his bed—and possibly money to enter it. Elonne has made no offer yet. Marrick has made none. And I? I offer you your current circumstance and your life."

"How generous. I'll keep both in mind."

"I'd advise—"

The door blew off its hinges, carried by the weight of an armed and armored man. Both slammed into the air two inches away from the western edge of the table, and then clattered to the ground with a grunt and a thud.

Haerrad's brows went up in a dark line as Avandar stepped into the room, dusting his hands lightly against the sides of his robe. "I'm afraid," he said, with a minimal bow to his master, "that a man posing as a Terafin guard attempted—unlawfully—to refuse me entry. Shall I have him removed?"

"With prejudice," Jewel said.

"Not necessary," Haerrad said. "Avandar. Pleased to renew an acquaintance."

"And I," Avandar said, bowing with as much sincerity as Haerrad spoke.

"I don't believe that it will be necessary to bring up this unfortunate misunderstanding in the Council," the older ATerafin said. "We understand each other almost perfectly. Or we will."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Only that you are a perceptive young woman, with a clearer understanding of action—and consequence—than many. I bid you farewell, Jewel ATerafin, and I look forward to your support in the Council."

He turned then, pausing to wait for the guard to gather himself enough to take to his feet. He did not offer his assistance, and the guard, quite intelligently, did not ask for it. Standing, in armor, this man was three inches shorter than Haerrad; he was formidable in bearing if not overly handsome in look.

If she could have killed a man, it would have been Haerrad, at this moment. Jewel waited, Finch and Avandar at her back, in a grim silence that was only broken .once the shadows Haerrad cast left the room.

And it was broken by Avandar in the worst possible way; his voice was unaccountably gentle until the words cut. "Jewel," he said softly, "Teller was injured on the way to Avantari. A rider, unidentified, apparently lost control of his horse in the High City streets."

"Injured? How bad?"

"Jewel—"

"How badly?"

I sent him
, she thought, as she ran.
I sent him to Avantari
. She hated it, and hated running. Haerrad's gods-cursed spies would no doubt see her—would know
just how much
this meant, how frightened she was, how much he'd hurt her. She had to stop running. And she did try. Failed each time, the healerie seemed so far away and time so much of the essence.

She cursed her gift, hating it. Hating that she'd had
no warning
, gods curse all, no damned warning of any danger. Finch was at her side; Avandar was wherever Avandar went when she couldn't quite bear to have him witness her weakness. She caught herself, slowed down to a walk.

Deep breath. Deep, deep breath. If they knew how much this meant to her, they'd just keep at it. all of them. Keep at it, until—

"Jay." Finch's hand, on her shoulder. Not many people touched her at all; she froze a moment as instinct gave way to instinct, each as old as the friendship that bound them. "You'd know, if he were dead. We've got time. He's with Alowan."

"Alowan," Jewel snapped, "is older than the empire. Every time he uses his talent, it brings him that much closer to the death he's managed to dodge these past ten years. What if—"

Finch lapsed into silence.

Jewel gave herself a swift kick. Hers wasn't the only fear, and it wasn't the only loss. "Finch—"

"I know. Come on. We're almost there. Smile; Jay. Don't let 'em see it."

Taking her weapons out of their sheaths and leaving them in the box by the door was second nature to Jewel when visiting the healerie; first nature was to cling to the edge when one had enemies that could send one to a healer, or worse, send one's den there. She struggled a moment, as she'd never struggled, and then bit her lip as Finch easily deposited both of hers into the healerie's keeping.
The only death that comes through these doors isn't carried by human hands
.