Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (30 page)

It should have been silent, dammit, it
was
silent—-but the sword drew the attention and held it. It was not in motion, but it was; there was about the blade an eternity of a darkness that Jewel had seen only once. Her hands were in motion as her gaze was held captive; she knew that she was drawing dagger by the cold feel of its hilt in her palm. Stopped, then, because no matter what, Kiriel was one of hers. You could hit 'em, shake 'em, shove them if you had to to get their attention—gods knew it wasn't always easy—but you didn't pull a weapon on them.

Especially when the weapon they'd pulled was theoretically pulled in your defense.

"Kiriel—"

Meralonne APhaniel did the unthinkable.

He pulled
his
sword. Or rather, he called it. And she remembered his sword. His shield was dim and ordinary, as if it could no longer be touched or tainted by magic, but his sword was a match for Kind's, day to its night, blue light to its black darkness.

"She asked you to leave," Kiriel said softly.

Meralonne did not reply.

"APhaniel," Jewel said, "this is a poor way to start."

"Is it?" He did not look at her; did not look away from Kiriel or the weapon she bore.

"Yes," Kiriel said softly. "There is truce between us. We fight the same enemy here."

"Then you must have no complaint about my inclusion. We are, after all, allies. Do you know who she is, Jewel?"

"Does she know," Kiriel countered, stung, "who
you
are?"

Silence.

Jewel broke it.
Jay
broke it. "Yes. I know who she is."

"Oh?"

"She's Kiriel di'Ashaf, and she's taken the only oath I ask for. She's part of my den."

His momentary surprise was palpable, It did not last. "Have you seen fit to mention this… shift in allegiance to The Kalakar, or her Ospreys?"

"Arann ATerafin is one of my den," Jewel replied, defiant, and irritated to be so. "He serves the House with no less binding an oath."

"You do not know the oath Kalakar requires."

"I don't much care. We're not talking about Kalakar here."

"Kiriel will be Kiriel di'Ashaf AKalakar if she serves well, and if that is her desire."

"So?"

"Jewel—"

"Meralonne, leave it be."

"No."

"I know what I—"

"You are perceptive, as befits the talent you were born to. But might I remind you that you did not see the near-death of young Teller?"

Stung, she opened—and closed—her mouth. Years under the service of The Terafin gave her at least that. "How do you know about Teller?"

His smile was disarming, not so much because it was sudden and unexpected—although it was both—but because it was almost rueful. "We are all on edge, and the edge dulls our caution and our wit," he said softly, turning to face her. "Devon."

"'The man who can't choose sides," she said bitterly.

He raised a pale brow.

"'But he runs to you."

"He appreciates my experience; you obviously do not. I apologize for my… intrusion. If you desire the writ, you will have my company—and my aid."

He sheathed his sword.

She did not, could not know, what he granted her in the face of the threat of Kind's sword unsheathed.

"He doesn't trust me," Kiriel said.

"No one does."

"You aren't as stupid as you look."

"Except me."

Kiriel's laugh was brief and bitter. "You mean it. That's what I don't understand. You mean it all. You even think—you even think you understand what I am, and you still mean it."

"I see it," Jewel told her, "I see what Meralonne sees in you. What he sees when you draw sword. What he sees when you smile at someone else's discomfort. Do you think I'm blind, Kiriel? I'm
seer-born
. I can't help but see it." And then, before she knew why, she added, "But I'm not the only one who both knew it and trusted you."

And the moment she said it, she
knew
it was true.

She thought Kiriel would leave the room; her hand whitened against the hilt of her sword until it seemed all of a single color, and that, ivory. But she stayed her ground; the moment passed, by common consent, before she spoke of the matter at hand. "If we refuse to hunt them, they'll kill."

"Yes."

"Then go to his Council of Magi, and tell them that. You won't take them where they need to go, so unless we go on our own, the deaths are on their heads."

"Why, Kiriel? Meralonne doesn't trust you; it's clear to me the lack of trust goes both ways. I trust you, and oddly enough, I trust him. You can work together in this. He'll come to understand it—"

"They have to understand—
he
has to understand—that we're not in their power. If we do as they say, on their orders, with no volition, if we bow to them, if we
obey
—-"

"Kiriel."

The young woman met the eyes of the older one; neither looked away, although Jewel wanted to. There was something, in the lines of Kind's mouth, in the intensity, sudden and heated, of her words, that was feral, wild.

That was, Jewel thought, very like the kin themselves.

"If we play those games," she said slowly, as much to gather her breath as to be understood, "helpless people die. Innocent people."

"They'll die anyway," Kiriel replied, her words sharpened by certainty.

Jewel shrugged. Turned away. "I'm going to go hunting with or without you. I know the holdings—I owe you for the information, no matter what you decide—and if I don't know the exact location they've chosen to hole up in, I
know
a demon when I see it. I'll do what I can to protect you from censure; you're one of mine, and I won't desert you. But I can't make you do anything. I won't.

"You decide for yourself."

"But the magi will
win
."

"And if they do, then what? Meralonne already seems to know more about you than I do, and if he hasn't used the knowledge by now, he's keeping it to himself the same way he hoards every scrap of information that crosses his desk. What exactly happens if they, as you put it, win?"

"We'll lose."

"Yeah. We'll lose." Jewel Markess ATerafin walked across the length of a kitchen that was suddenly too small for two people.

"I'm going to talk to the mage. Join us if you want to. Stay here if you don't."

The second surprise—and annoyance—of the morning came one hour later, in the guise of a messenger, delivering the writ of execution, That writs of this nature were rarely granted was attested to by the seals that framed them, one in each corner of a rough-edged, rectangular page, joined by the finely drawn blades of swords: King Cormalyn. Queen Marieyan, King Reymalyn and Queen Siodonay the Fair.

Jewel expected the writ; indeed, she had been surprised to find that the Mysterium had responded before the Magisterian had.

What she did not expect, given the conversation of the previous eve, was Devon ATerafin. Unexpected use of her gift had taught her a few things in her time, and the one that came in most useful when her eyes lit upon the actual face of the messenger was this: To keep any surprise hidden. Devon did not stand as ATerafin in the sparsely populated—but still populated—hall that served as the entranceway to her home: there was something about his posture that was not quite right. It was an affect he was good at assuming: Devon ATerafin did not so much hide when he worked as blend in with people who were occupied with daily tedium.

She could not, however, mistake his face for anyone else's once she'd seen it; nor was she intended to. Had she been, they would have sent someone else.

"ATerafin," she said.

He stiffened. It was, in effect, an insult—and in intent. Among members of the same House, it was more than permissible to use given names—it was acknowledgement of family, of a mutual bond. His eyes narrowed, obscuring color; he bowed as stiffly as she spoke. "ATerafin," he replied.

"How may I help you?"

"I'm afraid," he said, knowing her better than Meralonne the mage ever had, "that it is I whom am put in the uncomfortable position of being forced to aid you."

Jewel had heard of the mountains in the far South that occasionally gave vent to heat and air—and she thought she knew how one felt at just this moment. "You might as well stand in line and join the crowd."

"Crowd?"

"Let me guess. You've got the writ we need, and you come with it."

He shrugged, little surprised at her surmise; it was, after all, what
he
would have expected.

Or at least that's what she thought she read in the momentary shrug of his shoulders, in the unremarkable expression on his face.

Just at that moment, she loathed confident men.

Of course, that was pretty much all of the ones she had to deal with day to day. Gods, she was in a foul mood. She was also in no mood to argue with Devon: certainly in no mood to lose another argument, and sadly, certain that she
would
lose it.

But at least she had the comfort of knowing that Devon's orders were from the Kings, and not a handful of smarter-than-god-in-their-own-opinion-mages. Cold comfort was better than none.

"You might as well go into the kitchen." she told him curtly.

"Oh?"

"You can keep the mage and Kiriel from killing each other."

"Kiriel?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing a momentary astonishment ripple his brow. And the guilt that followed the indulgence of such a petty thought. "Kiriel. Devon, until the House is settled— one way or the other—we're not going to be on speaking terms. We'll be on civil terms, and certainly, we'll be allies in the bigger fight.

"Don't expect more, and don't ask for it." She wanted to close her eyes a moment; turned her back on him instead. "And as long as I don't lose any of mine in the war," she said, each word dragged out of her throat by the pull of lips into near silence, "we'll be friends again. As much friends as you're allowed to be in the role you've chosen."

"Friendship," Devon said, closer to her back than she would have thought, given that she'd heard almost no movement, "is an indulgence that you'll have less time for than I, Jewel."

"And I suppose it is worse to have less time and a better understanding of what the word means."

She was surprised at the bitterness of his tone; not surprised enough to relent, but surprised enough to face him. He'd gone.

Damn
, she thought, for no particular reason.
Damn, damn, damn
.

Teller's eyes were closed as Finch spoke, and he didn't trouble himself to open them. His hands held no slate, his fingers no quill, and thighs angled toward the ceiling were as close to the kitchen table as he was going to come for some time, if Alowan had much to say about it.

"What can she do?" he asked Finch.

Finch shrugged uneasily. "Don't know. But Jay took her in for a reason."

He nodded. "Don't worry too much about me," he said, and meant it. "They've done what they intended. Made their threat. I'm not useful now, and they wouldn't kill me in the healerie anyway." He took a deep breath, wrapped his words in it, and spoke again. "She knows what she's doing. Finch. You've seen Meralonne fight the kin before."

"Yeah. But that time we had all of the Chosen and the House Guards as backup."

But Teller knew enough of Jay to know that in this battle, she thought Kiriel di'Ashaf was a worthy replacement for almost a hundred men. He knew she was on their side; Jay had said so, and Jay's word couldn't be doubted.

But he was troubled for other reasons, because he also knew what Kiriel was: god-born. No girl, no single girl, even if she was that, should have so much power.

It was time to think about killers.

Angel came, with Jester, into the kitchen, swinging the doors smack into the wall. She hated it. Avandar's frown bit the back of her neck because she knew he hated it more. It was disrespectful, and Mandaros knew the only person who was allowed to treat her with disrespect in his eyes was Avandar himself.

But the doors' wide swing was a type of alert; they didn't have bells here, or horns, and they rarely raised their voices in shouts or screams—if you didn't count Jewel's nightmares, and she didn't.

"Jay," Angel said, without preamble.

"Sit?"

He shook his head. Stopped for just a moment to look at the white-haired mage, the grim and silent Astari, and the youngest member of Jewel's den. Jewel nodded, perceptibly and irritably, and he shrugged.

"You're not going to like it much."

"What?"

"We didn't find much in the thirty-second, or the twenty-sixth. We didn't even bother with the Common; stopped just long enough to pick up some rumors, gossip. Food," he added quickly.

"And?"

"This is the bad thing. The list of holdings you gave us—no disappearances, no strange deaths, nothing."

"None that've been leaked anyway."

"They'd be leaked—you can't hide the really bad deaths, Jay."

She shrugged. "Why's that bad?"

"Because there
have
been bodies. Disappearances and then discoveries. In the fifteenth," he told her grimly.

"What the Hells is in the—isn't the fifteenth one of the foreign quarters?"

"It's where a chunk of them hole up, yeah."

"Well, that would make sense, I guess." She turned and whispered two words to Avandar; he left the room and returned, wordless, with a rolled map.

"The fifteenth," Devon ATerafin said, as Jewel unrolled the map, "is particularly significant this year."

"Why?"

"Spoken like a Terafin," he answered. "You might remember that this is the time of the year for the Kings' Challenge?" At her glower, he continued. "There's a large contingent of Annagarian contestants for the Challenge this year. They train under the auspices of the only man from the South who has ever won the title."

Angel whistled. "He won it twice," he said quietly.

"How do you know that?"

"I pay attention, Jay."

"Great. So what you're saying is that one of the contestants is a demon?" She snorted. "It's not impossible, Devon. With what's happened the last two months, no demon would survive half an eye-blink if he tried to enter Avantari. There's no way they'd try it."