Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (42 page)

"I trust that you have nothing to add to this difficulty?"

Devon was silent a moment. "I do," he said softly at last. "But it is not Kings' business. I bear a message from The Terafin, and it is to be delivered either to you or to the Queen Marieyan."

"Deliver it, then."

Devon crossed the room; placed the burden of his Lord's words into the hand of another man. Bowed. Rose. Watched that man's face. He knew how to watch a face; how to read the thoughts that would become words—and the thoughts that never would—in the shifting lines of expression. He did not know, not completely, what Amarais had written, but he knew before Dantallon had finished what the answer would be.

It had been a faint hope, not a real one.

And this season, with so much at stake, they would not risk the strength of the only healer that was theirs to command as they chose.

Dantallon's hands very carefully rolled up the scroll. "You will express my regrets," he said, "to The Terafin. But unless you can convince the boy not to run that race, I will receive no permission to use my skills in the service to her House." From his expression, and from his own knowledge both, Devon knew that there was no way to dissuade the boy, everything short of incarceration had already been threatened. Dantallon was polite in his refusal: gentle. Pressed, he would show his steel.

Devon ATerafin turned to the man whose healing House was known throughout the Empire. "Healer," he said. "Dantallon?"

Dantallon's frown was momentary, but it was there; so was the hesitation, the heartbeat between the understanding of Devon's request and the follow through. He handed the message to Healer Levee, who read it—scanned it. The seal, he would no doubt recognize.

The healer frowned. "I am here to save lives, not to politic," he said, as he set the scroll aside like so much refuse.

"I have come to save a life," Devon replied. "And the fact that that life has value to Terafin does not make it less of a life."

A peppered brow rose and fell. Healer Levee rarely smiled; he did not smile now. But he said, "Granted. I have my students spread thin throughout the city, and everyone with an injury worse than a hangnail has been sniveling at their hems."

"Violence?"

"Twice. Contained by the magisterial guards." He shrugged. "The students are new, for the most part; they're too soft. They'll learn to grow calluses." He shrugged. "Luckily, they don't have to do it much. I say no for them. What do you want?"

"One of them."

"Any particular one?"

"One who isn't afraid to walk into death."

"No."

"We have a young woman who has been serving the Kings' interests. Today, saving the life of a child, she was almost killed by a—by a rogue mage."

"That is not my affair. That is the affair of the Order of Knowledge.
My
affair is the crippling disease. If you don't mind?"

"I do mind."

"ATerafin—" Dantallon began.

"We would not have won the last war fought in this city without the aid of the young woman who lies dying now," Devon said, through clenched teeth. "You might remember it. Healer. It was the Henden of—"

"The year 410." Levee was silent again. "I… remember it. No one who lived in this city then could do otherwise." He shook himself. "But she did her service. She made the choice. I will not sacrifice one of my students to her."

"Don't sacrifice them, then. Give them a choice."

Levee snorted. "And you don't think that one or two of them aren't fools? No one who's done it—who's walked that close to death, and been that entwined with a stranger—ever survives unscathed. Do you let an infant swim out to sea? No. But they
want
to. They even think they understand what that want means. These students—they weren't given into the care of my house to be turned into tools. They've their own lives, and I intend to make damned sure they live them."

"Levee—"

"
ATerafin
." Dantallon now. Using a tone of voice that he rarely used.

Devon fell silent, letting the heat drain from him, from the words that would have followed the name. "If not for her," he said softly, "you would not be here now. Nor, I think, would your precious students. She is not a political entity, Dantallon. She is not an evil powermonger—not even by your definition."

"Will you tell me, with a straight face, that she is not involved in the war of succession that Terafin now fights among its own?"

Devon was white, then. Silent.

"They all have money," Levee said coldly. "And they come to me when they bleed. To my House. Tell me that she's not one of your Council. That she's not one of your contenders. That she's not
political
."

"She's not what you think of when you think of that. If she were, you would already know it, I think. You insult her because you've never met her, or because your dislike for the patriciate colors your perception. But I tell you now that you need not protect your students from her; they will not be blackened or darkened by the experience. To know her, if that's what it takes—would be the privilege of a student's life, not the ruin."

The healer looked across at the ATerafin; they were of an age, or so it had first seemed to Devon. But there were lines in the healer's face that were more than the product of sun and sea wind. "What do you mean, ATerafin?" he said at last. "Are you… fond… of this girl?"

"If you mean am I personally involved with her, the answer is no." He did not add, although he wished to, that it was also none of the healer's business. Because he was aware that Levee was •known for his temperament, and little things offended him easily. Aware that if there was any chance at all that Levee could, or would, perform this thing, or see it done, he could not afford to offend. "But she has been a part of Terafin, ATerafin, since she was, to the best of our knowledge, sixteen."

At that, Levee did raise a brow. And then, to Dantallon's amazement—and it was amazement; even a man who was completely unobservant could not have failed to note the way his jaw went slack as it fell open—Levee said, brusquely, "I will meet this girl. We do not have the time for it, but I will meet her."

Devon
moved
. It was only when the streets of the high city opened up before them that he realized how odd it was; Jewel ATerafin was in no condition to meet with, speak with, anyone, and the healer must have known this.

Hope, bitter and sharp as a keen blade, made him hold his tongue.

Alowan met them in the healerie, or rather, they met him; he sat on the edge of his fountain, in the quiet of the arborium that he had designed for just this use: the recovery and the care of the patient.

Levee had not spoken a single word from the moment they left
Avantari
, in haste, until he set eyes upon Alowan; then, and only then, did he speak: A word. A name.

The old man looked up at the younger one.

Had Devon the luxury of time, he would have let the moment pass in silence; would have granted them privacy. The vulnerability in the older healer's expression was almost painful to look upon.

Is this at the heart of Angel
? he thought, because he could not help but think it. And then,
What would you see, Alowan, if you were to come to death, seeking me? What would you take from the experience? Would you be glad that we were parted
?

Alowan rose. Devon was privately pleased that it was Levee who offered the old man the brace, the strength, of his arm.

"I did not expect to see you," Alowan said quietly. Weakly.

Levee shrugged with his free shoulder; his arm was rock solid. "I'm surprised you waited here."

"I cannot help but wait," Alowan said softly. "Because she is dying, and she was the center of Angel's life."

"Angel?" And then he stopped. "Of course. There
would
be a reason that you would not choose to heal the girl. There were two?"

Alowan nodded.

"But you chose this—this Angel?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The word was soft; the suspicion in it was not.

"Because the boy is worth nothing to the House," Alowan replied, matter-of-factly. "The girl, everything."

It was not the answer that Levee expected; this much was clear. "You serve the House," Levee said. "Surely the House would have say?" He turned to Devon, then. "I assume that The Terafin would have chosen to save this girl's life over the other's."

"You assume correctly."

"I will warn you," Alowan said, "that Meralonne and Avandar have been working here the past hour: the member of the Order has left, but Avandar remains. They are attempting to slow the passage of time in the space that surrounds her."

"And?"

He shrugged. "I heal; I am not a mage. I know only that she is not dead. Not yet."

The younger healer stopped. "Alowan," he began, his voice gentle. "You—"

"I know. But it will be over soon enough."

"I never understood why," he said. "You were, of all the masters I've ever had, the master of my choice—and yet you did what you warned us against; have done it, in
her
service, again and again."

"And you seek to question me?" The old man's laugh was hollow. "Then question me when I have an answer to give you." They walked together into the infirmary in which Jewel ATerafin now lay. Angel was gone; Avandar remained.

"Her den," Alowan said, before Devon could ask, "are with Angel. He needs them; he understands what I knew; that Jewel ATerafin is dying, and that his life was bought at the cost—he feels—of hers. He is remarkable, Devon. I have rarely met a man who can be
this
close and come from it to the world so little changed." He looked down at his feet, his expression shifting in a way that was oddly reminiscent of Angel. Devon had not thought to see it there, so obvious. "I do not think he will survive her death, if she does die; perhaps the choice I made was the poorer one."

"Why is she so special?" Levee said suddenly. "To him. Why? Why, if she's so special, did you heal the boy instead of the girl?"

"Why? Because I understand the girl well. Levee. Had he died, now, she would not become what she
must
become. She was not born to the patriciate and its games; she was not even born to your beloved free towns. She was born to a Southern mother, a Northern father, in the twenty-fifth holding; they died when she was a girl, and she was forced to the streets. There, instead of becoming a part of the street, she made the street conform to her, even then—even at that age: she found her den, formed it."

"She belonged to a street den."

"Yes. They did what they had to to survive, but not more; she's particularly proud of that."

"You've said you understand her."

"Yes."

"Will you allow me to examine her?"

"I do not think it necessary. I can tell you what—"

"Let me."

"If her domicis will permit it."

He touched her face.

Avandar's breath was a slightly pungent wind that crossed his cheek, but Levee was not offended; the domicis seemed to be the only man in the room who dared to draw breath. Certainly Alowan did not.

It pained him, to see Alowan so weary who had once been so full of fire, so full of both himself and the ideals which had been held so dear. Who, of all of his teachers, would he have chosen to emulate in his youth? Alowan, of course. Always Alowan. Was this how heroes ended?

I'm getting old
, he thought. And he was. Too old for the school. Too old for the hopeful young faces that gradually acquired the dimness and scars of experience. He loved the hope, and hated it, because he hated to watch it die.

Who had told him, a decade ago, to look on that hope as a flower and a blossom; to see it as spring's natural renewal, to see its death
not
as death, but as wisdom, experience, the profound effect of life? Alowan, of course.

Levee bowed his head, closed his eyes.

"You were the strongest healer I've ever taught," Alowan said, unexpectedly interrupting the reverie. "And I think, although I have no spies in your house, no students who are there to tell me of your behavior or misbehavior as I once did, that you have only grown stronger." His voice hardened. "Take what you need. Levee—but do not take more."

Levee looked up. Nodded. He saw Devon ATerafin's face darken, but that was his problem; he wasn't very fond of the patriciate, and Devon ATerafin typified it.

But a girl who grew up in the twenty-fifth, and somehow made her way here to help save a city, a girl who inspired the loyalty of both Angel, the unknown man, and Alowan, the healer, did not. Or so he suspected. He felt hope; it stung. Perhaps she was the one, this girl, perhaps she would be the key.

If a healer's power was strong enough, he could touch more than just the body when he touched at all; he could come close to a person without the weakening of barriers that death brought. Could read, not just their thoughts—for often, they were beyond thought—but the things that lay at their heart, hidden, as it must be, from others.

Levee was a powerful healer.

He let himself walk the ways that were Jewel ATerafin. Jewel Markess. Jay. He knew who Angel was to her, the space he occupied, the feel of his companionship; he knew what lay beyond sight, and beyond specific event, specific experience. Heart. He knew, then, why Alowan had made the choice he had. Wondered if the older healer had touched Jewel as he touched her now, drawing, from her, feeling stripped of word, of specificity, but not of personality, not of self.

It was Alowan who brought him back, catching both of his hands and pulling them away from the sides of her face, gently but in a way that brooked no resistance.

"Will you heal her?" he said.

Levee ran his hand over his eyes; they were wet. "Do you know what you have here?" he asked softly.

"I know," Alowan said. "Without what you've seen, I still know it." He paused. "Will you help us, Levee? We have no other choices. I cannot go where she has gone; I have neither the strength nor the courage."

"Do you know," Levee said, as if he hadn't heard the question, "how vicious this war is going to be?"