MERALONNE LEANED AGAINST THE EDGE of his desk, pipe in hand, back to the shuttered window. “So Zoraban agreed to your request, and bespoke his father?”
Zareth Kahn nodded gravely. “Since the kin appeared to be involved, we all thought it wisest.”
“A pity. I would have liked to be there; it is so seldom that any of the knowledge-born seek their parent’s advice in the presence of . . . strangers. But do continue.”
“The girl is god-born, although she bears none of the markings of such a child. Her eyes, for instance.”
Smoke rings rose in the air as Meralonne stared down at her. When he was not asking questions, it was to her that he looked, as if, by staring, he could wrest answers from her.
“Teos told us that Espere was, in the more traditional sense of the word, Hunter-born. She is the daughter of the Hunter God of the Breodani.” He expected there to be an outburst of some sort from the older mage; none was forthcoming. Instead, he received a curt, even brusque nod, which held the silent command to continue. “When we returned from the half-world, we were attacked by two demons.”
“And you know for a fact that these were of the kin?”
Zareth Kahn looked slightly impatient. “I know it, yes. One was a blade-demon, and one a life-drinker. I have,” he added, “made lost magical arts a major area of my studies.”
The pale-haired mage raised a platinum brow. “I see.”
“The life-drinker had the ability to wield mortal magics, as well as the magics of the Dark Lord. There was an aura to her magic use, a particular—and strong—signature. I believe her to be either a demon lord, or perhaps not far from becoming one.”
“A life-drinker? Impossible!”
“As you will,” was the cool reply. It was clear that the dark-haired mage, younger and less odd, knew enough not to argue with the older one—but it was also clear that, as the narrative progressed, he liked it less and less. “She killed Zoraban, and would have taken Stephen of Elseth, but she did not.”
“She could not?”
“I’m not certain.” Zareth Kahn’s brow was creased with displeasure; now that he had entered the Order proper, he was once again impatient with any questions that he did not possess the answer to. “She called him, and he came—but when she attempted take him, she was repulsed by a power not her own. She called him oathbound.”
“Oathbound?”
“Yes.”
Meralonne stood and began to pace the room, trailing a cloud of smoke past his shoulder.
“What do you know of this, member APhaniel? I have come across the term once or twice in my studies, but only in a religious context—and at that, a religion long dead.”
But Meralonne was clearly in no mood to answer another’s questions. “Continue,” he said, quite curtly. “I will make my observations on the full story, or not at all.”
Zareth Kahn was not completely unused to this behavior from mages of the first circle, but he was not amused by it. His lips became a thin line, and it was Stephen of Elseth who adroitly stepped in to take up the tale.
He spoke of the blade-demon, and the fight with it; spoke of Gilliam’s fall, the loss of the communication between them, and the sudden transformation of the wild girl into a creature out of legend.
And then, last, he spoke of Evayne.
Meralonne APhaniel’s eyes grew very dark as he listened. “She told you to come to the city, and she left you?”
“Not exactly, no. She came to us five weeks ago, when the moon was at nadir; she called it Scarran. We’d been on the road for several days, and were in an inn along the eastern border of Breodanir. She said that the demons were gathering their shadows, and that it was not safe for us to remain as we were; she intended to lead us to safety.”
He said nothing.
“And she—she led us along the Winter road instead. But—but she brought us back to the townships.”
“All of you?” The pipe froze; a thin stream of smoke, trailing air, rose unheeded to the ceiling.
The eyes that Stephen met asked a question that he could not understand, and did not want to. He looked away, but nodded, shivering at a cold that was still too easily remembered.
It seemed that the mage might ask more; his lips were open as he stared at Stephen’s fair face—and then at all of them, even the dogs. But he shook himself and lifted the pipe to his open lips instead. “I see. And then she led you to Averalaan, and told you to come to me?”
Stephen nodded.
“Did she bother to tell you that we did not part on the best of terms?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
It was Zareth Kahn who replied. “When we arrived in the city—when we were only a few yards from the demiwalls—we were stopped by a truthseeker and four magisterial guards.”
“And?”
“Evayne believed the truthseeker in question to be a demon. She cast a spell that I believe to be an old Summer spell, and the truthseeker was indeed affected. We fled, using illusion to mask the direction and the speed of our flight.”
“Who did the truthseeker want? The girl?”
“Not apparently, no. He was interested in the Lord Elseth and his huntbrother.”
“I see.” Meralonne pulled a worn leather pouch from his robes. He set about emptying his pipe with care and caution—it was a delicate, long-stemmed object of obvious antiquity—and then, with just as much care, set about lining the bowl with new leaves.
“There is one other thing you might want to know,” Zareth Kahn continued, although the words were edged. “I was summoned by Lady Elseth when a number of assassins, led by a member of the Order, were apprehended and destroyed. They wore the pendants of the Dark Lord.”
Meralonne did not seem remotely surprised, but he seemed suddenly very weary. “Ah. Priests.” He lifted the pipe to his lips.
Stephen started; memory made the words of Teos suddenly sharp again. “Yes, Priests,” he said. “Member APhaniel—the Lord of Knowledge said something that I did not understand.”
“Yes?”
“That the Dark God is not on his throne in the Hells.”
“Not on his—” Smoke swirled around his face as if at a sudden breeze. The slender, pale mage turned to Stephen, his expression suddenly changed. He looked not man but ghost or guardian as he spoke next. “What else did the Lord of Knowledge say?”
“He spoke of the Covenant of the Lord of Man.”
Pale lids closed over gray eyes; the mage lifted a hand to the wall as if he needed the support. “I see. This is . . . of import to us.” He shook himself and his face slowly folded into its regular unfriendly expression. “Go, member Kahn. Eat, drink, and then await me in the Kallavar room.”
“And my companions?”
“Turn them out in the street,” was the sharp, sarcastic reply. “What do you think I intend? You brought them, they’re your responsibility. Feed them and keep them out of trouble until the appointed hour of our interview.”
“And that hour?”
“Get out.”
• • •
Gilliam had only one argument with a man in the dining hall, but it was loud enough to attract the attention of a cluster of mages, who then began complaints of their own when they saw the six dogs that were sitting restlessly beside the wall. Zareth Kahn, still angry at his interview with Meralonne, was in no mood to handle the offended men, which meant that Stephen, stretched between an irritable Gilliam, an annoyed Zareth Kahn, and a bustle of mages, had to soothe any ruffled feathers. Only Espere seemed at ease, and that held until she decided that she had had enough of the restrictive clothing that she was wearing.
It was a disastrous meal, but at least the dogs got fed, although they ate food that they were not normally given; they were of the finest of the Breodani hunters, and as such, were quite restricted in diet. Gilliam was furious that so-called members of the Order of Knowledge didn’t know how to feed a dog—but the dogs, to Stephen’s eyes, were gleefully smug at the giblets and gravy that were finally laid out—in the thinnest and most perfect bowls that he had ever seen—on the floor in front of them.
It was when Espere began an angry keening and tried to knock Salas from his bowl, rather than eat the normal human food provided her, that things got rather messy. She snarled at Salas; Salas, of course, defended his food, and Gilliam, angry enough with the setting, nearly threw up his hands in disgust and let them fight it out. He didn’t, but that was probably as much due to the fact that the dining hall mysteriously emptied, and that Zareth Kahn was sitting, food untouched, elbows on the table, face in his hands.
Eventually the man in charge of the hall came to speak with Zareth Kahn. His words were measured and slow, his voice calm and reasonable. But Stephen caught enough of the tone to know that if words were weapons, Zareth Kahn would have been slowly and evenly skewered.
They spent the next three hours waiting in the Kallavar room.
• • •
When Meralonne came to them, he was attired in clothing, and not in the casual emerald green robes that most of the mages of the Order were familiar with. The clothing was of an old style, although just what that style was would have been hard for Stephen to say; the fashions of Essalieyan were not the fashions of Breodanir among any but the most daring of ladies, and even then, only when the clothing was practical and everyday.
Cloth fell in a direct drape from shoulder to just below the knee; it was a shimmering darkness with hints of gold and platinum throughout—but no more than hints; to study the cloth too intently was to lose them as if they were the faintest of stars tickling the corner of the eye. He had sleeves, and they, too, were draped but gathered six inches above the wrist. The collar was high at back and squared in front; it was, in all, an unusual effect.
And Meralonne APhaniel carried it well, which was a surprise.
“I apologize if I’ve kept you waiting. I have been at some pains to conduct research in these pathetic libraries, and have come up with scant information. If you had a few months—if either of us did—I would have left you here. However,” he added, raising a pipeless hand, “we do not have the time.” He walked over to an unoccupied chair by the fire—there were several—and sat with his back to it. Shadowed thus, he looked almost like a ghost from an ancient past.
“I am involved in my own investigation under the command of The Terafin. It is connected to your case, although I am not completely certain of how. The facts, as I know them, are simple. Let me relate them to you.
“First: There are demon-kin in the city of Averalaan. There is no question of this fact; I was called in to an encounter with one, and while I do not personally recognize its type, I know it for what it was.
“Second: The kin seem to be operating in the holdings of the city itself. We are conducting investigations into which areas are possibly infested.
“The third fact is in dispute: that a mage, possibly a rogue, but unfortunately, probably not, dabbling in dark arts, has been hired to use these creatures to kill The Terafin—and quite probably to take possession of her form, and with it, her power.” He saw Zareth Kahn pale immediately, and held up a hand before the younger mage could speak. “Krysanthos is a possibility, from what you’ve said. Let me finish.”
“Fourth: The kin that I dealt with—and therefore, possibly others of its phylum—was able to wear the semblance and take on many, but not all, of the memories of the person it killed.” Zareth Kahn ceased his attempt to interrupt. “Because of this, we cannot know who is, and who is not, an enemy. Not without the use of magics that most of the mages here have forgotten. Yes, Zareth Kahn. The Summer magics.”
“You know them,” the mage said, his eyes wide.
“Yes.”
“And her—you taught her.”
“I taught her some of them; she has obviously grown adept through teachers other than myself.”
“Did you teach her the Winter magics as well?”
“Not I,” was the soft reply. “But Winter and Summer are reflections; where there is one, the other is coming. There is balance,” he continued, turning suddenly to pin Stephen of Elseth with his slate eyes. “Even if you do not see that balance addressed in a single mortal life, it is there, and it will be addressed. It is the law of the living Gods, and those that they left behind.”
Zareth Kahn snorted. “Those who practiced the Summer magics did not learn the Winter.”
“No?” A platinum brow rose. Then he smiled, but the smile was not warm. “But the use of Summer magics requires an intimate understanding of the strengths of the Winter. And more to the point, the only mage that has learned those arts in your lifetime has learned both.”
It was Stephen who replied. “She may have learned both—but she learned them for a higher purpose.”
“Oh?” He lifted a hand as Stephen began to speak again, waving him into angry silence. “Then think on this, young Stephen of Elseth, for I will not argue purpose with you. Many, many acts are committed in the name of a higher purpose, and a higher purpose has often claimed the lives of innocents as it rolls outward, so secure in the grandeur of its mission that it will no longer look at the cost to others.”
“Maybe,” Stephen countered, stung, “it’s because there is no better choice. Grandeur has nothing to do with it—the course that saves the most life is the only one open.”
Meralonne sank back in his chair and studied Stephen’s face. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “As you say,” he said, and the annoyance was gone from his voice. “But in all things, there are costs.
“Let me continue briefly. We have on our hands a young street urchin and her den. They claim to know something of tunnels that exist beneath the city streets—tunnels that Ararath Handernesse, the victim of the demon I fought, led them to. It is clear that the victim believed these tunnels to be of significance in the disappearance of a variety of people from the holdings in the central city. I have spent the last four weeks searching the city extensively for the whereabouts of just such tunnels. I have found nothing, no matter where these urchins have led me.
“Were it not for the death of Ararath, or rather, the manner of his death, I would have the lot of them turned out on their ears. But his death is his death, and we continue to search. And when I say that there is nothing, I mean exactly that; there is no trace of magic or magical concealment; there is no trace of newness or the newly hidden; there is nothing whatever to indicate that the so-called maze ever existed.” He relaxed, placing his arms against the armrests and then lifting his hands in a steeple before his lips. “And now another mystery. The girl that you travel with—I have seen her before. Were the demons to be chasing her, I would not be surprised. But they turn to you, and to you, Lord Elseth, two hunters from the realm of Breodanir. Two lords who happen to be led to Averalaan by the ever-so-mysterious Evayne.
“If she led you here, you must have a purpose; that much I’ve been able to glean from her activity. And if she led you on the Winter road . . . that is not without its risks. Yet even so, I sense that you do not know her purpose, or your place in this larger game.”
Stephen nodded warily. “She looked ahead for us.”
“Ah. You know she is seer-born. What was her vision?”
“No vision.”
“Did she speak?”
“Not so we could understand it,” Gilliam broke in.
“I see. And what did she say?”
Stephen did not want to tell the mage of the prophecy that Evayne had granted them. But he knew that that had been her intent—else why send them here, to this Order and this cold, angry man? He took a breath, made it deeper, as if it could hollow out his lungs. Then he spoke in a steady, clear tenor.
“The Covenant has been broken in spirit.
“The portals are open; the gods are bound.
“Go forth to the Light of the World and find the Darkness.
“Keep your oath; fulfill your promise.
“The road must be taken or the Shining City will rise anew.” As the last words faded, he opened his eyes, and only then realized that he had closed them. Slate gray met brown.
“She told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And anything else?”
“That if we chose not to travel to Averalaan to help the wild girl—it was to help her that we wanted to come—she thought Breodanir might fall, and the empire as well.” Stephen’s glance, skittish and hesitant, only touched Espere briefly. “And if she is the daughter of the Hunter God, then I don’t see that there’s anything we can do to help her.” But he remembered her very human voice, and he remembered the plea in eyes that were already becoming bestial. Something was trapped beneath the Espere of Gilliam’s pack.
Meralonne rose swiftly and silent, and crossed the room to where the wild girl, impatient, sat at Gilliam’s feet. Gilliam tensed, and Stephen sent his caution along their bond. But the mage made no sudden moves; indeed, the moment he was at the girl’s side he ceased to move at all. “What do you know of this, daughter of the Hunter God that men have called no true God? If we return the gift of speech to you, will you answer my questions? Can you?” She met his eyes and did not blink or look away. He reached out slowly, and touched her chin with forefinger and thumb, lifting her face. She suffered it quietly. “You met her while she was being pursued.”
“Yes.”
“Did she bring anything with her?”
“No,” Gilliam said. Stephen said nothing at all.
“Ah, mystery. It makes life interesting.” He rose quickly. “Come, then. You have been delivered to the right man, whether or not you understand it. Zareth Kahn, if you wish to continue in your other duties, you may; the choice is your own. But I believe that the gentlemen and the lady that they travel with are best served by my companionship and guidance.”
Zareth Kahn nodded almost blandly; he said nothing.
It was Stephen who asked. “What did it mean?”
“What?”
“Her prophecy.”
“I am not certain what it meant. But the Light of the World is Averalaan, and the Darkness that you speak of is without question the power of Allasakar and the demons who serve him.”
“And the Covenant? The Shining City?”
“About the first, little is known—but I will know more; about the second, I will not speak, except to say this: The Dark Lord himself ruled there in times lost, with magics most foul and most forgotten.” He started to walk away, and then stopped, wheeling abruptly mere inches away from Zareth Kahn. “And those arts will remain forgotten.” The younger mage met his glare as if he were fencing with his eyes, but although he had the strength not to look away, he took two steps back.
“Good,” Meralonne said. “If we are to work together, it is important that we understand each other.” He swept out of the room, then stopped, swung around again, and looked in. “I mean for you to follow,” he said, as patiently as possible.
Gilliam urged his dogs out, and held on to Espere by the hand. Zareth Kahn made haste to walk beside, rather than behind, his fellow member of the Order. Stephen, as always, brought up the rear. As he closed the fine, solid door, taking care with the delicate brass handles, he looked down. At his feet was a small book, with a dark, blue cover and writing so faded that it was impossible to read. He lifted it.
“Sir APhaniel?” he said, holding the book above his head. “Is this yours?”
The mage looked back over his shoulder. “That? Oh, yes. Do bring it along.”
• • •
Jewel was nervous. It was the cool season in Averalaan, but she was certain she’d never sweated more in her life. Four weeks and a day she’d been searching through the warrens trying to find any hint—any sign at all—of the labyrinth by which she and her den had kept themselves fed and clothed. She knew those tunnels like the back of her hand, and they were gone. Gone. Dirt and rock, uninterrupted by any trace of a tunnel, was all that remained, and if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said that she’d imagined it all. But damnit, she did know. Somehow, in some way that not even the mage could detect, the demon had concealed them.
Which probably meant that there had to be more than one, because the creature that had become Rath was gone.
It was Rath’s memories they were using; she was certain of it. And he’d said she’d explored areas that he hadn’t—but what if that didn’t end up being true? He was a canny old man, was Rath, and he always kept something up his sleeve in case of emergency. She cursed him with happy abandon in the relative safety of the den’s rooms.
Ellerson appeared from around a corner. “You called?” he said blandly.
“You know damned well I didn’t call,” was her curt response. “So you can stop that stuffy, polite act.”
“As you wish,” he replied, in exactly the same tone of voice. “But may I point something out to the young lady?”
She rolled her eyes. “Like I could stop you if I wanted to.”
“It is unkind—and inaccurate in some cases—to assume that the mannerisms and gestures of another person are assumed, rather than genuine. While you will never develop the same style that I have developed, you were also never exposed to the same influences. I do not assume that your behavior is an act.”
She snorted. “If I was going to act, I’d probably choose something different to act like.”
“Agreed.”
“Ellerson, don’t you have something to do?”
“I am your domicis.”
The reply hadn’t changed at all over the course of the last two weeks; nor had the tone. “I forgot,” she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
“As you say.”
“Did you come here for a reason?”
“Indeed. Suitable attire has arrived for you and your companions. I thought you might want to have your old clothing removed, as you will be representing The Terafin, and will therefore be expected to dress appropriately.”
She knew better than to say no; she didn’t even try. Instead she nodded and went back to her pacing. The room that she slept in was larger than the flat her entire den had occupied only weeks ago. The food was a bit unusual, but there was a lot of it, it came regularly, and it was good. The moneybox was still empty, but it didn’t matter—while she served The Terafin, her den-kin were safe and secure.
But it’s not going to last long, she thought, grinding her heels into the smooth, waxed floors, if we can’t find the damned labyrinth.
Carver came sauntering into the room. Jewel looked at what he was wearing and sighed. Ellerson was wrong; if they were going to find those tunnels without being caught, they had to do it looking as if they belonged to the holdings they searched through.
“Carver, go tell Ellerson I’ve changed my mind about the clothing.”
“Right, sir,” he replied. “But I’ll trade.”
“Trade what?”
“The Terafin’s looking for you. Torvan’s outside.”
“Why?” She heard the nerves make her voice shake and forced them out of it. “We don’t have another meeting scheduled for two days.”
“Teller says he saw the mage with a group of people. Three men, a really scrubby woman and a bunch of dogs.”
“They’ve called someone else in?”
He shrugged, knowing the news was bad. “Looks like.”
She said something extremely rude and left him by the door as she made her way—at a run—to Torvan’s side.
• • •
The halls, with their almost cavernous ceilings and their width, would always surprise her; she was certain of it. Footsteps echoed strangely and words, even those spoken in near-silence, were caught by unforgiving acoustics. She fiddled with the sash that she wore; it was a shade of blue that Jewel couldn’t identify because the dyes that were used in its making were not affordable to those who lived in her holding. Her hair was drawn back in a style that Ellerson had suggested—and while it was both simple to look at and practical, it was also a monstrosity of little hairpins and clips that she was constantly forgetting were there when she tried to run her fingers through it in her usual gesture of impatience or frustration. She hated it. The more she tried to fit in, the more ill at ease and out of place she felt.
But she’d worry about that later.
She had become accustomed to speaking with The Terafin in either her office or her quarters, and she felt slightly uneasy as she looked at the intricate doors five feet from the arches of the chambers that were used to address visiting dignitaries and people whose import to the House had to be acknowledged. “Isn’t this where—”
“Yes. But the repairs have been done, and well; except for scoring in the stone, you would not know that a battle of any sort took place here.”
Torvan answered so smoothly that she had to wonder how often such cleanups had taken place. It didn’t ease her.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asked, as he took up his place beside the doors.
“I wasn’t summoned,” was the wry reply. “There are other guests,” he added.
“Which means I’ve got to be on good behavior, right?”
“The choice is always yours.”
She snorted and caught the brass handles of the closed door. “Not much of a choice,” she said to his turned back. “Starve, or jump through hoops.”
“Welcome,” he replied, “to the adult world.” But his voice was actually very gentle.
She didn’t reply because the open doors would carry her words to the woman she least wanted to hear them.
“Jewel. Good. Please join us.” The Terafin was seated behind a large, elegant desk. It was not a match for the one that had been damaged when the wall exploded; Jewel knew it instinctively, although she couldn’t say why. Still, the new carpets were a lovely deep blue with rose and gold embroidery and a pattern—an intricate circular dance of fire flowers in the first rain—that leaped to life from its center. There were sitting chairs here, and the fireplace wall had been cleaned and tended. If she looked, she could see where the demon’s spell had done its damage. She did—but her gaze did not linger.
“This is Lord Elseth of the Kingdom of Breodanir. This is his companion, Stephen. The young woman with them is called Espere, but she is, unfortunately, mute—and they have traveled this distance to find a cure for her condition.”
Jewel followed The Terafin’s introduction and bit her lip to stop herself from speaking. Mute, in Jewel’s opinion, was the least of the stranger’s problems.
“Gentlemen, this is Jewel Markess. She is one of three people I’ve personally appointed to investigate the unusual occurrences in the inner holdings.” There was a knock at the door—one that reminded Jewel that she, too, had been expected to knock and allow her presence to be announced. She blushed.
“Enter.”
The door opened and a man whom Jewel had never seen before walked into the room. He was Torvan’s age, but not like him in appearance; his hair was black with a sprinkling of silver, and his eyes were dark enough that they also seemed black. His face was long, his brow high, and his cheekbones pronounced. He smiled, and Jewel thought he had the most perfect teeth she had ever seen. “I’m sorry I’m late, Terafin.”
It seemed to Jewel that The Terafin’s smile was drawn out against her will. “I’d prefer that you were less often sorry and more often on time,” she said, but she couldn’t make the words as curt as they deserved to be. “Very well. You know Meralonne, more or less. The two gentlemen are visitors from beyond the Empire. This is Lord Elseth of Breodanir, and this, his companion, is Stephen. The young woman to your right is Jewel Markess; it is she that you will be advising.
“Devon ATerafin,” she said to those that she had just introduced, “has been a member of my house for almost twenty years. He is absolutely trustworthy.” Gilliam turned to Stephen, and Stephen shrugged. “Although his duties are to the trade commission, he has agreed to aid us in this difficult time.”
And how exactly could someone from some trading authority help her? Jewel bristled slightly, but said nothing. As if she’d spoken, Devon turned slightly and smiled; she wasn’t certain she liked the expression. Seemed a bit on the smug side. And his face was too pretty.
The fair-haired slender man named Stephen performed a very odd bow; after a minute’s hesitation, so did Lord Elseth. Jewel was good at observing people; she knew that Stephen was relieved and that Gilliam was annoyed, and from this surmised that Stephen, of the two, was the one who worried about manners. What she didn’t see was the signal between them that had forced Gilliam to his feet. Strange.
• • •
Did she know? It was a question that Devon often wondered when in her presence. He knew, of course, that she knew of many of his less well-advertised skills. Knew, too, that she considered him discreet enough to call upon them from time to time. But he did not know if she understood his position within the court of the Kings, and the rank he held there.
Very few did.
Devon ATerafin was one of five men who were considered trustworthy enough to serve one of The Ten while at the same time serving the Crowns; it had never, until three days ago, been a burden to him—but he was no fool, to wonder why so few House members were allowed to enter the compact that governed the Astari. He had studied his histories well, and he understood the lure of power for those who already possessed it.
His smile, smooth and convivial, made him a favorite of the younger Queen; he used it now to mask his concern and his worry. He was not certain it was enough of a mask to protect him from The Terafin, however. He took his seat, but even before he had pulled it into the circle, with a smile to either side, he had already taken stock of the people in the room.
The dogs seemed to sense what lay behind his smile—and indeed the dogs were the biggest surprise in the chamber. From what he knew of dogs—and he knew a surprising amount, for two of the Breodani diplomats often frequented the court of Queen Marieyan—they were of the best of the hunting stock.
“Isn’t it unusual for Hunter Lords to travel?” he said, directing the question to the huntbrother and not the Hunter.
“It is very unusual,” Stephen replied softly. “And we must not tarry; by the first of Veral, we must be in Breodanir, in the King’s City.”
“Or?”
“There is no or,” he said gravely. “We are Hunters, and we abide by the Hunter’s Oath. If we cannot achieve our goal—or yours, Terafin—by that date, we must set aside the goal until the passing of the Sacred Hunt.”
Devon nodded as if satisfied, and in part, he was. He had never seen a Hunter Lord, but these two satisfied both his secondhand knowledge and his instinct. Nothing changed at all in his posture or his expression, but he relaxed slightly.
Until his gaze returned to Meralonne APhaniel.
Meralonne was an older mage with a reputation—what senior mage, he reflected dourly, did not have one?—and an overwhelming sense of his own importance. Unfortunately, from what the Astari could tell, his arrogance matched his ability very closely. That was all that the Astari had really been able to discover about the mage, and for that reason, he was still scrutinized.
He could not, of course, give any of the information that the Astari had gleaned to The Terafin. She had never pushed him to render any account of his day-to-day life to her; it was not her way. The people whose service she asked for she granted a large measure of trust; to this day, that trust had not proved ill-founded.
Do you know? He could not ask, and she never answered—not by word. But there was always suspicion. Especially now, confronted by two foreign lords and one of the Magi.
Why, Terafin, did you summon me if it solely involves the House? He could not, of course, refuse—not and remain a member of Terafin. But to see these foreign lords, that mage, and a young girl who had the aura of one not comfortable with the rules of the patriciate about her made him uneasy indeed.
“Devon, I must ask you one question. Do you know who holds the seventeenth, the thirty-second, and the thirty-fifth?”
He turned at the sound of The Terafin’s voice and raised a brow. “Pardon?” Nothing about his surprise was feigned. This, this is why The Terafin ruled; she did in all things the unexpected. He held up a hand as she opened her mouth. “My apologies, Terafin. I heard the question.”
“And?”
“I must confess that I leave that for the record keepers and the treasury. It’s easy enough to find the three names if you require them.”
“It’s not necessary,” she replied, in a tone that made it clear that it wasn’t. “Meralonne?”
“They are not three names; they are one. Those holdings, as well as the seventh and the fifty-ninth, are in the care of Patris Cordufar.”
“Two of the richest and three of the poorest,” Devon said; the words had the quality of musing done aloud.
“The two richest and the three poorest,” The Terafin replied.
“That is . . . unusual.” More than just understatement; Families held a holding and its responsibilities; Houses might hold two or three. Devon would have sworn that no Lord in Averalaan could lay claim to three now—five was unthinkable. “Why is this of significance to this problem?”
“Because,” The Terafin said, “we believe that the magisterial courts have been corrupted within those holdings.”
It was all Devon could do to remain seated. “Oh?” he said evenly as he leveled his gaze at the woman who held his name. “By whom?”
“Either by Patris Cordufar, who leads one of the richest of the noble families in the Empire, or by those who have managed to take advantage of him. Devon, you’ve met Cordufar.” It wasn’t a question; she rarely asked them.
Damn her. Yes, he’d met Cordufar; the Cordufar fortunes had risen rapidly enough in the previous generation that they were worth watching—but Astari records indicated only that the previous Patris Cordufar was a merchanting genius with no real ambitions but a mind so sharp it could cut a careless man. In financial dealings, it seemed he had met many of them. The current Patris Cordufar was a tall and handsome man with just as little a sense of humor as his father before him and just as deadly an intellect. He could not imagine anyone who could take advantage of that Lord to such an extent.
“I realize that you would never make such a statement without proof,” he said, “but I must nevertheless ask you why you’ve reached that conclusion.”
“Of course,” she said. “These,” and she lifted a document from the edge of the desk closest to her, “are the names of people who have been reported as missing throughout the holdings in the last decade. These,” she continued, lifting another document, “are a list of people who have gone missing within the three poorer holdings that Cordufar runs during that time.”
He took them from her and browsed over the relevant numbers. Stopped. The second list did not in any way coincide with the first. Although there were officially reported disappearances of people in the seventeenth, thirty-second, and thirty-fifth, none of the names were on the second list. “If these were not reported, how do you know they’ve gone missing?”
“We have reason to believe that they were reported, at least initially. You’ll want, of course, to read this as well.”
He took the third report with a growing unease and a growing curiosity. It was a document, prepared by a clerk of the Order of Knowledge, which charted the missing person count reported and suspected, of the three holdings, and compared them with the rise in population in those centers, and with the economic conditions at the time of the reports.
The reported count had risen slightly over the decade. But the suspected count was spiked so sharply it nearly went off the edge of the document.
He was Astari. “You suspect that whoever has been suppressing these reports is also involved with the disappearances.”
“Why?” Gilliam asked. His huntbrother’s face remained serene, but for some reason, the Hunter Lord himself glared at him and then fell silent.
“Because,” Meralonne replied, “it’s perfectly clear that whoever has been suppressing this information knows which disappearances he, she, or they are responsible for, and which are random acts of violence.”
Devon’s hands were still as he set the papers aside, but years of training gave him that self-control. “Terafin,” he said gravely, “I do not believe that this is House business alone. To imply that a Lord of the patriciate has somehow managed to subvert the magisterial courts is a grave accusation, and possibly worse. A matter of this nature should be reported at once to the appropriate—”
“Be seated,” she said. “Devon.”
He sat.
“There is more, and I trust that you will understand why I say what I say when you have heard it.”
“Terafin, please. I—”
“You will sit down!” He had never heard her raise her voice; he sat because his knees were momentarily too shaky to support him. “And you will listen.” She stood now and left the protection of her desk. “Have you heard stories of the demon-kin?”
He nodded.
“Good. Because we believe that the people responsible for the destruction of the unreported missing persons are either demons or those in league with them.” She paused. “Meralonne can attest to the fact that many of the kin feel a need to . . . feed. If a mage—or more likely a House—has a collection of these creatures, it is quite likely that they will require some physical sacrifice.”
“The Terafin is correct,” the silver-haired mage confirmed softly.
It was not what Devon had expected her to say.
“Further,” she continued, “we know for a fact that some of the demon-kin cannot only assume the shape of a man, but also much of his identity and much of his memory. This is, of course, at the cost of the life of the one so imitated.” She paused. “This is no illusion, Devon. Such an assumption is not magical in nature, and when looked for, no magic will be found.”
Devon felt the blood drain from his face as the implications of what she was saying took root. “Reymaris’ sword,” he whispered.
“We do not know at which level the ranks of the Cordufar family have been infiltrated—but we know that, upon the staff of the magisterial truthseekers, there was one who was not seeking truth any longer.”
“Then we must find the summoner of these creatures.”
“Yes, we must. And we must do it with care and caution. I have already sent word, through all the channels that I have access to, that an assassination attempt was carried out, by magical means, against me. I have made it clear that there was a summoning of some sort, and have offered the usual reward for the mage who accepted the job.”
“In other words, you’ve done everything you can to appear as ignorant as possible.”
“Yes. But I’m not at all sure that it will work.”
“Why?”
She shook her head, and then grimaced. “Because the man that they killed and replaced—the man whose partial memories they own—was once my brother. We did not love each other overmuch in our later years, but we knew each other well.”
“Ararath,” Devon whispered.
The Terafin smiled rather grimly; it was clear that she expected him to understand much more than one of his station within the House proper. “Meralonne APhaniel is one of a suspected half-dozen of the mage-born who can easily detect these creatures for what they are. But he must be looking for it. Needless to say, most people will not.
“We cannot allow this information to be known; if people know of it, and know further that they cannot detect these creatures easily, there will be panic. And the panic will be twofold.” She no longer spoke to Devon, because she knew that Devon understood without the need for an explanation.
“First, people will begin to look for demons where none exist, and I fear that the innocent may well suffer from such a hunt, and second—and most important—if the kin are involved in higher levels of our councils, they may feel the need to prematurely move against us, our House, and our supporters. We must leak information, and that information must be true; we must let them know that we are stymied in our search, and that we suspect only the mage-born.
“To this end I have begun a ‘private’ investigation into the mage-born members of the Order of Knowledge. I have also sent my operatives into the lower holdings to search for foreign mages who may have been involved in this black art.”
“And why do we need to involve our foreign guests in our internal matters?” Devon’s question was pointed.
“Because,” The Terafin replied serenely, “it seems that Stephen of Elseth—unlike Meralonne or any of the mage-born—can see the demon-kin without resorting to the use of spell. He does not need to search for the signs; if he can see the creature, we believe he will know it for what it is.”
“And what proof do you have of this?”
Meralonne answered at The Terafin’s nod. “For reasons that are not clear to me or any of us, the demons are searching for Stephen and Lord Elseth. They were waiting at the western demiwall for their arrival.”
“Waiting? That implies that they knew they would be here.”
“We met them first in Breodanir,” Stephen added, speaking for the first time. “At the time, they were hunting Espere. She is not quite right, and we hoped to find both the answer to the question of why the demons hunted her, and the cure to her condition, if it can be cured, here.”
“And instead you have found that these creatures are here and hunting for you?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” He trailed off into silence, absorbing the answers to his questions while preparing to ask more.
The Terafin interrupted his musing. “The demon that they met here wore the guise of a magisterial truthseeker. We have been able to ascertain which truthseeker; he has been in service to the courts for over fifteen years.” She sat, then, and stared at her liege for a long time.
Devon was silent. The smile had deserted his face; his attention was focused inward with an intensity that he rarely showed. What was the connection between the demons, the girl, the foreign lord, The Terafin, Meralonne, and the urchin named Jewel? How many of these creatures were there, and how far up—or down—had they gone? If the power of the mage-born was at the heart of this problem, whose power, and what was their final goal?
He trusted The Terafin as much as he trusted any member of The Ten—but no more than that.
“Devon?”
The Crowns were his life, his sworn and his chosen life; and they deserved that loyalty and that dedication; they deserved it, and more, as no other rulers in any foreign country had ever done, or ever would. Against their well-being and their continued rule, the health of any House counted for little—any House save Terafin. Ah, wisdom, he thought, as he ran his hands his through his hair. Where are you now?
“Yes,” he said softly. “I understand it.”
“And you understand that no word of this is to leave the House?”
“Are you so certain that this is a House affair?”
“It does not matter if I am not,” she said severely. “I gave you an order.” Then, knowing to whom she spoke, she relented. But in the manner of Terafin. “Patris Cordufar owes his loyalty to which House?”
“Darias.”
“Indeed. Do you see?”
Devon cursed inwardly. Less than fifteen years had passed since the House wars between Darias and Terafin had nearly brought The Ten to their knees. Forty-three men and women had died in the service of the two Houses, and not a few of them powerful, notable. The Kings had been forced to intervene, for only the second time in the history of Averalaan, and their intervention had cost both Houses dearly. Only in the last year had The Terafin finally brought the House back to its previous position of political power upon the council; Darias still had not recovered.
Darias.
“It may indeed be that this matter is not solely a difficulty which the House must face,” she said. “But to bring it to the attention of the Kings, in the light of the assassination attempt, will cost us more than I wish to pay. If it comes to that, it is a decision that I will make.”
He swallowed; he knew that she would never come closer to speaking of his rank within the Astari. If indeed she spoke of it. And he knew, too, that he could not keep this to himself for long, however he might try. If he tried at all. “I will remain ATerafin if you judge me worthy.” The words and the tone were very grave. “But as a member of your House of little rank and merit, I must ask a boon.”
“Ask, then.”
“It is not, unfortunately, of you that that favor must be asked.” He turned to Lord Elseth and his huntbrother, Stephen. “At court there are two women, Lady Morganson and Lady Faergif; they are of the Breodani, and they traveled here when their sons inherited the responsibilities of their demesnes. They are sharp and canny in defense of the interests of your kingdom, and they have become accustomed to all things Essalieyanese. But if they learn that a Hunter Lord has left Breodanir to journey to the Empire, they will wish to meet that Lord—and, of course, his huntbrother.”
“You want us to go to court?” Lord Elseth said, with so much distaste that the huntbrother could not keep his disapproval from showing.
“What he means to say, Lord ATerafin—”
“Devon will do.”
“Devon, then. What he means to say is that we are not attired or prepared for a court so complicated and unique as that of the Twin Kings and he does not wish to insult.”
Devon did smile at that. “But he would come?”
“Yes, we would both be happy to accept your invitation.”
“Good.” Devon rose. If he could have the huntbrother for a gathering of the two courts, he could rest a little easier. He paused and met the eyes of The Terafin; he understood, then, why she had summoned him in the presence of foreigners. A gift, of sorts, to the Astari—guardians of the Kings. “Then I must prepare for your dogs—they will be properly kenneled and cared for in the style to which they are accustomed.” He bowed—and it was the bow of the Breodani that he offered. Then he turned to The Terafin and brought his arm across his chest in salute. “Terafin.”
“ATerafin,” she replied. “We will speak again, Devon. You may have your day in the two courts, and then we must have your day in the streets of the city. We need to conceal what we do.”