THE OVERHANG OF CRIMSON curtains caught the light and held it at bay. Beneath the slight shadows, The Terafin stood, face to the window, back to her study. Although she wore a pale, light turquoise, she looked a shadow, thin and wraithlike—the body, not the woman. Morretz, standing a respectful body length away, bowed quietly. The panes of the window cut his shadow, and the blurred reflection of his body, into precise rectangles. She looked beyond them.
To The Terafin’s eyes, there was little movement; the hour was late enough that visitors and gardeners alike had retreated for the day. Only her guards adorned the fences, light flickering off their polished helms; they were so much a part of the manse and the lands that surrounded it that she did not notice their presence.
Ah, the path was being lit; she had been mistaken. There were gardeners yet, working in the new night. There, a torch being lifted to the glass lamps that lined the tiled walk. There were patterns within the tiling that had taken a decade to produce; her contribution to the shrines that quartered the gardens in their quiet simplicity. If one sought solitude, and one’s purpose was internal and true to those that one sought, the path brought quiet and peace. Such was the way of pilgrims.
But it was not as a pilgrim that her attention was required. Morretz had been patient; would continue to be patient should she choose to keep him waiting, half-bowed, for the duration of the evening. It was not a kind use of the man she most trusted in Terafin.
She turned.
“Terafin.” He bowed fully, and then rose, showing no sign of discomfort at having had to wait. “Jewel Markess and Devon ATerafin request the privilege of your audience.”
“Granted,” she said at once.
“In the library?”
She nodded. “I will join them momentarily.” Watching him leave, she wondered what training it was that he had undergone, what vows he had taken, what abilities he had hidden to become the domicis of The Terafin. It was not the first time she wondered it; it would not be the last. The domicis were essential to the running of almost any noble House; she could not think of a member of The Ten, except perhaps the lowest, that did not possess at least one. But there were rules that governed the servant and the master—rules of privacy that she did not choose to breach.
Her predecessor had disliked the domicis—but he was a man who had insisted that control of his own environment be his own, regardless of circumstance. He never said that he distrusted them, but Amarais wondered, privately, if that was his worry.
Had there ever been a case of betrayal? She thought not. But she could not, of course, be certain. If there were one, who better able to carry it out than a trained domicis? He or she would have access to everything—every bit of personal, private, and public information—necessary to insure that discovery would be unlikely at best.
She shook herself, and stared down at the shrines. It was an ill use of time, this meandering, this gloomy imagining. There were far more real threats to worry about.
• • •
Devon was standing when she entered the library. Everything about him, except for the torn and dusty state of his clothing, was strictly formal. The salute he offered, however, was not. His hands were bandaged in a brilliant swath of blue silk; there was a spatter of blood across his shirt, although the color, rust against red, stopped it from being immediately visible. She knew Devon reasonably well—he was in pain. He did not show it.
She nodded her acknowledgment immediately, and watched his knees fold into a sitting position. The chair at his back caught his full weight with a creak. It was not a graceful movement, but it was probably a necessary one.
Jewel, still uncomfortable with the formality of a salute—and painfully uncertain of when to use one—remained seated.
“Terafin,” Devon said, before she could speak.
The Terafin raised a brow, but did not demur; they both knew that her meetings with Jewel were to have been private. “Why have you come?”
“We have news,” Devon answered, and it was clear that Jewel did not even resent the intrusion.
“Then give it.”
“I believe we’ve uncovered the first evidence of the tunnels that Jewel claimed existed.”
The Terafin raised a dark brow; she straightened her shoulders very slightly, and her eyes narrowed. Again, the shift in expression was slight, subtle; Jewel, watching, did not notice it. But Jewel was tired. “You found the tunnels?”
“No, Terafin.” Devon bowed his head, an admission of failure. But the gesture, while perfect, was empty; the failure was to the letter of her order, not the spirit. “But today we believe that we’ve discovered the reason why no entrances to the maze itself have been found.”
“And that is?”
“They are unmaking them.”
“Unmaking?” She sat back in her chair, favoring him with a frown as she brought her hands together. “Speak plainly, Devon.”
Devon’s brow rippled. “Would that I could,” he replied, and turned to look at Jewel’s profile. Jewel was silent, as if Devon’s words hadn’t penetrated her musings. Morretz, watching as always, caught The Terafin’s eye; The Terafin nodded almost harshly. In the darkness cast by the shelves beneath the oval dome of a window above, Morretz left the room. Devon did not appear to notice, but she knew it for an act; he noticed everything. He continued to speak; recreating the events of the afternoon’s search, and ending with the voices in the darkness.
“What do you think they meant by ‘all life’?”
“I don’t know. I imagine exactly what they said.”
“What life is in those tunnels?”
Devon shrugged.
“And then?”
“And then, darkness. Silence. I did not see what occurred—but young Jewel did. She has a very keen . . . vision.”
“Jewel?” The Terafin chose not to respond to Devon’s comment. She covered the back of her left hand with the palm of her right, but no more.
Jewel shook her head and swallowed. “I couldn’t see them,” she said faintly. “I couldn’t hear them as well as Devon did. But I saw—I saw the entrance.”
“What do you mean by unmake, then?” The Terafin’s voice was gentle.
“There was shadow,” Jewel said, as if she hadn’t heard. “And darkness—it was darker than the lack of light. And there was the door, the entrance to the maze. Some of the entrances aren’t well kept, and some are bloody dangerous. They—they’re old wood and they rot, or the stones fall and try to kill you. But not this one. This was real stone—it was broken because of some accident, I think—but it was pretty solid. It—” She fell silent.
“Yes?”
Swallowed. “It started to—well, the edges of the entrance, they shimmered. And then they started to change—to get solid. It was like the air was building rock to replace the stone that had cracked.”
“And you never saw the creature casting this magic?” She didn’t ask if it was magic, and Jewel didn’t deny it. What else, after all, could it be?
She shook her head: No.
“And then?”
“And the stone got sharper, harder even; it—there was more of it—and then there was cracked and splintered wood—and then just wood. It was a door, and the stone arched over it like it does in the great hall here.” She closed her eyes. “And on the arch there was writing, at least I think there was—I couldn’t read it.”
“And you read.” It wasn’t a question.
Jewel nodded.
“And then?”
“And then the door vanished. It just—there was a minute when it seemed to flicker, and then there was nothing there.”
“I believe,” Devon broke in, “that you will discover only dirt there now. It seems almost as if—and I am no mage to judge well—the entrance of which Jewel speaks wasn’t destroyed. It was literally unmade.” His gaze darkened.
The Terafin was silent, absorbing the description, the words in which it was cased. At last she favored Devon with a brief smile. “I believe I understand your frustration. But if I had to guess, I would come to the same conclusion that you have: Jewel saw the door’s making as if time’s sands were running up the glass.”
“And that,” another voice said, “is impossible.”
The three turned to face Meralonne APhaniel as he stood in the open door, Morretz at his back.
• • •
Morretz was pale but calm. The Terafin raised a brow in his direction, but it was a tribute to his skill—and his past service—that she showed no sign of anger; that, in fact, she felt none. She did not trust Meralonne, but that distrust was in large part due to Morretz. If Morretz felt that it was best to summon the mage, she would countenance that independence.
What surprised her, as she studied the haggard face of the mage, was the speed with which he’d arrived. The construction necessary to repair the calling room, and the magics necessary to activate it, had not yet been completed—the only way the mage could arrive with such unseemly haste was by his own power.
The Terafin did not know much about mages, but she knew this: It was rumored that in history only a handful of the mage-born had learned to travel great distances in no time with the use of their power. It was also rumored that such travel had killed two.
“Master APhaniel, please. Be seated.” It was not so much an order as a request; the mage’s usually pale features were all but white, and his skin shone in the lamplight with the glow that sweat brings.
He nodded almost absently, but he took the chair; she watched him to see whether or not the tremors had set in. But he walked slowly and deliberately, denying her the answer that she half-expected; it was only upon sitting that he seemed to slump with exhaustion. And even that weariness was in body alone; he turned to look at young Jewel as if his eyes had edges.
“What you suggest is impossible,” he repeated flatly.
Jewel, wary, met his gray eyes; they looked silver in the low light. “It wasn’t my suggestion,” she said. She spoke stiffly and kept her chin level; The Terafin thought she was trying not to bristle. It was a brave attempt but not a successful one.
Meralonne raised a brow and then almost smiled. “Very well. It was not your suggestion, but you were the only witness. Tell me, slowly, what you saw. Describe it in detail. I will aid you where I can.”
He lifted his fingers in two complicated circles and then lowered his head; his smooth brow bore the lines of concentration, and his eyes, shut, were a sweep of platinum against alabaster. Before him, clouds formed. They were dark and fell to look upon.
The Terafin disliked them, and Devon shied back—but Jewel did not seem alarmed at all. She had started only once, and at that, before the mage began his motions. Now she stared, as intent as he, at the image that had formed.
“You have the sight,” Meralonne said, his voice low.
Jewel looked askance at him and then turned to look at everyone else in the room. Slowly, her gaze came back to rest upon Meralonne’s face.
“No,” he said, as if it were an effort merely to speak, “they do not see as you do. But come. Describe what you saw.”
She did. And as she did, he brought it to life, allowing her to correct him. This time, however, Devon and The Terafin were privy to the vision that Jewel’s sight had granted; they saw, unfurling in the clouds, darkness and more; the outline of the crawl space that led to the gaping entrance to the tunnels themselves. That hole became a door, and the door became nothing. It was as Jewel had described it: an unmaking.
“And?”
“And then I knew it was over,” Jewel said, the hush of the words making a monotone of them.
There was silence as everyone absorbed what was said. At last, Meralonne exhaled. “What you described seems much to me as The Terafin supposed it. But it is not possible.”
Jewel said nothing.
The Terafin raised her head. “Meralonne, a question.”
“Ask it, Terafin. I shall endeavor to answer.”
“Why would they wish to destroy all life?”
He froze. “Pardon?”
It was Devon who answered. “There was a short conversation before the spell was cast. We did not hear it all, but one sentence stands out.”
“And that?”
“‘I said all life.’”
“Are you certain?”
“That,” Devon said, with a wry and deep inflection, “was what he said next. After the second speaker assured him that it was done.”
“Jewel,” Meralonne said, leaning back into the rest of the chair, and gripping the arms with his hands, “you said there was darkness, and I have captured what I can of it. What did it feel like?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You felt nothing?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?” The edge of irritation that he often showed had crept, unbidden, into the words.
“I—I don’t know. I was, I was already nervous.” Her glance slid to The Terafin and then away. The girl, The Terafin realized, had been terrified. That fear lingered in the words and the way she spoke them; Jewel was usually much more aggressive. But you served me, The Terafin thought, as she watched Jewel struggle with shame and the need to speak the truth. You served me well.
“I was frightened. I—the moment we reached the market authority, everything felt wrong. And then, in the tunnels, it grew worse and worse. It wasn’t until we reached them that I realized we were going to die.” She swallowed and then reached for a glass of water. Morretz held it, although he had offered no refreshments to anyone else. “The darkness was worse than darkness, and it was cold. I had to watch it; I was afraid to move. That’s why I saw—what I saw.”
Meralonne nodded, but there was ice in his gesture. “Yet you managed to escape.”
“Yes,” she answered, and her voice was so quiet, The Terafin had to strain to catch it. “But the darkness wasn’t looking for me.” She swallowed again. “Only at the end.”
“At the end?”
“I thought it—it was trying to guess my name.”
“You heard it?”
“No—I felt it.”
Meralonne whispered something in a voice too low to be heard. The Terafin, having heard enough of Meralonne’s colorful invective, was thankful for his near-silence. “Master APhaniel?”
He stood, swayed, and sat again in a single awkward motion. Morretz was at his side at once. “Terafin,” he said gravely, as he touched the mage’s forehead, “we must find him a place to rest.”
“What?”
“He is the throes of the fever.”
Her face paled; she rose quickly. “I see. Very well. Take him at once to the healerie.”
“Terafin?” Devon raised the bundle that was his hands. “With your permission, I would like to adjourn to the healerie as well.”
“Very well. I will expect a report, Devon.”
He started to salute, but she stopped him with a swiftly raised hand. “Do not stand on formality. And the next time you are this severely injured, you will visit the healerie before you attempt to speak with me. Is that understood?”
“The injury was not severe enough to—”
“There is blood on your lap, and on my chair.”
He looked down and raised a brow in faint surprise. “Terafin,” he said, acknowledging her order, as he did every order she gave.
“Good.” She rose. “Jewel,” she added, in a voice much less harsh, “you have served us well today, whether or not you know it. Go back to your den; I will call for you after the late dinner hour.”
Jewel bowed, awkward in the motion. The door opened and closed with unseemly haste as she fled the room.
• • •
Jewel caught up to Devon as he walked down the long hall that led to the grand stairs. To either side were the rooms of the minor functionaries whose entire life was to see to The Terafin’s various needs; there were paintings, most old and elaborately framed, and there were two long tapestries, although what they depicted, Jewel didn’t know. Nor did she much care.
“Devon, wait!”
He stopped at her command and then pivoted on his left heel, standing exactly between the alabaster sentries at the top of the stairs. He was smiling, but the smile was both strained and sardonic. “At your command, lady.”
She snorted and held out her arm; it wasn’t an offer so much as a demand. This was Jewel Markess, den leader and guardian; he saw her rarely. “I told you, healer first, Terafin after,” she said crisply, in a tone of voice which took for granted that he would be smart enough to listen next time.
He was grateful for her aid, and halved his weight between her arm and the railing.
“Devon?” she said, when they were halfway to the foot of the stairs. He turned to meet her gaze, and found that it wasn’t possible; she was staring at her feet. “I want you to know—”
Had his hands not been wrapped in folds of silk, he might have lifted them to her lips to stop her words. Instead, he shook his head. “Jewel, you did well today. You would have done so with or without me.” He made a point of raising an elbow, and she favored him with a half-smile. “I’m not so very certain that it’s not I who owe you thanks.” The smile left his lips slowly, but when it was gone, she knew it. “But perhaps thanks, like congratulations, will have to wait. We’re not finished yet.”
“No,” she replied. “But you are. Until the healer says different.”
He started to speak and then laughed. He knew, from the sidelong glance she gave him, that she didn’t understand why.
• • •
The Terafin sat quietly in her chambers as Morretz applied a cooling balm to her shoulders and her arms. Her eyes were closed, as if in meditation, and her arms delicately folded; her hair was drawn up above the nape of her neck to better allow Morretz to do his work.
“What did Alowan have to say?”
“Bow your head,” Morretz replied. The smell of something cool filled the air as he broke a scented wax bead against her pale skin.
“Morretz?”
The domicis sighed. “You will not be pleased.”
“Oh?”
“Meralonne refused our aid most emphatically; he would not even suffer the healer to examine him. To make his point more strongly, he cast a protective circle around the bed we managed to force him into.”
“Cast a protective circle? In the midst of the fevers?”
“Terafin, please.”
She struggled to find her quiet and relaxed again under his ministrations.
“He is, even now, struggling through them. What we can offer him, we have offered.”
“We can’t afford to let him—”
“Terafin,” Morretz said gently, “the mage-fevers cannot be hastened or lessened by the healer, or have you forgotten?”
“I’ve seen a healer aid a mage who was suffering from them.”
“No,” he said, equally gentle in his correction. “You have seen a healer contend with the physical damage the fevers left behind. And even then, there is no guarantee of success.”
“Morretz.”
“Terafin. Devon is resting well, and will be able to continue his activities in your service without interruption.”
“Good.” She sighed. “But it was not Devon’s opinion I wished; it was Master APhaniel’s.”
“You had it,” Morretz replied evenly. “He has said that what Jewel described—what she saw in her vision—was impossible.”
“But she saw it.”
“Yes.”
“And it was not illusion.”
Morretz was silent a moment. Something fragrant and slightly bitter trailed down the back of her neck; another wax bead, another exotic oil. “No, Terafin. Neither I nor Master APhaniel believe it to be illusion.” He paused. “She has the sight, and illusion would have left telltale traces to her vision.”
“Then if she saw it, how can it be impossible? Why is it impossible?”
Morretz’ hands stilled a moment; she felt their warmth, but felt their stiffness as well. At last he said, “I do not know.” It was an admission he hated to make. “But everything I have ever been taught agrees with what Master APhaniel said.”
“And you think he understands more?”
“Yes.”
She cursed. “How long?”
“I do not know,” he replied gravely. “Terafin, I had no idea that he could travel thus. And after such travel, he still had the power to play out young Jewel’s vision that we might see it and he might clarify it for his own purpose. I cannot think of another mage who could do the first, let alone survive it to continue to the second.” He was silent for the space of five seconds before he once again began his massage.
“Tell me, Morretz.”
“Very well. I summoned him, but did not expect his immediate arrival. It worries me. Meralonne keeps his secrets well; indeed, he is known in the Order for no less. He is powerful enough to be feared—just how powerful, I did not know until this eve—and he has few enemies, although he has few friends.”
“But tonight, for reasons that he has not—and in all probability will not—state, he came in undue haste; it was as if he was afraid of what he might hear. Or, perhaps, afraid that he might hear it too late. The thing that can put that fear into Meralonne APhaniel must be terrible indeed.”
The Terafin was silent. Morretz slowly worked his way down either side of her spine; she curved her back beneath his fingers, sinking slowly into the bedding. She thought to pretend to be relaxed, but Morretz knew her too well.
“Who are they?” she asked him, seeing Ararath behind the closed lids of her eyes. “Who are they, and why do they seek to take Terafin?”
“Why?” Morretz echoed. “One month ago, you would not have asked that question.”
It was true. But one month ago, it was perfectly clear who her enemies were both within and without Terafin. Within Terafin, they sought control of the most powerful of The Ten, and without, they sought to damage Terafin enough that Terafin would lose its rank among The Ten. The idea that controlling Terafin would not be an end in itself was so foreign it had taken time to gather strength and become deliberate question.
She shivered, suddenly cold; Morretz, expecting this, wrapped heated blankets around her shoulders before moving to the fire. He paused by the brazier and very carefully broke a small cone into its flames. Smoke eddied briefly in the rising currents; in minutes the air carried the scent of sandalwood.
“Sleep,” he said softly, as he placed kindling into the hearth. “I will wake you when it is time.”
• • •
Ellerson found her in the kitchen, with a lamp on the table and a slate beneath her shaking, chalk-covered hands. Beside her was the box that carried every coin the den owned.
“That is not,” the elderly domicis said, “a wise use of oil.”
She looked up at him, the shadows under her eyes cast by more than the round light. “I’m studying.” Her lids fell halfway shut, and she forced them up.
Ellerson lifted his own lamp and brought it to within two inches of Jewel’s face. “To bed,” he said, in a voice that brooked no argument.
To her surprise, she found her feet and even managed to stay on them. “I—”
“To bed, now.”
It seemed very childish to tell him that she was afraid of sleep. To point out that, three times this eve, the nightmares had forced her, screaming and sweating, to wake. Jewel Markess was the leader of her den, and guardian besides. There were certain kinds of fears you didn’t own up to unless you wanted to be thought of as weak.
But she couldn’t go back to her room. It was too big and too cold and too empty; the ghosts were waiting for her before her lids were properly closed. She lifted her lamp and held it aloft, some sort of unfortunate shield against the rigors of natural night.
Ellerson’s expression was not what she had feared it would be; the severity of the day was softened somehow by the hour and the isolation.
“It’s not often,” he said, as he lowered his own lamp, “that a domicis finds his master in a kitchen.”
“Back at the den, it was the only empty room. Wasn’t even a full room.” Lamplight skittered off the walls and the wide bank of flat, perfectly clean windows, softening the bare walls. “Our whole place was smaller than this.”
“But you miss it.”
She looked up, for Ellerson was quite a bit taller than she, but there was no accusation in his eyes, and no contempt. “Yes,” she said. “I miss it. It was mine. I knew how much it cost, I knew when I had to pay rent, I knew how to clean it and break into it when I had to.
“It’s stupid,” she added, almost forlornly. “I couldn’t dream of a better place than this.”
He said nothing.
“But I don’t see my den-kin anymore. I go out early, I come in late, and I’m forbidden to speak about anything I do in The Terafin’s service. It’s not what I thought it’d be.”
“No,” Ellerson said. “It never is.” He pushed her lamp across the table, setting it aside as if it were no longer necessary. “Come, Jewel. It is time to sleep.”
His voice reached for her, although he kept a respectful distance, as station and rank demanded. Not very many people told Jewel what to do anymore—at least, not like that. She found herself following where he led, and was almost disappointed when the journey ended at the door to her rooms. Like a well-dressed doorman, he opened her door and held it while she slowly crossed the threshold from the wing into her private quarters. Then, lamp still bobbing in his hand, he stepped over it as well.
She stared, openmouthed, and then remembered what little manners she had.
“Jewel,” he said, his voice less stiff than she remembered it, “I am a domicis. I have been trained for most of my life to serve. I take pride in it; all of our number do. I was brought here to serve you; it seems that you did not—or do not—understand this.” He walked up to her and reached out for the lamp in her hand; her nerveless fingers let it slide. She was tired and weary; exhaustion made her stare although her eyes weren’t really seeing.
“Come. It is time for you to sleep.” He placed a lamp on either side of her bed, one on the low, flat set of dressers, and one on the tall, narrow table that was meant for a vase or a pitcher. Then, satisfied that both were full and secure, he stepped back.
The room was lit, and the shadows cast by the lamps were small. Without darkness to hide them, the walls did not seem so far away or so barren. Ellerson quietly pulled up a chair, choosing to place it halfway between his mistress and the door.
“I will watch the lamps,” he said quietly. “When they are low, I will fill them.”
“But the oil—the cost—”
He smiled, and the smile was a rare one. “Sleep, Jewel. You are not the master that I envisioned when I was called to serve—but I understand now why it is I who was sent.”
She wondered what he meant as she slid between the covers and then struggled to kick her sandals out the sides. Wondered, but didn’t have the voice or the wakefulness to remember to ask.
• • •
Devon ATerafin stared at the moon. The sky was clear, and the luminescent orb was almost full—although whether it was waxing or waning, he could not remember. In a darkness so lit by the scattered glow of moonlight and the brilliant spill of stars it seemed hardly dark at all, his hands looked whole. The skin was tender to touch, but no one touched him, and it was unlikely that the injury would be remarked on, even were one to be looking for it. Alowan’s touch was potent, Alowan’s skill without equal.
But Alowan was also old, and wont to look and act his age. Time ran across his brow with ungentle feet, and sat upon his shoulders with increasing weight. See us through this crisis, old man, Devon thought. Then he grimaced. There was always one more crisis to last through.
Always.
With genuine regret, he left the balcony, with its cool, stone seat and its thick, overadorned rail; with its exposure to moonlight and starlight and the crisp, soothing breeze. Devon was a moonchild, not a sunchild, and the light that he preferred was one that accented shadows without stripping them of power.
He turned and pushed the curtains back, holding them long enough to enter into the office from which he served Patris Larkasir in the overseeing of the Crowns’ trade routes.
On his desk were reports and paperwork, and the paperwork at this time in the season was unusually heavy. Trade with Annagar was still opening up, and many were the merchants who clamored for permission to bear the Crowns’ seal along the various routes. Patris Larkasir had been most patient about Devon’s comings and goings, but judging from the size of the small mountain on his aide’s desk, Devon thought that patience would soon wear thin. It was unfortunate; an impatient Larkasir was rather like an impatient bull.
In the small, middle drawer above his lap was flint and tinder; he pulled them out, navigating his way around the quills and brushes that work demanded use of without making a sound. Almost, he lit the sole lamp that stood, full, on the right corner of his desk. Almost. But there was a shadow, and it was wrong.
He froze at once, but before he could arm himself, he heard a voice he knew quite well.
“Devon ATerafin,” it intoned, “the Astari summon you.”
• • •
Water trickled out of the cupped palms of a kneeling, alabaster boy. He was blindfolded, and his hair was cropped very short; there was nothing at all around him but still water. Stephen found the fountain vaguely disquieting, and wondered if that had been what its maker intended. It was hard to say; there was so much in Averalaan that seemed to defy sense, reason, or beauty.
He was well enough that the night no longer exhausted him; well enough that, during the day, he could begin to pen long letters to Cynthia, as was his wont. He was not quite well enough that he was willing to venture into the Kings’ court—or the Queens, as they seemed to be two separate things—to meet with the Ladies of Breodanir.
On the morrow, however, he would have no excuse; guilt and a sense of duty, even in this foreign place, conspired to rob him of peace as he stood alone in the silence. Gilliam was someplace in the eastern courtyard, with his dogs and Espere for company—but Stephen could sense his Hunter’s unease and restlessness. They had come to Averalaan for a reason, but that reason was Evayne’s to dictate, and she had not seen fit to visit again.
Or rather, the path had not seen fit to bring her.
He tried, at a distance, to calm his brother, and felt the hint of Gilliam’s annoyance in return; it was familiar, and he missed the familiar enough that it made him smile.
Come, Stephen, he thought, as he stood and left the fount behind, don’t tire yourself. Tomorrow, you must fulfill your word to Lord Devon.
“Am I interrupting?” The voice was soft and faint, but Stephen would have recognized it in a crowd that roared. He turned at once, dropping into a bow of genuine respect and gratitude at the feet of the healer-born Alowan.
Alowan’s smile was genuine but tired. “I’ve come to see the patient, but I see the patient is well.”
He found himself nodding; found himself trying to square his shoulders enough that he might look the picture of perfect health. It drew another smile from Alowan; that of a father who knew what the son was about.
“I’m well,” Stephen said, and then added sheepishly, “well enough to visit the Queen’s court on the morrow.”
“On the morrow? Well, that will be the occasion. If I’m up to it, I may see you there.”
Stephen raised a brow, and almost asked the healer what he meant—but he set it aside. Alowan looked his age at the moment; Stephen felt guilt for being the cause of his venture into the palace and the Arannan Halls. There was a cadre of guards at every entrance and exit, and running their gamut bred a type of exhaustion that was unique.
Almost, he sent the old man away, but as he led him to the door, he hesitated. And then, quietly, he called to Gilliam; Gilliam’s concern came back, and Stephen calmed it as he could.
“After all you have done for us, Healer, I know it would be ungrateful to ask you for more.”
“But?” A white brow rose, skeptical, at Stephen’s graceful words.
“But indeed,” Stephen smiled, as one caught out, “if I might trouble you to answer a question of some urgency to myself and the Hunter Lord Elseth? We can pay,” he added quickly, and then, seeing the lines in Alowan’s forehead, fell just as quickly silent.
“What question is this?”
“It concerns—ah, Gilliam. There you are. Did you bring Espere?”
Gilliam’s suspicion was immediate, as was Stephen’s annoyance at it. They glared at each other a moment as Espere very neatly stepped round her Lord and into the open courtyard.
The old man looked down at the girl. “Is she the matter of concern?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Gil—”
The Hunter Lords of Breodanir were not known for their tact or their lack of temper, but Lord Elseth did what he could to bite back the words that he knew, on some level, he’d regret later.
“Espere is . . . she’s . . .”
“Yes?” Alowan knelt in front of Espere and waited, his hands on his knees. He did not move, although he did continue to speak. “Are you saying that she’s simple?”
“Not quite.”
“Not quite?”
“We believe her to be god-born. No, we know it. But she cannot speak, as you see her now.”
Espere was very much like an intelligent dog; she knew well who was the center of attention, and while she hovered around Gilliam, she let her attention stray to the old man who knelt so oddly before her. After a few minutes she tilted her chin in Gilliam’s direction; a question. He nodded grimly.
Very slowly, wild dark hair a tangle as she shook her head, she approached Alowan.
“Do you have reason to believe that she can speak?”
“Yes. We’ve heard her talk—just as you or I do—and I believe that when she speaks, she knows that she should be more than a—more than a—” He glanced almost guiltily at Gilliam. “More than a beast.”
“Beast?” Alowan’s white brows rose. “I see.”
“It was to aid her that we were to come upon this road. I believe that, in aiding her, we will somehow help your lord—but I do not know it for fact.”
Alowan’s curved fingers were upon either side of the wild girl’s face; he patted her cheeks with his thumbs, as he might have a tamed pet. But he did more; he spoke in a rhythmic chant, in syllables that Stephen could feel, although he could barely hear them.
Time passed; minutes blended together in the hypnotic sway of his voice. But at last, with the moon a little higher in the open sky, the healer bowed his head and gently released her captive face. “You are right,” he said, and if possible his voice was weaker than it had been. “She is god-born. But she is healthy, she is whole, she is what she is. If you came to have her healed, if you thought her behavior some sort of physical affliction, I must disappoint you. She is exactly as she should be.”
“I see.” Stephen nodded almost ruefully. “But we have heard her speak. There are rumored to be houses of healing. Might they—”
At this, Alowan looked genuinely annoyed, and he was not a man who was given to irritation. “Stephen, the houses of healing are peopled with the healer-born who charge in crowns for the service that I have just rendered. If I cannot aid the young woman’s complaint, there is not a healer in Averalaan who can.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” Stephen said, and it was quite clear that his embarrassment was real. “I don’t have much experience with the healer-born, and I didn’t—”
“And you didn’t know that you might sting the pride of a testy old man.” Alowan ran his hand over his eyes. “I’m sorry, Stephen, Lord Elseth. That was completely uncalled for.” He smiled wanly. “But as you are well, and as the young lady is beyond a healer’s skill, I believe I will return to the healerie of Terafin.
“I hope you won’t misunderstand me when I pray that you have no reason to call upon me again.”
If the affliction was not physical, Alowan could tell them nothing else about it. Nor did Stephen have any desire to press him. Gilliam, satisfied and also ashamed of that satisfaction, had once again retired to the east court. Stephen chose to retire to his room.
• • •
It was the fifth of Corvil, and if Lord Elseth was to retain title to his lands, they must leave by the fifteenth of the month in order to arrive in haste, and with a smaller pack than usual, for the calling of the Sacred Hunt. That did not leave much time, although if they traveled hard—as they undoubtedly would have to—things would be well.
They had to be well.
Lord, Stephen thought, invoking the image of the Hunter God, smile on your Hunter and his huntbrother. Our spirit has not faltered; bring us home in safety; bring us home in time. Then, unbidden, he thought of Evayne. You had a purpose, he told her in the silence. We cannot cure Espere; there is no means to do it. But even thinking it, he knew that their task was not finished. Tell us what your purpose was. But he knew, should she come, that she would tell him little or nothing. He trusted her, but that trust was fast becoming a burden. And one he was too tired to carry this eve.
Stephen navigated his way to his sleeping room by the lights of the courtyard and the near-full moon. There, he found his sleeping silks and removed his sandals; he opened the curtains wide to let the night breeze blow in; he placed his sword and his dagger aside, and removed the hat that he had half forgotten. Weary, he sank back, and felt the edge of something hard beneath him.
It was a book.
Books were rare and expensive enough that he didn’t travel with them, and for a moment he wondered who it belonged to. And then he remembered Meralonne APhaniel. He had forgotten, in all of the events that had occurred, to return the tome to the mage; it was another task, and one that he did not relish, for he also found the mage an enigma that he did not like.
Still, he was curious; there was no book upon the Elseth Estate that had been proof against his curiosity. Had the sun been high, he would have been tempted to read. It’s a sign, he told himself, as he set the book aside. I’m not a child, to be ruled by curiosity.
• • •
Duvari waited for Devon in the silent library of the Kings’ palace. Moonlight cast long shadows through the two-story windows, bending them across desk, chair, shelf, and man. The light was poor, but it was not by light that Devon knew who had summoned him. Who else but Duvari had the authority?
The doors swung shut at his back; he could not tell if they were closed by the hand of Duvari—for Duvari was many things and possessed talents that not even the Astari had cataloged all of—or by another member of the compact. Nor did he dare to look around. Instead, he assumed that he was not alone; there was at least one man at his back, possibly two.
He walked to within ten feet of Duvari, and saw the shadows beneath the master’s eyes. They were like scars as they rested beneath his unblinking gaze. He knelt then, resting his forearms against his left knee. “Duvari.”
“Devon.”
“You summoned me.”
“Yes.” Duvari did not move; it was as if all of his attention was bound up in the intensity of his stare. “You failed to make a report.”
Inwardly, Devon cursed. “Arannan Halls,” he said; there was no point whatever in playing the fool.
“Indeed.”
“I have not gathered enough information to make the report formal.” Devon tried very hard to pierce the darkness, but Duvari wore it like a gauze mask—not enough to hide his face, but enough to obscure nuances of expression.
“And when will you have enough information?”
“By the end of tomorrow, Duvari.”
“I see.” The shadow stood, rising to full height in the moonlight. He left the chair and table behind, and also left the distance. “You remember your vows, Devon.”
“Yes.”
“You remember that you are not ATerafin in the service of the Astari.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me of Arannan Halls. Tell me of the two who stay there. Tell me of the work that you have been doing at the behest of The Terafin.”
Are you a demon? Devon thought it, but the words would not leave his lips. “Are we alone?”
Duvari stared down, again cloaking his face in shadow. Then he raised his head and nodded. The door creaked very slightly; Devon heard no footsteps, but rather, the small scrape of metal against metal—the latch. “Speak.”
Devon did not pray, but his spirit withered. Duvari was the master of the compact; there was no option but obedience. And yet, if he were not who or what he seemed . . . He cursed the young huntbrother’s illness, and cursed the lack of time with which to use him in court. He met the eyes of the man who had taken his oath, knowing that he had only his own judgment at this moment, and nothing more.
Swallowing, Devon ATerafin made his choice. “There is an element of magery involved,” he said. “One that I have not encountered previously. There is a mage, or possibly a group of mages, who set an elaborate trap for The Terafin. Had they succeeded, Terafin would now be ruled by a demon.”
“Continue.”
“I cannot say more at this time—not of that; she demanded my oath, and I swore it: that I would not speak of the investigation’s particulars unless I was certain that it involved more than Terafin.” He waited for Duvari to speak, knowing that the master of the compact had little patience for the foibles and the secrecy of the patriciate. He was not of the nobility, and not even his family name remained to him; Duvari was the Astari. He knew no other loyalties and was bound by no other duty.
“You have always had some loyalty to the House that gave you its name,” Duvari said at length. “I am aware of this—and I have never distrusted that loyalty until now. Why did you not disclose the full particulars of the attack in Arannan?”
“Because there is a magic loose which, carefully used, could destroy the Astari—perhaps even the empire.” Choose your words carefully, Devon. Speak them softly. “Not only can the caster assume the appearance and likeness of another, but he can also assume the memories. He is, to all intents and purposes, that person. Or he is in part. I could not make such a report if I—”
A hand was raised in the shadows; the call for silence. Duvari did not speak a word, which was either a good or a bad sign. Devon knew that the full import of what had been said was already obvious to the master of the compact. The shadows between them lessened, although the light did not grow. Duvari stepped back and with a gesture, bade Devon to rise.
“You have a method of detection,” he said. It was not a question. “You intend to use it before you make your report, unless your findings indicate otherwise.”
“Yes.”
“And you can trust it?”
“To be accurate, yes.”
“Does it involve magery?”
“No.” The sound of Devon’s breath cut the air. “We have reason to believe that most available forms of magery would not detect the imposters, if they are there.”
Duvari inclined his head; there was an anger and tension that seemed to ebb out of him, softening the line of his jaw and shoulder. “Continue, then.” There was no apology for the suspicion, nor would any be forthcoming. “But if your findings indicate infiltration, do not make the report.”
Devon nodded grimly. Stephen of Elseth would be in court on the morrow unless he was dead.