JEWEL KNELT AGAINST THE GROUND, pressing her forehead into the stone for perhaps the hundredth time that morning. She was heartily sick of it, but Ellerson had been quite strict in his admonitions—the Exalted were only second in rank and power to the Kings themselves, and they were to be treated with the same respect, measure for measure, that one would give the Kings.
She no longer had any desire to ever meet the Kings in person.
Or, she thought sourly, she had no desire to meet the Kings until she was ATerafin—for it seemed that The Terafin and her Chosen did not have to bow, scrape, bend, and kneel at every change of position the Exalted made. Luckily, she was enough of a commoner that the bowing and scraping was pretty simple; total abasement left very little room for mistakes.
Devon nudged her sharply and she looked up into the grave face of the Exalted of Cormaris. His peppered hair was drawn back from his forehead; nothing hid the piercing glow of golden irises. Who would have thought gold could be so icy?
“Describe again the halls you traversed to reach this supposed crypt.” He motioned the Exalted of the Mother forward; she was the only one who had not yet heard Jewel’s full story. At once, the former den leader bowed her forehead—again—to the ground and left it there until she was told to raise it. Then she described the hall to the best of a memory that didn’t seem to satisfy either the Exalted of Reymaris or the Exalted of Cormaris. In fact, it didn’t seem to satisfy the Exalted of the Mother either, which disheartened Jewel.
When she got back to Terafin—if they ever let her leave the palace grounds again—Ellerson was going to pay.
The Terafin said nothing at all; her Chosen said nothing—in fact, the only friend she seemed to have in the entire hall was Devon. Certainly the warrior-priests who attended the Exalted looked upon her—when her eyes were raised enough that she could see their expressions—with a cool distrust. It was a crowded hall; there was a lot of suspicion in it.
Tell them, he’d said. Tell them all. Oh, Ellerson was going to suffer somehow for this.
It was when a door that didn’t even look remotely doorlike opened, and two men and two women, attended by eight strangely uniformed guards stepped in, that Jewel truly understood how miserable she could be.
Because even though she’d been born and raised in the twenty-fifth with no hope of ever reaching a noble rank, she recognized the Kings and the Queens when she saw them.
The Queens came first: Marieyan the Wise, robed in simple midnight blue, and Siodonay the Fair, in morning white. But the materials were of a kind that Jewel had only seen The Terafin wear, and at that, seldom; they glimmered, catching a subdued light as they fell. Queen Marieyan wore a slender tiara through hair frosted white, and she wore a wide belt into which was embroidered the rod and the crown.
Queen Siodonay was called the Fair as a play on words; she was both fair in her dealings, as was demanded of the Queen of Justice, and fair in complexion as the Northerners. Her hair was a platinum spill of light, pulled back and twined in a braid upon her head; she wore no crown, but carried instead a sword with jewel-encrusted scabbard that told the tale of her rank. It was said she knew how to use it, and well.
King Reymalyn came next, his golden eyes narrowed, his face cast in a grim light. Fire-haired and fire-bearded, he was the tallest man in the room; across the breadth of his shoulders he wore an emerald cape, and beneath it, simple attire. But he, too, carried a sword, and his wrists were banded with an odd metal that caught the light and seemed to absorb some of it. Jewel would have taken a step back, but she was kneeling. Not to King Reymalyn would she go for mercy, if mercy were ever required.
But perhaps she might plead with the wisdom-born King: Cormalyn. Dark-haired and golden-eyed, he was younger than his Queen, but no less regal. Of the four, it was King Cormalyn who drew the eye and held it longest, although he wore no heavy mantle, no jeweled crown, no emblazoned crest. He carried the rod of his office, and the color of his eyes was sunrise; there was a sadness to his face, and an air of peace, that made one want to trust him.
And Jewel badly wanted to trust someone here.
• • •
“And what makes you think that this . . . this crypt is located beneath the Sanctum of Moorelas?”
Because you’re giving me such a hard time about it—where else could it be? But she bit her lip on the words as Devon applied a gentle pressure to the small of her back—a pressure that could not be seen by her questioners. “I don’t know it for certain,” she told the Kings’ questioner softly. The man glanced beyond her shoulder—at Devon, she thought, since they seemed to know each other well.
“Yet you’ve told your Lord that this is the case.”
“Yes.” That was said through clenched teeth. Couldn’t be helped. Something about the man made her edgy.
“Why?”
This dark-haired, pale-eyed man was so intense it was almost easy to forget that there were other people in the room: the Exalted, the Crowns, The Terafin. “Because I couldn’t think of where else it could be. The Sanctum stands alone. The library closest to it doesn’t have a crypt.”
“Who else have you told about this?”
She was silent, weighing the question; weighing the decision that would be made by answering it.
“I asked you a question.”
“I heard it.” Devon’s hand was at her back again; she stepped an inch or two forward, denying it without exposing his support. If support it was. The guards moved in at her sides, but she ignored them, as if they were no more than common beggars, and she the Queen.
“Terafin,” she said quietly, the softness of her voice masking its lack of strength.
The Terafin stood forward. Jewel was not certain what the older woman would do; here, she was outranked by seven people, or eight if you counted the man who questioned. But her Chosen—Torvan among them—stepped forward as well, subtle in their protectiveness. The Exalted made way before her, polite but cool; the Queens paid her the respect of a slight nod. Only the Kings were remote.
“Jewel,” The Terafin said.
“Terafin.” She bowed quite low. “I’ve told them everything I can tell them. I serve the House.”
“You have not,” the questioner said, rising from his chair in a quick and supple motion, “told us everything we wish to know.”
“I have told you,” Jewel repeated, her voice more strained, “all that I can.”
“It is not for The Terafin to decide that; it is for me. The Crowns are not yet satisfied with your response. We would ask you to resume your place.” Jewel had heard death threats that contained less menace.
She did not move. Because she understood—although it had taken the better part of two hours—that the Exalted and the Crowns’ inquisitioner were not questioning her because they did not believe her; quite the opposite. They were afraid that what she had to say was truth.
Jewel knew that it was dangerous to know too much. In the streets of the thirty-fifth, Old Rath’s hunting grounds, it had often been the death of some hapless young thief, at least until the magisterians had done their work. There were no magisterial guards that could protect her here; she knew too much, and she knew it in front of the people who made the laws and could change them to suit their whim. But she’d be damned if she’d speak the names of any of the rest of her den. She’d be damned to the fires, thrown out of the Hall of Mandaros without so much as a second chance. She was their leader, after all.
“Jewel Markess.” The man’s voice was ice. “Sit.”
“Hold.”
The Terafin frowned at Jewel, but the expression that molded the contours of her jaw was distinctly cooler when she looked at the Kings’ servitor. A moment passed; The Terafin’s expression deepened, as did her annoyance. At last, she spoke. “Astari,” she said, measuring each syllable, “the girl is a member of my House. She answers to me by the covenant between The Ten and the Crown, and I do not choose to press her response.”
Silence. Then:
“We were not informed that this was the case.”
“I was not aware that the permission of the Astari—or the Crowns—was required. Nor was I aware that prior knowledge was a legal imperative.”
“It is—”
“It is not, of course, required.” It was Queen Siodonay who spoke. Her voice was softer than her expression, but strong for all that. “But as a courtesy—both to ourselves and the young ATerafin—it would have been appreciated.”
“It would,” the Astari who was responsible for questioning Jewel said coldly, “have been impossible.”
“Lord of the Compact,” Queen Marieyan said quietly.
The Astari turned to face her; his face twisted a moment in frustration and then eased into a remote neutrality which fooled no one. “As you say, Majesty.” He stepped aside to give Jewel room to move, and then turned lightly on one foot. “But, Terafin, you understand your responsibility in this matter. If this young girl’s information were openly known—”
“Then what?” The Terafin’s voice was, measure for measure, as clipped and icy as his. “I have heard nothing today that indicates—to me—that you have any idea whatever of what will happen. If history—that remote and sullied record of events past—is to be trusted, these Sleepers have existed as they are now for eternity; they have not once woken, they have not once been disturbed. And there have been wars, and worse, that have played themselves out above them and around them since the dawn of time. Vexusa fell around their ears—and such a fall as that city faced woke the very dead.
“Therefore, unless your purpose is to intimidate a young girl, I believe your interview here is at end. Is that clear?”
“Terafin.” It was Queen Marieyan. “Lord of the Compact. Our grievance is not, and must not, be with each other. Terafin, you must forgive the Lord of the Compact; his purpose is the protection of the Crowns, and he is zealous in his pursuit.”
“And arrogant. And ruthless.”
“It seems to me,” the Exalted of Cormaris said quietly, appearing from the far end of the hall without warning, “that history, both ancient and recent, plays its hand. Terafin. Lord of the Compact. You do not serve your best interests, or ours, by this. Cease.”
The Terafin bowed at once, low and proper in her respect; the Astari grudgingly gave way as well, but with an obvious lack of grace.
“Who knows now matters not; more will know than we could possibly deal with before this matter is closed. This does not grant dispensation for any further spread of this tale by anyone in this room—or in House Terafin.” He turned to Jewel, the full weight of his ceremonial robes trailing across the ground. Aside from the warrior-priests, he had no attendants—and the warrior-priests did not lift or carry a train, even if it be the Exalted’s. “Young one, we believe your story, although we wish it otherwise.” He turned to the Exalted of Reymaris. “Son of Reymaris?”
“I concur,” was the short reply.
“Daughter of the Mother?”
“I also concur.” But her full lips were turned down at the corners, her eyes narrowed. She turned to the Kings, who had remained silent throughout. “Your Majesties,” she said, bowing low. “I speak for the triumvirate.”
“As is your right,” King Reymalyn said.
His voice was a shock. It was low and deep and musical; it filled the hall as if it were a shout, yet it was soft in tone—almost gentle.
“What would you have of us?”
“If there were another way, we would ask nothing,” the Reymaris-born King replied. “But it seems to us that the Crypt of the Sleepers must be disturbed if Allasakar is not to walk again. We would ask that you open the Sanctum to our forces.”
She lowered her head a moment. “It will not be an easy task, and the triumvirate alone cannot accomplish it; we must bespeak the Church of Cartanis and the Church of Mandaros, and their leaders must be in agreement.” She paused. “There are reasons why the very ground would deny a making or an unmaking, such as our enemies have done, that did not have the keys of the Gods behind it.” She paused. “All keys.”
“Let it be done,” the King replied.
“As you command.”
• • •
Devon was stiff and weary. “You took a risk,” he said, as he sank back into the wide, high-backed chair in his office.
The Terafin raised a dark brow before accepting his lack of formality; it had been a most trying morning. “I was not the author of that risk.” Glancing at Jewel, she smiled; the young thief sat meekly on the window ledge, attempting to hide in the very scant shadows.
Jewel had the grace to blush under the scrutiny. “I’m sorry,” she offered at last. “But thanks for covering for me. I owe you.”
Devon and The Terafin exchanged glances.
“I don’t think you understand,” Devon said quietly. “Did you think that she was merely trying to save you some time at the hands of the Lord of the Compact?”
Jewel stared at him blankly.
“The name ATerafin is not offered lightly.” It was The Terafin who spoke. “And it is never offered in jest or in subterfuge. You are ATerafin, Jewel. This is no game.”
Speechless, Jewel gaped; it caused Devon to laugh, and the mirth was genuine, if somewhat edged.
The Terafin waited patiently for the sound to die out; it did not take long. “Why do they believe it?” she said to Devon, as if the interruption—and the slight to her House—had not happened.
“Because,” he said soberly, “the Sleepers are history, and they have slept, unchanged and unchanging, forever. I do not believe that our enemies somehow missed this entrance into the undercity; I believe that they unmade it—as they unmade the rest.
“But the Exalted believe that unmaking was rejected, as all known attempts to change the Sleepers have been—in a slow and subtle reworking that a mage in haste would miss completely. It is almost as if time itself guards them.”
“They unmade the way,” Jewel said softly, “and the protection around the Sleepers unmade their unmaking.”
“Yes.”
“Then . . . they don’t know.”
“That is our hope,” Devon agreed softly. “And we believe,” his voice grew into a thin whisper as he shaded his eyes in the darkness, “that it is our only hope.”
“No,” a new voice said.
Devon threw himself from his chair, and when he rolled to his feet, his hands were shining with the glint of metal in the poor light. He threw them; they stopped an inch from the hooded face of the intruder and then fell with a clang to the ground.
Jewel gaped for a second time that day—and not because of the magic; she’d seldom seen a throw that good—he’d’ve hit both eyes if not for the spell. She was certain of it.
But the spell was there; the daggers lay, cold and flat, against the floor. “Well met, Devon ATerafin,” the figure said. “I come in peace; I mean no harm.” So saying, she reached up and pulled the folds of the hood from her face.
A woman slightly older than The Terafin stared out at them, her eyes violet, her hair still dark, although time had frosted it slightly. Her chin was strong, her nose prominent; she was not lovely in the way the delicate are—but age and power lent a depth and beauty to her face that she could not have possessed in youth. “I am Evayne,” she said softly.
“And I,” The Terafin said, rising to greet an equal, “am The Terafin.” She paused. “I do not recognize you.”
“No? But we’ve met. A long, long time ago. I was a youth, Terafin, and you were a combatant.”
The Terafin’s frown deepened. And then her expression changed. “The robes,” she said. “Seer. You are . . . much aged.”
“Yes. I am.” She nodded quietly to Jewel ATerafin. “Jewel. You have not yet made the pilgrimage, but if I am not mistaken, and my memory does not fail me, you will.” Jewel stepped back, hit the wall, and stopped self-consciously, for she saw in this woman the girl who had come running into the foyer, all darkness in pursuit, the two foreigners close behind. “You are young; younger than I was when I was left upon that road. But enough.
“My time is brief; if the Lord of the path is willing, I will meet you ere this battle’s fought.”
“Put it away, Devon,” The Terafin said, although she barely caught the slight movement with the corner of her eye. “I believe that if the seer wished us dead, we would be.”
“I am no threat to the Crowns you defend, Astari,” Evayne said remotely.
The Terafin’s eyes widened, as did Devon’s.
At last, Devon ATerafin spoke. “How did you know that I am Astari? It is not common knowledge.”
“I’ve met you many times, ATerafin, and in many situations. This is one of the most peaceful, and it may be the last; it is not given to me to know my future.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“No. You have not.” She turned from him to Jewel, and reached into her robes. What she drew out shone in the room like a living crystal laced with shadow, cloud and lightning. “Jewel—or Jay, if you prefer—I know who you are. Look at me carefully, and look at what I hold. Then tell them what it is.”
“But it’s a—it’s a seer’s ball,” Jewel said.
“Very well. But what, exactly, is a seer’s ball? A crystal? A globe blown of glass for use by charlatans? Come, Jewel.”
Jewel looked to The Terafin; The Terafin nodded quietly.
Thus granted permission, she turned the focus of her attention upon the orb the mage held, but she did so uneasily. She did not fear danger, not precisely; did not fear for her life. But her chin shook as she leveled her gaze, and her eyes darted toward the wall and windows—not this unknown woman’s face—as if they could anchor her somehow.
“Jewel.”
She swallowed. Nodded.
Seconds blended into minutes; time froze as the young thief’s dark eyes slowly widened, absorbing the light. Devon and The Terafin glanced between Jewel and the mage, waiting for some word, some sound, some reaction. And there were minute signs of it: the young woman’s shoulders, tense and curled downward, relaxed; the line of her brow lost the creases that had not yet been etched there by age. Her mouth opened slightly, in wonder, but not even a whisper escaped.
At last, Devon cleared his throat.
Jewel started, flicking a glance in his direction as if she’d forgotten that there was anyone else in the room. Even Evayne’s face, inches above the globe, seemed a bit of a shock to her, judging from the expression that crossed her face. She came back to herself slowly, remembering first who was with her, and then where she was, and last, the question that had set her staring into the roiling light.
“It’s her heart,” she told them hesitantly, as if afraid of their mockery.
“And you can read it?” Evayne asked.
Swallowing, the young den leader said to her companions, “I—I’d trust her.” She looked up, and found that she didn’t have to; she and Evayne were of a height. “I already do. This—it was made by you.”
“No, Jewel,” Evayne replied, her voice almost sad. “It was made of me. I walked the Oracle’s path; I passed the Oracle’s test. And she,” the seer added, with the flash of a grim smile, “passed mine.”
“The Oracle,” The Terafin said, the two words distinct yet hushed, as if they were a secret. “You walked her path. They called this a soul-crystal, a soul-shard. I remember my grandfather’s stories,” she added, as the seer raised a dark brow. “Is it like all the stories? Does it lose its romance and power as you approach its reality?”
Evayne’s smile turned sharply inward, although it remained upon her face, changed in tone and texture. “It loses none of its power,” she whispered, “and all of its romance.” Her attention turned to Jewel again. “I thank you, little sister. And I hope—although in truth, I fear there is little chance of it—that you will not bear a like burden in your day.” She lifted the stone one final time, and then shuttered its light with the folds of her cloak.
Drawing herself to her full height, she spoke to The Terafin. “You have in your dwelling a foreign noble.”
“Yes,” The Terafin replied. “We believe he is of import.”
“He is. But he is the weapon, not the swordsman; know how to wield him, and when to let him fly. It matters little who else is chosen, but Lord Elseth must be sent to the Sanctum when the way is open.” She turned her attention to Devon. “And you have, at court, a young bard. Bring him as well.”
“I see,” Devon said. “She is to send, and I am to bring? You do not know The Terafin.”
Evayne shrugged. “It will not be easy, and it will not be simple, but the ways must be opened, and the path must be walked. Jewel, you and I will meet again ere this long battle is over. But time,” her lips quirked up in an odd smile, “is of the essence.” She stepped forward, toward them; the air swallowed her, leaving no sign of her presence.
25th Corvil, 410 A.A.
Senniel College
“We can magnify the sound of your voice,” Sigurne said quietly.
The bardmaster looked back out of eyes rimmed black with sleep’s lack. “If it were that easy,” she said softly, running a hand over those eyes, “wars would have been fought and won with the use of a single mage and a single bard.”
Sigurne raised a pale brow. “I confess that I’ve studied little of the bardic voice. The bardic colleges are not—”
“Open to the study of the Order,” Sioban finished for her. It was a complaint that she had dealt with, more or less directly, for the duration of her tenure. “Some magnification is helpful, but we cannot increase the effect of the voice without using our personal power. I don’t know why,” she added quickly, as she saw the question flash through Sigurne’s dark eyes. Talking to the Magi was an exercise in frustration; they were always wont to ask questions that, while of interest in the long, idle hours after a tavern’s jig, drew attention away from the immediate and the necessary.
On the other hand, a break from the immediate danger—and its attendant responsibility—was something that Sioban desperately craved; it had been a hard week, and by all accounts of the Council of the Wise, it was only going to get worse.
The demons in the undercity had returned to their work carefully; the voices below were not so distinct as they had been, and not nearly as strong—but the power in their despair and terror was growing daily. The bards could not contain it.
The Priests of the Church—the god-born Priests—had joined their efforts to the bardic colleges’. Sioban privately believed that the answer to their dilemma lay with the Gods—for it was through the power of a God that the barrier had been created. But the Gods were disappointingly silent in their conferences with their half-blood children, and the power that the god-born could channel did not meet or scratch the surface of the power that . . . she shook her head, weary. Fear did that.
The members of the first and second circles of the Order of Knowledge were also struggling daily with the question of the blackness below: what it was, how it functioned, how to contain the cries that emanated from it, how to control the panic that was beginning to sink deep roots in the heart of Averalaan.
“Bardmaster?”
Sioban found herself on her feet, staring into the waves that rolled against the break below Seahaven. Here, in the heart of her small dominion, she could not make out the screams unless she called upon her training and her power. She did not.
“We can’t keep it up forever,” she said softly.
Sigurne was quiet a moment.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“I?” Sigurne rose to join the weary bard at her place by the window. “What choice have I?”
What choice, indeed. “How long will it take?”
“Until the voices can be heard by the entire city?” The mage shook her head. “I can’t say with certainty. But if it follows its current growth curve, four weeks.”
Lady Mother, Sioban thought, pressing her forehead into her hands, help us all.
11th Henden, 410 A.A.
Avantari, Kings’ Palace
“And I tell you, Verrus Sivari, that there’s no possible way that we can evacuate any more of the city. The Cordufar Estates are situated in an ideal locale—most of the neighboring families are noble-born and can afford to retreat to their alternate homes. But this area,” the red-faced magisterial guard said, stabbing the map with his finger, pausing to swear when he hit a marker pin, and then continuing, “is packed to the roof with people who won’t be pried out without an army. It’s their home—they’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“The army is available,” the Verrus said coldly.
The magisterial guard sputtered a moment; he hated dealing with the Kings’ Swords. He started to speak, and Verrus Sivari placed his own pointer—a brass stick of some sort—against the contour lines of the map. “We received the reports from the magisterial courts this morning,” he said, his voice growing quieter as the magisterial guard’s grew louder, “and in the last two weeks, in areas that have not been properly depopulated, the increase of violence—and violent death—has become unacceptable to the Crowns.”
“It’s nothing compared to what you’re going to get if you try to force an evacuation.”
“Major Capren,” Verrus Sivari said, grinding his teeth slightly, “there is no guaranteed evacuation; it is an emergency plan. Now, if you have nothing further to add, I believe I have business—”
The door burst open; both men looked up.
An ashen-faced Sentrus forced his arm across his chest in a sharp salute as he stood just this side of the heavy door. “Verrus, forgive the intrusion. You are needed at once.”
The Verrus reached for his sword. “Report.”
“It’s Queen Siodonay and the Princess.” The Sentrus swallowed. “They’ve been arguing with the Lord of the Compact.”
Sivari paled. “Enough.” He turned to the magisterial guard, who looked somewhat queasy himself. “You will excuse me,” he said. It was an order.
• • •
When he passed beneath the arch that led from the Hall of Gods, he was immediately greeted by Primus Allarus.
“Sivari—thank the Gods.” It was not an auspicious start.
“Why in the name of Cormaris would Queen Siodonay be arguing with the Lord of the Compact?”
“It’s not in Cormaris’ name that she’s arguing,” the Kings’ Sword replied. “But she’s got Mirialyn on her side.”
“Queen Marieyan?”
“Nothing. Not a word. She says that this is not a matter of common sense, or a matter of right and wrong.”
“Enough, Allarus. Tell me.”
“You won’t like it.”
“I dislike it already. Tell me.”
“Queen Siodonay intends—with Princess Mirialyn and the Kings’ Swords under her command—to ride the streets of Averalaan.” He paused as he watched the words take root in Verrus Sivari’s imagination. Then he added, “Until the crisis is over.”
“Impossible,” the Verrus said flatly.
“That,” Primus Allarus replied, “is what the Lord of the Compact told them.” He smiled briefly. “And this,” he said, as the Verrus made his way into the court rooms, “will be the first time I think I’ve ever seen you argue on the same side.”
It was clear from the nonresponse that Sivari did not find it as amusing as the rest of the Kings’ Swords did.
• • •
Queen Siodonay stood beside her throne. Hanging at her side was the sword belt for which she was famous in the North, although she wore it rarely now. Ceremonial breastplates and greaves were being fitted to her by her attendants; she stood, arms out, like a cross, her dark eyes cold as any winter night.
They brightened slightly as they caught sight of Sivari, and then narrowed. “Verrus. To what do we owe this honor?”
“Sanity,” was his clipped reply. With the Crowns, a certain etiquette was required—except when one was dealing with Siodonay of the North. “You cannot mean to ride through the streets of the city.” That she would not know the full extent of the crisis was not a possibility; in times of crisis, the Queens were involved as a matter of necessity.
“I seldom don ceremonial garb for any other reason.”
“Your Majesty—Siodonay—we cannot afford to lose one of the Crowns at a time like this. The streets are—”
“Not yet in chaos.”
The Verrus turned at the sound of the voice, recognizing it at once. “ACormaris,” he said, bowing stiffly, although privately he thought the title undeserved at this particular juncture.
The Princess smiled, and the smile was almost rueful; she knew well what he was thinking—it was etched across the lines of his eyes, his mouth. “There is a wisdom to the human heart that follows no rigid logic, and no common sense. Yet there are rules to the heart’s sway, and I argue that it is folly to ignore those rules under the guise of ‘rationality.’”
“Do you know what a blow it will be if the Queen is lost? She is the warrior of the city’s heart.”
“Oh, yes,” Miri said softly, her eyes focused beyond his shoulder. “And it is precisely because of who she is that she must do what she must do. Excuse me, Verrus.”
Sivari stepped aside as a swordbearer in robes the color of rust—or dried blood—stepped forward to the dais, kneeling reverently against the wide arc of the stairs. In his arms, cradled against ivory cushions, was a long, slender scabbard, one jeweled with three large stones, and lit with gold inlay. Nodding, Mirialyn lifted her arms to the side, and the swordbearer carefully girded her with the sword that was her birthright.
He stared at her hips very carefully and then proceeded to make all the necessary adjustments. “You will not have the rest?” he asked her.
“No. Just the shield and the sword.”
Regretfully, the man bowed as low as, or lower than, he had the first time. “ACormaris.”
Grinding his teeth, the Verrus waited respectfully until the man was out of sight. “What exactly is it that you think this will do?”
“A moment, Verrus. Jordan—the horses?”
“The stablehands are readying them—but you may have to go to the stables yourself to see Thunder armored.”
“Very well.”
“Miri—”
“I think,” she said, adjusting the sword slightly, “that you already know what we intend. It has been two weeks, and Averalaan is filled with dark murmurings and the screams of the dying. We have held up little against them; but it is to the Exalted—or to the Crowns—that the people will turn for comfort and for succor.”
“And when you can’t provide it?”
She was silent. “There is a risk,” she said at last, her voice quite cool. “But I believe that if we go now, and in haste, if we make our rounds, and touch the earth of Averalaan instead of hiding in the relative safety of Averalaan Aramarelas, we can turn this from a terrible unknown evil, into a terrible, known war—a war between the triumvirate and the Darkness.
“And we can make clear that to fight is to remain calm; to win is to show the enemy that we cannot be broken by this—this magical illusion.” She pulled her sword, and the sound of steel against steel silenced the hall. “It is Henden, Verrus Sivari. The month of great darkness, during which Veralaan and the Mother’s Children stood alone against the assemblage of the Baronial Wizards and their followers. Our people were slaughtered, whether for magical power or as examples. Our children were starved. Our lands were fired.”
Verrus Sivari fell, slowly, to one knee.
“They knew that if they could break the spirit of the people, there would never be war; Veralaan would be married and then murdered, a footnote to her father’s history. Remember the Six Dark Days.”
He bowed his head. She spoke of the history of the Empire, and its founding. “ACormaris,” he said at last. “I remember. And I remember what followed: Veralaan’s return with the Twin Kings.”
“You are not the only one who will remember it,” she said softly. “They will. But they will only remember it clearly and sharply if we ride.”
He brought his hands across his eyes, as if to clear them of webs.
“Against this, we measure the risk as small. If we can reach our people, they will listen.” She looked up at the approaching Kings’ Swords, and nodded sharply. “Sentrus, escort the Queen to the courtyard; I will join the stable detail and meet you there.” Barely noticing the sharp salute, she turned once again to the Verrus. “I hope you understand why we will not be deterred.”
He raised his arm across his chest in a sharp, perfect salute. “If you would accept it, I would be honored to serve beside you.”
“And not under?” She smiled. “I would accept it in a minute, if only to convince the Lord of the Compact that we will be duly and appropriately guarded.”
• • •
The Queen rode, and the Princess at her side; behind them, in the regalia that spoke of the games of the summer quarter was Verrus Sivari: Kings’ Champion of a bygone season. Everyone knew what the wreathed leaves of gold meant as they adorned his brow and caught the light in liquid reflection; in his prime, he was the best combatant in the arena of the summer games. Better than any of the Annagarians; better than any of the free towners; better than any of the Westerners from their tiny, isolated Kingdoms. And he had met and matched them all.
Vanity was such a terrible thing, but he gave in to it a moment as they crossed the bridge that led to the city around the bay, leaving the Holy Isle behind. Salt-laden wind touched his face, pushing his cape back over the ornate shoulder joints of the Champion’s ceremonial armor. The sun was shining, high and bright; the nightmare seemed a passing conceit.
But the moment passed; the horses made their way into the wide, flat streets of the city. They shied back, as if the bridge were a safe haven, and the road before them fraught with peril—but they were animals trained for war, and after a moment, they were forced forward.
“Can you feel it?” The ACormaris asked him quietly.
He nodded.
“It gets worse.”
He didn’t ask her how she knew it—although it was clear by her tone that she spoke from experience—because he didn’t want to know. What he didn’t know, the Lord of the Compact could not find out.
The standard of the Queen uncurled with a bang.
“This is war. Sound it. Make our intent known.” Mirialyn gestured, and the horns began their lowing across the open bay. He listened to the notes, long and lingering, as if they spoke truth in a language that he had been born knowing.
Beneath him, Warfoal relaxed—because it was a language that he, too, understood.
• • •
And all across the Holy Isle, the preparations for festivity, for the rites of Return were taken up at the call of Queen Siodonay the Fair. Hesitantly, timorously, the nobles and their servants brought the shrouds and pennants out from their stores, and began to prepare for the Six Dark Days.
They sang their songs of freedom and of fear, of courage and of loss, and in the singing—with the bard-born scattered among them like anchors—brought themselves a measure of peace: These were days of darkness, and Averalaan had survived the darkness before.
But on the mainland, the fight was harder, and where the wreaths were laid, they were laid over a fear so deep it could be tasted. But they were laid, and they were more of a weapon than a dagger or a sword in the shadows.