The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (7 page)

“And how long will you stay? How long this time?”

“I will stay,” he told her gently, “until I am no longer needed. Come. The others are waiting.”

She looked up then. Everyone—except for Carver—was standing, silent, in the wake of his words. She wondered how much they’d heard. Carver joined them, struggling to get his elbows free of the neck of a shirt he was too lazy to unbutton.

“Ellerson?”

“Yes?”

“Who delivered the message?”

And a familiar figure stepped out of shadows that Finch
knew
weren’t natural. Jay had paid a lot of money to see to that.

“Morretz?”

He stared at her a moment, as if appraising her, but his expression gave none of the result of that appraisal away.

“I did, ATerafin. I understand your fear. I understand your caution. I am here to make certain that—inasmuch as it can be—your passage to the shrine remains undetected by any of the would-be rulers of this House.”

They had talked to Morretz. To Torvan. To Arrendas. They had spoken with Devon, and with Gabriel; they had become, in all things, Jay’s substitutes. They had learned, clumsily, but with a determination that desperation underscored, to navigate the byways of the powerful, dancing carefully along the edge of the increasing hostilities between the four men and women who desired what only the den knew Jay already had—the legitimacy of The Terafin’s choice.

Those hostilities had left the injured, the broken, and occasionally the dead, as evidence of what happened when too much ambition met with too much ambition. Had it been up to Finch, not a one of the four would now have the Terafin name behind them.

But The Terafin did not condescend to notice what could not be ignored. It hurt Finch, inexplicably, to see that, to accept it for what it was.

She shook herself.

Since they had understood the full meaning of Jewel ATerafin’s vision, since they had realized that The Terafin was to die before Jay’s return, they had not spoken with The Terafin. They had listened to her, when she had come to tell them of the demon attack in the Common; they had listened to her again, when she had finally decided that the personal investigation—the sifting through rubble, the tending to the injured—would be brought to a close. But they had not been required to speak; had not been required to meet her gaze and acknowledge their understanding.

Until tonight.

It was funny.

Finch was easily the smallest, physically, of Jay’s den. How a bunch of grown men could huddle
behind
her wasn’t clear—but they were all trying exactly that, with the single exception of Teller. If Finch had loved him before Jay left—and she had, she always had—she had never understood why he was obviously the most valued member of the den. It had stung, sometimes; still did, when she was feeling low enough to pick at it.

But she understood it now. Silent, he was still present, and when she reached the shrine of Terafin and hesitated a moment at the rounding curve of low, stone steps, he smiled at her briefly, squeezed her hand, and stepped forward.

The sound of his step against smoky, marbled stone brought her back to herself; she looked up, past his back—he’d left room for her at his side—to see the woman who waited for them.

The woman who ruled them all.

There was light, in this place. It perched in torches against the pillars that supported the domed ceiling. Someone had thought to fashion those torches into the shapes of birds, works of brass whose wings, from tip to tip, were polished and gleaming beneath the fires they carried. No magestones here; no even light; one of the groundskeepers or the gardeners must have carried oil, glass, and cloth when they came to this place; someone must have brought stools and ladders, rags; someone must have taken the time to light these lamps, and to gutter them, and to clean the residue of their burning from the backs of the creatures that held them.

And not just once, but over and over, each act deliberate and ephemeral.

Although she had always liked magestones, it seemed fitting that such effort and laborious care be offered here, beneath this simple dome, yet above the grass that surrounded the flat, rising steps. What time could not take from the stones mages made, it would take from the lamps, from the oil, from the labor of men—and the labor of men would again be called. And if the men who performed this maintenance were different, the fire didn’t care.

“ATerafin,” The Terafin said.

Finch nodded quietly; her nervousness deserted her as she cast one last glance at the natural fire that flickered in ordinary lamps.

She climbed the steps to join Teller, who waited for her in silence. When The Terafin did not speak, Finch turned and gestured wordlessly for the others to follow; only Angel lingered upon the path enclosed on either side by lamp, grass, pillar.

“Angel never accepted the House name,” The Terafin said softly. There was a hint of question in the words.

“No. And he blackened Carver’s eye when Carver did.” Realization of whom she was speaking to followed—rather than preceded—the words; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth for just a moment.

But The Terafin’s response was an unguarded smile. “He didn’t wish to compromise his integrity by swearing an oath to serve the House when his loyalty was simply to one of its members?”

“Something like that.”

“And if she ruled the House?”

Teller stiffened; Finch caught the sudden lack of movement—startling even though Teller was not the most animated of people—with the small part of her attention that wasn’t focused on The Terafin.

Ellerson
, she thought,
why aren’t you here
? She wasn’t up to a protracted conversation with arguably the most powerful woman in the Empire. Or at least not a politic, intelligent one.

Teller came to her rescue.

“If she ruled the House, he wouldn’t need to accept the name; she already owns everything he’s willing to give away. Angel’s never been one for empty gestures.”

“No,” The Terafin replied. “And the rest of you?”

He shrugged, although his expression was completely serious. “For the rest of us, it wasn’t empty. Jay wanted the name, and because she wanted it, we wanted it. Except for Angel. And Arann,” he added, almost grudgingly.

“Arann.” She found him easily on the crowded flat of the floor that encircled the altar by which she stood. Her expression shifted, a subtle motion of lines, a narrowing of eyes, a compression of lips. She nodded slightly as she met his eyes, and he came—albeit awkwardly—toward her.

He did what they had failed to do; knelt before her feet, bowed his head.

Finch was suddenly aware of the sword that hung by his side—had to be; it scraped against the surface of marbled stone like fingers against board. No one else wore one. Carver and Angel had taken lessons, but the weaponsmaster Jay had sent them
all
to had chosen instead to focus on the skills he felt they did have: long daggers, short daggers, thrown weapons.

But Arann had joined the House Guards almost right from the start. Jay had hated it. Had been proud of it, and had hated it.

And he knew. Funny, it had hardly bothered him at all when she’d been here. But Finch knew him well enough; he’d gone to his knees tonight, but it was the first time in years that old split loyalties chafed at him.

The Terafin knew it as well.

She’d known Arann for a handful of years as a polite, but respectful half-stranger, but she could also see what Finch, who was almost blood-kin, could see—and no less clearly. That, Finch thought without rancor, was why she was The Terafin.

Arann rose as The Terafin gestured.

“Well,” she said, “are you hers or are you mine?”

He was not a wordsmith.

But he was not a coward either; the fear of being forced, after so many years, to choose was more terrible than the event itself. He squared his shoulders, shedding weight in the process.

“Both.”

“Is that a suitable reply?”

“It’s the only one I have, Terafin.”

“I . . . see.” The woman who ruled stepped back; her hands touched the pale, cold surface of stone as if she might draw strength from the Terafin altar. It cut across the heart of the shrine, forgotten by the den until the moment she chose to remind them of its existence by this simple gesture.

“You both serve the House,” he continued, for if she touched the altar with the flat of her palms, she did not look away.

“I rule the House,” she said, the words cool.

“You serve the House best
by
ruling it. And Jay served the House best by serving
you
.”

“And how will she serve the House when I am dead?”

Arann didn’t flinch. Finch did. And because she did, she missed the expression on his face.

“By ruling it,” he said quietly. “By ruling it because in the end you’ve left her no other choice.”

“I?”

“You know who seeks power. You’ve seen them. You’ve seen what they’re willing to do to gain it. But—”

“It is not easy to remove the powerful from their positions. I would weaken Terafin immeasurably if I were to attempt such an extraction.”

“You weaken it,” he said, “by your willingness to leave that task to others.”

“Do I?” She turned away. Gazed into the night sky in the distance, broken by the outline of the grand, the glorious, House. “Arann, how many of the four who now desire the title will survive the struggle to gain it?”

His silence was her answer; it was an honest silence. She waited, gaze still upon her home, her life’s work. And then she turned her back upon it, to look once again at the handful of men and women who were Jay’s.

“I believe that two will not survive. Two will. And those two—whoever they are—will lend their strength and their expertise to the House.”

“While they circle like vultures.”

“No. They will accept their defeat. They play the edges of a game that could easily destroy what they desire. The Kings have turned a blind eye toward the struggles of the House—of any of the Houses—when there is a question of succession. Such small wars serve their purpose in a fashion. While such ambition is turned toward one of The Ten, it cannot be turned toward the Thrones.”

“Only the god-born rule the Empire.”

“Indeed, that is true. Now. But remember your history; before the god-born, who ruled?”

It was Teller who said, quietly, “The Blood Barons.”

Henden cast its long, long shadow. Even the mention of the demon kin was somehow less threatening than the mention of the men who had made the Empire their battleground for so long that all of its traditions and festivals still spoke of the scars.

“B-but—But that was before the god-born. The Twin Kings can’t be unseated now.”

Her smile was bitter. “Why do you say that, Arann?”

“Because—they’re the children of
gods
.”

“They are not, except by cunning and the consensus of the ruled, more powerful than the magi. They are not more powerful than the talent-born. On a whim, the former bard-master of Senniel College could have forced them to dance to any tune she desired to call. They are not, as the scions of gods, among the most powerful of their kind and—in case it has escaped your notice, and it probably has—they pay for the immortal blood that burns in their veins; their lives are measured in shortened years.

“And you forget, god-born or no, had the first of the Twin Kings not been the children of Veralaan, had they not possessed the blood of the ‘rightful’ ruler of these lands, they would have received no aid; The Ten would not have joined them in their crusade. The Ten were not god-born,” she added softly, “but they believed, then, that blood mattered more than achievement. Or that it was part of achievement; I confess that I do not understand the niceties of those ancient beliefs, having benefited in a fashion from their demise.” Her smile was brief and plain.

“You expect much, Arann, from the god-born; they are, after all, mortal. But I digress; The Ten serve a purpose in many, many ways. The ambitious and the powerful are drawn to the Houses like moths to flame. Some achieve greatness within their confines; others achieve merely death. The Kings reign above, and beneath us the rest of the Empire unfolds. We are suspended in a manner of our choosing. We take a risk; we bear the cost.”

“But not alone,” Teller told her quietly.

She raised a brow. She had not addressed Teller directly.

“You called us; we came. Jay’s never called us here, and she comes all the time.”

“You are perceptive; I expect no less. Do you know who you will be, if you survive this war, Teller ATerafin?”

His smile was slight. “Teller ATerafin.” And sweet.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” The Terafin replied. Her voice deepened a moment, her expression shifting in the light as she turned again. “Survive,” she whispered. “Haerrad saw clearly when he came to you.”

Teller nodded.

“When I was younger—much, much younger—I felt that friends were a weakness. Had I the choice, I would have gathered men like Duvari around me, and no others.”