Skirmish: A House War Novel Read online

  “He is not much younger than you were, when you first became involved with Terafin.”

  “He looks younger than I felt at the time.”

  “They always do. I cannot tell you how young you all look to me, and I know what I was doing at your age. Will he start soon?”

  “Yes. Just as soon as Daine answers my question.”

  Daine now squared his shoulders and gained two inches of height. “I’m here,” he told his den leader, “because I want to see what Adam is doing. I know he’s different. I know I can’t do what he does—if Levec can’t do it, I’m surprised anyone can. But we have no idea how far this will spread, and I want to be familiar with what it does. And with what he does.”

  Jewel offered no further argument. The damage was already done, and it was Haval’s guess that Daine also lived in this wing, which made travel between the wing and the healerie vastly less suspicious than it might otherwise have been. “Adam.”

  Adam nodded and silently took one of Hannerle’s hands in his; Daine took the other. They both closed their eyes almost simultaneously. Haval had seldom seen the healer-born at work; he had certainly seen his share of doctors, but doctors didn’t have the peculiar ability to draw memory and knowledge from the minds of those to whom they were ministering.

  He watched. “You understand that Hannerle is not likely to evince gratitude when she wakes in a strange bed?”

  “Yes. But that’s not my problem.”

  “It may well be, if you insist on having your dress made on time.”

  She chuckled at that. It wasn’t forced. She even walked closer to the bed, and after a moment, Haval joined her. “How angry would she be?” she asked in soft Weston.

  Haval did not choose to mistake her meaning. “It would break her heart,” he replied.

  “And will you?”

  “Break her heart?”

  Jewel nodded.

  Haval didn’t answer. He watched the rise and fall of his wife’s chest; watched the play of magelight over her pale hair. Her skin was sallow and her wrinkles more pronounced, she’d lost so much weight. She wasn’t fond of strange rooms, but she would wake in this one, if she woke at all.

  Haval knew Jewel well. He knew that her inexplicable absence from her den, her House, and the Empire, had made changes in her; he was not certain how deep those changes were, or how dangerous. As always, he was curious; curiosity was the one weakness, the one appetite, that he struggled to deny. He could control it, but he could never entirely banish it; it troubled him, moved him, angered him; it brought him to life. It defined half of who he was. But Hannerle defined the other half, and he had managed, over decades, to hold those two halves in such perfect balance they looked whole.

  That balance had faltered.

  He wasn’t certain when, but knew why: Hannerle did not wake. She had—hopefully through no choice of her own—withdrawn from his daily life; she had left him in the silence of his own thoughts and the routines of his unmoored habits. He had cleaned, in her absence. He had cleaned like a compulsive, returned to her side to dribble water into her mouth before he once again moved away. She was the center of his orbit, but the orbit grew.

  Wake, Hannerle, he thought, watching her still face. Wake.

  They had built their life together. They had built the store and its varied clientele with care; they had built their connections to the merchants who traveled from the South and the West. They had started in a modest, rented space and had graduated into their own building. Children had not come, and that had been the one blight in Hannerle’s existence; it had not overly troubled Haval. He understood all the ways in which children were a burden; they colored the world, and they made it vastly more dangerous simply by breathing. They were a weakness that he did not want, but he would have accepted that weakness for the sake of his wife.

  She had been so young when he had first seen her; so young, so blunt, so assertive—and yet, so strikingly naive. It was a peculiar naïveté, however. He could—and frequently did—lie to her, but the lies she accepted as truth were often small. She didn’t demand truth; she simply demanded silence, once with the open palm of her hand. He could coax her; he could charm her; with care, he could manipulate her.

  She had, therefore, never known the full scope of his activities. But she had nonetheless understood what they encompassed. She did not ask him who he served, or how; she asked him, instead, to stop. To choose.

  He so chose. But her absence, and the certainty that the absence would never abate, had unraveled at least one lie—one observational infelicity that galled, because it was not an intentional lie; it was one that he had told himself, and even believed. It was their life, but he had built it, in its entirety, from his desire for, and comfort in, her. She had played no games, when she offered him the choice. What had she said?

  Ah.

  It’s not that I don’t trust you, Haval. I do. And I even know it’s foolish, you lie almost as often as you draw breath. But your lies aren’t cruel, they’re not petty; they’re even meant to comfort. It’s why I’ve always accepted them from you, when I’d’ve gutted any other man or woman who tried.

  But love, for me—it’s practical. It’s a practical thing. It’s not just passion or romance. Her hair had been dark, and her eyes dark as well; the whole of her expression seemed hollowed by shadows. He’d lifted his hands to touch her face and she’d flinched.

  I know there are no certainties. You could fall to disease. You could be carried from me in an accident. I accept those. When I promise you forever, it’s a promise of intent; I can’t control the moment of my own death. But I’d live with those fears. Do you understand? I’d live with them.

  The fears that I have now—I can’t live with. Accident, yes. Disease, yes. But not poison, not dagger, not sword, not unexplained disappearance. I can’t build a future with that much fear. I trust you; I don’t trust your enemies, whoever they might be.

  Hannerle...

  And I understand that it’s part of who you are, and if I had any intelligence, I’d’ve never fallen for a man like you at all. But you lied, when I wanted to believe you, and I chose to believe. I can’t choose that, anymore. I’m selfish, I’m greedy, and it’s not enough. If you can make a life with me now, make one. But make it a life that has no more fear in it than it must. I’ll leave my family. I’ll work, and work hard. I’m not an empty-headed girl; I know how to work.

  But I want to face a future with you, not alone. If that’s not what you want—if that’s not what you need—I’ll cry, and I’ll keep walking.

  Hannerle. Haval bowed his head. He had chosen the life she’d offered. He loved that life. But that life, without her, was not his. He accepted it, standing in the Terafin manse, surrounded by Jewel’s den. Had he not met Hannerle, had he not inexplicably fallen in love with her, he would no doubt have been dead these past fifteen years, and not peacefully.

  Hannerle could not live with fear.

  Haval could. Until Hannerle, all of life had been a game of fear and chance, but it had satisfied his curiosity and his intellect.

  She stirred. He was uncertain how much time had passed. Her eyelids began to flicker, as they sometimes did when she slept or dreamed. Her mouth moved, her lips moved. He understood, then, that she would wake.

  He glanced at Jewel and found, to his surprise, that she was watching him, not his wife.

  Hannerle’s eyes flickered open. Her lips changed shape, falling into the frown that habitually started mornings in which she’d slept unexpectedly late. She lifted her arms, or would have; they were both attached to hands that were held by two different men. Adam and Daine opened their eyes as she tugged her hands free and pushed herself up on the bed. It didn’t last long.

  “Haval?” she croaked, as her gaze fell upon the one person she expected to see when she woke. “Where am I?”

  He cleared his throat. “You are in a room in the Terafin manse, Hannerle. Can you not see young Jewel? She’s returned from the South
.”

  Hannerle looked at Jewel, which did nothing to ease her confusion. “I can see her, but why am I here?”

  The two healers stepped away from the bed; everyone did but Haval. He approached it, smiling at and for his wife. Knowing, as he took her shaking hands that he could calm her, that he could explain—because she was practical. But he knew, as well, that this was a respite. She would sleep again; it couldn’t be prevented. This was not a cure.

  Hannerle could not live with fear, but Haval had now accepted that he could not live with empty hope. Oh, he could endure it. But it wasn’t enough.

  “ATerafin,” he said, although there were three in the room.

  Jewel knew who he meant.

  “I accept your offer.”

  Chapter Three

  1st of Henden, 427 A. A.

  Terafin manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  TELLER ENTERED THE OFFICE of the right-kin half an hour before anyone but the House Guard or the men and women employed by Gabriel would. There were Chosen at the doors of Gabriel’s personal office, and Chosen at the doors to the outer office. Before The Terafin’s death, the numbers had increased from two to four; those numbers did not decrease in the aftermath.

  Barston, of course, helmed his great desk, as he had always done. Teller wondered if he would leave the office when Gabriel did, or if he would agree to serve whoever succeeded Gabriel. The Terafin chose his or her right-kin. Teller was no longer the new and nervous assistant, but in spite of his years in this office or its adjuncts, he always deferred to Barston in any circumstance that allowed it. Barston was still a stiff, formal man with a severe and unamused expression permanently fixed to his face. It had taken Teller a few years to understand the dryness of Barston’s humor; it had taken him more to learn the boundaries of what appeared his boundless support and devotion to the etiquette and rules that governed the patriciate in general, and Terafin in particular.

  He therefore bowed to Barston as he entered. Barston, of course, knew who it was. He looked up from his ledger of appointments. In the pale light that was not quite dawn and not quite night, he looked exhausted. “ATerafin,” he said briskly.

  “Barston,” Teller replied. Barston could seldom be moved to use Teller’s actual name. He had done so on some occasions in the past, but there was a comfort that had gone out of the House with The Terafin’s death, and it wouldn’t return until a new Lord took both sword and seat, if then.

  “There have been several requests for appointments, ATerafin.”

  Teller frowned. He now had an office—a small one—of his own within Gabriel’s domain; it had two doors, with some detailed carving at the height, and a window which was habitually open to let light enter. The glass could even be raised, to let breeze through. It was not raised at this time of year. His office was not so fine as Gabriel’s, and it was not nearly as important, but Teller had, over the past five years, been ceded some small part of Gabriel’s duties. He met with outsiders and visitors, often visitors of note, and he conveyed the gist of his many conversations to Gabriel. On occasion, when Gabriel deemed it necessary, Teller had reported to The Terafin directly.

  “Am I a fool to hope that those requests come from people outside of the House?”

  Barston raised one iron brow.

  “I’m sorry. If I weren’t on the House Council, Barston, I wouldn’t have absented myself from the office yesterday. But neither Finch nor I have any clothing appropriate for a funeral of this import.”

  “You have failed to ask who made those requests,” was Barston’s response.

  Because the office contained only Barston and Teller, Teller said, “How long can I continue to fail?”

  “In safety?” Barston replied, surrendering. “Until the day after the funeral services. You will not, however, want to avoid all of the requests.” He lifted a few papers—they looked, on brief inspection, like letters—and handed them to Teller. “Gabriel wishes to speak with you as well.”

  “He’s here?”

  “No.” This was said in a distinctly chilly way. “But he should be here very soon.”

  Teller nodded. He turned toward his office, and then turned back. “Barston, a question. If it is too bold or too naive, tell me.”

  “I am not the right-kin,” Barston replied. “My opinion, and I judge it likely that you wish me to give one, carries very little weight or significance. Remember that.”

  Teller nodded as if he believed any of it. He didn’t. But Barston did. He was not, in the parlance of the young in this House, an ambitious man. The whole of his ambition was this office and its running. He was very like a domicis that way.

  “Gabriel has said nothing about his hopes for the occupant of the House Seat.”

  “He cannot, as regent.”

  “Who would you favor, of the four likely contenders? Who would you advise us to offer our support to?”

  Barston was silent for a long moment. Too long; Teller was certain he wasn’t going to answer. He did not, however, remain silent. “Have you asked Jewel ATerafin who she intends to support?”

  “Yes.” Technically, this was true.

  “And her answer?”

  “She doesn’t have a good one.”

  “And she has been part of the House Council for well over a decade. If she does not have a suitable answer, then you cannot expect one from me.”

  Teller nodded.

  Barston surprised him. “Who do you intend to support?”

  “I don’t know. If Gabriel would declare himself, we’d throw our support behind him in a second.” This was also true. It pained Teller to lie to Barston.

  “Gabriel will not.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe,” Gabriel ATerafin said, “that I made my reasons clear on the floor of the Council Hall.”

  Teller hadn’t even heard the door open. He had the grace to redden; Barston didn’t even blink. “ATerafin,” he said, transferring his attention to the man who commanded the office, “there are a number of issues we must deal with.”

  “I notice you’ve lost an assistant,” Gabriel replied, without pausing.

  “He was not a suitable candidate given the current situation within the House,” was Barston’s rather severe reply. “And I feel that this is a very poor time to replace him.”

  “I can help,” Teller said, before Gabriel could answer.

  They both looked at him. Barston’s glare held very strong disapproval.

  “The opening of mail is not an appropriate duty for a member of the House Council, unless that mail is entirely personal.”

  Gabriel grimaced. “He is correct, of course. He is always correct. Come, Teller; we’ve a few minutes before the office is open, and I’m unlikely to find any other time in which to converse.”

  Teller rarely entertained Gabriel in his small office; if there was a matter of import Gabriel wished to discuss, he discussed it behind his own desk. But Teller had long since given up being nervous in the presence of the right-kin. Barston could make him more nervous. Teller had two chairs in front of his much smaller desk; he offered one to Gabriel, and Gabriel sank into it as if standing were truly painful. Teller took the other chair.

  “You have appointments with other members of the House Council,” Gabriel said, when Teller was seated. It wasn’t a question.

  Teller grimaced. “I don’t.”

  The regent of Terafin raised one brow.

  “Barston hasn’t made any appointments, given the funeral.”

  “Those were your instructions?”

  Teller’s brows rose, and Gabriel offered a tired chuckle in response. “I suppose that was an unfair question. Asking Barston for advice, however, is likely to be unproductive.”

  Teller had the grace to redden. And the strength to say, “Can I ask you for the advice that Barston considers inappropriate to offer?”

  Gabriel looked down at his hands, which Teller took as a no. He was therefore surprised when Gabriel spoke. “Has it not occurred to
you—collectively and individually—that you are in just as good a position to offer that advice as to receive it?”

  “I’m so new to the House Council I don’t—”

  Gabriel lifted a hand. It wasn’t den-sign, but it might as well have been. “You’ve worked in this office in one capacity or another since you came to the manse. You’re not the youngest member of the House to be appointed to the Council.”

  No. That was Jay.

  “Finch has likewise been heavily involved in the economic concerns of the House since that time. She’s worked under both Jarven and Lucille, and while I wouldn’t wish Lucille on anyone, Lucille is sharp, canny, and observant. Finch occupied Jewel’s role in merchant operations during Jewel’s absence, and did so both quietly and competently. It is not as if you come to the Council with no knowledge. You both understand elements of the patriciate and elements of the political entanglements that come with either ambition or monetary concerns.