“soft” colors. “I did. It was interesting, and not the norm for such affairs.”
“Did you note the young woman?”
Hectore nodded. He didn’t need to ask which young woman Andrei referred to; from the moment he was granted entry into the grounds and the outdoor reception, there had only been one woman of note. She wore a dress that Hectore could still remember if he paused to close his eyes: a thing that suggested all possible variants of the shade white, mixed with gold and the delicate black of mourning. It had not been particularly daring—and yet, it had. “Jewel ATerafin. She is Terafin now.”
The dress, oddly enough, had seemed more significant than the very large, very white winged cat that had sat, like a statue—a talkative one—by her side. Hectore knew he had seen the creature—but his memory would not conjure a concrete image; the woman in the dress, however, haunted his vision, like an afterimage burned there by unwary sight of the sun.
“Yes. In the weeks since she was acclaimed, she has survived no less than four attempts on her life.”
Hectore shrugged. House succession was always a tricky affair, especially if the House was one of The Ten.
“Not all of her assassins were reputed to be human.”
This, Hectore had not heard. “Why did you not inform me of this fact earlier?”
“It was barely possible to ascertain that it was, indeed, fact. The stories that have sprung up around that girl almost beggar the imagination—and a rational man would assume most lacked substance.”
“You, of course, being the definition of rational.”
“Indeed.”
“Andrei, I cannot run my life without you. You are aware of this, even if your modesty forbids open acknowledgment of that fact. If you do not, however, speak plainly, I will strangle you and consign myself to a life absent your competence.”
“The stories are true.”
“Pardon?”
“The stories are true, Hectore. She owns giant, winged cats—”
“If I recall correctly, the cats are not suitable as either guards or servants; far too cheeky.”
Andrei did not roll his eyes, but this clearly took effort. “—she rides a large, white stag that appears—and disappears—at whim.”
“Her whim?”
“Apparently so. She is served by someone the magi deem an immortal—a Hunter.”
“Hunter?”
“The Wild Hunt.”
“Andrei—please. I know you do not drink when you are on duty.”
Andrei inspected the roses; he liked them. Hectore did not care for roses, or any flowers that came with thorns. “It is said she stopped the rains on the first day of the Terafin’s funeral—and that, Hectore, you must believe.”
Hectore shrugged.
“But she did more—and this is not rumored, for reasons which will become obvious. She altered the structure of Avantari.”
“Impossible.” Hectore’s eyes narrowed as he turned to confront his most loyal and most necessary servant. What he saw in Andrei’s face stemmed the tide of his careless words, and left him only with the careful ones. Andrei was not—and had never been—a fool; his was a skepticism and cynicism that even Hectore found difficult at times. Hectore was not certain what it would take to convince Andrei of the truth of a rumor of that magnitude—but clearly, Andrei believed it.
“Were any of the assassins sent against her Astari?”
“Hectore, that is beneath you.”
“I am serious, Andrei. If what you have just said is true in any measure, the Kings cannot afford to let the girl live.”
“And yet, she does.”
“Why, in your opinion?”
Andrei’s silence took on a different quality as he considered the man he had served for much of his life. “She is,” he finally said, “The Terafin. The death of a reigning member of The Ten is always destabilizing. The fact that her predecessor’s death occurred at the hands of a demon adds to the danger. Recent attacks on the current Terafin are also demonic, which makes clear that the demons consider her a primary—possibly the primary—threat.
“It can safely be assumed that what demons want and what the Kings want are not the same.”
Hectore had made the Araven fortunes by relying on a mixture of instinct and natural shrewdness. And by, admittedly, a certain brash arrogance and a willingness to take risks to get what he wanted. The problem with many of his opponents was that their definition of what Hectore wanted was so parochial and so narrow. Many of the visitants to this particular funeral were such men—and women. They were here to show their devotion to Araven and its merchant trading wealth. They would not believe that Hectore was distraught over the death of a granddaughter, as he had so many of them.