soft word as he touched the stone in his pocket. “And now,” he said, in an entirely different tone of voice, “I will go to my Rachele. I will offer her what comfort I can, and I will tell her that I will personally see that whoever—whatever—is responsible for our loss will pay.”
Chapter One
7th of Fabril, 428 A.A.
Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas
THE SERVANTS WERE, as always, efficient. They moved in silence through the back halls, and with grace through the public halls, tending to their daily duties with the starched exactitude the Master of the Household Staff expected. But if one knew them well—and living in the Terafin manse for half one’s life allowed opportunity for plenty of observation—it was clear they were excited. There was an expectant air to their work.
Some of that work involved the rooms occupied by The Terafin, although at the moment they were empty on what Gabriel ATerafin referred to as a technicality. Everyone else referred to it as “Jewel being difficult.”
Jewel found the transition from member of the House Council to Head of the House to be daunting. She’d expected daunting. She’d worked herself out of hours of sleep while staring at the ceiling in the room she’d occupied since she’d first set foot in the manse thinking about how to deal with the Kings, their Astari, and the mages who served them. She had, thanks to the unsuccessful assassins, managed to avoid Avantari and its many Courts since she had been acclaimed, but the time for such avoidance was rapidly drawing to a close.
Speculation about the intentions of the Kings—and the Lord of the Compact—was dire; given the constant press of emergencies that now constituted her life, Jewel avoided those discussions whenever possible.
She’d had less luck avoiding the bards of the bardic colleges, because at this point in her early tenure she had two in residence. They were young enough not to be master bards, and nervous enough—when they thought no one was looking—to be careful, but they were also charming bastards. They reported to Solran Marten, the Bardmaster of Senniel College. She, as anyone with the ability to form half a thought knew, reported to either the Kings, or the Queens if the Kings were otherwise occupied.
The Exalted were also uneasy with the newest in the line of Terafin rulers. The Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge had likewise expressed reservations. Hannerle was, at the moment, asleep in the West Wing, but when she wasn’t, her room was a silent battleground of anger, guilt, and fear. Haval could hide it all, of course; Hannerle couldn’t.
But again, all of these were things she’d expected.
What was unexpected was the sudden diffidence shown her by every servant in the manse. Every single one. Even Merry. Oh, she knew they’d always stretched all the rules of etiquette when they worked in the West Wing, making allowances—as Merry called them—any time the Master of the Household Staff was absent.
Since the day Jewel had left the Council Hall as The Terafin—with only two abstentions in the vote, those being Haerrad’s and Rymark’s—the servants had been uniformly perfect in all of their interactions. They replied with actions, and only spoke if words were utterly necessary; they no longer smiled, nodded or—gods forbid—laughed. They looked at Jewel only if she gave them a direct order, but absent that order, they looked through her or past her. It didn’t matter whether or not the intimidating Master of the Household Staff was even present.
Jewel felt like a ghost in her own home.
You are not Jewel Markess ATerafin, the Winter King said. He could; he was at a distance somewhere in the wild garden. You are now an office; you are the reason House Terafin exists; its leader and its rule. It is not an office you made, Jewel. It existed before you, and it will exist when you die. The fact that you fill it lends color, personality, and direction to that office—but it is not you, and it is not entirely yours. They understand, even if you do not, the respect that office must be given if the House is to endure.
She didn’t bother to answer. Instead, flanked by six of the Chosen—and Avandar, who stood closer to her than her own shadow at high bloody noon—she examined the library’s shelves. She had always loved this library, with its long, empty tables and its high, high ceilings which nonetheless let in light, be it sun or moon. But she had come to