Taller, prouder, and—to Jewel’s eye—crueler in seeming.
She forced herself to keep her eyes on the steward; she asked no questions, and made no comments.
* * *
Duvari was, of course, waiting for Jewel in the Hall of Wise Counsel. Sigurne Mellifas was also present; she looked both weary and alert. Five minutes with Duvari could easily account for that level of weariness, but in this case, that was wishful thinking on Jewel’s part. The steward announced The Terafin; the Swords spread out along the back wall, leaving Avandar, Teller, Meralonne, and Shadow standing at the foot of a long blue runner that led to the dais upon which the Exalted were seated.
Jewel, mindful of Amarais’ prior behavior, tendered the Exalted a perfect obeisance. She held it until the Mother’s Daughter bid her rise. The Mother’s Daughter was not old, but at this moment, looked it. Her golden eyes were ringed with dark circles, and her lips, creased deeply at the corners.
“We were both alarmed and concerned when we received word of your cancellation of our last audience. What caused your absence, Terafin?” she asked, coming directly to the point. The new point. The pillars, the floors, and the unmentioned statues now seemed to be of lesser concern.
Jewel had intended to dismiss her absence as a House affair—an emergency; given that it was semi-public knowledge that she had been targeted by assassins five times in the last few months, it was almost plausible. Instead, she found herself saying, “If we might wait upon the Kings and the Queens? The Ten meet in Avantari today, and the explanation required might take some time.”
This was not to the liking of the Exalted of Reymaris. “The Kings are also extremely busy.”
“Understood, Exalted.” She did not, however, answer the question; she chose to wait.
Duvari walked to Sigurne’s side; they conversed briefly. In the silent room, none of their words reached Jewel. This surprised her; if silence was used as a defensive precaution—and it was—it was seldom used in such an obvious way; not in this room.
“APhaniel,” the guildmaster finally said.
“I consider it safe,” the mage replied. He looked bored. He was not, however, holding his pipe.
Duvari spoke to Sigurne again; Sigurne looked as pleased at the exchange as any notable man or woman of power in the Empire might. But if Duvari was not satisfied—and in this room, he seldom was—he nodded.
The carved reliefs along the back of the room began their slow fade, announcing in silence the arrival of the Kings and Queens. They entered the room flanked by two men and two women who were dressed as minor aides, wearing the gray that characterized the Swords, but absent the tabard and obvious armor. They were, in Jewel’s opinion, Astari.
The Queens offered Jewel a shallow bow, which surprised her; the Kings confined themselves to a stiff, minimal nod, which did not. They took their thrones.
Jewel turned to the Exalted of the Mother. “My thanks, Exalted,” she said, meaning it. “And my deep apologies for absenting myself from our last meeting. I was indisposed in such a way that I was not aware of the passage of time, and were I, I was nonetheless not in a position to attend.” She drew breath as they waited, watching her.
She placed a hand on Shadow’s head when she caught the twitch of his ears from the corner of her eye; she did not take her eyes away from the god-born and the Queens. “In the estimation of Levec, I was felled by the sleeping sickness.” She couldn’t tell if this was news to them or not; she assumed that word had reached Duvari through Devon.
“He woke you?”
“No. It was not necessary.”
“It was not possible,” Shadow hissed.
She felt Avandar’s anger. The god-born, however, did not seem annoyed by the interruption.
“Without the intervention of healers, the sleepers do not waken.”
“One has,” Jewel replied calmly. “She woke shortly before I woke.”
The Kings glanced at Duvari, who nodded. “Are we to understand from this that you had some hand not only in your own waking, but in theirs as well?”
“Yes.”
“We await your explanation.”
“The sleeping sickness has, on occasion, been called the dreaming plague. Given that the sleepers, when wakened by healers, have no memory of their dreams, I’m not certain why. But reason aside, the second name is the more appropriate. I’m not certain how the victims were chosen—I know only that they all dwell within Averalaan.”
“It is the only distinguishing feature; there is no uniformity of location, age, or