and walked to Jewel’s right. He gazed up at the sky, his expression carefully neutral.
“I believe I am annoyed,” he told her.
“By?”
“The Wayelyn, of course. You will not put him off or have him sent to his own unremarkable manse, and you will not give me the tour I seek until his business is done.”
“No. If it is any consolation, it is not The Wayelyn that I fear to offend; it is Solran Marten. She has the ears of the Kings and the Queens, and the loyalty of the only master bard who can sing to the wind and hear its answer.”
“You speak of Kallandras.”
“Do I?” She smiled. “Yes. I wish you had brought him with you from the South.”
“Why?”
“Because he has some part to play in what is to come.”
“Of that,” the mage agreed, “I have no doubt whatsoever. Many, however, have some part—large or small—to play.”
“He’ll survive it.”
Meralonne raised a brow.
“Solran has often said that nothing can kill Kallandras; she’s certain she could send him alone and unarmed into the midst of a fully mobilized army, and he’d pass through the other side without injury.”
“She thinks highly of him.”
“She does. You do, as well.”
“Do I, now? Have I become so transparent?”
“No, APhaniel. Never that. Attend me,” she added, as a page approached her. “The Wayelyn and the bardmaster are now within the manse.”
* * *
The Wayelyn had not retired to his own manse to change; nor, apparently, had the bardmaster. Jewel found them in the rooms she had asked be prepared for the purpose of entertaining them, and refreshments had been served. Teller sat beside Solran, and the two appeared to be engrossed in the type of conversation that bored the titular head of Wayelyn; he brightened when he saw The Terafin standing between the open doors.
“My apologies,” she told them, nodding as she entered the room. “I was delayed. I hope you have not been kept waiting long.”
“We have,” The Wayelyn said, amusement filling the spaces in his lovely, low voice. “But the right-kin has opened the wine cellars of Terafin in recompense for our time, and, I must say, you do not husband your vintages with any great care; the wine is excellent.”
Solran’s glass, full, had not been touched; Teller’s had, but only in sufficient quantity to assure that The Wayelyn was not left to drink on his own. The bardmaster glanced at Shadow as he padded across carpet, taking very little care not to damage it. It was one of the ways in which the cats were expensive. He sniffed the glass on the table, his nose wrinkling. He then sneezed into it. Jewel inhaled sharply, but the bardmaster merely raised a brow.
“Do you sing?” she asked the great cat.
Shadow hissed.
“Shadow.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Jewel.
“It was not a challenge,” she told him. “Nor was it meant as an insult.”
“Then why did she ask?”
“She sings. She teaches the greatest minstrels of the Empire, and they answer—when they answer at all—to her.”
“I don’t answer to anyone.”
“Believe that we are aware of this,” she replied, with some exasperation. He had, in common with the felines kept as pets across the hundred, an ego that was at once ferocious and delicate. Crossing the room, she took a chair; Meralonne did likewise, pausing to tender both The Wayelyn and the bardmaster a bow. It was not an obeisance, but for a member of the Order, it was respectful.
She had chosen the reading room not because she might put distance between herself and her guests, but because of all of the rooms within the manse proper, it had the strongest magical defenses; no one listened here without her express permission unless they were also in the room. She had taken the liberty of invoking the extensive protections before the doors had opened. She was aware that the Astari had spies within her manse—Duvari’s reach was such that it could safely be assumed he had spies within any House of power. Let him work for the information she did not choose to hand him.
It would, no doubt, make him far less suspicious of said information when it at last crossed his desk.
Shadow sat heavily beside Jewel’s chair, staring at the bardmaster. She impressed Jewel; she met his gaze as if he were a wearisome child. “I remember a white cat,” she said, the words trailing up in question.
“You remember correctly. Snow is not present at the moment. This,” she added, “is Shadow. Of the three brothers—”