Battle The House War Page 0,278

“At my command.”

“And you have not chosen to summon them.”

“I have Shadow and I have Avandar; I have my Chosen. More is hardly required.”

He let the embers of his pipe burn down as he met and held her gaze, his silver eyes unblinking. Wind moved through the nets that bound her hair; her hair was so stiff, it didn’t cause any strands to land, as they often did, in her eyes.

“I will travel with you,” he finally said.

“No,” she replied, without pause for thought. “You will not. You are required here.”

“It will not be safe,” was his answer.

“If it is not safe for you, APhaniel—”

“I did not say the danger was to me.” He turned and offered Sigurne his arm.

Sigurne took it. To Jewel’s surprise, her hand, as it rested in the crook of the magi’s elbow, was visibly trembling. Although the Council session’s early start and the discussions that she had missed were upsetting, they were not nearly as unsettling as that visible sign of unease.

It is not lack of ease, Avandar said, watching as Sigurne and Meralonne at last left the chamber. It is fear.

* * *

The carriage was silent as it returned The Terafin and her right-kin to the Terafin manse. Shadow was not, but he was on the outside of the carriage, where he couldn’t be easily corrected. Jewel wondered if passing strangers considered his inappropriate whining—for he was whining, and loudly—amusing, frustrating or frightening. Fear was almost beyond her.

He almost killed you.

It was true. He had. In the wilderness of her contested lands, in the lee of the Warden of Dreams, he was the only one of the three to present a very real threat. Had Adam not been by her side, he would have succeeded. Where he might then have gone—if he had retained any freedom at all—she couldn’t say.

He was gentle with Ariel. He was affectionate with Teller and Finch; he treated Haval with something approaching respect. He was at his most difficult with Avandar, Celleriant, and his brothers, although he often stepped on Angel or Carver if they happened to be nearby.

Carver.

She swallowed. She had not lied to Meralonne; there was no decision demanded of her. Not by the Kings, nor by the Council of The Ten; not by her den or the House Council. But she had not been entirely truthful, either. She was waiting. She was waiting in the role of Terafin for some sign, some word, of her missing den.

She was waiting, with far more power and far more responsibility, as she had waited for some sign of Lefty in far poorer streets than the one along which the carriage ran.

It wasn’t the same, of course. She had known that Lefty was gone. She’d known it. But knowing in that bone-deep way hadn’t made the hope any easier to bear, because she did hope, and yet had none. She did not have the certain, talent-born sense that Carver would never return.

But Snow and Night had not returned. The Winter King had not. Nor had Celleriant. The odds that the two cats were actually looking were low. She imagined they would remember Carver between distractions, if then. But while there was any hope that Carver still lived, the Winter King would not return. He had not.

It was seldom that Jewel prayed; the silence of the carriage created a space for it. She closed her eyes and bent head. She wanted nothing so much as a glimpse of the Winter King, because—unless she commanded it—he would not return without Carver.

* * *

Teller returned to the right-kin’s office, and Jewel joined him; much of her daily schedule had been put on hold because of the indeterminate length of the Council meeting. Teller, in theory, had done the same with his own, but a message indicating his absence had clearly failed to propagate; there were people waiting in the office. Jewel froze in the door, until she ascertained that none of these people were the Master of the Household Staff.

Barston was already rising to tender her a perfect bow. “Terafin.”

“Barston. For the moment, the Council matters have been resolved to the satisfaction of The Ten.”

His smile was slight, but genuine. “Right-kin,” he said, to catch Teller’s attention. When there was anyone else in the office, he did not use Teller’s name.

Teller, about to retreat into his office, pivoted and turned back to his secretary’s desk.

“Patris Araven sent a message requesting an appointment.”

“I see. When did he request such a meeting?”

Barston cleared his throat.

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