public act was to acknowledge her brother and her disgraced father’s wives.”
“And the Serra Teresa?”
“She is also in the city.”
Jewel’s eyes widened. “In Averalaan?”
“Yes. I have introduced her to Solran Marten; she is to become a Senniel student.”
Jewel’s smile was unfettered. “I’d love to see her. She’s well?”
“She is still recovering, but she is physically whole.” He let the smile fade. “I wish I could have come just to bear happy tidings.”
The Terafin exhaled. “So do I. What unhappy tidings do you bring?”
“On the road to Averalaan, we were met by Evayne. She was not best-pleased that I was not to be found in the city; she felt that my arrival was tardy, and time was short.”
Jewel stiffened. For a moment, the weight of her title informed the whole of her bearing. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“So she said. She asked me to convey an item of import to you.” He removed the pack from his shoulder and untied its strings. He was aware of the intensity of her stare. Jewel had never been still or quiet; she moved, often restlessly; she pushed hair out of her eyes whenever a conversation troubled her—often when the hair was not in those eyes. But when she held herself in like this, she silently demanded motion and movement from those around her.
The only motion he could offer, he did: he drew the box from the faded, travel-worn bag. It was as it had been: small enough to be a modest jewelry box for a person of middling means. It was not terribly fine; wood had been engraved with runes and symbols, but none of these were obviously portentous.
She stared at it as he held it out to her. “What—what’s in it?”
“I did not ask. You may have noticed that Evayne does not often answer questions. Certainly not questions which are easily answered.”
She looked at him in mild confusion.
“You could open it,” he replied, his voice and smile teasing.
It drew a smile from her. He guessed that she had done very little smiling since she had taken the Terafin Seat.
“Have you eaten?”
“No. I was told that it was a matter of utmost urgency that I deliver this into your hands; I felt it necessary to settle the Serra Teresa before I came. I do not think she would thank me for bringing her to the head of one of the most powerful Houses in the Empire with no pause for a bath and fresh clothing.”
“I don’t think she would have cared.”
“Not when she realized The Terafin and Jewel Markess were one and the same, no. But Averalaan will be strange enough, difficult enough, in the months to come.” He glanced again at the fountain. Jewel had not removed the box from his hands.
She closed her eyes. To her domicis, she said, “Avandar, go to the kitchens, and to the West Wing. Tell Adam, Angel, and Terrick that they are to make preparations to travel.” To Kallandras she whispered, “Hold the box for a moment.”
Kallandras heard raw fear in her voice. Not in her words; she had enough mastery to mask it there. She made her way back to the table, to a book that lay open upon it. Lifting her hands above the page, she signed; it was not in a language Kallandras recognized.
“APhaniel.”
Meralonne’s pipe had gone out. He did not light it. “I will keep watch, Terafin.”
She took the box from Kallandras’ hands and drew it toward her chest; she did not attempt to remove the lid. “They’re coming,” she whispered.
The wind’s voice rose in a howl, but it held no anger and no fear. Kallandras felt it; it was strong enough he could have danced—or fought—in its folds. The ring on his finger was cool. He glanced at Meralonne, saw the slender edge of a smile on the mage’s face.
Into the library, from between the trees that served as shelves—flew two large creatures: predatory cats, in size and color. One was white, one black; were it not for their wings, they might have looked natural and dangerous.
Their wings, Kallandras thought, and their voices. They attempted to land on the same spot ten feet from where The Terafin stood, collided, rolled; their voices devolved into a series of hisses and growls that often contained no words.
The Terafin looked . . . resigned. The presence of flying, talking predators did not seem to invoke any of the wonder the bard himself felt. “Snow. Night. We have guests.”
They paused in their not-so-playful attempt to shred