Terafin’s personal chambers. She felt guilty that she had not done this during Gabriel’s tenure, because she was almost certain he would have been close to tears of joy—or at least relief. These were the small and precious moments lost when one failed to accept the fear of change, and she was determined to remember that fact.
Avandar’s brows rose higher when he saw the turn she had taken and followed her to the stairs; they descended as she ascended beneath the lights of the chandelier above. The halls were now clean and pristine; the drooping flowers, tear-stained letters and small portraits, some of no great skill and some, minor miracles, had been removed. There were very few signs of Amarais’ death—and the subsequent outpouring of grief and loss—within the manse itself. Jewel had, against custom and to the minor disapproval of her domicis—both of them—kept three of the small portraits; one was drawn so simply it would never be considered art, and two—well, two had been composed by Terafin-sponsored artists.
The rest had been buried with her, but gods knew the dirt didn’t need to see them, and Amarais couldn’t carry them with her when she crossed the bridge. She had no need of mementos now—but Jewel did. It would be nice to have something that she could place on a desk, a wall, or in a cabinet; most of her memories of the dead and gone she carried within her, where only words could express them.
As The Terafin, she was expected to reveal no such emotions.
She had the Handernesse ring about her neck on a slender chain; when she had time—if she ever did—she would have the band remade so she could wear it. Avandar, reliable as sunrise, disapproved, but no one else did. Rath’s sword was beneath her bed. She would move it later. She would commission a chest, much like the battered, heavy one that Rath himself had kept his past locked in, and she would eventually place it there, along with the battered iron box that she could not be moved to part with, much to Ellerson’s dismay.
But she had nothing of Duster, of Lefty, of Lander, or Fisher, because they’d had so little, and they had disappeared so abruptly. She wanted the few things she had that reminded her of the people that she had loved, and no amount of disapproval would sway her.
But this, this mounting of empty stairs, she could do. And there was a reason for it, beyond the obvious—that she was The Terafin now. The Winter King walked by her side, and if the House Guard thought it unusual, they didn’t blink and they didn’t say a word. Of all of the people who walked these halls at any hour of the day—or night—The Terafin was never stopped, never asked to state her business, and never questioned in any way.
Unless, she thought, grimacing, Duvari was on the premises.
The Chosen stood guard at the door—only two, because she was not, in theory, in residence. They moved to face her as she approached the doors, but they didn’t speak a word; she knew, the moment she was safely ensconced behind them, more Chosen, summoned gods only knew how, would appear, and the complement outside the door would number four; they would number at least four on the interior of the apartment. Given the day, probably more, unless she forbade it.
These were, however, the safest rooms in the manse, without exception. There were magical protections on the doors and walls that were strong enough they were visible to Jewel’s eyes. She tried to find them comforting, although they were a constant reminder of the fact that people she didn’t know were desperately trying to kill her. She found it less upsetting that people she did know were also trying to kill her because she didn’t like any of them, and she understood exactly why. It wasn’t personal.
“It is entirely personal,” Avandar said, in a clipped voice.
She laughed. She laughed, and she found the tension easing out of her shoulders, her face, the whole line of her body. “I guess I’ll have to find someone else to deal with my hair,” she told him.
“Pardon?”
“Ellerson is contracted to the den, not The Terafin.” She wandered through the library’s many shelves, gazing at spines, a full half of which she had trouble reading. Although these books comprised The Terafin’s personal collection—inasmuch as the head of the House could be said to possess anything truly personal—there were three archivists