Battle: The House War: Book Five (91 page)

“It is.”

“You know who the donor is.”

“I do.”

“And you will not tell me.”

He turned, full, to face her, the book apparently forgotten. She had the instinctive urge to take a step back; it was overmastered by a second, stronger instinct: here, now, in front of this angry man, she must stand her ground as if he were the Winter Queen herself, at the head of her gathered host.

Here, now, she could. She did not even blink as his sword came into his hand; instead she moved to stand between the mage and the table; the blue glow of the blade’s edge glimmered across the surface of her skirts. The Chosen drew swords; she lifted one hand in their direction although she didn’t take her eyes off Meralonne.

“A long time ago,” she said, when he did not immediately attempt to run her through, “the gods walked this world. They lived among us.”

He said nothing.

“Above us,” she amended. “They did not live as Lords over your kin.”

“No. Not even the gods would have dared.”

“But the gods left, Meralonne. The gods
left
. They aren’t here, but they fear the Sleepers—who are. The Sleepers cannot harm the gods.”

He said nothing, but his sword fell. It did not vanish.

“I understand what we have to fear. I understand that. But I don’t understand
why
they sleep. I understand that the gods
left
us, but I’ve never understood why. We couldn’t force them to leave. Even when the Cities of Man were at the height of their power, we could not kill the gods.”

Jewel, be cautious.

He can’t kill me here,
she replied—and the minute the words were thoughts, she
knew
they were true. She wondered if he would try.

“They wished to preserve
you
,” he replied. Winter voice, anger. “They warred for the entirety of their existence, shattering and remaking the landscape. There were very few enclaves in which your kind could grow; you were pets. You were favored, intelligent pets.

“But you were made in a way that the wise did not understand, and some part of your frail, animal forms contain eternity.”

The air was cold. The wind curled through the fall of his hair. He was beautiful. “If mankind had a god that they could call a parent—and the gods were
not
their parents in any mortal sense of the word—he was nameless. Faceless. He was called Mystery by many; his counsels were opaque, his advice, barbed. Yet he was respected by the gods; he did not seek to encroach upon what was theirs.

“In the world before yours, that was rare. He owned no land; if his touch was felt at all beneath the ceaseless skies, it was subtle. He was like your gardeners; he created beauty but owned none of it. Or so we thought. I would have killed him,” he added, voice low. “If I had known, I would have killed him.”

“Meralonne—”

“But I did not know.”

“And now?”

“If I could travel as my former apprentice does, if I could bespeak time and move at whim through its currents, I
would
kill him. I would salt the earth upon which he once stood. I would offer my life as curse and seal for his doom.”

She said, without thinking, “He is not gone.”

“No. Of the gods, he is one of two who did not willingly sign the binding Covenant. They are both present, Terafin. The author of our misfortune and the god we were sent to kill.”

“The book—it’s the god’s flesh.”

His eyes narrowed. “Can you see that?”

“No,” she whispered. “It was a guess. Destroying the book won’t destroy him.”

“No. But I am now certain it is part of his plan. He meant the book to travel to you. He meant Adam to be here.”

“If the book is meant for Adam—”

“I did not say that, Terafin. You can read it; I cannot. I do not believe the writing is legible to Viandaran, either. But I offer the god no aid, and where I can, I will thwart him. Had I realized the source of this book, I would never have brought it here.”

“To where I can protect and safeguard it.”

“Yes.”

She had danced around the question and the suspicion so many times, once more seemed prudent. But the wind reached from his hair to hers, teasing out strands from the nets and pins that bound it. She could have sent it away; she didn’t.

She glanced at Gordon and Marave; they were tense, but they waited. They knew he could strike her down before they could interfere—but in this case, their knowledge was wrong.

“Why,” she asked, her hands by her sides, her chin lifted so that she might meet—and hold—his gaze, “are you not sleeping with them, Meralonne? Why do you labor here as a member of the Order of Knowledge?”

Jewel.

She didn’t answer. Neither did Meralonne.

The Chosen were rigid, but they were surprised. Avandar was not, but he wouldn’t be. Nor, she thought, would Celleriant, were he present. The cats knew. She was certain, at this point, that the
gods
knew; they had recognized Meralonne; they had called him by the name that only the immortals used. “Does Sigurne know?”

He inhaled once, deeply; when he exhaled, the sword was gone. The wind, however, was not; it flapped the pages at her back. “Yes, Terafin.”

“Has she always known?”

“No. Not when she first came to the Order as a reluctant apprentice, and not for years after. But she is Sigurne Mellifas, and her first master—the master of her choice, if such choices exist in captivity—was not mortal. He, like she, was a captive of the Ice Mage: a
Kialli
lord. He told her much about the world in the days of his youth; about the gods in their glory, and the firstborn. About the
Kialli
, and the nature of their choice.

“He spoke about the war between the gods. He told her the names of gods who perished in those ancient conflicts; she remembers all of them. He did not speak to her of her own kind, except where it was necessary to tell the larger tale. But to speak of the fall of
Allasakar
is to speak of things mortal: He therefore spoke of the man you call Moorelas. He spoke of the blade fashioned by gods and mortal Artisans, and of its purpose.

“He told her much, much more than the gods themselves might, if they deigned to be questioned.”

“But he served
Allasakar
,” Jewel replied. She used the god’s name, as Meralonne had done.

“Yes. You do not understand the complicated measure of their service; you do not understand the narrow, narrow line between love and hate, adoration and obsession. You do not understand the
Kialli
. Let me say only this: if a mortal child of sixteen could harm
Allasakar
because of the knowledge of one bound demon, the god no longer deserved dominion over the Hells; he deserved destruction.”

“Did he speak of the Sleepers?”

“Yes. But not as you know them. He spoke of the firstborn. He spoke of Ariane, the White Lady, one of the only children born to the gods who could hold the roads against
Allasakar
. But he did not speak of the cause of their enmity; it was great, Terafin, and no concession on the part of the Lord of the Hells will ever quench it while he lives.

“To destroy him, to banish him, to sever his ties with the world into which she was born—and in which, ultimately, she was doomed to exist should the gods leave and the Covenant come into effect—she served the
gods
.” The bitter, bitter cold in his voice reminded Jewel of her youth in the streets of the twenty-fifth holding.

“And we served
her
. We served the White Lady. She commanded, Terafin, and we obeyed. It was our privilege. It was our reason for existence.”

His eyes were silver, and bright. His voice lost the edge of killing cold. His hair swept past his shoulders to fall in a moving drape down his back. She thought he would draw sword again, but no sword came to his hand. “She was as a god, to us, and she was deep in the councils of the nameless god.

“She was there when Moorelas’ sword was forged, and she paid the price it demanded; so, too, the gods. She gave it her blood and her name and her oath. Understand that all of the gods did; all but one.

“Imagine our dismay when it became clear that such a sword, such a weapon, was meant to be wielded by a
mortal
.” His tone of voice conveyed some of that dismay; he used the word mortal the way the Chosen might use the word
rabbit
, it seemed to contain so little sense. “A mortal.

“Nor was one found that could wield that sword. Many came, to be tested; the test was not a simple act. It was not a test of blood; it was not a test of lineage. A test of courage? A test of skill? No, not even that. It was not a test that the wise could comprehend. We were not privy to the methods of the test; the sword itself decided.

“And so we waited. We warred. We died and we conquered. The lands broke and changed beneath the feet of our armies, and we rode the crest of their shifting waves. But in time, a man arrived who could wield the sword, and he meant to wield it against
Allasakar
.

“He was mortal. The White Lady understood that the sword could not be wielded by any other hand, and she had waited long, in her own reckoning, for the sword to make its choice. But she did not trust mortals. She trusted the swordbearer’s intent, yes—but his competence? How could she?

“And so she came to the Princes of her court, and she chose from among them four who would journey at the side of Moorelas. Four. But we understood the whole of her intent by the time we reached the shadows cast by
Allasakar’s
vast and changing fortress. We understood that
Allasakar
was the only god who stood between the cleaving of two worlds; if he could be killed, Terafin, then the Covenant
could be
signed, and the gods could depart.

“And with the gods, the wilderness of the world would be sealed, and the firstborn—those born to and of the plane—would be banished into the hidden corners; even the White Lady herself.

“And mortals would be left to crawl across the husk of the world, digging in their dirt in
peace
. No more could the White Lady ride forth; no more could she take—and hold—the lands she desired. She would be a shadow of herself, and her lands, a tiny fraction of what they might otherwise have been.

“And she was
willing
to do this, to see her enemy destroyed. She herself would survive.”

Jewel said, “They were not.”

“No, Terafin. She commanded, and in this case, they
could not
obey. Obedience meant her destruction.”

“She is
not
dead.”

“No. But she is not what she was. They were willing to lose her in order to preserve her. They were willing to sacrifice the thing they held dear above all things. They knew her wrath would be great and endless.”

“And you were not.”

“I served the White Lady,” he replied. After a long pause, he added, “And I would serve. If she had commanded our destruction, none of us would have resisted. But she did not ask that. She asked us to lessen
her
. She asked us to destroy almost all of her power and her endless beauty.” He turned to the Chosen, which Jewel had not expected. “You serve your Lord. You have sworn your lives to the protection of all that she holds dear.

“Would you cripple her, if she commanded it? Would you break her legs and her arms?”

They were silent in the face of his words; they were only barely a question. They looked to Jewel. Jewel hesitated for a long moment, and then nodded.

Gordon did not choose to answer. But Marave stepped forward. “Yes. If she commanded it, I would obey.” She said it with a trace of defiance—but that trace ran through her entire personality like tempered steel.

“Why?”

“I trust The Terafin. I entrust her with my life. She is the whole of my duty. But I am
not
The Terafin, thank the gods. Her decisions, and their consequences, are
not
mine to bear. If I did not trust her—if I did not trust her absolutely—I would never have taken the oath. And if she commanded me to injure her—or cripple her—I would hate it, but I would trust that there was a reason for the command. Even if I couldn’t see a reason for it, even if none came to me—I would trust that there was one.”

Her answer, rather than annoying the mage, robbed him of words for a long, long moment. What was left in their wake was a slowly kindling smile. “Even so,” he said, his voice once again the voice of the mage who lived in—and served—the Order of Knowledge. He glanced, again, at Jewel.

“You have your answer,” he told her softly.

“Marave,” Jewel said. The Chosen nodded, waiting. “If I ordered the Chosen to do this thing, and Gordon refused, would he then be forsworn?”

Marave hesitated. It was not an obvious hesitation, but Jewel marked it. “The Chosen serve as a body. If the Chosen refused, if the Captains of the Chosen refused, we would all be forsworn. But if any one of us could achieve the task you set us, no, Terafin. We are the men and women you Chose. We are not all one thing or another. We were asked to serve with both thought and conscience; we are not simple House Guards.

“You are our Lord. But our oath to Terafin does not require that we give up our core beliefs in service to yours. We are free to speak, and we are free to disagree—at your behest. It is the foundation of the choice we are asked to make.”