Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (21 page)

Not to Akalia that his thoughts turned.

He almost walked away. His hand found the stone railing that had been replaced three times in the history of the guild—the last, years before Morretz' birth in a distant, border village—and he steadied himself. He had agreed to help Finch ATerafin, and she had been grateful.

But he had not expected the arrival of Teller ATerafin.

Teller had not waited by the Terafin Shrine, as Finch had done; his visit had been an act of indiscretion that Morretz was certain Finch would not have condoned.

The domicis had been summoned to the doors of The Terafin's library by one of The Chosen. Possibly the last person he expected to see when he opened those doors— from a safe distance, with the expedient use of cautionary magic—was a slightly winded Teller. His build, a product of a very underprivileged youth, had changed little over the years, and he maintained that peculiar hesitancy in speech that one associates with shyness—itself a youthful trait; both beguiled.

But he was not young, not in the way that Morretz had been before he had lost his earlier life. Not in the way he had been afterward either, unable to sleep or eat or speak without rage and fear dogging every physical gesture. Teller's peculiar quiet seemed undisturbed by the wrongs done him; unperturbed enough that he failed, when he achieved a position of power, to do those wrongs to others in the name of justice. Yet he was scarred.

These were the wounded that Jewel had gathered. Of all the things about her besides the obvious—the gift she was born and cursed with—they were proof of a singular talent: the ability to find the very little gold buried beneath the rubble. Her den were like the gemstones found in the dark and intricate maze of stone tunnels.

And they did not come to
him
.

"The Terafin is currently involved in study for negotiations of the merchant Crown route through the Western Menorans. Even those who have been granted permission to risk visiting the library without an appointment have not been granted leave to disturb her today." It was meant as a rebuke; it was something that anyone who worked for Jewel should have been aware of.

But Teller nodded slowly. "I have very little to add to her studies," he said. "But I need to speak with you."

"ATerafin," he replied, "my role here—"

"Finch asked you for help."

"I see. Yes."

"You said you would. Help."

"Indeed."

"It has to be now."

"ATerafin—"

Teller shook his head, his eyes wide, the expression on his face unguarded. Hard to look at.

"We don't have time."

It was always a matter of time.

"And if we wait too long, it'll be too late. They don't know," he said at last. After a moment, "they" resolved itself in Morretz' mind as "the den"; Finch, Carver, Angel, Arann, and Jester. "And I wouldn't tell you if I didn't think you needed to hear it—but I do. Jay left."

"There is not a member of this House that is not aware of that," Morretz replied, cool and dry.

Teller took that, swallowed it, found strength in the distance. "Jay accepted what wasn't much of a choice, and she left. She said her good-byes. No," he raised a hand as if it were a weapon or a shield. Teller, who never interrupted and rarely spoke. "Let me finish," he said, into Morretz's muted surprise. And he did the worst thing possible; he met the domicis' pale eyes, and he looked away.

There are men who look away when they lie; their eyes glance slightly off the cheek or the forehead, evading the pinning grace of sight. Morretz had learned, quickly, to understand this shorthand of expression. But there are men who glance away to spare you their knowledge of your reaction when they speak—or are about to speak—a truth that they know will cause pain.

Very, very little in Morretz's life could cause him pain. But not nothing; he was alive, after all. Still alive. He might have told the younger man that his concern was baseless. But he didn't believe it.

Years of training made him graceful. He let Teller ATerafin speak.

Aware that he would never let a man approach him with a knife, never let him strike the certain blow, with such bitter equanimity, although the knife's cut would be far, far less terrible. He
knew
what he would hear.

"The Terafin's going to die while Jay is gone."

Morretz was not surprised.

He should have been. No one had ever said that of The Terafin, except during the House War that had made them—domicis and lord—what they had become. But those words were separated from these, for these were true.

He knew they were true. His honesty was of the type that made him acknowledge The Terafin's particular silence, the barriers she had erected against his knowledge, as if ignorance would lessen pain. He had never spoken of it, because he waited for her, always for her, although the knowledge had lingered like a baleful ghost from the moment The Terafin had made clear her desire to select an heir.

"How?" he asked softly. Coldly.

Teller met his eyes again. Held them, this time. "We don't know. Not even Jay knew for certain. But—"

"But?"

His gaze dropped again. "People—in power, like her— they have to trust people." His lips thinned. Twisted. "Sometimes it doesn't pay out."

"Someone she trusts is going to betray her?"

Teller shrugged. "I don't know. Jay didn't know. The Terafin is one of the smartest people I know; hard to imagine anyone else
could
kill her. But… Jay saw it."

"Teller—"

"Jay has never been wrong. She misses things. Things happen that she doesn't see beforehand. But what she
does
see…" He had the grace, again, to look away. "The Terafin is important to us. Not because we know her—we don't. Because she's the House. She's never lied to us; she's never screwed us over. She—she
deserves
to wear the Terafin sword."

"But, Morretz—she knows."

"She?"

"The Terafin. She knows. She knows she's going to die; she doesn't know how. If she knew how—but it doesn't matter; what matters is she
knows
. She knows Jay, she knows seers, she knows there's no point in spending the time trying to prevent her death when she can—"

The flow of words stopped as he caught up with them.

Silence. Silence was comfortable.

"They're alike, Morretz. That's why she chose Jay. And Jay left
us
behind to guard the House." Teller looked suddenly far younger than his years. Miserable. Terrified. "Because
she
trusts
us
. But we always let her do the shark walking, and now when we need to,
we
don't know how. We fail, we fail her. And more."

"If you don't go to the Guild of the Domicis now, I'm not sure we'll survive when—when The Terafin goes down. And if we don't survive, neither does anything she's spent her life as lord here building."

"ATerafin."

Something in Morretz's voice surprised them both.

Teller stilled; the obvious panic slowly submerged itself beneath the surface of nondescript eyes.

"You are talking about the death of my lord."

Teller bowed his head. He turned without another word and walked away, but when he reached the end of the hall, he turned back to where Morretz stood guard, against all truth, and he offered the domicis a bow.

Morretz returned nothing.

But the following morning, with strict instructions to the Chosen who guarded her, Morretz left The Terafin to make an early report to Akalia, the woman in whose hands the Guild of the Domicis had been so carefully nurtured for decades.

And he paused, in front of a door that had been the start of his life; gripped an old stone railing, and left some of his skin on its porous surface before he chose to enter the building.

Just as, exactly as, he had chosen years before.

He walked, for a moment, not into the horrible necessity of the present, but the uncertainty of the past:

The man was old.

The building that contained him—as most buildings fortunate enough to be situated on the poverty free political stronghold that was the Isle—had changed little over the length of both of their lives, and Morretz knew that, should he be granted some brief recess from Mandaros' Halls long after his death—and should he choose that recess to come here—the building, like the institution itself, would be fundamentally unchanged—a monument that defied fashion, that embraced tradition. It was not overtly fine, but the details were there if one knew how to look. The foundations were solid, and no less enduring was the framework, • from joists below the floor to the broad ceiling beams beneath which students, in varying degrees of discomfort, learned the limitations of the life they hoped to someday lead.

Less than a handful would live up to that hope; as the illusions were pared away, so, too, was the desire.

Some came to this guild who were too passive, who confused service with the abrogation of responsibility, men and women so crippled by the fear of decision that they wanted a life in which all choices were made for them—as if that were ever possible, as if anyone could truly escape the responsibility of their lives.

They learned.

Had he been one of those men? The domicis were never required to examine their past, searching for answers to their voyage here amidst the emotional debris. But required or no, there was about the debris of one's own life both attraction and repulsion; enough so that he visited it with morbid fascination as the unchanging halls that housed the domicis brought him into momentary contact with his youth.

This had not been the first place in which he labored as an apprentice. But something in his tenure here had provoked more than simple intellect, no matter how passionate that intellect might be; it had touched something deeper, something so carefully buried beneath the horror of memory that he had assumed it safely dead.

Belief.

"You have all learned—and I see it in all of you so don't waste your breath or my time denying it," no one doubted which of the two was the more valued, "that there is no justice in the world. Power rules."

He had learned something equally valuable: You could only be hurt if you cared. Care nothing, care for nothing, and the world passes above you, beneath you, around you.

Silence.

Ellerson's silences were akin to another's punctuation; break them at the wrong place and you not only courted obvious disapproval, which was usually given anyway, but you committed the greater crime of breaking the stream of thought that led to the words themselves. And they had learned to value the words, so they waited.

Of course, he was a temperamental man, and often inserted a silence as a form of question.

The difference between punctuation and question was length and a certain chill if silence lasted too long.

Into the chill, a younger voice said, "Power rules. Did we spend three years studying just to come back to such basic truth? We've chosen to serve," the younger man added, "and most of us have chosen to serve people of power."

"Indeed. You have all chosen to serve people of power."

"Not all."

"Not all of you have chosen to serve people whose power is purely political or financial, but you have chosen the avenue of power that best represents your own interests."

Silence.

"You," he said, pointing at one of the older men, "have chosen to serve the maker-born. And you, their distant cousins: the painters who rule the academy on the Isle. You have chosen to serve the magi, and although they do not rule the Isle, they are unarguably among the most powerful men and women upon it.

"The only men and women you will never serve are the Kings and Queens; all others might come, if not now, then in a decade or two, through the doors of the guild itself, seeking service and not merely suitable people to employ.

"You have chosen to serve them. To place yourself in the path of their power; to accompany its rise or its fall, and to prevent that fall where at all possible. We have seldom spoken of ethics, of morality; we have spoken of the oaths and the service itself, as if those oaths and that service are blind in their binding."

No one but a fool would have spoken then. No one.

Morretz had never thought of himself as a fool. "If we had come seeking power, we could have stayed where we were. Not a man among us has not set foot on that path."

The piercing glare of Ellerson of the domicis made him feel—on that day—as if he were alone in the room, a supplicant, a student from the streets who thought only of a roof over his head and a permanent home. "And yet you choose to serve it."

"Yes."

"What does that acknowledge, Morretz?"

The room collectively exhaled. The man who was teacher and distant friend had not chosen to descend to the cool mockery that was often his trademark when, from a distance of wisdom and experience, he looked down upon his students.

"Acknowledge?"

"Yes. You of all people have reason to distrust the powerful."

He was silent, but not for long. To speak of power was in all ways to speak of things personal, but having begun, he had chosen to take that risk. "I cannot speak for the others," he said at last. "I am not as subtle as they; I choose to serve the politically powerful and in my time, if the gods are willing, I will serve one of The Ten. But speaking for myself, I can say that I would not serve just any of The Ten. I would not give my service and my life's work to a lord whose desire for power did not in some ways mesh with my own desires, my own goals."

"And you value your goals so highly? Is not your chosen life to
serve
? Is it not the goals of the lord you choose to serve that should be paramount?"

"The lord I have chosen to serve is the guild," Morretz replied evenly.

Ellerson snorted. "Evasion."

"Yes. Evasion. You ask a simple question, and you've spent years telling us that there are no simple answers. I will not demean your teaching by attempting to provide them."

The old man's brow rose into his hairline, and then he did something that Morretz had never seen him do in this room: he laughed. The sound carried to the heights of stone and wooden beam, the echo of his mirth remarkable for its resonance, the richness of its changing tones. It deprived him of years and dignity.