The guards at the door were good; they didn't raise an eyebrow when the den stopped in front of them. The den was known to the House Guards; known to the House servants, known to the people who ruled and the people who served. Although it was true that birth had no place in House Terafin, it was also true that high birth helped; it gave prospective members the opportunity to learn, to gain the skills the House valued.

But people still loved a story, and Finch was aware that Jay and the den were a part of that story: they were the street urchins who were determined to Make Good. Whatever that meant. Rags to riches. She knew, because Carver still spent way too much time among the women in the servants' quarters, that the House quietly cheered them on; that they did what they could to make life easier and less bewildering.

She started to bow, thought better of it, thought better of it again, and stood there, in front of the two armed men. Teller took up the slack; he nodded gracefully at the guards.

"Roger," he said. "Albrecht."

They did not so much as smile, although the older man, Albrecht, nodded in return. He stepped aside, catching the door's great handle in a gloved fist.

It opened, and she stared into the home of the Terafin Council.

The hall possessed two tiers of seats to the North and the South; to the West and East were windows of such complexity and color the tapestries in the long hall were put to shame.

And between the seats and the windows, was the grand table, its chairs as tall and fine as any throne old stories boasted.

The Terafin sat at its head, in a chair that was slightly taller than the others, slightly wider, its arms trimmed in gold and a deep burgundy, its back, hidden by hers, in the crest of the House. She looked up as they entered, lifting her gaze from a small pile of papers that rested beneath her hand.

"ATerafin," she said, nodding regally. "ATerafin. Please join us."

Join us.

Finch drew a deep breath and looked beyond the woman who ruled the House. The only woman, the only person, in one of these seats that she trusted. But that wouldn't be true for long; Teller would take a seat, and she trusted him: Three, she thought. Three of us.

Gabriel ATerafin had the seat to the Terafin's right; the seat to her left was occupied by Elonne ATerafin.

Elonne, coiffed and elegant, had chosen a deceptively simple gown, one that fell off her left shoulder in an uninterrupted drape of fine silk. Her hair was pulled back and up; it lent a severity to her features that suggested the power and wisdom of experience without actually condescending to notice age. A pale brow rose and fell over the slight widening of blue eyes; if she was surprised, and Finch thought she was, she did not otherwise show it.

Instead she smiled and nodded, much as The Terafin had done.

Marrick's smile was much less guarded. He rose. "Well," he said, his voice jolly, his face creased in lines of welcome, "I'm happy to see that youth has finally been allowed to grace these tables. Welcome, welcome, youngsters, to the nefarious halls of the Terafin Council, where plots great and small are hatched." He laughed; there was nothing forced about the sound of his voice.

Finch's first impulse was to like him. It had been her first impulse when she had accepted his invitation to lunch a month past. He had none of the perfection of appearance that defined the other three; he was slightly overweight, and his beard was shot through with white. His hair looked like iron, his eyes were dark; he seemed like a favored uncle, a harmless man who might take children upon the flat of his lap and tell them outrageous stories.

But she had seen him in other guises; had seen the smile fall away from his face in those moments when he thought no one observed him.

Haerrad took no such pains; he was as grim and dour as ever; his face was frozen in lines of disapproval. Of the four, he was the easiest to dislike.

And she did. In fact, of the four, he was the only one that she hated. Because of Haerrad, Teller had been confined to the healerie for weeks, a display of power, a threat offered to Jay in the hope that threat alone would buy her loyalty. As if.

Her eyes skirted his face. She wondered what Teller felt.

Rymark was last to react, but he was also the most flamboyant; he rose, leaving the confines of the chair that was his by right. Bowing deeply, he said, "Welcome, ATerafin, ATerafin, to the Council of the House."

He lifted his head and looked up, his eyes catching Finch's as she studied him. She felt her cheeks warm; she didn't like the way his gaze swept across hers. Predator. She had met men very like him in the holdings; too pretty, too powerful. She nodded in silence.

There were two chairs, side by side, that were empty; they were between Elonne and Marrick.

She walked toward the first. Ellerson was at her elbow in an instant, pulling the chair out for her. It was a good thing, too; she could tell, by the way it dragged against the carpet, that it was heavy, that it would be an unseemly struggle for her just to move it.

He waited until she was seated, and then aided Teller in a similar fashion. But he did not speak. He was a man who knew his place, and worse, knew theirs.

She didn't want to disappoint him.

When they were both seated, The Terafin looked up.

"May I introduce the newest members of the House Council," she said quietly. "Finch ATerafin and Teller ATerafin." She turned to Morretz, who waited behind her chair, just as Ellerson was waiting behind theirs. He bowed and left her side, and Finch could sense his reluctance from where she was seated.

He came to stand between them, and took from his robes two things. These he placed before them on the perfect sheen of the wooden table. Gold caught the light, reflecting it, held in the shape of two rings.

"What exactly," Haerrad said bluntly, "will the duties of the new members be?"

Finch picked up the ring in a shaking hand as he spoke, hesitated for just a moment, and then slid it upon her finger. It fit perfectly, no surprise there. But it was heavy and cold.

The Terafin's pause was significant; she held it as she gazed around the table. Haerrad did not withdraw his words, but he did not make the mistake of adding to them.

"They will," The Terafin said at length, "oversee the merchant lines in the Menorans and to the South."

"The merchant lines in the South have been severely lessened, of late."

"Indeed."

"If I am not mistaken," Rymark said smoothly, "those lines are currently overseen by Jewel ATerafin."

"The services of Jewel ATerafin have been seconded by the Kings," The Terafin replied serenely. "When she returns, an evaluation of her progress will be in order."

"Given the current state of affairs, Terafin, was it wise to accede to the wishes of the Kings in this regard?"

"No motion was put forward in Council about such a placement," Haerrad added.

"No motion was put forward; her disposition is not a matter for the Council to decide. She was offered a choice, and she made her decision; she waited upon my leave before she accepted her a.s.signment. Or is more now required, Haerrad? Shall we decide that the private activities of each member of the Council bear public scrutiny-and equally public accountability?"

"The gifts she has acknowledged in her tenure in the House must surely be considered one of the House advantages, and as all advantages that accrue to the House, one not to be squandered."

Finch was almost shocked.

But The Terafin did no more than raise a brow. "I consider the talents of all Terafin to be of such value," she replied. "Jewel is not the only talent-born member to preside on the House Council. Would you fetter Rymark ATerafin in such a fashion?"

Rymark's smile was grudgingly offered. "House Member Haerrad means no disrespect, Terafin, when he points out that a mage-of any talent-is far less a rarity than one who is seer-born."

"Perhaps. But such a talent cannot be owned; it can be valued; it can be cultivated. In some cases, it can be directed." She lifted her hand. "The meeting is now in session. I have reports in hand about the progress of the armies in the South; they are sketchy, but they will do."

She pa.s.sed the papers to Morretz.

"For the duration of the war, Meralonne APhaniel has also been seconded by the Kings; we have therefore sought the services of another member of the magi."

There was some whispering among the members of the House Council and the shadows who served as their advisers. The Terafin rose.

"I am certain that that member requires little introduction, but for the sake of formality, such an introduction will take place." She walked to the doors, and Finch failed to recognize the significance of this action until the doors themselves were opened.

Standing, framed by their open width, was a diminutive woman who carried age as if it were wisdom's mantle.

"I am honored to present Sigurne Mellifas to the Terafin House Council."

CHAPTER TEN.

9th of Corvil, 427 AA Callesta, Terrean of Averda "I DON'T like it."

Valedan raised a brow. The Captain of his guards-the man he had, with effort, ceased to identify as an Osprey-had forsaken the customary stiffness of the South in the enclosure of the large tent, and with it, the cautious use of words, the tone that clearly-and properly-conveyed disapproval. Ser Andaro di'Corsarro did not find this as amusing as the lord he had pledged his life to did, but he was determined to bring dignity to the proceedings in spite of the unsuitable behavior of his companions; he said nothing. Loudly.

Ser Anton di'Guivera, whose roots were among the insignificant clans, although his fame far exceeded those of n.o.bler birth, was under no such compulsion. "I must agree with the Captain."

He did not turn his head to the side, and his gaze did not condescend to travel the distance between himself and the newest member of the Northern retinue.

"Your objections are noted. Serra Alina?"

She wore the leather armor that the smaller women favored, and over it, a surcoat with a distinctly bland emblem across its heart center; at a distance, it would pa.s.s for the crest of the Kalakar House Guards. Valedan was aware that he would meet The Kalakar again, and soon; he had no desire to presume upon her authority, and she had not given leave to Duarte to recruit South of the border. The Serra's hands were gloved; her feet, heavy in the leather boots the Northerners wore. Of all the things that she suffered, it was the boots that seemed most c.u.mbersome, for they changed the fall of her step as she walked. Her hair was bound in a nondescript braid, shorn of ornamentation; her face would be exposed to the sun's light.

She stepped forward, toward the table across which maps lay like dead b.u.t.terflies. It was clear that she was not comfortable in this room; she hesitated before the table's height and gazed at it with a critical eye.

Valedan thought, if she had been allowed, it would now bear some decorations; not flowers, for they would by their presence indicate a delicacy and a poetry that had no place in a war room, but perhaps by stone or wooden carving, or better, the two-tiered sword stand, evocative in its emptiness. A leader's symbol.

"I am not . . . familiar . . . with the language of cartographers."

Valedan shrugged. "It is not for your ability to read what is written here that I desire your presence."

Ser Anton's jaw tightened.

"Ser Valedan," Duarte said, "none of the members of the-of your guard-are decorative. They serve a function. If another a.s.sa.s.sination is attempted-"

He lifted a hand. "I am willing to see her here in the saris more suited to her station."

What Ser Anton had been about to say was lost.

"The choice of attire is not mine," he continued. "It is entirely her own. If you take issue with it, you must speak with the Serra Alina. And let me remind you, Captain, that long before the Ospreys were a.s.signed to me, the Serra Alina saved my life with the use of a single dagger."

The Serra Alina's brows rose a fraction; her eyes widened and then resumed their normal shape. A warning. A warning he understood. In the South, she was a Serra; he a ruling lord. In the South, should she choose to serve him, or he to suffer her service, he must not imply that her will had precedence over his.

He felt a touch of Ser Anton's frustration, although he was aware that it was for entirely different reasons. He placed both palms on the edge of the table and let them support his weight as he pretended to read the lines of a map that he had almost memorized, he saw it so often.

"Belay that," he said at last. "She serves in the capacity of a Northern adviser. There is no place in the South for the role she has been forced-at my command-to a.s.sume. Understand, Captain, that she graces your unit with her presence; that she serves a purpose that is only marginally less imperative than yours. There are many forms of conflict. Upon the field, or before it, there are no finer men than the men who now serve under me.

"But I have been raised in the North; I have been deprived of the harem that is mine by right. The Tyr'agnati of Callesta and Lamberto are not likewise enc.u.mbered; they speak through their wives, their sisters, their serafs.

"I will speak in such a fashion through the Serra Alina."

"They do not bring their wives to the battlefield," Ser Anton said curtly.

Valedan's smile was brief. "They have no need; they have their years of history as a guide, as guidance, in matters in which a wife-or a Serra-might be consulted."

"You take a risk," Ser Anton replied, cool now, his antagonism securing Ser Andaro's grudging support.

"Always."

The swordmaster nodded. "She must not be present when you are introduced to the kai Lamberto."

Valedan said nothing at all.

He waited; after a moment, the tent's flap lifted and the General Baredan di'Navarre entered. He paused a moment at the table, lifted his head, and stared at the Serra Alina di'Lamberto. Then he shifted his gaze, took in the expressions of the men who now stood around her, and chose to remain silent.

Ramiro di'Callesta followed. He bowed as he entered into the presence of the Tyr'agar, and when he rose, he smiled. "I have had word," he said. "The flight has arrived in Callesta."

He did not spare a glance for the Serra, and by this lack of reaction, Valedan knew that he was well-informed.

"Your presence is requested, Tyr'agar."

Valedan nodded.

The care with which the Northern Commanders were treated was not lost on them. From the moment they arrived at the city gates, they were escorted by no less a man than the captain of the Tyran: Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta. The men who accompanied him likewise wore the miniature crest of the sun rising, its rays a declaration of the oath they had collectively and individually sworn.

He met them on horseback, and did them the honor of dismounting; did them the further grace of offering them a bow that would have been reserved for the Tyr'agnate himself had he been present.

The Tyran were a heartbeat behind their leader, but when they dismounted, they offered bows that were no less perfect. As dress guards, they were exceptional.

As warriors, there were none finer.

Commander Allen, however, noted that they wore the blue of a dark midnight, the white of mourning, in a sash across their chests; their horses were likewise adorned. Someone had died; someone of import. He closed his eyes a moment. Opened them, reaching for a memory that was over a decade old.

"The Tyr'agnate of Averda waits you in the citadel," Ser Fillipo said quietly in flawless Weston.

Commander Allen nodded. As they had done, he dismounted; it was as much a signal to the Northern guards as Ser Fillipo's gesture had been to the Southern; they followed his lead in a taut silence, their movements far less graceful than their allies'.

"A moment," Commander Allen said.

Ser Fillipo nodded, holding the reins of his pale horse.

The man who had won the war for the Empire years ago now walked to his saddlebags; he drew from them a sash that was like, and unlike, the sash the Callestans wore. Devran and Ellora watched him without comment as he draped the sash across his left shoulder and hooked it once around his waist; it bore the crest of the crowns across a white background; the sword and the rod on either side emblazoned in gold. The sash was edged in a thick, weighted black.

Ser Fillipo raised a brow; the two Commanders who were legend for their rivalry gazed a moment at each other and then found similar sashes in their saddlebags; they donned these.

"Your pardon, Ser Fillipo," Commander Allen said gravely.

Ser Fillipo bowed. "No pardon is necessary," he said softly. "I have spent time in the North, and I recognize the colors of Imperial mourning; you honor our fallen."