Finch said, correcting him gently. "Yes."
"And Jewel is her daughter."
"I'm not sure that word means what it means in Weston. Jay is her—"
"Jewel ATerafin will be… ruler… when The Terafin dies."
"If you know that, you also know that The Terafin has not announced it; she
has
not
made it known. If the fires were built— these fires that drew
her to
you
in the South—they would be questioned. We could tell the
House Council to stuff themselves— but they'd just watch. If Jay
did
return, they'd all know. And they'd know it was significant."
"But—" His expression shifted. "The House Council. Someone there is
responsible for the old man's death."
"Yes."
"And The Terafin's condition."
She frowned. "If we knew that for certain, we'd be .ahead of the game. Do
you
know it?"
"She does."
"But she has no proof."
He struggled again, and when he spoke, he spoke in Weston. In clear, flawless
Weston. She was shocked. And not a little frightened.
"Then we must have proof." He rose.
"Adam—"
"The House is her family," he said, severe now. "It is the only family that
she knows; she has given up all others." A frown—a duality of deep lines—chased
themselves across his lips like the play of shadow in lamplight. She tried to
follow them, to pin them down, to identify them. At last he said, "Why did she
forsake her kin?"
"Maybe her kin didn't need her."
His eyes were wide, but they narrowed; he did not attempt to hide his
confusion. "What has need to do with blood?"
Ah
. "Everything, in the Empire. Or at least it's supposed to." Her
smile was gentle. "These people are
not
my kin," she lifted an arm and
swept it in the crowded half circle that contained all of her den.
"And your blood-kin?"
"They abandoned me," she replied unself-consciously.
His face twisted. "But
why
?"
And she realized that she wasn't as unself-conscious as all that. Stiffly,
speaking because she heard the profound need to know in words that were not
meant to wound, she said, "Damned if I know."
"Mine died," Teller offered.
"Mine left me," Carver said.
Angel shrugged, giving nothing away.
"I left mine," Jester said brightly, "so I guess The Terafin and I have a lot
in common."
"Mine are dead," Arann said.
Only Daine was silent. Completely silent. He did not speak a word. His hands
were brown with the blood that a cursory washing had not removed; they rested
upon the table, as motionless as they had ever been.
"But—but the rest of your family?"
"The rest?"
"Your grandparents. Your aunts. Your uncles."
She shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't know them."
"But—"
"Adam," she told him softly, "this is not the South. I don't know how large
your families are there. I don't know how much land they own."
"They own nothing but the road they travel."
"But here, in Averalaan, people are often poor. Or worse. They do things
that… that they have to. To eat. To live."
"So do we."
She shook her head. "These
are
my kin. They're the only kin I have.
The only kin I want."
"But you are ATerafin, yes?"
"Yes—but none of the House members are related by blood. . Only by loyalty
and allegiance."
He shook his head.
"Rymark is Gabriel's son," Angel said quietly.
"I'd forgotten that."
"It's easy to forget."
"This is why you war," he said at last.
"In the South, there is no war?"
"In the South there is always war. But among families? Almost never."
"And there are no deaths?"
He hesitated, his perfect Weston faltering. Finch was afraid, and not for the
first time, of the healer's gift. Afraid for Adam. She touched his arm, and his
hand, still until that moment, gripped hers tightly. "There are deaths," he said
at last. "The Matriarch is the law; she decides."
"Why?"
"Because. I don't know. If you betray the family, you die. If you abandon the
Voyanne
. If you conspire with the clans against the dictate of the
Matriarch. If you kill or injure the children." He shrugged.
"And no one wants to be Matriarch?"
"I
"And Jewel is her daughter."
"I'm not sure that word means what it means in Weston. Jay is her—"
"Jewel ATerafin will be… ruler… when The Terafin dies."
"If you know that, you also know that The Terafin has not announced it; she
has
not
made it known. If the fires were built— these fires that drew
her to
you
in the South—they would be questioned. We could tell the
House Council to stuff themselves— but they'd just watch. If Jay
did
return, they'd all know. And they'd know it was significant."
"But—" His expression shifted. "The House Council. Someone there is
responsible for the old man's death."
"Yes."
"And The Terafin's condition."
She frowned. "If we knew that for certain, we'd be .ahead of the game. Do
you
know it?"
"She does."
"But she has no proof."
He struggled again, and when he spoke, he spoke in Weston. In clear, flawless
Weston. She was shocked. And not a little frightened.
"Then we must have proof." He rose.
"Adam—"
"The House is her family," he said, severe now. "It is the only family that
she knows; she has given up all others." A frown—a duality of deep lines—chased
themselves across his lips like the play of shadow in lamplight. She tried to
follow them, to pin them down, to identify them. At last he said, "Why did she
forsake her kin?"
"Maybe her kin didn't need her."
His eyes were wide, but they narrowed; he did not attempt to hide his
confusion. "What has need to do with blood?"
Ah
. "Everything, in the Empire. Or at least it's supposed to." Her
smile was gentle. "These people are
not
my kin," she lifted an arm and
swept it in the crowded half circle that contained all of her den.
"And your blood-kin?"
"They abandoned me," she replied unself-consciously.
His face twisted. "But
why
?"
And she realized that she wasn't as unself-conscious as all that. Stiffly,
speaking because she heard the profound need to know in words that were not
meant to wound, she said, "Damned if I know."
"Mine died," Teller offered.
"Mine left me," Carver said.
Angel shrugged, giving nothing away.
"I left mine," Jester said brightly, "so I guess The Terafin and I have a lot
in common."
"Mine are dead," Arann said.
Only Daine was silent. Completely silent. He did not speak a word. His hands
were brown with the blood that a cursory washing had not removed; they rested
upon the table, as motionless as they had ever been.
"But—but the rest of your family?"
"The rest?"
"Your grandparents. Your aunts. Your uncles."
She shook her head. "I don't know. I didn't know them."
"But—"
"Adam," she told him softly, "this is not the South. I don't know how large
your families are there. I don't know how much land they own."
"They own nothing but the road they travel."
"But here, in Averalaan, people are often poor. Or worse. They do things
that… that they have to. To eat. To live."
"So do we."
She shook her head. "These
are
my kin. They're the only kin I have.
The only kin I want."
"But you are ATerafin, yes?"
"Yes—but none of the House members are related by blood. . Only by loyalty
and allegiance."
He shook his head.
"Rymark is Gabriel's son," Angel said quietly.
"I'd forgotten that."
"It's easy to forget."
"This is why you war," he said at last.
"In the South, there is no war?"
"In the South there is always war. But among families? Almost never."
"And there are no deaths?"
He hesitated, his perfect Weston faltering. Finch was afraid, and not for the
first time, of the healer's gift. Afraid for Adam. She touched his arm, and his
hand, still until that moment, gripped hers tightly. "There are deaths," he said
at last. "The Matriarch is the law; she decides."
"Why?"
"Because. I don't know. If you betray the family, you die. If you abandon the
Voyanne
. If you conspire with the clans against the dictate of the
Matriarch. If you kill or injure the children." He shrugged.
"And no one wants to be Matriarch?"
"I
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