Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King by The Uncrowned King
Book: Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King by The Uncrowned King
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Authors: The Uncrowned King
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enough that they did not creak, but not stiff enough that they did not slam—either into their frames or into the walls as they were pushed open or slammed shut. Then the shouting:
There, Teller's voice, just outside of Finch's door; Jester's voice outside of Angel's. Carver was—ah, there. Swinging lamplight bobbing beneath the crack of her door. Light.
Her own lamp was guttered.
And, of course, no matter how familiar these friends, no matter how welcome, they would not be the first to arrive. There were three doors that led to this room. The first was the door from the sitting room beyond which lay the hall and the rest of her den. The second was a door that opened into an office—a room she still rarely used, preferring the comfort and the familiarity of the late night kitchen seen through oil-lamp light and sleep's lack. The third door opened into the chambers which her domicis occupied.
And always, always, always it was that third door that opened first.
No exception tonight; in the shadows, Avandar crossed the threshold, neither lingering in the doorway nor appearing to hurry. She could see in the dark about as well as anyone else, but if Avandar was a shadow, he was a shadow who had substance and color and personality, all rooted firmly in memories, most of which still irritated her.
As domicis, he was, technically, her servant. As Avandar, he was like a keeper, but of what, she had yet to determine—and they had been together, as uneasy allies, since her sixteenth year. There probably wasn't another domicis in the guild's long and honorable history who could abide by technicalities so well without conveying
any
of the spirit of the law.
He's handsome
. Finch had said,
and powerful; you can feel it
.
Yeah. So's a demon, and I wouldn't want one serving me
—
you never know when the damned thing'll get loose and rip out your throat. Or worse
.
If the Terafin thought he'd be the best domicis for you, it probably means she thinks you'll see a lot of trouble, Jay.
The years hadn't made him any uglier.
Or any less arrogant, for that matter.
"Jewel," he said. He knew better than to touch her.
Before she could answer, the door to the outer hall flew open; Angel and Carver stood abreast in the wide frame. Lamplight was at their back, held aloft by a slender, strong arm: Finch's, she thought. She smiled as she saw the light glinting off steel too short to be sword. It was her first smile.
"Jay?" Teller's voice. He sidled around Carver, shoving his forelocks out of his eyes and squinting into the shadows. In the darkness, she was sixteen again; so were they. There were instincts, she thought, that they'd never lose because more than half their life had gone into the making.
"It's—safe," she said, swinging shaking legs free of blankets and planting her feet almost delicately against the nubbly cotton rug.
"You were dreaming." Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Bad."
"Yeah."
"Kitchen?"
She laughed. It was a wobbly sound. "Yeah."
The lamp helped. It sat on the table in its customary place at her left elbow, flickering with warmth and orange light. Her elbows, propped against the smooth, hard surface of sturdy, unor-namented wood, were like a silent commandment; only when she lowered her hands from her chin and shook herself would anyone speak. And she wouldn't do either of these things until her gaze was focused on them, and the present.
She could barely see them at all. She wanted to, but the
reality
of them deflected the edge of the dreaming as if both were blades. She felt Avandar settle into his customary position to the left of her, back to the wall. Almost told him to sit. She hated the feel of his shadowy presence where she couldn't—quite—see it.
But she opened her lips and said instead, "Terafin is burning. The fire is black, but the heat—the heat is white." She swallowed. "There's sand on my clothing, in my hands, my mouth; I'm dry and hot and I can barely move. Someone calls my name. I turn toward
There, Teller's voice, just outside of Finch's door; Jester's voice outside of Angel's. Carver was—ah, there. Swinging lamplight bobbing beneath the crack of her door. Light.
Her own lamp was guttered.
And, of course, no matter how familiar these friends, no matter how welcome, they would not be the first to arrive. There were three doors that led to this room. The first was the door from the sitting room beyond which lay the hall and the rest of her den. The second was a door that opened into an office—a room she still rarely used, preferring the comfort and the familiarity of the late night kitchen seen through oil-lamp light and sleep's lack. The third door opened into the chambers which her domicis occupied.
And always, always, always it was that third door that opened first.
No exception tonight; in the shadows, Avandar crossed the threshold, neither lingering in the doorway nor appearing to hurry. She could see in the dark about as well as anyone else, but if Avandar was a shadow, he was a shadow who had substance and color and personality, all rooted firmly in memories, most of which still irritated her.
As domicis, he was, technically, her servant. As Avandar, he was like a keeper, but of what, she had yet to determine—and they had been together, as uneasy allies, since her sixteenth year. There probably wasn't another domicis in the guild's long and honorable history who could abide by technicalities so well without conveying
any
of the spirit of the law.
He's handsome
. Finch had said,
and powerful; you can feel it
.
Yeah. So's a demon, and I wouldn't want one serving me
—
you never know when the damned thing'll get loose and rip out your throat. Or worse
.
If the Terafin thought he'd be the best domicis for you, it probably means she thinks you'll see a lot of trouble, Jay.
The years hadn't made him any uglier.
Or any less arrogant, for that matter.
"Jewel," he said. He knew better than to touch her.
Before she could answer, the door to the outer hall flew open; Angel and Carver stood abreast in the wide frame. Lamplight was at their back, held aloft by a slender, strong arm: Finch's, she thought. She smiled as she saw the light glinting off steel too short to be sword. It was her first smile.
"Jay?" Teller's voice. He sidled around Carver, shoving his forelocks out of his eyes and squinting into the shadows. In the darkness, she was sixteen again; so were they. There were instincts, she thought, that they'd never lose because more than half their life had gone into the making.
"It's—safe," she said, swinging shaking legs free of blankets and planting her feet almost delicately against the nubbly cotton rug.
"You were dreaming." Not a question.
"Yeah."
"Bad."
"Yeah."
"Kitchen?"
She laughed. It was a wobbly sound. "Yeah."
The lamp helped. It sat on the table in its customary place at her left elbow, flickering with warmth and orange light. Her elbows, propped against the smooth, hard surface of sturdy, unor-namented wood, were like a silent commandment; only when she lowered her hands from her chin and shook herself would anyone speak. And she wouldn't do either of these things until her gaze was focused on them, and the present.
She could barely see them at all. She wanted to, but the
reality
of them deflected the edge of the dreaming as if both were blades. She felt Avandar settle into his customary position to the left of her, back to the wall. Almost told him to sit. She hated the feel of his shadowy presence where she couldn't—quite—see it.
But she opened her lips and said instead, "Terafin is burning. The fire is black, but the heat—the heat is white." She swallowed. "There's sand on my clothing, in my hands, my mouth; I'm dry and hot and I can barely move. Someone calls my name. I turn toward
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