Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King by The Uncrowned King Page A
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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the voice.
"Behind me, there's a woman. She's my age—" She stopped, absorbing the words, realizing how untrue they were. It had been a long time since she'd returned to that age in the dreamscape. The age, for Jewel Markess, of demons, of fire, of magic. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's sixteen, seventeen— and her eyes are filled with fire; she kneels, as if she's supplicant, but she's wearing a thin crown, and a bloodied sword is staining the silks she wears.
"She tells me—that I cannot turn back." Hard, to speak those words here. Jewel swallowed. Continued. The vision's hooks were things of fear, of terror—but although the emotions would sustain themselves, the vision itself would pass into memory, and memory was imperfect.
"The Chosen are scattered. I can only find Torvan; the rest are dead or blind or deaf. He says. 'Why did you have to leave?' and I feel it, the weight of those words, and he grabs my hand and drags me to The Terafin's Council chambers.
"She's dead. There are three knives in her body and she lies across the Council table. Gabriel looks up when I enter the room; there is fighting, of course, the war for succession. He is aloof from it, but bleeding anyway. And he says, 'You. You
left
her to die.'"She pushed unruly brown curls from the edge of her forehead so that she might better see the light, feel its distant heat across her cold, cold skin.
"Where," said the only person in the room who refused to learn better than to interrupt her, "is Morretz in this vision?"
Morretz, The Terafin's domicis. Jewel frowned, bit her lip to stop the sharper words from leaving her mouth, and then shook her head. "I don't—I didn't—see him."
"Strange. Go on."
It was so hard, with Avandar, not to snap. "Why, thank you." she said, grinding her teeth. Losing her clarity. It took her a moment to find it again.
"The Terafin sits up. Her eyes are dead eyes. Her wounds don't bleed. And her voice—it's not her voice. Her head rolls awkwardly on her shoulders as she turns in my direction. She says, 'Another lesson. The hardest lesson. There will be blood on your hands no matter what you choose.'
"The color returns to her face; the knives fall out; she shakes her hair down and stands. She's not dead, and she's not undead; she's alive. She keeps speaking, with the same voice, as if life or death doesn't matter to what she has to say. 'There will always be blood on your hands. Glory in it, or weep at it, as you choose—
but when you choose who
must
die, choose wisely
.'
"And before I can answer, before I can ask a question, she gestures and the—and the—city rises."
"The Shining City." Avandar's voice. Avandar's unwelcome, solid voice. No shadow in it: no shadow would dare.
"Yes. And the screaming starts." She shuddered, then, and her arms relaxed, hands falling almost nervelessly across the tabletop. "I remember the baby—"
"Jay." Teller rose at once. The shadow of Henden in the year 410 fell across their faces like the blow of a drunk parent across a captive child's; they flinched, and hid from it, as they could. But it was there. Always there. Finch glanced furtively at Carver, but Carver was staring at the tabletop, at the diffusion of light across the wood grain.
"Did you recognize the voice?" Avandar asked, speaking almost gently. For Avandar. Which meant slowly, and without that slight clenching of jaw that accompanied many of his questions.
"The voice?"
"The voice she spoke with. Jewel, you said The Terafin spoke with a voice not her own."
"No," Jewel said. And of all her den—yes, dammit,
her den
— gathered at this large table, the only person who knew she was lying was, as always, Teller. He raised a brow, his expression shifting, and then shifting again, so quickly that she was certain only she had caught it at all.
Finch stopped writing. "Anything else?"
"No. Yes."
"Which is it?"
"Yes. Can you arrange a meeting with The Terafin?"
Jester frowned. "Jay, you
"Behind me, there's a woman. She's my age—" She stopped, absorbing the words, realizing how untrue they were. It had been a long time since she'd returned to that age in the dreamscape. The age, for Jewel Markess, of demons, of fire, of magic. "She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. She's sixteen, seventeen— and her eyes are filled with fire; she kneels, as if she's supplicant, but she's wearing a thin crown, and a bloodied sword is staining the silks she wears.
"She tells me—that I cannot turn back." Hard, to speak those words here. Jewel swallowed. Continued. The vision's hooks were things of fear, of terror—but although the emotions would sustain themselves, the vision itself would pass into memory, and memory was imperfect.
"The Chosen are scattered. I can only find Torvan; the rest are dead or blind or deaf. He says. 'Why did you have to leave?' and I feel it, the weight of those words, and he grabs my hand and drags me to The Terafin's Council chambers.
"She's dead. There are three knives in her body and she lies across the Council table. Gabriel looks up when I enter the room; there is fighting, of course, the war for succession. He is aloof from it, but bleeding anyway. And he says, 'You. You
left
her to die.'"She pushed unruly brown curls from the edge of her forehead so that she might better see the light, feel its distant heat across her cold, cold skin.
"Where," said the only person in the room who refused to learn better than to interrupt her, "is Morretz in this vision?"
Morretz, The Terafin's domicis. Jewel frowned, bit her lip to stop the sharper words from leaving her mouth, and then shook her head. "I don't—I didn't—see him."
"Strange. Go on."
It was so hard, with Avandar, not to snap. "Why, thank you." she said, grinding her teeth. Losing her clarity. It took her a moment to find it again.
"The Terafin sits up. Her eyes are dead eyes. Her wounds don't bleed. And her voice—it's not her voice. Her head rolls awkwardly on her shoulders as she turns in my direction. She says, 'Another lesson. The hardest lesson. There will be blood on your hands no matter what you choose.'
"The color returns to her face; the knives fall out; she shakes her hair down and stands. She's not dead, and she's not undead; she's alive. She keeps speaking, with the same voice, as if life or death doesn't matter to what she has to say. 'There will always be blood on your hands. Glory in it, or weep at it, as you choose—
but when you choose who
must
die, choose wisely
.'
"And before I can answer, before I can ask a question, she gestures and the—and the—city rises."
"The Shining City." Avandar's voice. Avandar's unwelcome, solid voice. No shadow in it: no shadow would dare.
"Yes. And the screaming starts." She shuddered, then, and her arms relaxed, hands falling almost nervelessly across the tabletop. "I remember the baby—"
"Jay." Teller rose at once. The shadow of Henden in the year 410 fell across their faces like the blow of a drunk parent across a captive child's; they flinched, and hid from it, as they could. But it was there. Always there. Finch glanced furtively at Carver, but Carver was staring at the tabletop, at the diffusion of light across the wood grain.
"Did you recognize the voice?" Avandar asked, speaking almost gently. For Avandar. Which meant slowly, and without that slight clenching of jaw that accompanied many of his questions.
"The voice?"
"The voice she spoke with. Jewel, you said The Terafin spoke with a voice not her own."
"No," Jewel said. And of all her den—yes, dammit,
her den
— gathered at this large table, the only person who knew she was lying was, as always, Teller. He raised a brow, his expression shifting, and then shifting again, so quickly that she was certain only she had caught it at all.
Finch stopped writing. "Anything else?"
"No. Yes."
"Which is it?"
"Yes. Can you arrange a meeting with The Terafin?"
Jester frowned. "Jay, you
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