The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 by Michelle West Read Free Book Online Page B

could hide. Day forgave little.
    She therefore needed no Avandar to stand by the foot of her bed, light in hand or cupped palm, as guardian against nightmares that might follow the waning of the day; indeed, had she been offered such a sentry, she would have found it hard to sleep, for she desired the simple stillness of a completely private place; she found in it a freedom from the responsibilities of the waking day.
    Teller envied her for that; it was in the darkness that he, like Jay, lay awake, thinking with precision and clarity, about everything that had gone—or could go—wrong, and an hour might pass while he lay, immobile, waiting for something as elusive as sleep.
    Not Finch. Covers tucked to chin—the one night foible she shared with almost every one of her den-kin—she could listen to the quiet sounds of the House.
    Those noises differed from season to season, and she had grown to know them all, in the quiet and safety of this building, this gift from a merciful god. A merciful god, and Jay.
    Jay.
    Even in safety, there were barbs.
    The House Guards were on patrol.
    She heard them, heavy steps almost in unison, in the doors beyond the wing. Since Alea’s death, guards such as these—perhaps these; at this time of night, she was uncertain who patrolled—had crossed one end of the manse to the other, in groups of no less than eight; Torvan himself saw to the composition of these small squads to assure that the loyalty of these men was, if not unquestioned, then at least not uniform.
    They all serve The Terafin
, she’d said, naïve then and no doubt naïve now.
    Yes
, he’d said, voice soft, gaze on a spot she couldn’t see clearly, no matter how close it seemed to be.
But they know that an heir has to be chosen, and they know—all of them—that they’ve never been Chosen, not by the reigning Terafin. If they choose to support one of the contenders for the title, if they choose wisely, they’re in at the ground, and they have a chance at promotion they’d never see here.
    You think they’d—they’d attack her
?
    The Terafin? No. Never. But each other? They owe no loyalty to any other lord.
    Well, she’d asked. Funny, how little comfort answers offered.
    The month of Misteral was often heavy with rain, damp and cool compared to the rest of the year. This month was slightly different; rain threatened to fall, but the clouds that carried it were shunted to one side of the city—or the other—by the gusts of salt-laden wind. Nevertheless, sailing merchants that came to make their reports, and take their rest, at House Terafin, could be heard cursing the weather with seasonal fervor.
    They drank, Finch thought, nose wrinkling, too much. But when they weren’t falling down drunk, or unpleasantly drunk, they had the best stories to tell; tales of lands far to the South, to the North, or—almost impossible to believe—to the East, beyond the ocean that stretched across the horizon without break.
    Often in Misteral, Corvil, and Henden—Corvil was worst—they spent time in the city, bound to land; they visited their families, their Lords and their bankers, and they allowed themselves to be wheedled out of a good story. Finch, small for her size and gentle in manner, had become inordinately good at wheedling.
    But this Misteral the merchant voices of House Terafin were notably strained or silent; the merchants stayed away from the manse unless they were drunk or commanded to do otherwise. She didn’t blame them. If she’d had a choice, she’d’ve been anywhere else.
    But Kalliaris had already frowned, fickle goddess.
    Finch missed the merchants’ voices the most; they could often be heard late into the night, mingled with the songs of hapless young bards who’d been dragged into the gardens or the halls. Merchants often did that, in
any
House, finding the open space, the acoustical heights, of the stately, fixed buildings irresistible in comparison to the vessels that were their true