Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “I see what used to be the tree. It’s black, and it doesn’t look much like a tree anymore; its branches look like vines. The leaves are blood red. Down is a long way away,” he added. “Don’t look.” He knew how she felt about heights.

  “You don’t see snow?”

  Silence. After it had grown uncomfortable, Angel said, “I see Lord Celleriant. He’s—he’s trapped.”

  “Trapped how? Angel—I can’t see what you see.”

  “Have you tried?” He was always perceptive—often at exactly the wrong time.

  “No. No, I haven’t tried—if I do, I’m sure I’ll stop seeing what I do see. And I need it. I need it to do what I have to do. Tell me—what do you see?”

  “He’s impaled. He’s impaled, Jay. His upper arms, his left thigh, the right rib cage. His eyes are open—but he’s not looking at anything.”

  “His sword?”

  “It’s there. There are vines around it, but they’re not touching the blade—only his wrist.”

  “Shield?”

  “Same, I think. I can’t see his wrist on that side.”

  Jewel lifted the hand with which she’d signed; it was the hand on which the twined hair of the Winter Queen was knotted. “What—what do you see here?”

  His breath cut. “I can’t—I can’t take it off you.”

  “No. You’ll fall. That’s not what I asked, anyway. Angel—what do you see?”

  “It’s glowing. It’s glowing—but Jay, I’d swear it was alive—it’s…crawling. Squirming.”

  Jewel nodded and exhaled. “Let me go,” she told him.

  “I can’t—”

  “That wasn’t a request. Celleriant is trapped, Angel—we’ll lose him.”

  “You’re certain that’s a bad thing?”

  “No. No, I’m not. But while he’s here, I can’t just surrender him. You need to hold on.”

  He was den. He hated to let go of her, but he knew and understood the tone of her voice; he trusted her, and the trust was stronger than his fear. “I will. Don’t take too long,” he added.

  She laughed. It was the wrong laugh. But she let go of the Winter King’s antlers completely, and after a tense minute, she unlocked almost numb legs.

  Will you take him back down? she asked.

  I will not let him fall unless he desires it.

  She swung herself clumsily off his back. Her stomach lurched; she stumbled. For just a minute she felt the air rush toward her back, but it was only wind. It threw her hair into her eyes, where pieces of bark and ice joined it. Against the snow, she saw the Winter King’s shadow; she stood in it a moment as if it were an anchor. His hooves didn’t break the snow’s crust. Her feet did. The relative difference in their weight didn’t matter.

  Maybe gravitas did.

  The Winter King chuckled and nudged her shoulder with his flecked muzzle. Not gravitas, Jewel, or you would already be lost. Not as I am, he added. That will never be your fate. In my youth, Jewel ATerafin, I would have said you wouldn’t last a day.

  Yet you are here. Go. I will keep your Angel as safe as he allows.

  She began to walk toward Celleriant. Beneath her feet, beneath the snow, the ground was solid. Her knees were no longer visible, and her skin stung with cold. A feral, small smile touched her lips and the corners of her eyes; her den would have recognized it. They’d wintered in the holdings. They knew cold could kill; it was a fact of life.

  Stripped of wealth and the privilege of wealth, anyone could die in the Winter.

  Celleriant.

  Ice covered branching vines, things twisted so far out of shape they might never have been part of a tree at all. But they weren’t a wall. There were gaps, and for thorns, red leaves, as covered in ice as everything else. Jewel caught a branch in shaking hands, ready to leap forward—or back—if it lunged. It was frozen in place, in shape. The moving mass of thorns below might have been a bad dream.

  And this? she thought, snorting. Was this a good dream?

  No, ATerafin, the Winter King said. It is simply a dream. It is not even your dream. But it is strong. It is old. If you will it, I will carry you back to your kin. Pass beyond those branches, and I cannot guarantee that I will be able to save you.

  “I can’t even guarantee that I’ll be able to get past them,” she said, uncertain of how far the spoken word would carry. Here, in this grim, vertical winterscape, the Winter King’s voice was disturbing; she wasn’t sure why. If he knew, he didn’t tell her, and she concentrated on two things: the winding, cutting maze of branches and the man—if he was that—who stood suspended at its heart. His sword was dying slowly, like a candle that had reached not only the end of wick, but the end of wax as well. Candle stubs, on the other hand, had never been so cold or perfect in their final, sputtering moments. Arianni Lord, he was beautiful, the red of his blood like the delicate stroke of a Maker’s brush—larger, more perfect, than life.

  Jewel began to crawl over and under the looping curves of branches as if each were a miniature arch or groove. Leaves’ edges, blunted by ice, scraped against her exposed skin. Reaching out, she pushed them away. Some snapped off in her hand, the stems were so brittle. She brushed them off and kept moving, wishing she had chosen to wear different clothing. Her shoes weren’t meant for this weather, and she’d followed the imperative of instinct out the doors without bothering to grab a coat. Cursing in Torra, she ran into a snarl of branches, and began to work her way through them. They didn’t grab her. They didn’t cut her. But they only barely moved, and she was straining.

  Avandar.

  Silence.

  She was used to his silences; she could’ve written screeds about them. But this silence had none of Avandar in it.

  He cannot hear you, Jewel, the Winter King said.

  Why not? You can.

  Yes. I am here. He is not. I believe your Angel can hear the Warlord; the Warlord is not pleased.

  Later, she’d ask him where he was. Or where she was. Now, she forced her way through the last of the branches and discovered that they grew at the lip of a small outcropping. She almost fell and reached in a panic for the curved limbs she’d been cursing so loudly. Breathing quickly enough to make her throat raw, she looked down. It was only ten feet. No, probably a little less, given how she felt about height. But it was a straight drop, a sudden plunge, and it reminded her that it wasn’t height she hated—it was falling.

  She looked across at Celleriant. He stood both above the ice and almost encased in it; he wasn’t moving. She wasn’t certain he needed to breathe, but if he did, he was in trouble, because he didn’t appear to be breathing either.

  His sword flickered. The intervals between light and its lack grew as she watched, her eyes unblinking. When they started to sting, she blinked; tears ran down her cheeks, but these tears didn’t bother her.

  “Celleriant!”

  She hadn’t expected an answer, because she was almost certain he couldn’t hear a word she was saying. But she tried again, and a third time. There wasn’t a fourth, not immediately. Instead, sliding down the edge of one vine, she took a deep breath and let go.

  * * *

  The ice was hard. It was hard, it was flat, it was cold, but ice was like that. She found her footing, wobbling on one knee. She’d tensed too much before the drop and had bruised or pulled something—but as long as she could stand and walk, it didn’t matter. She stumbled, righted herself, and found momentum. It carried her to where Celleriant stood.

  His feet were mired in ice; she couldn’t distinguish them from the frozen water itself. She didn’t try. She shouted his name a fourth time, in the faint hope sheer volume could crack the thin ice around his shoulders and his neck. No luck.

  Celleriant, where are you?

  No answer, but she didn’t expect one. She looked up at his face. The difference in their heights was less pronounced because she was standing on the ice and he was partially beneath its surface; she looked at his eyes.

  It was her turn to
freeze. She had never liked Celleriant. He was everything that she’d always assumed—as an orphan in one of the poorest holdings in the city—nobility would be: cold, arrogant, completely devoid of humanity.

  His first act, his first interaction with her, had been to attempt to drive her from where she stood in the open road. But it was an ancient road, a wild one; she had known what she fought for, and the road had responded. Celleriant couldn’t force her to move, no matter what he rode or what he wielded; he had been unable to touch her at all, which no one, Jewel included, could have predicted. He had failed the command of the Winter Queen.

  And the price for his failure?

  To serve Jewel ATerafin. She hadn’t wanted him. She didn’t want him now. His suggestion that he casually slaughter—with Avandar’s help—every living person in the manse had enraged her; she hadn’t been in a mood that black for as long as she could remember. She knew he’d meant it. That was never going to change, because he wasn’t mortal.

  But he’d obeyed her furious denial. Jewel had learned the hard, harsh way that obedience was better than nothing. She’d had Duster, after all. But Duster had wanted the den. She’d been afraid of what she wanted, but she’d wanted it anyway. Celleriant?

  No. Never.

  Why had she taken Duster? Why had she worked so hard to keep her?

  Because she’d needed Duster. In the end, she’d needed her. Maybe need and love had been so entwined Jewel hadn’t been able to tell them apart. She’d been younger then, and no question, she’d loved Duster as family. As kin. She could never love Celleriant. But she could need him. She knew she did need him. She’d accepted that sometime between their first meeting and this one.

  What she hadn’t considered then was that this icy, arrogant, inhuman immortal might need anything of his own; he’d always seemed above need, beyond it. But his eyes were wide with pain and longing, his lips thin with them. She’d never expected to see vulnerability from this Lord, and seeing it, wished she hadn’t. Like everything else about him, it was larger than life; brighter, harsher, deeper.

  He would sink into despair and loss and be extinguished, and at this moment—only this moment—the thought of that hurt her.

  Be wary, Jewel, the Winter King said.

  Of what? He’s frozen, he’s trapped—this is the only time he’s ever been harmless.

  He will not thank you for what you witness, was the Winter King’s reply.

  I’m not likely to rub his face in it.

  You are not capable of dissembling in a reasonable or intelligent fashion. Do you think he will not know? Tread carefully, ATerafin.

  She snorted a cloud of hanging white mist in response.

  You understand what he cannot be. Do not forget this. Do not tell yourself a different story and believe somehow that it will become the truth; there is—for you—as much danger in that as there is in the demon kin.

  But people did change. Not everything, and not all at once, and not as much as either you or they hoped they could—but they did.

  Be wary.

  This time she didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out with both palms and touched Celleriant’s face. Her hands were warm—and cooling quickly—and ice became water at her touch. His expression was still frozen, but there was none of the chill she usually associated with him in it.

  Celleriant.

  His arms moved. His hands fell—shield hand, sword hand. How, given the ice, she didn’t know, couldn’t say. But it sent a shock through her, a sharp pain that felt and tasted like fear. Fear was anathema.

  She knew he was going to drop his sword and shield. She knew, as strongly, that he mustn’t; that they mustn’t break ice. They’d sink without a trace. He might remain standing, encased, but in any way that mattered, he’d be dead. She let her hands drop away from his shining face, and watched as water once again began to freeze.

  Jewel—

  She caught the sword as his fingers finally loosened their grip. The shield was entangled somehow around his forearm; he’d probably have to work a little to get it free, and work seemed beyond him at the moment. It was certainly beyond Jewel, because the hilt grew thorns—burning thorns. She cried out, but the cry had syllables to shape it; they were all Torra. The sword didn’t want to be handled.

  Certainly not by her.

  It figured. Even frozen in despair, Celleriant was a snob; she was merely mortal; she was unworthy. And if he wanted to tell her that, she was fine with it—but he had to move his own lips. He had to move his butt out of its frozen, standing throne, and take the sword back on his own. She stumbled across ice, her knee still throbbing, the blade wobbling against surface and scratching a very loping trail in her wake. The sword was heavy.

  Celleriant.

  He looked up. It was a slow, steady movement. He was shaking, and strove to hide it. “Lady.”

  She wore Winter armor, but her visor was raised, and her hair trailed across her shoulders, regardless; she wore a cape of midnight blue, edged in silver. She bore a sword and a shield, and they shone with a white, white light, like the harshest of snows.

  “You have come to offer me your service.” Her voice, like her sword, was snow; her eyes were silver. Around her, armored men moved on their restive mounts; he was aware that they spoke. But the only voice he could hear was hers.

  “Of what value is your service,” she continued coldly, “when you are without even the humblest of weapons?”

  Here, in the heart of the Green Deepings, the Winter was strong. Celleriant did not—could not—rise. “I have a sword, Lady. And a shield. I will be your weapon and your wall.”

  “I see neither. Have you misplaced them?” She glanced above his head then, her eyes rising to the silent bower of branches high above her face.

  This was his forest. This was his home. It was dark and shrouded now, but surely Summer waited? He glanced at his empty hands. He heard the words of the ancient trees. There was no place in the forest for those weapons.

  But he had summoned them. He had fashioned them. He had called them, and in the end, they had come. They were hers, even if they were absent; they had always been hers; he understood that the moment he had first laid eyes on her, although he had always been aware of her presence.

  He called them now, in defiance.

  He called them in fear.

  But his hands remained empty.

  She had no mercy in her; she was Winter, and she was absolute. Turning to her host, she motioned them forward; they spared him a single glance, no more. The hooves of their mounts left marks in the perfect surface of snow.

  Ariane. Ariane. Ariane.

  “What is your name?”

  He stared at her. He opened his mouth. He could not remember being young, but he knew he was young here, now; he was callow, inexperienced. He could not bear even the weight of her momentary inspection, her icy disapproval. Yet he had yearned for it. He had yearned for it, even in Summer, when the voice of the forest had been at its strongest and warmest, and the air was filled with sound.

  What is your name? Where is your name?

  He could not rise. He could not move. He could not speak. In horror, in the depth of a humiliation he had never conceived of, he watched as the Winter Queen’s expression froze.

  Her eyes widened, and silver spilled like blood into the air. She said—she spoke—a single word of denial as she stiffened—and shattered.

  Silent, he watched as shards flew to the right and left of Jewel ATerafin.

  In her hand, burning like blue light, he saw his sword. He stumbled to his feet in sudden panic. The feeling was so visceral he might have been young again—a reminder that reminiscences elided the truth of youth.

  “Wake up,” she said sharply, her voice rough and unpleasant. “You’ll die of—of exposure.” Her words made no sense, and her grip on the sword would have pained him even if the sword had been a cold, dead slab of tempered metal. “Your shield is on your arm, if you can still see your arm. Celleriant, damn y
ou, look at where you are. Look. See it. Your sword is going to bleed me to death while you stand there.” She jabbed at air with his sword for emphasis, as if she could make punctuation purely physical.

  He stared at her for a long, cold moment, and then he straightened, looking past her, looking past the blue edge of his sword. “ATerafin.”

  “Yes.” She walked toward him as if drawn—or dragged. He held out a hand. “Give me your word that you’ll hold onto it this time, or I’m not giving it back.”

  “You will find that very, very costly.”