Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  He looked so much like one of the Chosen she could almost forget he was Arann—and she was tired enough that she hated it. “Torvan?” she asked.

  “Torvan and Arrendas have their hands full; the Chosen—those of us who remained by the shrine—are dealing with the House Guard and Duvari. The Magisterium has not yet been summoned.”

  “Gabriel must be having fits—”

  “Gabriel is waiting—for you—in the public gallery. Word was sent that you’d reached the manor.” He grimaced, his face folding into a much more familiar expression. “I’m sorry, Jay.”

  Not half as sorry as I am, she thought. But thinking it, she wasn’t certain she could make herself believe it; she let it go. “Go back to the House Guard. I’ll clean up here—I’ll let myself be cleaned up,” she amended, “and I’ll meet the regent in the gallery. Did he say—”

  “No. That was all he said—and it was a small wonder he’d time to get even that much out.”

  Ellerson followed Jewel to her room, almost tripping over Snow. She fixed the cat with a pointed glare, and he hissed. Ellerson was not a man prone to stumbles in even the most crowded of halls; nor was he a man prone to complaints or accusations. Jewel, on the other hand, was both. Snow’s belly dropped a foot or two and hovered a few inches above the floor, as if he were a contrite dog.

  The thought made her smile although the smile had edges. It was all she had time for; she was deposited in a chair, Ellerson took the combs and pins from her hands, and started to work. He didn’t choose the more elaborate styling he’d spent more than an hour on this morning; he was as aware as she was—perhaps more, given he was Ellerson—of just how little time she had.

  But while he worked, the door opened a crack. Adam peered in. She caught his expression in one side of the mirror; his eyes closed and his shoulders sagged.

  “I’m fine—” she said, rising.

  Ellerson very gently—and completely inexorably—pushed her back into the chair.

  He waited.

  “Yes,” Ellerson told him, although Adam hadn’t actually said anything. “Go to the kitchen; get water, bread, or anything else that looks both edible and easily eaten without undue mess.”

  He returned with water and a tray some very few minutes later, as if he’d already prepared the food and was simply waiting for her return. Instead of water, he’d brought something that looked like hot milk. It was—but it was sweeter; she thought there was honey in it, by taste. It made her smile. It reminded her of her Oma.

  “Matriarch,” he said in quiet Torra.

  She didn’t argue. She hadn’t the strength for it. Instead, she offered a resigned nod.

  “The rains have stopped; the earth no longer moves beneath our feet. But there is something—”

  “Something?”

  He hesitated. “Something feels—wrong.”

  “Adam.” She glanced at Ellerson, who had apparently failed to hear a single word. “Are you—do you—see?”

  He shook his head, and glanced at his hands; they were clasped in the lap his legs made as he knelt on the floor. “No. My mother did, and my cousin; it was not my gift. I am not Matriarch; nor can I be. It’s not like that. In the House Levec lives in—”

  She lifted a hand, and he fell instantly silent. If only the rest of her own were half as attentive. “Is this something Levec wants you to share with outsiders?”

  Adam blinked. He looked truly surprised as if Levec of the bushy eyebrows and the obvious suspicion and ire weren’t the subject of fear. “I—I don’t know. He’s only said I’m never to tell anyone I’m healer-born. But you already know. You know what he knows. You know more.”

  “I don’t know more about healers; I do know I don’t want an angry Levec back in my great room any time soon.”

  He did smile, at that. “I like him.”

  “I like him, too—at a distance.” She grimaced as Ellerson pulled a comb through hair that was no longer straight. “I’m sorry—let’s pretend I didn’t ask. I interrupt people all the time. What were you trying to tell me?”

  “It’s like the healing. I feel it in the ground—something is wrong; something is injured. It’s not—not like touching you, or Ariel. It’s—bigger, wider, it doesn’t tell me what I need to know in order to heal it. But…it’s like it’s a body.”

  “You felt it before?”

  He nodded.

  “Can you feel it without—without whatever it is that healers do?”

  He shook his head.

  “Can I ask why you even tried?”

  His face reddened. “I—when the earth started to move, we could feel it; Ariel was afraid. Shadow wasn’t helpful there.”

  “He frightened her?”

  “He said we would all die if you didn’t do something.”

  “If I didn’t?”

  Adam nodded. “I wanted to comfort her; I touched the ground.”

  “Adam, is this something you learned with the Arkosans?”

  He shook his head.

  “Never mind. I can’t take you with me, but I need to hear more—I just need to hear it after I speak with Gabriel. Shadow was helpful otherwise?”

  Adam nodded. “Shadow promised Ariel she could climb his back and he would fly her to safety if—” he shook his head. “She is on his back, now; she won’t leave him. I don’t think he minds. Too much.”

  That made Jewel smile; it was a tired smile.

  “I think you should tell Gabriel to wait.”

  “I’d love to, to be honest. But Gabriel’s the regent.” She used the Weston word. “It’s like Matriarch, only male, and with a lot more formality. As long as I can stand and speak more or less intelligibly, I have to go.”

  “When my mother had the strongest of her visions, she would sleep for a day. Once, she slept for three; she woke to drink, and she ate very little. I am not a Matriarch; I have received none of my sister’s training, and few of the lessons. But I was taught to watch for the signs.”

  “If the world was about to end, would your mother have paid any attention to those signs?”

  His head sank. But he shook it.

  She rose, and this time Ellerson was satisfied—or as satisfied as he could be, given the obvious state of emergency; he didn’t try to push her back into the chair. “I can’t either.”

  “She can’t,” a familiar voice said, “But I can, Adam of Arkosa.” Avandar stepped into the room. It wouldn’t have been so surprising if he’d actually opened the door first.

  The first thing he did was bow. To her. She glanced at Ellerson; Ellerson appeared to be entirely unperturbed by Avandar’s appearance. She wondered what—besides poor manners and bad hair—would disturb the elder domicis, and decided she never wanted to find out.

  “The Princes—”

  “They are safe,” Avandar replied.

  “You saw them yourself?”

  “I left them entirely in Devon ATerafin’s care. We were somewhat occupied, as you might suspect.” He approached her with the same stiff formality he used in the presence of powerful, political guests. Since none of those were actually present, it made Jewel uncomfortable. “No, Jewel, I did not see them with my own eyes. But there were demons in Avantari, and some dozen—or more—dead in their wake. The demons, we distracted.”

  “Celleriant?”

  “He is now outside, on the grounds; he will keep watch while we attend the regent.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yes. Before you ask, I am not aware of the precise difficulties the regent now faces; I am, however, capable of making an educated guess. There were deaths?”

  “Not due to the rain—or the earth or air.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Come. If the regent is, as I suspect, besieged on all fronts, he will welcome your appearance.”

  “I doubt that,” she said. Avandar opened the door that he hadn’t used to enter her rooms, and waited as she followed. “I doubt that very much.”<
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  Chapter Twenty–four

  GABRIEL ATERAFIN STOOD in the center of the public gallery; the word public had never felt so appropriate as Jewel approached. The House Guard was on proud display in the halls. Almost all of it, by rough count. Given their numbers, they should have looked like a small army; given the size of the crowd interspersed among them—or behind the uneven lines they could manage to keep—they didn’t. Which said something. Given the importance of almost all of the invited attendees, Jewel felt the House Guard was, at the moment, severely underpaid.

  And given the expression on Gabriel’s face—even seen as it was at a distance—this was not a point she was willing to bring up today. Or ever. The matter of the House Guards’ pay was best left in their own hands—and judging from their expressions, it was so far down the list of important things to consider, she should have felt embarrassed at the stray thought.

  She felt uncomfortable instead, although not due to any action of the guards. The crowd, packed too tightly in the bright magelights of the gallery, adorned in somber shades of white, black, and prominent gold, made way for her. People stepped back, or to the sides—often onto other people—to give her room. She glanced at the skirts of her luminescent dress, itself almost entirely white, with traces of black and gold as befit the funeral of Amarais Handernesse ATerafin; it was easy to believe that people were moving entirely because of the dress.

  Snow had adopted the rigid demeanor of the House Guard, which was disconcerting; he was silent, and if he walked with grace, the grace suggested power and danger. Voiceless, he was far more intimidating than he was when he opened his mouth; his silence suggested the death he was hunting could, at any moment, be anyone’s if they were unfortunate enough to be close by.

  Avandar, in her opinion, walked in the same way, but without the obvious fur, fangs, claws—or wings. His expression in no way suited the domicis robes of mourning he wore. Had she been a visitor, she too would have fallen silent and hastened to move out of his way. But she was not enough of a liar, not today, to attribute that silent, slightly fearful respect, to her attendants. Turning to Angel, she asked, “You heard everything I said?”

  He gestured in den-sign. Yes.

  All of it?

  Sorry.

  Straightening her shoulders, she offered him a weary smile. “Why? I meant every word of it.” That smile hardened and narrowed as she met the stray glances of the Terafin visitors. It was true; she had. But it was also true that she’d worked under the auspices of Amarais for long enough that she knew what was meant was frequently best left unsaid. Her Oma’s voice returned, as it often did. What’s done is done. What will you do now? That’s all that matters.

  Her smile softened, because if she heard her Oma’s voice, she also heard the more steely, patrician tones of The Terafin’s as well. Let the past inform your choices; do not let it foolishly bind them. Regret is a luxury, Jewel. You will find, like many luxuries, it is one for which you do not have the time. If you intend to move forward, it is imperative that you continue to move. Different words, of course; same meaning.

  Amarais, if Mandaros is kind—

  She couldn’t finish the thought. But it helped, to think of The Terafin; to wonder what Amarais would do in this situation, and to find, in the answer, some strength she could borrow. It wasn’t the same, of course—but it would never, ever be the same again.

  Haunt me, she thought. Haunt me, dog my steps, remind me of all the ways in which I might fail if I take the wrong one. It wasn’t the first time she’d prayed for such a haunting, but this prayer was shorter. As Amarais had once said she would be, Jewel was perilously short of time.

  She approached Gabriel ATerafin, and noted the changing texture of the guards who stood between them. For one, they were wearing gray, not shades of blue—but far more significant, their livery bore the crossed rod and crown. These men were the Kings’ Swords—and where they went, the Kings must certainly follow. Or, she thought, locking her knees to prevent them from bending too suddenly, lead. The Kings and the Exalted were standing only a few yards away from the regent of House Terafin, and between Gabriel and the Kings, of necessity, stood the Lord of the Compact.

  She didn’t notice, Gabriel thought, that the berth given the Kings was not larger than the space granted Jewel ATerafin. He saw her knees begin to bend, and he saw her lock them in place; she offered the Kings the brief and genuinely respectful half bow of an equal. Well done, Jewel, he thought, although he knew that Amarais in her position would have offered a controlled nod to the Twin Kings; she had never liked Duvari, and in his presence, she was wont to be extremely formal and limited in her gestures of obeisance.

  The questions—the pointed, almost hostile questions—that Duvari had begun died in that instant; Jewel ATerafin had—and held—his attention. Gabriel knew, as regent, he should intervene—but what regent, what Terafin, had faced events as large and inexplicable as this day’s? Perhaps the founder; the founder and Amarais, on a Henden night years ago.

  Amarais had faced demons and Allasakari and gods; she had come in armor, prepared for war.

  No one but the magi and the god-born understood what Jewel had faced; she came accoutred for Court. But what Court, in the end? In what Court did that dress, and that cat, find a home? Gabriel was not a man given to prayer, but had he been, and had he the time, he would have drowned in its intensity, because the answer he wanted was: this one. The Kings’ Court.

  The Kings, for their part, accepted her half bow without a lift of brow; what they accepted, Duvari must perforce accept. The Lord of the Compact, however, was not inclined to accept anything with grace.

  “ATerafin.” His voice was cold.

  “Lord of the Compact.” Gabriel allowed himself a long, slow blink; Jewel’s was at least as chilly. She inclined her head and looked through Duvari. “Son of Reymaris. Son of Cormaris.”

  The Wisdom-born King did arch a brow at her use of the titles; they were technically completely correct; they were perhaps the oldest of the formal titles granted the Kings—but the patriciate used the more royal terms. Jewel left hers unadorned.

  “ATerafin,” King Cormalyn replied; King Reymalyn said nothing.

  She glanced at her immediate surroundings. “Guildmaster Mellifas is not present?”

  “She was, but has left to supervise the magi, and to request a more full presence of the Council of the Magi in the manse. She will return shortly; until she does, it has been deemed wise to remain within the gallery, where some rudimentary magical precautions have been left in place.”

  Jewel’s nod remained stiff and formal; what she did not tender the Kings, however, she now offered the triad: she dropped to her knees, bending head toward the floor in a spill of luminescent white. “Exalted. Daughter of the Mother, Son of Reymaris, Son of Cormaris.”

  “ATerafin,” the Daughter of the Mother said. She was flanked by priests in full mourning; she herself wore only the three colors, although the Exalted of Cormaris and the Exalted of Reymaris had chosen to adorn the robes of their full office with black, white, and gold instead. She stepped forward, without a glance to the god-born sons and leaders of the churches of the Lords of Wisdom and Justice.

  Gabriel watched; Jewel didn’t so much as lift her head until the Daughter of the Mother commanded it. Nor did the Daughter of the Mother bid her rise until she stood a scant yard away. She took an inordinately long time to do so in Gabriel’s opinion, as if the silence were a test.

  “Rise,” she finally said. If indeed she had been testing Jewel, it was not clear, from her expression, whether or not the young House Councillor had passed.

  Jewel rose as bidden, shedding the supplicant posture with the ease of long practice. “Exalted.”

  The Mother’s Daughter smiled for the first time; it was a smile as weary in every essential as Gabriel’s would have been. “ATerafin. Jewel,” she added, her voice softening into a surprising familiarity given the circumstance, “what have you done here?�
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  It was, word for word, the question Duvari had asked, but in tone and texture it was very, very different.

  If Jewel had one unfortunate weakness—a weakness, given the patriciate, that would attract vultures for miles—it was for elderly women. Gabriel was uncertain as to why; he had never asked. There was very little that he had directly asked Jewel Markess; most of his information came by his indirect observation—he watched Teller, listened to Teller. Teller, who now slid between the shoulders of House Council members accustomed to a great deal more space, to reach the side of the young woman he had always considered his leader.

  Amarais had known. Gabriel was certain that Barston did not—a deliberate oversight on the part of a man who made sight his vocation.