Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  * * *

  Jewel did not immediately head to the kitchen, although she had called the meeting there. Instead, she went to the room in which Morretz now lay. His eyes were closed, his face ashen; his chest neither rose, nor fell. His body was stiff with death.

  Ellerson entered the room in silence. He tendered Jewel a perfect, silent bow; as she now knelt by the side of Morretz, she had nothing but silence to offer in return. There were questions, of course. There would always be questions. The den had answered most of the urgent ones. They had answered them, and then they had let her go without answering any of theirs in return—because Morretz was here, Morretz was dead.

  Gabriel had the Chosen to guard and tend the body of The Terafin. Alowan had not been called; Jewel thought it an understandable oversight, given demons, Kings, and mages. She had therefore walked in haste to the wall upon which lay the simple magic that would alert the healerie—and Alowan—of the need for his presence.

  Finch had stopped her. Finch had caught her hand. Finch had told her that Alowan was no longer in the healerie.

  And why? Gods.

  Alowan was also dead. Dead days ago. The flowers that lined the halls, the small portraits, the keepsakes and mementos offered as a sign of affection, respect, and loss were still in evidence in every corner of the galleries and the courtyard; they lined the walls of the great hall, and no servant had sought to remove them. They had tidied the more egregious of the wilted petals; that was all.

  But they would be removed now. They would be replaced. Alowan had been loved, yes. But The Terafin had been the heart of the House; word of her death had spread. Word, weeping, the silence that comes when no words can convey horror, loss, shock. Jewel knew; she had been there to witness the death of Amarais Handernesse Terafin, and she had experienced all of them.

  “ATerafin.” Ellerson walked past Jewel, to the head of the bed in which Morretz now lay in his false repose.

  She looked up at him in bitter silence.

  “Allow me to tend to Morretz.”

  “He’s dead,” was her flat reply.

  “Yes. And he has no family within Averalaan. Nor does he have any living relatives that we are aware of in the Empire. His contract has been carried out with honor; his Lord is dead.” When she failed to reply, he gentled the stiff perfection from his voice. “He is a domicis of the guildhall, and it is to us he returns. We will see to his funeral and his burial.”

  She still stared. At Morretz. At his silent face, at his hair, now gray and lank. She had heard him speak only a handful of times in all of the years she had known him. But in silence, he had been Amarais Handernesse Terafin’s living shadow. He had become as necessary to The Terafin’s life as it was possible for any other person to be. He had lived to serve her.

  He had died to serve her.

  “ATerafin,” Ellerson said quietly. “He cannot be buried with her.”

  “Why not?” The words escaped her before she could catch them and bind them. They were too raw, too choked, and even speaking them, her eyes teared.

  “You know well why. She is—she was—The Terafin, and in the eyes of the patriciate, Morretz was a servant. He was not even a servant granted the House Name.”

  “He couldn’t take it. He was—”

  “Yes. Domicis, and proud to be so. To take the name she offered—and if it eases you at all, she did offer it—he would have had to compromise the principles of the guildhall. To be ATerafin is to have an interest in affairs of the House.”

  “She was his life, and the House was hers—of course he had an interest in the House!”

  “There is a subtle difference. He devoted his life to her life. He was not beholden in any way to anyone but The Terafin. Being ATerafin, however, implies a connection, a responsibility, to the House.”

  She shook her head. “She was the House, Ellerson. She was the House.”

  “No, Jewel—although it might anger you to hear it, she was not. House Terafin still stands. Its merchant concerns, its responsibilities to the Crowns, still exist, as does its seat in the Hall of The Ten. She shaped, guided, and ruled the House—but the House, like a kingdom, continues beyond her. That has always been the case, and she knew it well.

  “There is only one hope for continuity,” he added quietly. “And Morretz gave his life to achieve it.”

  She was silent. Numb. But she would not move from Morretz’ side.

  Ellerson did not leave. When he spoke, it was not to reiterate his request, not immediately.

  “ATerafin, do you know how I came to serve in this manse sixteen years ago?”

  She shook her head. She knew—very, very well—how he had come to leave that service. Was surprised at how it still stung, given how much she had lost today.

  “Morretz came to me in the guildhall. I had taken leave of active service and intended to spend the rest of my productive years teaching. I taught Morretz,” he added. “Before he came to serve The Terafin, he was my student. It was I who judged him capable of that service. When Morretz first arrived at the guildhall, he was angry, confused, and in search of a cause to which he could devote his life. If the cause were a worthy one, he could then forget that he had ever had a life of his own.

  “I will not trouble you with all of the reasons this is a poorly conceived desire; it is a common desire, and it leads many to our doors. Almost all of those who do arrive to petition the guildhall for entrance for this reason do not, in fact, remain.”

  In spite of herself, Jewel looked up. “Why?”

  “Because they are looking for some form of service that will allow them to avoid making any decisions of their own. They are looking for service as justification for their existence. They come to us empty, and they ask us to fill that emptiness.”

  She nodded.

  “You have seen the Chosen. You are held in esteem by the captains, and I believe you hold them in high esteem in return. Is this not the case?”

  “It is.”

  “They have devoted their lives to the life of The Terafin.”

  She nodded again.

  “Could they have done so if they were unformed and desperate young men? The willingness to lay down a life is not enough if they themselves consider that life to be almost without value. The Chosen are tasked with making choices and decisions in the absence of their Lord. She trusts them implicitly and explicitly. She trusted her domicis in the same fashion.”

  No, Jewel thought, glancing at Morretz’s lifeless face. She had trusted him more.

  “He offered advice and counsel. That advice and counsel did not come from an empty place. I was proud of him. As a student, he was one of my most challenging—and one of my most successful.” Ellerson smiled; it was a bitter smile. “I have no children. Perhaps, in the end, this was not a wise decision on my part, but to have a family, I would have had to leave the service entirely. Morretz, inasmuch as a man can be whose life was devoted to another, was as close to kin as my chosen vocation permitted.

  “I watched him grow. I watched him flourish. I watched him gain the knowledge required to serve a lord of power. I watched him slowly surrender his despair and his pain until it no longer defined him. Did it shape him? Of course it did. But it did not define him, in the end.

  “Give him back to me, and I will take him home.”

  Jewel rose then. “He’s yours,” she said, voice too thick, too heavy, for more words. She turned and left the room.

  The kitchen had never seemed so far away as she trudged toward it, head down.

  The sounds in the wing were wrong. The ceiling was thick and flat; there was no tenting, no wagon cover; there was no sand and no sound of leaves in night wind. There were no stars. There was no sun. The voices she heard—at a distance—spoke Weston, not Torra.

  This was home, yes.

  But The Terafin was dead. Morretz, dead. Alowan—gentle, wise healer—dead as well. She had always considered home to be the place the den lived—but tonight, it felt empty, it felt hollow.
She walked the halls and before she reached the dining room that led to the kitchen, she passed Celleriant. He stepped in behind her and began to follow.

  Not now, she thought. She’d grown accustomed to his presence. Accustomed to armor that the Chosen would never wear; accustomed to the sword that no longer occupied his hand. The sight of his platinum hair seemed almost natural. When had that happened? How?

  She had seen the way Finch and Teller watched him. She had answered their brief, signed questions.

  This was home. It would never be the same as the home she had left. Had she stayed—had she stayed, it might have been. Had she been here—but no. No. She swallowed, squared her shoulders, continued to walk.

  Celleriant had not chosen to serve her. He had failed his Queen, and Jewel was his punishment. She could probably order him to leave—but she wouldn’t, and they both knew it. Nor would she now abandon the Winter King, although he had vanished somehow, as he often did.

  “These people are my kin,” she told Celleriant as she faced familiar swinging doors. “I would die before I see them come to any harm.” She didn’t wait for his reaction; instead, she pushed the doors open and walked into the kitchen.

  There was no joy to be had at this homecoming. Not for Jewel. Not for her den. The enormity of two deaths—three—lay between them, around them. The woman who had given them the names that defined all but one of their number was gone.

  Jewel’s den was silent as she walked to her chair; silent as it scraped in its familiar way along the floor. She sat heavily, folding her arms across the table in front of her. By dint of will she didn’t allow her head to sink into them. But her throat felt swollen and thick and she sat there in silence for far too long. Her hands were sun-dark; she knew her sojourn in the South had reddened her hair. She felt as if she had stepped out of the wrong season—the wrong world—and the passage had taken the hope of homecoming from her.

  She glanced at Arann. They had all taken wounds today, but most of those were figurative. Arann’s, as part of the House Guard, were more. No, she thought, numb now. He was not just a House Guard. She recognized the subtle change in insignia; he was Chosen. Somehow, in her absence, he had made his personal vow to The Terafin. What would happen to him now? What would happen to any of the Chosen? They had failed in the only charge they valued; she was dead.

  Arann’s wounds had been tightly bandaged, but blood had seeped through those bandages; in the dim light of the kitchen it seemed a much darker red.

  Celleriant did not take a seat at the table; nor had she expected it. He walked to the wall behind her chair, and stood there in perfect, forbidding silence. She was more aware of his presence in the kitchen than she had been for weeks. She swallowed. She could see brief hand and finger gestures, and realized with a pang that they weren’t meant for her.

  And she was not the only one who had brought newcomers, although newcomers had always come to the den through her. Quietly seated, his shoulders curling toward the ground in almost exquisite embarrassment, was a boy she—to her shock—recognized. Adam. Adam of the Arkosa Voyani. He glanced at her, but when her eyes met his, he looked away instantly, paling. That stung.

  “Adam,” she said, falling into the Torra that now came so effortlessly.

  He looked up instantly. She smiled at him, hoping her smile had no edges; it was a genuine smile. He was alive. He was alive, he seemed healthy, and he was—against all odds and hope—with her den. She wanted to ask him how, or why, but he seemed so nervous she was afraid it would sound as if it were an interrogation.

  “He was at the Houses of Healing,” Finch said quietly—in Weston. “Levec had him there. It was Adam who told us you were still alive. Levec cares about him,” she added, “but Adam wasn’t comfortable there.” She swallowed and then continued. “He’s staying with us at the moment. It’s been a bit awkward.”

  “Awkward? Why? Is Levec causing trouble?”

  Finch shook her head. “In the last couple of weeks, there’s been a new plague that’s spread through the city.”

  “It’s the wrong season for the Summer sickness.”

  Finch nodded. “It’s not—I don’t think the healers believe it’s entirely natural.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Adam is healer-born. Levec said—” She shook her head. “Adam’s healer-born.”

  “And he let him stay here?”

  Finch smiled ruefully, her face relaxing into the familiar expression at the octave change in Jewel’s voice. “I don’t think he was happy with the decision—and it’s been difficult. Adam is new to the city. He’s new to the Empire. His Weston is only barely passable.”

  “How barely?”

  “He can buy a few rudimentary things and ask very simple directions. His Torra’s not street Torra, either—but he understands most of it. Levec’s lost younger healers before. He hates to let them out of his sight.” Jewel didn’t blame him. “It’s not that Levec wanted him here—but Levec let him choose.”

  “And Levec’s been checking up on him ever since?”

  Finch shook her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “This sickness—they call it the sleeping sickness, the dreaming sickness. People fall asleep and they just don’t wake up.”

  “At all?”

  She nodded; Jewel caught the hesitation in the gesture. She waited. Finch finally said, “Adam can wake them. They don’t stay awake,” she added in a rush. “But… Adam can wake them for a while. He’s the only one who’s been able to even do that much. So he’s necessary, in the eyes of the Kings and the Houses of Healing.”

  “I’m surprised Levec doesn’t have a room here as well.”

  Finch and Teller exchanged a glance. It was Teller who said, “He has a guest room.”

  “…So what you’re saying is I might accidentally wander across Levec—not the world’s friendliest man on the best of days if you didn’t happen to be born a healer—at any time?”

  “He doesn’t use it often.”

  Jewel almost laughed. It would have been wild and raw—but better by far than tears. Adam was alive. So many people weren’t—but Adam was, and he was here, and that was an unlooked for gift. She looked across the table at where he was trying to look smaller.

  “Adam.”

  He looked up instantly. Glancing around the table, he then said, “Matriarch.”

  It took Jewel a few seconds to realize he was applying that title to her. “Adam, I’m not—”

  “I didn’t know,” he continued, in uneasy Torra. “I didn’t know what you were when we met. I apologize if I gave any offense.”

  “Adam, I’m not a Matriarch.”

  “These people are your kin,” he replied gravely. There was the tail end of a question in the words.

  “Yes. But not in a way that your sister, Margret, would understand. We weren’t born to the same parents. We weren’t born to related parents, either.”

  “But you are all ATerafin.”

  She glanced at Angel, who couldn’t understand what they were saying. “Almost all, yes.”

  He digested this in silence. After a long pause, he said, “My sister?”

  “She is well. Adam—the Arkosa Voyani have left the Voyanne. They now dwell in the City of Arkosa, in the Sea of Sorrows. She’s alive.”

  “My cousin?”

  “Alive as well.” More than that, she did not offer.

  “And the Serra Diora?”

  Jewel couldn’t help but smile at that. He was fourteen years of age, and the Serra Diora was possibly the most beautiful woman Jewel had ever seen. The most beautiful mortal woman. “I left her in the camp of the Kai Leonne. She is alive, she is well.”

  The door swung open; Avandar entered the kitchen. After a moment, so did Ellerson. They stood on either side of the doors, watching; neither domicis had ever joined them at the table. Jewel looked at Ellerson and then looked away.

  “Avandar, how is Ariel?”

  “She is sleeping.” />
  “Naturally?”

  He raised a brow. “She was both frightened and exhausted. Ellerson has seen to a room for the child; I am not certain that she is best left on her own.”

  Jewel nodded. She almost rose to go see the girl herself. But she couldn’t decide if leaving to check would be an act of concern and affection or an act of rank cowardice, and she suspected it was the latter. She stayed in her chair.

  Everyone was watching her now. She was acutely aware that the first person she had spoken to was Adam. But it was hard to face her den, because The Terafin was dead. She was dead and Jewel’s return had not saved her.

  Teller said quietly, “Jay.”

  She swiveled to look at him.

  “She knew. She knew you had to leave. I think she understood why.”

  Jewel nodded.

  “You don’t believe you had to be—wherever it was you went.” It wasn’t a question. Teller knew her so well. “But she did.”

  “Teller—I was there. I was there, and I’m not even certain if I was necessary. The war in the South isn’t over. We need to win it.”

  “How bad will it be if we don’t?”

  “Henden bad. Dark Days bad. But if we lose and the Dark Days come again, there won’t be a Veral. There will never be a spring.” Her hands became fists on the table. “And I’m not there for that. The army’s almost in place, but I won’t see the battle; I won’t be able to help there. And the Commanders are going to be furious. With me. With the House.

  “I’ll miss the battle. I arrived too late for The Terafin.” She pushed herself out of her chair.

  “Jay,” Finch said, also rising, but with less force. She glanced toward the door, at Ellerson. Jewel’s gaze was dragged there as well.

  “Why is he here?” She spoke softly, as if there was any hope that Ellerson would fail to hear the words.

  “We needed him,” Finch replied.

  “I needed him sixteen years ago, but he still left.” Gods, the words. The words just fell out of her mouth. She wanted to grab them and swallow them whole. And she wanted to scream or shout or rage—not at Ellerson, although he was part of it. At the world. At death. At the demons and the Lord of Night and The Terafin, whose order had killed Morretz for no reason. He had come South, using a magic that he did not have—and had never had—the power to survive.