Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  And yet, the assassin that had killed Jewel ATerafin’s beloved ruler had been no mortal. That thought brought him his only comfort, even if scant—it had taken no great effort to kill the creature, after all. If the demon had managed to escape detection up until that moment, it meant two things: that someone within the House was conversant with the kin, and that the kin themselves were extending the humiliating effort to pass undetected among the rabble of humanity.

  * * *

  An hour passed, and the halls grew no less tedious, but they eventually led to doors that were all of glass, and faced the outside world. Celleriant had yet to see any significant portion of the city or the Isle, and he paused a moment before these doors. Beyond them lay grass and carefully constructed flower beds. He opened them and stepped out into the cool air.

  This was a mortal garden. Yards away, trees—carefully pruned and cultivated—stood. They girded slender paths, which were marked by small statues and standing lamps. Along these narrow walkways, flowers had been carefully but hastily planted; he judged the weather cold for them, but understood that this was some necessary part of the funereal ceremony for those who lived huddled behind the walls he had momentarily escaped.

  But here, he thought in disgust, mortality had leached all wilderness from the plants themselves, and all struggle; no weeds choked the flower beds, exerting their more primal power, and all that grew on the trees above were small buds; there were no leaves. Even had there been, they would be small and green; the wonder and the majesty of the ancient forest had never touched them. He could walk among them—and he now did—speaking and cajoling as he pleased, and they would never wake, never answer.

  They lived, domesticated and fettered.

  Is this the world you wanted? There was no answer. His question was meant for the gods, and the gods could no longer hear him; when they had been able to do so, they would never have deigned to reply. Is this the only world in which the mortals could survive?

  It wasn’t even a world worth destroying.

  And yet, if he but closed his eyes, he could see the worn visage of Kallandras of Senniel; he could see the mark on his ear, invisible to mortal eyes, that spoke of oaths that death itself could not destroy. He could almost hear his voice; could see the elegant and graceful way he navigated the currents of the wild air, weapons in either hand that might have been made when Man was near the apex of its power.

  Not for Celleriant, the love of mortals; not for Celleriant, the unhealthy obsession with their brief lives. But this one man had been born in this diminished age, and this one man had called him, in the end, by his name.

  Where are you, Kallandras? What do you face?

  He expected no answer, and received none; he wandered the grounds, restless, searching for anything that might bring a passing color, no matter how faint, to this dreary world. As he walked, his desire was answered; he found the one tree in the Terafin gardens that was not untouched by immortal hands. It was not alive; that, not even the Arianni could grant, but it was enchanted, and the magics were dark and cold.

  “So,” he said, speaking the ancient tongue. “I am not entirely alone in this place.” He did not draw sword, not yet; instead he approached the tree’s trunk. It was not a young tree; it was perhaps the oldest in this garden. Its leaves had not yet begun to flower, and its branches were thick and high.

  He became aware, as he approached this single tree, that the mortals showed some respect for the age it had achieved; it was the centerpiece of a network of paths, and it was ringed by slender flower beds that, when in full bloom, would keep distance between any passing visitor and the trunk of the tree itself. Those beds had been turned, but whatever might be laid in them had not yet been brought.

  In sight of this tree was a pavilion, and it was tented in colors that were somber: white, black, and trailing golden ribbons. It was large, and two smaller, sister tents—one entirely black and one entirely white—stood just beyond it. Celleriant smiled. The tents were empty, now, but they were clearly meant for use.

  Ah. This, he thought, would be one of the areas in which the funeral services were meant to be held. He glanced at the tree’s height again, and this time, he whispered a small benediction to the slight breeze that moved through the grounds, and it gathered beneath him. He cajoled it with more care than he had ever chosen to display when speaking with mortals, and it lifted him toward the lowest of the tree’s branches. There, he drew even with the furled buds, and as he did, his eyes narrowed.

  No mortal magic touched this tree; very little mortal magic was capable of this subtle infestation and influence over the form of living things. The magic that was there was deeply rooted, and it would express itself in the leaves, if only that. Reaching out, he grabbed a slender branch and snapped it off the tree.

  Or he tried; the branch did not break. It stiffened, instead. The bark hardened, and the branch lengthened in an instant; Celleriant swiveled to the side before it pierced his chest; it nonetheless sheared through his tunic’s left arm. Releasing the branch, he pushed himself back; the branch twisted as if it were an arm, as it followed, lashing out, supple where it bent. Once again, he dodged, but this time he felt the edge of the branch break skin.

  It annoyed him. He coaxed the elemental air, and began to move as quickly as the anchored branch did; he was not yet ready to draw weapon against something as lowly as a tree. But the tree was not likewise constrained; the branches that faced Celleriant now shed all appearance of bark. This time, however, the buds burst into blossom, revealing leaves; they were a harsh, metallic red, livid and glowing even in the bright, cool sunlight.

  The subtle aura of magic fled like clouds in a windstorm; in its place, the heart of the storm itself stood revealed. Celleriant’s hair rose in fine strands as if electrified—and he was: this magic was ancient, wild. He understood what he faced mere seconds before the whole of the tree shifted its hundred arms and they converged on the spot where he stood suspended in midair.

  The world was red; red and black. Buds burst, blossomed; leaves drew blood and grew from that sustenance. His blood, and he shed it because that was the price of carelessness. But he laughed, and his voice was like thunder in a sky so full of twisting limbs it was no longer clear or blue.

  “Jewel, where are you going?” Devon’s voice was at her back; she was sprinting. The halls weren’t empty, but she’d never lost the ability to navigate crowds in an emergency; she could break her stride to pivot in order to avoid collision, and pick it up again smoothly. Angel could keep pace with her by moving in a similar fashion although he was larger. Avandar and Devon brought up the rear and she knew Avandar was less than happy about that position.

  She took stairs two and three at a time, heading down, her palm skirting the surface of brass rails for balance. The manse’s first floor was more crowded than the upper hall had been, and the gallery was worse still. People cursed her as they jumped to one side or another to avoid collision; she apologized without looking back.

  Angel didn’t ask where she was going; he followed. She was certain Devon and Avandar did the same. It didn’t matter. By the time she could answer Devon’s question, she was almost at the door that led to the Terafin grounds. She wasn’t the only one. A handful of House Guards clanked their way toward the same doors from the opposite end of the hall. Armor had the advantage of weight and sound; people moved out of the way of the House Guards, and they didn’t curse them in passage.

  But she lifted her hand, palm out, and the guards slowed as they recognized the House Council crest she now wore. “Go,” she said, pausing only for breath. “Summon Sigurne Mellifas. She’s in the manse. Have her meet us in the gardens.”

  “Where, ATerafin?”

  “She’ll know,” was the grim reply.

  Jewel threw the doors open and ran out toward the grounds. She didn’t have to look very hard to see where Celleriant was; he had cleared both ground and the height of the trees, wielding a sword that looked like barely
contained lightning. Were it not for the sword, she might have missed sight of him, because what he now faced was infinitely worse: A black tree with leaves of scarlet and crimson, whose branches twisted in air as if they were limbs or tentacles.

  “Avandar!”

  He was there; the doors had slammed behind her, although the sound was distant and almost unremarkable. It wasn’t the domicis who grabbed her shoulder, and it certainly wasn’t Angel, who knew better; it was Devon.

  “Jewel, what is that?”

  The imperative to run deserted her; her legs were shaking. “It’s a—it’s a demon,” she whispered, certain that she was wrong, but not certain why. It occurred to her, after the words had left her mouth, that he might have been referring to Celleriant, because Celleriant stood revealed in the heights. His hair was a white spill of something that seemed to gather and reflect light; his sword was pulsing like a pale, blue heart. He wore armor now, and he bore a shield; the black limbs that might once have been branches clattered audibly against it.

  But even at this distance, Jewel could see his smile. It shouldn’t have been possible, but she didn’t doubt her vision; he was exultant in the way that only immortals could be, wild and unfettered.

  Gardeners were running toward the manse, their tools carried in clenched fists as if they were weapons; their eyes were wide with both fear and purpose. They passed Jewel and her companions, heading straight for the glass doors; they paused only when they reached the House Guards, who had begun to spill onto the stone terrace. She heard their frantic babble, the syllables crashing and colliding in such a way that whole sentences were hard to distinguish.

  But she saw Celleriant, and the rising black shadow. Drawing breath, she made her way down the stairs and onto the path that would lead her to them.

  * * *

  Stubbed toes and snarled hair made it clear that she needed to watch where she was going, but it was hard. She saw branches riven by sword and heard the clatter they made as they fell; she saw leaves—what might have been leaves—stiffen like tines, and she thought they broke skin, scraped armor. Walking while watching the heights, she ran into a slender lamppost, cursed in very liberal Torra, and looked back at the path again.

  This time, she saw natural shadow in a shape that the grounds didn’t usually contain, and she recognized the silhouette—in sunlight—of the Winter King. It moved and as it did, it gained solidity and form; she heard Devon’s sharp intake of breath at her back.

  Jewel.

  Can you carry two?

  He bowed his great antlered head; he was, to her surprise, amused.

  “Angel,” she said curtly, as the Winter King knelt on his forelegs, “get on.”

  Angel was more hers than anyone’s; he looked dubious, but he didn’t hesitate. He clambered—awkwardly—onto the sloping back of the great stag. Jewel climbed up behind him.

  “He won’t drop you,” she shouted, as the Winter King rose and turned. “If he’s willing to carry you at all, there’s no way you can fall off.”

  “Jewel!” Devon cried. The second syllable was noticeably quieter than the first. The stag leaped forward on a path that should have been too narrow, and they were borne aloft.

  Turning, cupping hands around her mouth, she shouted “Go back, Devon! Go back for the daggers—we’ll hold it while we can!” She had no idea whether or not her words had carried, but she wasn’t certain he’d need to hear them. Devon was pragmatic, practical. Practical enough, certainly, to trust the lives of companions to fate if necessary.

  Jewel!

  Join us, she told her domicis grimly, as quickly as you can. I have no idea what he’s facing, but it’s—

  You said it was a demon.

  It’s not. And it is. It’s— She shook her head; her hair flew at right angles.

  Why, Avandar asked, are you running toward it? Stay back, you fool.

  But back was gone as they approached what had once been a tree. The Winter King stopped before they reached its trunk; his hooves came to rest well away from the gnarled and exposed roots that lay between the artful construction of flower beds.

  Above their heads, black branches swayed against the breeze, leaves now glittering like flat rubies. They reminded her of other leaves she had seen and taken, but these she would never have dared to touch.

  “Let us down,” she told the stag.

  No. It is not yet safe.

  “Then why in the hells did you bring us here?”

  Look, Jewel. Look well. What, exactly, do you see?

  She wanted to argue; she didn’t. Short of throwing herself off his back, she couldn’t. Instead, she did as bid: she looked at the tree.

  This close, she could see the bark that had once enclosed it; she could see the ebony that underlay it, growing thicker as the minutes passed. The roots were darkest as they lay against the ground.

  Winter King, she said grimly, move. We’re too close to the—

  She lost thought and the rest of the warning as the stones that lined—and made—pathways cracked; the Winter King leaped clear of the roots that broke free of their binding of earth and stone. They reared back like serpents readying to strike, and the Winter King lowered his head, his antlers both weapon and shield.

  “Jay—”

  “Hang on. Just—hang on.”

  She saw root and antler clash as the Winter King snapped his head up and away; the roots were attempting to snarl themselves around his tines. He lashed out with his hooves and she heard the crack of something far too solid. The landscape passed in a blur of black and green and gray; she tried to focus on the roots that were even now shaking themselves free in greater number.

  It was the roots, she thought. The roots, not the branches; something was buried beneath the tree, and it had been absorbed.

  Yes, the Winter King said, as she cupped hands around her mouth and shouted a single name. “Celleriant!”

  Shearing the branches off seemed to cause no harm; they fell, and where they struck earth, they burrowed. Celleriant was wounded; he was angry. But the anger was not wild rage; it was akin to humiliation. He could not challenge this creature, this corruption of a tree that was barely full grown; it had no name, no voice, no status. It was an affront that it could injure him at all, but it had, and he felt the wounds—slight scratches, simple insignificant cuts, begin to burn.

  But he heard the voice of Jewel Markess ATerafin beneath his feet.

  “Not the branches! The roots, Celleriant!”

  Fire cut across the height of the Winter King’s antlers as Jewel shouted the words. Focused fire, it struck the tangled black roots. If proof were needed that these roots weren’t entirely wood, the fire gave it; it bounced. Avandar rarely did anything as undignified as cursing; he was silent. She felt, rather than saw, his passing shadow as he approached the tree, skirting the ground by several feet. His flight wasn’t Celleriant’s flight, but it didn’t matter.

  “Avandar—the earth—”

  “Not here,” was his terse reply. “These lands are not a desert and you do not wish them to become one.” Fire flew from his hands. Contained in the privacy of the Terafin grounds, it was technically legal; no writ would be required for the use of this much magic unless the House Council deemed it necessary. Jewel shook her head to clear it, amazed that she could even be thinking of bureaucracy at a time like this.

  The tree cast little shadow, as if it was unwilling to part with even that much darkness. Avandar’s second round of flame was slower, but no less focused, and it spread where it hit root; this time, it singed. The Winter King dodged; his hooves splintered roots when they were close to the ground. But they fell like shards or slivers and they were absorbed.

  Above, Celleriant fought.

  He heard Jewel’s command. He understood what she desired, but it irked him. She couldn’t imagine that this was beyond his understanding; she couldn’t imagine that she, in her handful of mortal years, had seen more than he in his millennia. But the branches that fell lo
st form and shape, hitting the ground like a black rain that was quickly absorbed.

  “The roots!” she shouted again.

  Yes, if this were an ancient tree, it would be the correct form of attack, but that was impossible. Not here. He knew the ancient. He was of it. She was not. He wanted to tell her as much; he didn’t. The Winter Queen had commanded him to protect—and follow—the mortal seer. Beneath him, secure on the back of the Winter King—one of only a handful to have survived, even in this lessened form—she still lived.

  His shield drove him back as he blocked; the tree’s branches had lost even the patina of what they had once been; they moved like snakes, coiling to strike, attempting to grasp and crush. He cut them down, shearing leaf from branch and branch from trunk. Beneath his feet fire rose in gouts; Viandaran had come, but he had not yet chosen to unleash the full force of his power.

  It shouldn’t have been required here, where mortals huddled like rabbits and cast a gray pall over everything they touched. But…this tree...

  Sigurne Mellifas came last to the grounds, and she froze before the doors to the terrace were fully opened. Matteos was with her. He had become more stoic in his silences, but no less protective, as the years had passed, and his scars whitened as he saw what she saw. “Sigurne, wait,” he said, but without much hope.

  She gestured; the doors flew open with enough force to rattle glass. She offered no other response to his comment.

  “Is that Meralonne?” Matteos demanded, squinting as he gazed into the sky over the Terafin grounds.

  “No. He is still in the South.”

  “Then who?”

  “At this distance, I cannot be certain; my eyes are not what they once were. Come, Matteos; follow.” This was easier said than done; the lowest of the stairs that descended from the terrace were adorned with armored House Guards. They had unsheathed their weapons, but they had not advanced. Sigurne approved of this obvious caution; young men so seldom set aside their pride of position in favor of common sense.