Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  Jewel shook her head, and then, realizing that he couldn’t see the motion, answered. “No.”

  “Because I was a man with very little ambition. I desired what she desired, for the House. I could run it, could oversee it, because our goals were in lockstep. I have very little pride associated with position.”

  “You don’t need it; you’ve got Barston.”

  He turned then, one brow rising. Teller reddened. But Gabriel smiled. “I have Barston, yes. He preserves what he feels is the dignity of this office.” He let the curtains go. “I am proud of what we achieved. I am proud of what Amarais accomplished. I am bitterly angry that her death was not peaceful. She had earned at least that much.

  “But what I felt for her vision, I cannot feel for yours; you are too young, to me. You are unfinished. What Torvan sees, I see, but I am no longer certain that it will be enough.” Before Jewel could speak, he shook his head. “I’m aware that what I saw in Amarais in my youth would certainly not seem enough to the man I’ve become, either; I want safety. I want certainty. Security. I understand that these things are illusion, but even understanding that, I am weary.

  “I will hold the regency until matters are decided.”

  “For her?”

  He raised a brow and then met Jewel’s gaze and held it until it was uncomfortable for her. “For her, yes. In the end, I wanted what she wanted. I’m still defined by that. I am also,” he added, as the door opened on Barston’s creased expression, “defined by the limitless disasters that seem intent on destroying our last gesture of respect.” Straightening, he turned to the silent captains. “Come.”

  He left Teller with an obviously agitated Barston, which was too bad; Jewel would have been glad of his company.

  The halls were crowded, but the crowds fell silent, parting around Gabriel and his moving party. Discussion would resume, Jewel was sure, once Gabriel’s back was far enough away, and much of that discussion would be about Gabriel. House Guards stiffened as the regent approached, even though he seemed to look right through them. Jewel remembered that The Terafin had also had this effect on the House Guard, and wondered if she would ever master it herself.

  Wondered if she needed to master it. “Gabriel?”

  He didn’t consider it necessary that she be invisible. “Please tell me there isn’t another emergency that you’ve failed to mention.”

  “No, not an emergency exactly.”

  “Good. What is it?”

  “Sigurne is staying over at the manse for the funeral.”

  “The Sigurne of whom you so casually speak wouldn’t happen to be the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge?”

  Jewel winced. “Yes.”

  Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. Jewel could almost hear his silent prayer for patience. “Very well. I will ask Barston to arrange suitable rooms for her use.”

  “Oh, she’s staying with me. With us.”

  “Pardon?”

  “She’s staying in the West Wing.”

  He was silent for half a hall. “Was this your idea?” he finally asked.

  “No.”

  “…I see. Very well. You will arrange for suitable facilities. I don’t need to tell you how important a person Member Mellifas is, do I?”

  “No, Gabriel.”

  “Good.” He said it in the exact tone of voice that implied bad. Disastrously bad. As they turned the corner that led to the largest of the galleries and the doors to the grounds at the back of the manse, he spoke again. “She is concerned, then.” His tone was different; both softer and at the same time colder, as if he had remembered the importance of his rank and had donned it instantly.

  “She is.”

  “Then it is better for the House to have her present. She is not,” he added, relenting, “terribly easy to offend.”

  “She couldn’t be. She works with magi.”

  He chuckled, acknowledging her point. That chuckle thawed the rigid lines of his face, softening them. Jewel had never known Gabriel well; Teller knew him best, and even Teller was kept at a respectful distance much of the time. But regardless, she’d always liked Gabriel. If The Terafin had earned a peaceful death, Gabriel had earned a peaceful retirement—if that’s what he even wanted—and Jewel vowed, silently, that he would get it if it killed her.

  But the softness of expression didn’t last, for as they approached the doors, they also approached a dozen of the House Guards and three of the Chosen. One of them was Arann. He lifted his hands in very subtle den-sign. Jewel signed back: it’s bad.

  “Sentrus,” Gabriel said, and one of the older House Guards instantly stepped forward and offered the regent a perfect salute. Gabriel weathered it. “Report.”

  “The Master Gardener is waiting for you by the pavilion.”

  “What?”

  “He insisted, sir. Member Mellifas said that the danger was almost certainly over. In his hearing.”

  “I see. The rest of the gardeners?”

  “He sent them on errands.”

  “He is alone?”

  “No. His two most senior assistants are also with him.”

  “Have you seen the pavilion?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you concur with Member Mellifas’ observation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. I will go myself.”

  This added six armored men to their group, but Jewel had a feeling the Master Gardener’s mood made them necessary. She didn’t envy Gabriel his position, and was starkly aware that in different circumstances, she’d be the one trying to calm the man down. In fact, that’s exactly what she would be working toward in the future.

  But the Master Gardener didn’t rant, rave, or scream upon sighting the regent. Instead, he fell to his knees, abasing himself in the very rough dirt. This, Jewel thought, was worse, and from Gabriel’s expression, he concurred. “Alraed, you did not destroy the grounds, and if you fall apart now, they will never be ready. We have the rest of today and the next two days, and we have the funding to expedite any necessary materials.”

  “In Henden?” The Master Gardener all but shrieked. He rose, however, and dusted off his knees.

  Gabriel winced. “Even in Henden.” He didn’t ask the extent of the damage; he surveyed it instead. The Master Gardener’s words would have failed to convey the scope. “Have you done a rough inventory?” Gabriel asked, as he began to walk to the ruins of what had once been the centerpiece tree. Alraed, done with groveling, walked by his side. Everyone else—guards, Chosen, Jewel and her companions—became either invisible or unnecessary.

  Which lasted until they suddenly stopped walking. Torvan and Arrendas drew swords.

  Avandar, what is it—what’s wrong?

  I believe, he replied, in the type of dry usually reserved for drought, the Winter King is waiting for you.

  Jewel pushed herself to the front of the loose formation, which worked until she reached Torvan’s outstretched arm. “ATerafin,” he said, with no warmth whatsoever.

  “Chosen,” she countered, with heat. He turned then, to look over his shoulder. One brow rose, and words hovered behind his mouth; he failed to speak them. He didn’t fail to make room for her.

  Avandar had—of course—been correct. The Winter King stood his ground at the base of the tree, his head lowered, his tines glittering as if they were ice. Or steel. “Regent.”

  Gabriel turned to her. “I recognize this beast. I have not seen it since—”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “He, and no. But he serves me in a fashion. Let me speak with him. You’re not,” she added, glaring at the exposed blades of too many House Guards, “in any danger—but if he’s standing there in the open like that, you might be if you continue to walk.”

  Gabriel nodded and turned to the Master Gardener; what he said was too quiet for Jewel’s ears to pick up. Not that it mattered; the Garden was Gabriel’s problem for the moment. The Winter King, on the other hand, was hers.
>
  “What, exactly,” she said, as she walked to where he stood his ground, “are you doing?” Before he could answer, she added, “In case the House hierarchy is too foreign to you, the man in the fine cut of clothing is the regent. He is, at the moment, the man who commands all of my House. The man beside him is the Master Gardener, and the men in armor are House Guards. Except for those two,” she added, waving at Arrendas and Torvan. “They’re the Captains of the Chosen.”

  Her hands fell to her hips in a posture that her Oma would have recognized. “Well?”

  If, as your tone implies, these are men of import to you, it is not safe for them to walk here.

  “Why not? Sigurne said the danger was past—”

  Your Sigurne is a sage, but she is a sage of a lesser time. The immediate danger is past, and I judge you capable of eluding it should you advance. Viandaran is not in danger. But I cannot be as certain of the others.

  Jewel pushed her hair out of her eyes.

  “ATerafin?” Gabriel came to stand to one side of her; the Winter King allowed it. In a much, much quieter voice, the weary regent added, “we can hear every word you say, Jewel; we cannot, however, hear a response. I feel it best that you keep this in mind.”

  “Meaning I look insane?”

  “Or inebriated, yes.”

  “Sorry.” She meant it. “He can speak—but he speaks to me. I hear his words.”

  “If you can speak in a like fashion to the stag, it would be best for you.”

  He is correct, the Winter King told her, his voice grave.

  Fine. What is it that you’re afraid of? No, let me try that again. What do you think might happen?

  Lord Celleriant escaped the dreaming.

  Yes?

  These mortals might not.

  But…but he said—

  He was safe. He is. But I fear that the mortals will be far more easily entrapped. They do not believe in the old paths, Jewel. They do not lend credence to the Firstborn, if they remember them at all. They lack even the comfort of lore and hearth wisdom to guide them.

  Are you saying that our visitors might somehow be entrapped in the dreaming the way Celleriant was?

  Not the exact way, no. It is subtle—at the moment, it is subtle. Mortal dreams are not immortal dreams; they lack the substance and the sharper edges; they lack the viscerality and the brilliance. But mortals have never been entirely safe from the Warden of Dream. Dreams sustain him, he added quietly.

  She had a very bad feeling about this. Dreams sustain him.

  Yes.

  Even mortal dreams.

  Yes.

  Turning to Gabriel she said, in the faintest of voices, “Gabriel, how long has the sleeping sickness plagued the city?”

  “Perhaps a month.”

  A month. She closed her eyes and prayed, briefly, to Kalliaris, the goddess she returned to time and again when she faced trouble. Kalliaris, at least, had the grace to remain at a distance.

  “Jewel, why do you ask?”

  She looked up at the smoldering ruins of the tree; it seemed to her eye to be a hollow, standing trunk. The roots on the ground remained as twisting vines, but they were dry and motionless; their thorns could still sting if one was careless, but at least they weren’t moving. “I think what happened with this tree, and with The Terafin before her death, are related to the sleeping sickness.”

  The regent was silent for a long, long moment. “And the stag?”

  “He will allow you to pass if you insist.” She said this with more emphasis than she’d intended, most of which was meant for the Winter King. He lowered his tines in agreement, although his eyes narrowed.

  “Does he fear that we will be subject to the sleeping sickness if we pass beyond him?”

  “I think that’s exactly what he fears.”

  “And if we uproot the tree?”

  She gaped at him. “Gabriel—we have two and a half days. Uprooting the tree—”

  “It can be done, if we petition both the Kings and the magi; the petition must travel immediately, however.”

  To the Winter King, she said, Would that be safe?

  It would be safer, yes. But I fear that the time for safety is passing, Jewel.

  Gabriel, given the answer, left quickly, taking Torvan and Arrendas with him. He left the House Guards with the Master Gardener—and with orders that none should pass beyond the boundary set by the Winter King. If they had some issues with taking orders or advice from an animal, they were utterly silent in Gabriel’s presence.

  They were, Jewel thought, with distinct unease, utterly silent in hers—but it was a weighty silence. It wasn’t suspicious—not yet—but it wasn’t normal.

  No, normal was reserved for the gardeners. The Master Gardener stayed a moment, and because Jewel was feeling pressured, she uncharitably assumed it was for fear of the damage the Winter King might do. Given the state of the grounds, it was a pointless concern; given the mood of the Master Gardener, she didn’t feel the need to actually say this. Instead, she headed back to the West Wing, taking Avandar and Angel with her.

  She heard a cry at her back and wincing, she turned. The Winter King had vanished. Next time, she said grimly, could you walk away from the witnesses before you do that?

  If it proves necessary, I will.

  It’s necessary.

  No, it is not. In fact the opposite is true, in this particular case. You have never commanded men, Jewel; I have. Your regent was correct: they watched you speak to an animal.

  You’re hardly a—

  Yes. I am not. But this is the form I have now, and it is the only form left me. I have merely made clear that your sanity was not in question—unless they wish to question their own. They understand, now, that I am not merely a dumb beast.

  They’ll be afraid of you.

  Yes.

  They’ll be afraid of me.

  Yes. But in the end, that will not be a disadvantage to you; it will merely cause you discomfort.

  Sigurne and Matteos Corvel appeared at the doors of the West Wing with little ceremony and a lot of House Guards. The guards were there as both guides and an honor detail, and they took at least the latter seriously. Jewel couldn’t imagine armored men roaming the halls of the Order of Knowledge at Sigurne’s beck and call, but Sigurne was clearly accustomed to their presence. Matteos carried a large satchel, at odds with his robes. Jewel raised a brow.

  “The servants offered to carry our belongings,” Sigurne replied, correctly divining Jewel’s concern. “But Matteos would not hear of it.”

  “The regent extends his welcome—”

  “He has already done so in person,” was the mage’s grave reply. “He was on hand before we had passed through the foyer; one would almost suspect he had been waiting for us.”

  “I actually doubt that—but he probably had a runner in place to notify him if you showed up.”

  Sigurne smiled. It was a pointed smile, and Jewel made haste to get out of the doorway; she narrowly avoided colliding with Ellerson. Or, to be more accurate, he narrowly—and gracefully—avoided her misstep. “Guildmaster Mellifas,” he said, tendering her a stiff and utterly perfect bow, “your rooms are ready. If you would come this way?”

  “Of course. Gentlemen, I thank you for your escort. Unless you feel your presence is required within the wing itself, I would be grateful if you would tender both my respect and news of my safe arrival to the regent.”

  One of the men saluted. Jewel didn’t see it, but she heard it; it was a familiar sound, these days. Sigurne then entered the hall and the doors rolled shut behind her. Only then did her demeanor soften. “Jewel, if you aren’t too busy, I would be gratified by your company.”

  Jewel nodded, and as Ellerson led one of her most significant visitors ever to the rooms he had personally prepared, she joined the magi. Matteos was looking less disapproving than he usually did, which wasn’t saying much.

  “Accept my apologies for our late arrival,” Sigurne now said. “We w
ere detained by an urgent request for magical aid—and an accompanying writ of exemption. It appears that my magi are to work in your garden.”

  “If Kalliaris is going to smile at all this month, they’ll have already started.”

  “That bad, dear?”

  “Worse.” Jewel ran her hands through her hair. “The Winter King—”

  “The Winter King?”

  “Oh, sorry—he’s the stag I rode up the side of the tree.”

  Sigurne’s hair was silver and white, and a brow that color rose. “Winter King,” she whispered to herself. Her robes shifted as her posture did; she pulled several small stones out of somewhere. “I apologize if you’ve any dislike of magic, but I thought these might be wise.”

  “Silence stones?”

  “They’re a little more complex than that, but in essence, yes. I don’t see your domicis,” she added, making the statement a question.

  Jewel stopped herself from shrugging—but only barely. “He’s busy at the moment. Since Ellerson’s returned, he’s decided to leave the running of the daily business of the wing to Ellerson.”

  “And Ellerson doesn’t mind?”

  “Truthfully? I think he prefers it. He used to be—he still is—the most fastidious of men, and I think he secretly—”

  Ellerson cleared his throat, and Jewel had the grace to redden.

  “They’re both from the guildhall,” she said, in exactly the tone of voice reserved for groveling apologies.

  “Indeed, ATerafin,” Ellerson added. “Guildmaster, these will be your rooms. Member Corvel’s rooms are adjacent. If you prefer, accommodations can be altered so that you are within the same set of rooms, while still preserving some privacy.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Sigurne replied. “However, I do have a favor to ask.”

  “The stones?”

  “Indeed.”

  Ellerson looked down at the cupped palms of her hands. “If you are willing to leave this task with me, I will place them around the wing. ATerafin?”

  Jewel nodded, granting permission.

  “Will you see to their activation?”