Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

You’d never seen me before, she replied. Look, let’s just—let’s just get where we’re going.

  You? No. But your kin? Your ancestors?

  I doubt you saw any of them, either. They were all here, and they all died—

  If it pleases you, remain ignorant a little while longer. But there will come a time, if I am not mistaken, when we will travel the hidden paths together, you and I, and it will be at your behest. It will be because of you that we can travel them at all.

  I can’t travel those roads again, Jewel replied. I can’t leave the House. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  He said nothing, and for some reason, his silence didn’t make her more comfortable. She wanted to turn around. She wanted to slide off the warmth of his back and retreat to Sigurne, who was both mage and infinitely wiser than Jewel. She wasn’t certain if the visceral desire was childish or not, because fear was often the foundation for caution, and caution was considered adult.

  She remained on the Winter King’s back. As he walked, slowly and deliberately choosing his steps, she felt the force of his memories, and they blended with her own, because she remembered what she had held on to when she had faced the Winter Queen: home. Home in the streets of the twenty-fifth holding.

  Why there? Half of her life had been spent in House Terafin, and if she succeeded in the months to come, the rest of her life would also be spent here. Why the twenty-fifth? Oh. The street. The road. The texture of the cobbles; nothing glorious or ancient or magical about those stones—or the weeds that grew up in their cracks. Nothing magical about the den she had built there, either. But the den was here, now. Everything they’d built then, they’d continued to build on. This was as much her home as the streets of the twenty-fifth had been. Take these grounds, this garden: she knew it. She could walk it blindfolded. She knew which path would take her to the shrines of the Triumvirate, and which path would take her to the House shrine; she knew which paths would lead to the pavilions at which important visitors were entertained. She knew how to enrage the poor gardeners—it had been an accident—and how to mollify them slightly.

  Were there farmers here? No. But she knew the undercooks and most of the servants; she knew the undersecretaries; she knew the merchants, whether they worked on land or at sea. She knew the Chosen, and even cast a glance back at Torvan. It wasn’t as far back as she’d expected, because he was keeping pace—at a reasonable distance—with the Winter King.

  Tell me, Jewel, why did you take those leaves from the Winter forests?

  I don’t know. The truth, that they were part of a fairy tale she happened to be in and she wanted some proof that it was real, wouldn’t have answered his question.

  And the red leaf?

  I didn’t take this one. It clung to me.

  He was silent. Viandaran is here.

  He was. He offered her a hand and helped her down in silence. But when she was close to him, he said, “ATerafin, understand what it is that you do.”

  Gods. “Tell me,” she replied, voice low. “What am I doing?”

  He shook his head, and of all the damn things bowed to her.

  “Stop it,” she told him sharply. “Stop it now.” Her arm throbbed, and she knew why: the mark he had placed on her inner wrist was burning. “Avandar, stand up.”

  He stood. His eyes were dark and distant; they were appraising in a way that was almost entirely unfamiliar. She didn’t like it at all, and there had been enough that she hadn’t liked already this evening. She glanced at the silver Winter King, and he, too, bowed to ground, as if he meant to carry her again.

  “Sen Jewel.”

  “What? What did you just call me?”

  Avandar shook his head. “It is an old title, nothing more; an archaic one. I mean no disrespect by it.” He joined her, and his eyes were shining. She couldn’t even tell if it was because of the effects of magic. Avandar had never seemed young, to her. But he’d always seemed human. Now?

  Now, he reminded her of Celleriant.

  As if he could hear the word—and given their bond, he probably had—he hesitated. And then he said softly, “With your permission, ATerafin, I would rouse Lord Celleriant.”

  “But you said—”

  “Yes. But I feel that he would consider the lack of rest worth what he might witness. It will be but a moment, and I will not leave your side.”

  “Avandar—”

  He lifted his hands—both hands—in a sudden, sharp reach for the night sky. White light trailed down his palms and arms like liquid, as he spoke words that were entirely inaudible.

  The Winter King rose. A breeze moved his fur; it was warm for the cold of the Henden night. He lifted his head, his blue eyes shining in almost the same way that Avandar’s were. Jewel had always thought his eyes brown; she was certain they were. Just not tonight.

  “ATerafin.” Sigurne Mellifas came to stand by her side; it was getting crowded, because so did Torvan and the Chosen. She wanted to send some of them away; she couldn’t.

  To Sigurne she said, “If you wanted to see Lord Celleriant, watch the skies.”

  “The skies?”

  Jewel nodded. “He’s coming, I think. I recognize the feel of the wind.”

  The oldest of the magi present looked to the sky, her gaze joining Avandar’s and the Winter King’s. Torvan’s gaze was firmly rooted to both ground and Jewel, and she felt comforted by it. He glanced at her, as if sensing her unease.

  “Jewel?” The single word was soft.

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing you can save me from,” she whispered.

  He glanced at the leaves in her hands. So did she. They were trembling because she was. But she shook her head again. “It’s the cold,” she murmured.

  Arann lifted one hand and signed. She nodded, and he moved away from the Chosen to stand by her side; to stand closer to her than even Avandar dared. He signed again, and this time she signed back, because signing was simpler, and because the words were ones she rarely let herself speak. I’m scared.

  Where’s danger?

  She held out the shaking leaves, and he looked at them; he didn’t touch. But she thought he could. He could, of all the people here. The thought was comforting. “You were there with me,” she told him, as if for a moment everyone else had become backdrop. “You were in the twenty-fifth. You were in the thirty-fifth. You were there.”

  “You saved Lefty.”

  “For a little while.” They could talk about Lefty, now—but not always without pain. Tonight, the pain was distant.

  He touched one of the leaves, the silver one. “It feels like a leaf,” he said, with obvious surprise.

  “I know. It didn’t. I mean, before tonight.”

  “It felt like silver?”

  “Like very fine silver.”

  “The others?”

  “The same.” Cobblestones seemed to flicker, for a moment, between his heavy boots—boots that were far finer than any he’d worn when they’d lived in the holding.

  “What are you going to do?”

  She laughed. “I don’t know.”

  “But you have to do it?”

  “Yeah.”

  His hand fell to the hilt of his sword; he didn’t draw it. But he turned his back toward her, and he faced the world outside of their small space. The wind grew stronger, and Jewel finally lifted her face and watched as Lord Celleriant descended from the night sky, dimming stars a moment by his passage. He landed slowly, as if the wind was reluctant to release him. But he landed near the Winter King and Avandar, and he nodded to Avandar.

  He glanced at Jewel, and his expression froze for a second in the typical mask of immortal arrogance and distance; the mask cracked as his eyes widened, gray becoming silver. He saw what she carried. He turned to Avandar so sharply the simple motion felt like either an accusation or an attack.

  Avandar, however, nodded.

  Celleriant straightened. As he did, his hair rippled and fell down his back like a cape—a cape the color of the Winter King�
�s fur. He carried neither sword nor shield, and his clothing was dark and supple; he wasn’t armored for battle. To Avandar, he said, “I apologize, Viandaran. I am…grateful…for the disturbance.” To Jewel, however, he said nothing.

  She had one chance to walk away. It was now. She knew it as strongly as she had ever known anything: the coming death of her father. The future death of Rath. But her fear felt stupid. She wasn’t wielding a sword; she wasn’t leading an army or a host. She wasn’t commanding the power of the magi. She was standing at the edge of a hollow tree trunk, surrounded by people who—for the most part—meant her no harm; some of them even loved her. She carried leaves out of children’s stories in her hands; that was all.

  But children’s stories came from somewhere. Forests composed of strange trees. Trees of silver, gold, and diamond. Flowers that could cause sleep; flowers that could cause death. In the heart of that forest, a castle surrounded by thorns; a beast in his cave; a magic well.

  And yet, wasn’t she already walking in that forest, in those stories? To her left stood the Winter King, the stag who had once been man—and King—before he had caught the attention of the Winter Queen. Beside him, Lord Celleriant, one of the immortals who rode in the host of that Queen, part of the Wild Hunt. A little to one side of him, a man who had lived for so long, death was his only dream. Not immortal, no—but not mortal, either.

  Add the wizards—the magi—and the knights—the Chosen. How was this any more real than those stories? She was the child who had come to the forest’s edge, whether through starvation or flight; she was the one to whom the dark and hidden paths lay open, promising—mostly—death.

  She lifted the leaves and she approached that path into the forest. The companions who had followed her this far fell away; only one remained. She turned and smiled; it was a nervous smile, but that was fine. Arann had seen her at her absolute worst, after all. That smile would be nothing. His was steadier, and, as it usually was, silent. But it wasn’t a nervous silence. Arann trusted her.

  Trusted her, she thought, remembering Lefty. She stumbled; he caught her before she could fall, and he held her arm until she was steady again. The smile she offered the second time did make him wince, because he was Arann, and he knew why. He shook his head. “Do what you have to do,” he told her. “I’ll be here.”

  He didn’t even ask her what she was going to do. He wouldn’t. He figured she’d tell him if it was important—to him. To the den. She didn’t feel as if she deserved that—but she also knew she relied on it. Needed it. So she offered a third smile—this one was like den-sign.

  She reached out. There was one tree in the darkness, almost in the center of the path she had seen—and could still see, which, given where she actually was, was disturbing. It was a slender tree; younger, she thought, than the rest, because the rest towered into the shadows of night, becoming one with the moonless sky above them.

  She touched bark; it was cool and rough. Then she glanced at the leaves she’d carried. Taking a breath, she lifted the silver leaf from the pile in her left hand, and raised its stem toward the trunk. It didn’t even surprise her when the trunk grew a branch just to reach that leaf. It was a slender branch, new growth, but even as Jewel watched, it silvered, until it was the color of the leaf itself. It then grew, carrying the leaf with it, until both branch and leaf were completely beyond her reach.

  But the branch grew over the dim path; it grew above their upturned faces.

  “It’s like a story,” Arann said quietly. She was surprised that he’d spoken at all, and glanced at his face.

  “Here,” she told him. She handed him the gold leaf and he hesitated for just a second before he took it. It might have been a butterfly, he held it with such care; his hands were shaking.

  “Jay?”

  She nodded and he lifted the gold leaf, just as she’d done, toward the slender tree. He held it higher because he was taller and he waited until the tree once again reached out with a branch toward the leaf’s stem. That branch became gold as they joined, and even in the darkness of forest night it was a warm, solid gold that spoke of wealth. No, Jewel thought, knowing that this branch and this tree could never be sundered. It spoke of the dreams of wealth, and of the beauty of those dreams.

  The reality was of course profoundly different; she’d had both dream and reality. In dreams, you didn’t suffer consequences, and your enemies—if you bothered with them at all—were there to offer you victories or vindication.

  She waited until the branch stopped its sudden upward growth, and then very carefully held out the leaf of diamond. Its veins shone white in the forest, although the night was dark. Yet light burned in the heart of the diamond branch that the tree now grew, and it flared where the two met: leaf and branch. This growth was the slowest and it seemed the most deliberate, but the branch hung lowest; Jewel could reach up and touch it if she stood on her toes; Arann didn’t need that much of a stretch.

  “One more,” Jewel whispered, as she lifted the leaf of ruby. It was a deep, dark red, and in the dim light, it seemed more liquid than gem, but calling it the leaf of blood was disturbing. She hesitated. As she did, the tree rustled, touched by a breeze that touched nothing else, as if it were attempting to converse.

  This tree had once been a normal tree. It had had no voice, no shadows, no leaves other than the ones that budded in spring and fell in a farewell display of color in the autumn. It had been the oldest and the largest of the trees in The Terafin’s estates, and it had been respected for its age and its size, inasmuch as trees were ever granted respect.

  But this, this last leaf, had come from this tree. She was certain it was the same tree, although it looked younger and slimmer, dwarfed by the old forest in which it had taken root. Celleriant had said it was somehow rooted in a dream world—not a daydream world, that would be too comfortable, too safe.

  She turned the leaf over in her palm. Not all dreams were ugly. Not all dreams were bitter. Not all dreams of death led to death—not Jewel’s dreams. Her eyes widened. She turned to Arann, who stood in silence, waiting for her to take one action or the other: lift the leaf and return it to the tree, or discard it.

  “I dream,” she told him softly because he was there and she wanted the kitchen.

  Arann nodded, aware of the nature of some of her dreams—and aware, as well, that she woke from them screaming and terrified, and found her way back only in the steady presence of her watchful den-kin.

  “I dream,” she repeated. “Sometimes I dream of death. I can’t control them. The dreams.”

  He nodded again.

  “Can you remember what I tell you now?” she asked, aware that he wasn’t Teller, and aware, sharply, that Teller wasn’t here.

  “Yes.”

  It was her turn to nod, to draw breath. “I can’t control the dreams, but sometimes I can control the deaths that occur in them. They come with me—the dreams—and they drive me in the waking world. It’s not perfect,” she added, thinking, with sharp pain, of The Terafin, “but sometimes it works.

  “The dreams come to me. I don’t control them. I don’t know where they come from or why. But they’re my dreams, Arann. Mine.” She lifted her face to the leaves that rustled above them both, as if they were her audience. Their voices were tinkling, metallic, like oddly shaped chimes. “Sometimes I dream of gods.”

  She lifted the last leaf, the red leaf, and the whole of the tree trunk shivered. Bark grew around it, hardening, darkening; this time when it reached for the leaf, it didn’t reach with one branch, but with many—and they were tree branches, and familiar ones at that.

  “What do you dream of?” she asked the tree softly.

  Trees didn’t talk. Not even here. But the branches lifted this single leaf, and instead of raising it to join the others, it drew the leaf in, toward its trunk. A small gap opened in the bark; the leaf vanished as if swallowed. As if, Jewel thought, she had returned its heart.

  She waited, breath held; the leaves she ha
d taken from the forest that had surrounded the glass castle in the Stone Deepings did not vanish; nor did their branches become the living branches of a tree of bark. They remained as they had grown, and as she watched, they grew larger, higher, smaller shoots unfurling and adding new leaves that were kin to the ones she had offered.

  Silver. Gold. Diamond.

  She wasn’t surprised when one of each of these new leaves fell toward her upturned face. She caught them, gathering them as they hardened. But the ruby leaf did not return; nor did ruby leaves grow again from branches that had shed them once before. Instead, above, leaves grew.

  These leaves, she recognized with a shock: they were the leaves of the trees that girded the Common, and those trees and this one were in no way the same. Large, green, almost the shape of giant’s hands, they budded and unfurled, and they rose as the tree gained in height and width, until the roots reached above the dark earth and surrounded their feet.

  Arann stared in wonder, a half smile on his face.

  One of these leaves also dropped; it was Arann who caught it; Arann who turned it over and over in his hand, the smile deepening. Jewel’s answering smile came from a place as hidden as the tree’s heart; she reached out, touched the leaf that rested in Arann’s hand; it was soft, supple, its edges ivory, its heart green. As a child, she’d gathered the leaves when they’d fallen in the Common; it was forbidden by law to “interfere” with the trees in the Common, but it wasn’t illegal to gather what they shed. And, to be fair, it was also almost impossible to interfere with those ancient trees—you could carve your initials in the bark if you were patient and strong, but that would take more than enough time for the magisterians to arrive on patrol, and then you’d suffer—the branches for the most part were too high.

  The gathered, fallen leaves had graced her home; they’d graced her Oma’s window ledge when her Oma had been sick enough to stay abed for hours at a time; only death had stopped her from entering her kitchen. Jewel had carried them, sometimes in handfuls, as if they were flowers, and her Oma had smiled, smoking her pipe, and twirling the stems reflexively between her fingers before she set them aside.