Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “Lord Ishavriel,” he said, inclining his head.

  “I see the whelp of the Court has chosen to take his leave of its Queen. Have a care, Celleriant. You have, no doubt, seen the fate of those forsworn.”

  Celleriant was not kind; he knew well the fate of the Sleepers in their endless dream. “Can you hear the trees?” he asked softly, lifting his sword arm and gesturing toward the whole of the forest in one calculated sweep of motion. He knew the answer, of course. The forest did not speak to the dead.

  But the dead could listen. The dead could witness what they could no longer touch or hold. The dead—these dead, the demons of Allasakar—could desire what they could never again touch. They had surrendered all ties to the world and its vast deepings to follow their Lord to his new Dominion; they could not now return to those forests, those hollows, those mountains and caverns.

  “I hear the fitful dreams of a child,” was Ishavriel’s cool response. “No more. I hear,” he added, “an ending.” He leaped up and forward before the last syllable left his lips, and his sword traced a red arc that glinted off blue as Celleriant deflected, dropping onto his knees a moment. Lord Ishavriel was quick and supple in his movements; he did not remain in any place for long. The winds did not carry him. They could, if he chose to bend his will toward their dominance.

  But that would be costly.

  Ishavriel carried no shield. For a moment, Celleriant was angered; was he so insignificant an enemy that a shield was not required? The anger slid from him as he watched the Kialli Lord, replaced by something colder and infinitely more amused.

  “Where have you been playing, Lord Ishavriel, that you’ve lost your shield?”

  Lord Ishavriel’s smile was as cold and sharp as Celleriant’s.

  “In distant lands, little princeling.” He gestured, and Celleriant heard the familiar—and entirely unwelcome—voice of the wild fire.

  Jewel saw the fire before it started.

  Saw it, felt its heat, understood that it was coming. She cried out, wordless, to Arann, and he turned, lifting one hand in den-sign. She answered the same way, with a single urgent gesture: fire.

  He looked; no fire existed, no flames, no heat. But she didn’t have to tell him that it was coming; he understood that by its absence. “Jay—”

  “Come here,” she told him, striving for calm. “Come here. Stand in the lee of the tree and touch it.”

  “But Celleriant—”

  “Believe that there is nothing you or I can do for Celleriant now.”

  Even protesting, Arann came to the tree and did as she ordered. She then turned to the Winter King.

  You hear it.

  Jewel nodded. “Can he stop the fire?”

  Not safely, no, as Ishavriel must have guessed. Nor, however, can Ishavriel fully contain it, not here. Not so close to the sleeping earth. Something has angered the Kialli Lord.

  I can guess. He has that effect on me, too. Jewel hesitated for a moment, and then she reached up, teetering on toes and balanced on the tree’s trunk.

  What do you do, ATerafin?

  She didn’t answer—not with words. Not even with thought, which the Winter King would have picked out of the air anyway. Just beyond her, swords were clashing and lightning singed night air, blue and red, blue and red. Voices were raised, but even Celleriant’s was alien, to her. She couldn’t understand a word he shouted.

  Fire in an old forest was never a good thing.

  But fire had come to the tree and the tree had taken it in, absorbing its heat and its essence. She closed her eyes, which didn’t help; it made the voices and the sound of fighting louder, harsher. She whispered to vines of fire; whispered to the tree’s heart, because she was certain it had one. The darkness behind her lids grew red, and the cool night, warm. She opened her eyes.

  Wreathing her arms—both arms, and most of her upper body—the vines grew. They had leaves of kindling flame in a shape she recognized. These, unlike the vines, burned to touch. She was as careful as she could be, because they crackled and hissed without voices.

  Slowly, steadily, she withdrew her hand from the tree’s trunk. The Winter King reared and she shook her head. “Carry me,” she told him instead. “Carry me to them; the fire is coming.”

  Does it come willingly?

  “How the hells should I know? It’s fire.” But the truth was, she did know. The voice of the distant fire was raging fury and crackling heat, and it matched the cadence of Lord Ishavriel’s incomprehensible words almost exactly. Its voice defined the voice of the betrayed who destroy, rather than weep. Kin to those voices, it was also full of longing, desire, and recognition turned bitter and ugly.

  She shouldn’t have cared. Mostly, she didn’t—because if that fire was unleashed here, it would spend itself attempting to devour what she had built, and what she had built was new. Its roots hadn’t had the time to sink into the earth and grow deep enough to withstand this unwelcome visitor.

  Not that trees ever did all that well when facing normal fires; these trees, however, weren’t normal. They were dreaming trees and waking trees and they existed in a place where the gods might walk; gods, not mortal girls with a touch of vision and a houseful of people who wanted, in the end, to tell her what to do, how to do it, and when.

  What would Haval or Devon say to her now? She lifted her arms, and the vines rose with them, red and fine and thin.

  The Winter King knelt and she mounted, taking care—as much care as she could—to keep the leaves above his fur and away from his tines. She ended up losing patches of coat, but the coat smoldered and blackened; it didn’t catch fire. Thank Kalliaris.

  What would they say to her now? What would Ellerson say?

  The Winter King rose.

  “Arann, please, if you trust me at all, stay by the tree, no matter what happens.”

  She didn’t hear his reply because the stag sprang forward, tines lowered. With him rose Jewel and the vines and the leaves of flame. She knew that they were part of the tree, that she was still in contact with it, but she felt exposed as they drew close to the fight. Close was yards away from where Celleriant landed, yards away from where he rose, leaping to one side to avoid flame from the demon Lord’s hand.

  It was not farther away than the voice of the fire; she bid the Winter King stop without even saying a word. But when she tried to dismount, he moved. I will stay, he told her.

  Go back to Arann.

  No. I will remain, ATerafin, or you will not. Lord Celleriant was ordered to serve you. I am not a Prince of the Winter Court. My choices are mortal choices, not Arianni. You will not dismount.

  But the fire—

  I will ride the fire, he told her.

  You can’t.

  He was silent for a long moment. Very well. I will chance the fire. If you cannot achieve whatever it is you desire, it will not matter; the fire will consume everything. I fear it will consume the fool who called it forth, as well, but that will be little consolation.

  Little’s better than none.

  What did she intend to do?

  What did she know about fire, after all? What did she know about dreams? What did she know about ancient groves of trees that could be woken with a touch and transformed in the waking? The waking…Wait, did you say that the earth is sleeping?

  Yes. But not, I fear, for long, and when it wakes, it will be angry. Can you not feel it?

  No.

  I feel it beneath my hooves.

  Why is it sleeping? She didn’t ask how.

  I do not know. I cannot wake it, Jewel. Of the many gifts my service to the Wild Hunt has given me, that is not one. Even if I could, I would not do it; the anger of the elements is wild and barely contained; it would uproot your forest as easily as the fire would consume it.

  Could I?

  I…do not know. I do not know if it would hear your voice at all; there are mortals who might bespeak it and be heard, if only briefly. His tone made clear to her why he thought it would be brief
.

  Avandar had called the wild earth in the Sea of Sorrows; he had called the earth in the village of Damar.

  Viandaran cannot be considered mortal. Even were he, he was born at the height of the glory of Man.

  She took a breath, closed her eyes, and steadied herself. She was on the back of the Winter King, and if he chose to carry her, she’d never fall off.

  On the other hand, she’d singed his perfect, silver fur.

  She looked at the vines, and then touched them, sliding her fingers between the leaves and singeing skin in the process. They uncoiled from her forearms like leaved snakes might have, and slid toward the ground, leaving a trail of curled, dark fur in their wake. And wool.

  They were there when the fire appeared. The Winter King leaped clear of its opening fanfare: an orange-red blaze with a heart of blue. The vines coiled around the bonfire, red to its shaded hues. Its leaves burst into brighter, longer flames when they met, vine and flame, tree and fire.

  What are you doing, Jewel?

  I’m telling the fire to go back to sleep and dream of forests, was her curt reply. Before he could ask her how, she added, Watch.

  The vines took root. They took root, however, on what had been path, its beaten dirt blending into worn cobblestones. Stones began to redden as the vines grew; Jewel prayed that whatever it took to wake the earth, this wasn’t it. Flames lapped against the vines, and the vines of fire wrapped themselves around the heart of blue, curling and twining until the fires couldn’t be seen. The vines melted together then; they formed a trunk that Jewel didn’t dare to touch.

  Branches, red and sleek, grew out of that trunk, thick around as her arms; they reached for air, as flames might, and they sprouted leaves. Nothing would touch this tree. Not the cool Winter wind, not the rain, not the snow—and she was certain that snow fell here. As the fire summoned by the demon Lord continued to arrive, the tree grew taller, and taller still, until its height touched—and burned—the edges of the canopy the rest of the trees made.

  The Winter King was utterly still as he watched.

  “Do you hear it?” she asked him.

  Yes.

  “Will it stay contained?”

  Yes, ATerafin. Yes, Terafin. The fire…is not yet awakened; the earth is not yet aware.

  “That’s the best we’re going to be able to do,” was her soft reply. It was lost to the clash of steel. “Can Celleriant kill him?”

  Not yet.

  “Will he withdraw?”

  The Winter King turned and walked away from their fight. It wasn’t much of an answer, but Jewel had the sense that it was the only one she was going to get. That, and the lightning—in blue and red—that flashed across the whole of the sky, not just the patch under which they met, flying at each other—literally—with their ancient swords, in an echo of their ancient war. She could almost see the others as she walked: the dead, Allasiani or Arianni, in the dim shadows of the forest that existed beyond her trees. She could see the brief gleam of light off metal at chest and the height of forehead; she could see the same gleam off splints on arms or legs. What she couldn’t see—what she was suddenly certain she would never see, should she encounter these shadows again—was any hint of their weapons; swords, she thought—and shields.

  The path remembers, the Winter King told her. He walked slowly, Jewel ensconced on his back, his hooves touching cobbled stone without breaking or disturbing a single one.

  Arann was waiting for her in tense silence that broke the minute their eyes met. “Jay—”

  She shook her head. “It’s what he wants,” she told her den-kin.

  “To fight that demon? To risk his life?”

  She nodded. “It’s what he’s lived for for longer than either of us—or both of us combined—have been alive. I could order him back,” she added, acknowledging what he didn’t say, but what he was nonetheless asking. “But I think he needs this.”

  “But—why?”

  Jewel shrugged. “Because we can’t do what he’s doing now.”

  Arann’s eyes were dark and wide; his knuckles were white. “Jay—”

  “Don’t ask, Arann. I don’t understand it either. But he’d rather die there than retreat, and I’ll let him. We’re leaving. He can find his own way back.”

  He wanted to argue; she saw that clearly. She even understood why, although it surprised her: Celleriant had been allowed into their kitchen, part of their council no matter how far back he stood. Arann did not want to leave one of their own—one of her own—behind in the face of such a danger.

  But he swallowed the words.

  “He’s proving himself to me,” she said, relenting. “Yes, I know I don’t need that proof—but he needs to give it. I think the Lord of the Hells could walk that path in person and Celleriant would still stand on the road, wielding that sword and that shield. He won’t care about the collateral damage the fight causes, though.”

  That much, Arann knew was true—more than true. Celleriant had argued—coldly and passionately at the same time—for permission to run through the manse slaughtering everyone in it in order to end, as he called it, any opposition to her rule. Arann fell in beside the Winter King; Jewel wondered if that was the reason the stag was moving so slowly.

  She turned to look over her shoulder; to see the shadows of the two, demon and Arianni, as their movements emphasized their light, their grace, the death that happened all around them almost as an afterthought. They were beautiful. They were beautiful in the exact same way as the tree of fire was: it burned, no matter how careful you were, but for moments at a time, you didn’t mind the burning.

  “Jay?”

  Arann’s voice brought her back.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home.”

  “Good. How are we going to get there?”

  She pointed. Arann’s gaze traveled in the direction of her arm, because a man stood in the road—the cobbled road, the road of the holdings. To his side were trees of silver and gold, and leaves touched his hair and his cape. He wore a familiar face, but she expected that. He was Torvan ATerafin.

  And he wasn’t.

  She slid off the back of the Winter King, and this time, he allowed it. “I think there are other ways back,” she whispered. “I know if I follow this path, I’ll reach the manse.”

  The Winter King nodded. Who is he?

  “The Spirit of Terafin,” she replied.

  He wore armor that Torvan would never have worn, but he was of a height with the second Captain of the Chosen. The real Torvan was probably having catfits about now. So, she was certain, was Avandar. She couldn’t sense his presence at all; even the brand on her wrist was cool and unremarkable.

  But his smile was not a smile that she’d ever seen on Torvan’s face. When she was a few yards from where he held the road, he fell to one knee, just as Celleriant had done. Somehow, it was worse. She stopped moving and stared at his bent, helmed head. Lifting only his hands, he removed that helm and set it across one thigh. He carried no sword that she could see, but she was afraid if he had, it would have been a sword very like Celleriant’s. Or Ishavriel’s.

  He smiled as he looked up. “No, Jewel. It would never be that.” His voice was grave.

  Hers was thick. “You let her die.” It wasn’t what she’d meant to say.

  But it was, clearly, what he’d been expecting. “And so as punishment for my failure, you will not venture to my side; you will not present yourself at my shrine?” He still did not rise.

  “…no. It wasn’t as punishment. She’s not dead to me until the end of the funeral rites. Maybe not even then.”

  “You came to me when she was alive, Jewel.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. You know why it’s different.”

  His glance strayed to the forest itself, and he smiled. “I know why it is different, yes. ATerafin.”

  “Are you going to just sit there on the road?”

  “Until you give me leave to rise, yes.”

 
She almost left him there. Almost. But Arann was staring—at her, at him. The Terafin Spirit had never appeared before any other member of her den before. “It’s not mine to give,” she told him, the words more shaky than the brusque she’d intended.

  “ATerafin,” he said. And then, just as the Winter King had done, “Terafin.”

  She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she’d shrunk a couple of inches. “Will you force me to carry all of the resposibility? You’ve always been here.”

  “I have always been here,” he agreed. “Since the advent of the Twin Kings; since before. I have been here. But all things end, Jewel. Amarais was waiting for you, although she did not know it the first day you met. But I? I had hope. These lands are your lands in a way that they have never belonged to any Terafin before you, even myself. And you will defend them, while you breathe, in a way that I cannot. I can guide—but I cannot guide you, in the end.”

  “But what about those who come after me?”

  He said nothing. But he didn’t rise, and she hated to see him on one knee.

  “Have you always been here?” She glanced at the trees to either side of where he knelt.

  “Yes. Here, on the edges of the path, between my lands and the hidden ways immortals fled to when the gods chose to leave the world.”

  “And the shrine?”

  “It is close, as you must know by now. I am not alive, Jewel. I am not entirely dead, but even spirits know weariness. Perhaps especially spirits. I have watched over Terafin for centuries, with some success and some failure; it is time. There is a force in the North that has already begun to twist and remake the pathways.”

  She closed her eyes. “Allasakar.”

  He didn’t even blink at the use of the god’s name. “Even so. Can you feel him, where you stand?”

  “I’d rather not try.”

  “Ignorance avails you nothing.”

  “Nothing but peace, for moments at a time. I know I can’t face a god. I’d rather not attract his attention, since that’s the case.”