Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “The gods agreed to the binding covenant of Bredan. They were then left with a choice: to destroy their children, or to leave them alive. It was a bitter argument. But in the end, a compromise was reached. Do you understand it?”

  “The hidden path.”

  “Yes. It is a place where the gods themselves might once have walked. It is wild in the way the whole of the world was once wild, and it is carved into the ancient earth, the ancient stone. It is called hidden, ATerafin, because very, very few can find it who were not born at the dawn of the world.”

  Jewel rose, pushing herself up and out of the chair as if by movement she could escape the weight of his words. She knew he spoke the truth; she knew he spoke only as much of it as would make the situation clear to the Lord of the Compact. But she knew, as well, that speaking, he was waiting for her reaction.

  “Ariane is the Winter Queen.”

  “And the Summer Queen, yes.”

  “She lives on the hidden path.”

  “Yes. She was kin to gods, and she faced them on the field of battle; she was much feared. There were always ways in which she might find moments of freedom beneath the mortal moon; Scarann. Lattan. There are nights when the hidden paths converge with merely mortal ones.” He was still waiting.

  “She wasn’t the only person I met when you and I walked that path together.”

  “No. You begin to understand, ATerafin. They came to meet you.”

  “They came to meet me because I was on the path, Avandar.”

  “Perhaps that is true of Calliastra; she was always willful. I admit that I have never clearly understood Corallonne; she was never my ally. But if they came because they sensed a mortal in their world, the same cannot be said of the Oracle. Do you not recall her?”

  “Yes. She appeared as the ghost of my Oma.”

  “As your dead, yes; not mine. It was not to me that she came, nor to me that she meant to speak, ATerafin. But the three, and Ariane, are all firstborn.”

  “They’re not the only ones.”

  “No, they are not. And if you have seen the three, it is my suspicion that you have already felt the handiwork of a fourth. Adam, I believe your sleepers are standing on the edge of the hidden path, called and held in the dreaming. What is interesting to me is that you can see them, you can call them back, if even for a short time.”

  “How is he reaching them?” Jewel demanded, thinking of forests of gold, of winged cats, and of ancient trees; of demons, of assassins, and of The Terafin.

  “I do not know,” was the grave reply. “I was never prey to the Lords of dream and nightmare.”

  “There are two?”

  “Two?”

  “A Lord of dream and a Lord of nightmare.”

  “There are two who are one.”

  “You’ve met him. Or them.”

  Avandar fell silent. She thought he’d finished; he hadn’t. “The dreaming wyrd, ATerafin, the three true dreams which you have experienced more than once in your life: those come at the behest of the Lords.”

  “No—they—” she fell silent. Celleriant had said something similiar. “The Lords are willing to do the work of others?”

  “Demonstrably,” was his dry reply. “The tree, ATerafin, and the Kialli Lord, are evidence of that. But what the Lords want, I cannot easily say; I am mortal. Nor is that your only concern now.”

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s not. If Adam can see the sleepers—”

  “Yes. Eventually, if it has not already come to pass, the Lords will see Adam. I do not know if they can touch or harm him where he now stands, but if, in the process of waking the sleepers, he is vulnerable, he is at great risk.”

  Levec’s Torra was not good enough to allow him to follow the entirety of the conversation; it didn’t have to be. He watched Jewel’s expression shift, saw her lose color, and saw where she looked; it was enough. More than enough. He rose.

  Duvari, however, once again came to Jewel’s rescue—a fact that would have made her nervous in other circumstances. “It is not what you think,” he said in Weston. “They are now concerned that the waking of the sleepers is of great danger to Adam. There should be no sleepers here.”

  “The—the waking of the sleepers?”

  Duvari nodded. “I will speak with the Princess,” he said quietly. “And we will determine how best to approach your task.”

  “What danger is he in?”

  “If I understood all of what I heard, and in much simpler terms, he risks falling prey to the sleep itself. If he does, there is no one to wake him, and no one to wake those who sleep now; they will starve to death.”

  Levec nodded.

  “Let us adjourn on the matter of the illness for the three days of The Terafin Funeral. You, at least, will be present for one or two of those days, if you choose to accept the invitation offered.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of missing it.”

  The heavy irony of the words appeared to be lost on Duvari, as so much was. “I understand your concern, Healer. But for the next four days, while the Astari are in residence in the Terafin manse, no harm will come to Adam. I doubt, given the circumstances surrounding Jewel ATerafin, that he will even be noticed.”

  But Jewel lifted a hand. “I think I have a solution to the possible danger,” she said to Levec.

  “And that?”

  “The cats. The mouthy, irritating cats.”

  He blinked.

  “I can’t guarantee they can protect him, but I can guarantee that they’ll know if he’s in danger.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, turning to him. “But they’re part of the hidden path; they’re part of wherever it is that the sleepers reside while they dream.”

  “But they’re here.”

  She nodded. Before she could speak again, there was a loud knock on the doors.

  “Enter,” she said, because if it was Ellerson, he wouldn’t until he heard her voice. It was Ellerson. “ATerafin,” he said, bowing. “The regent requests your presence in his office at your earliest convenience.”

  “Thank you, Ellerson.”

  The walk to Gabriel’s office was hectic and crowded. There were, in Jewel’s estimation, half as many ladders in the halls as there were people—and there were a lot of people. The servants who were usually invisible were out in force; Jewel caught a glimpse of the compressed, pinched expression of the Master of the Household Staff and almost cringed. She wasn’t, however, required to bow, grovel, or salute; House Councillors weren’t, in theory, supposed to acknowledge her at all while she went about her duties.

  But Jewel did pause to watch the servants at work, because she had never seen a full House funeral before. The whole of the gallery was slowly changing from the familiar one she knew; tapestries and banners replaced paintings, and some of the standing statues were carefully adorned with black-and-gold shawls. Even the paintings that now hung in the hall were not paintings she immediately recognized, although she recognized some of the names etched in brass on their frames: they were the previous rulers of Terafin.

  Avandar walked by her side like a prickly shadow. It was comfortable to have him there, but his absences—and his utter failure to mention their cause—made her nervous. She glanced at him every so often, but stopped when she realized two things: she was checking to see if he was still there, which was bad, and he knew it, which was worse.

  When she reached Gabriel’s office, it wasn’t empty. The doors were pegged open, and there were four House Guards—four Chosen—on either side of them. The room in which one might take a chair if one had arrived early had no chairs to spare—and almost no standing room, either. Jewel stopped just shy of the doorjamb and took a step back, into Avandar.

  Jewel.

  She took another step away from the room.

  ATerafin. What is wrong?

  I don’t damn it know. It was crowded, but she’d seen far larger crowds in the Terafin manse before—she just hadn’t seen one thi
s large compressed into Gabriel’s outer office. Maybe The Terafin had had days that contained this many people—but The Terafin had had both Gabriel himself and a dozen of the Chosen standing between her and her visitors. Jewel hesitated at the door, and then turned back down the hall, moving quickly, Avandar in her wake.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the wing.”

  “You’ve chosen to refuse the regent’s request?”

  “No. I was about to tell you to go find Celleriant, and I’ve come up with a better idea.”

  Sigurne Mellifas looked up at the sound of the doorknob. She was seated at the desk in her room, and papers—the lifeblood of the magi—were already stacked inches high to the right and left of her inkstand. A small sigil flaired to life above the height of the lintel; it was gray, but bright enough to read. Frowning, she rose. She had expected yet another delivery from Ellerson. The Order of Knowledge considered its daily business of vastly greater import than anything as simple as a state funeral.

  It was not, however, Ellerson; it was Matteos. “Enter.”

  The door swung open without a creak. Sigurne didn’t approve of its silence; there was something unnatural about it. Overly oiled hinges, like paperwork, were instantly relegated to trivial status when she saw Matteos’ expression.

  “Matteos?”

  “Jewel ATerafin has asked that you accompany her to the regent’s office.”

  “The regent wishes to speak with me?” She frowned; that wasn’t it. “Where is Jewel?”

  “She is in the front hall, waiting with her domicis.”

  Sigurne exited the room as Matteos held the door; he closed it gently, but firmly, behind her. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a stone—”

  “There is no room in this House that is better protected against magic or eavesdroppers than Gabriel ATerafin’s inner office, save the personal rooms of The Terafin herself.” She headed directly down the hall, walking at a brisker pace than she normally did.

  Jewel was, as Matteos had said, waiting with her domicis; she wasn’t, however, waiting alone. If Sigurne had been a woman to whom imprecations came easily, she would have run down the considerable list available in this wing; standing at a respectful distance from Jewel was Duvari.

  Jewel was pale, which only accentuated the dark rings below her eyes. She immediately tendered a bow as Sigurne walked into the room; it was an impressively correct bow, and she held it for far longer than etiquette demanded. “ATerafin.”

  “Member Mellifas.”

  “Matteos implied that the regent wishes to speak with me.”

  “Matteos,” Matteos said, at her back, “did no such thing.”

  “The regent doesn’t,” Jewel said quietly. “It’s an entirely personal request on my part.”

  “That I speak with the regent?”

  “That you accompany me. I’ve been summoned to speak with him.”

  Sigurne frowned.

  “If you wish to discuss guild fees,” Jewel continued, when Sigurne remained silent, “I can do that. It’s not a House matter; it would be for direct service to me, for this single occasion.”

  “In what capacity?”

  Jewel swallowed. “As witness, Member Mellifas.”

  “You are far, far too formal for my comfort, ATerafin. I seldom discuss my own fees because I am very seldom available for hire. Member Corvel—”

  Jewel shook her head emphatically. “It has to be you.”

  Something about her tone was so stark and so certain, Sigurne dispensed with the rest of her suggestion. “I am not young,” she said quietly. “But perhaps in my case, age has led to wisdom; wisdom is oft costly. Tell me what happened, ATerafin.” She was aware of Duvari’s presence, and equally aware that she did not have the time to request a writ of exemption from the Kings’ office.

  It galled her to have to ask Duvari for anything. “Lord of the Compact.”

  “Guildmaster.”

  “Your work in the Terafin manse, and on the Terafin grounds, no doubt requires at least one writ of royal exemption.”

  “It does, as you well know, Member Mellifas, since you are a signatory to all such writs. Why is this of significance?”

  Sigurne looked at Jewel, who’d shrunk two inches. The mage could not quite bring herself to speak; to ask a favor of Duvari was the act of the naive or the addled.

  Avandar, however, said, “We will wait, Guildmaster, while you execute a writ; I will personally deliver it to Avantari, and I will wait until it is countersigned and sealed.”

  “That is still the work of hours.”

  The domicis’ smile was cold. “No, Member Mellifas, it is not.”

  Sigurne glanced at Jewel again. She did not like the cast of the younger woman’s features. “Very well,” she said to the domicis.

  Duvari, however, raised a hand.

  “Lord of the Compact?”

  “Guildmaster. You are aware that any magic covered by my writ is for defensive purposes only.”

  “Well aware.”

  “You also understand—”

  “That those who are covered by your writ are under your purview while in the manse, yes.”

  His smile was thin. “And you are willing to be one such servitor?”

  “I am not. I am however willing to come to your aid—at your spoken request—should security matters within the House require it. I fail, however, to see how an interview with the regent falls under that category.”

  “I, however, do not. I formally ask you, as the head of the Astari, to accommodate Jewel ATerafin’s request.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. His smile both deepened and cooled as she considered the various angles of approach his game—and it never occurred to her that this was not another of his dangerous games—might take, and how it might damage the Order’s power. She could think of only two, and one involved the likelihood that his spoken request was not enough.

  Jewel said, “He’s telling the truth, Sigurne.”

  “And you are now also bard-born, with a gift for hearing what lies beneath a man’s words?”

  “No. Just seer-born, as usual.”

  “What do you see, then?”

  “Nothing. But—I’m uneasy. I don’t want to go into that room, not on my own.”

  “You will have Avandar—”

  “I don’t know if Avandar can do what—what you can do.”

  Avandar raised a brow.

  “Very well. I accede to your request, Lord of the Compact, with the fervent hope that the writ will not require execution.”

  Duvari nodded. “Shall we?”

  Sigurne almost sighed. She didn’t. “You will accompany us?”

  “Of course.”

  That was an unaccounted for third option.

  Jewel’s hands were dry. Her mouth was dry. The halls remained crowded, but the light that shone in from the wide, long windows seemed gray and harsh on this third passage. She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she walked. It didn’t help.

  When she approached Gabriel’s office, the same four Chosen were on guard at the doors, and the room looked, if anything, more packed. She could barely make out Barston’s desk, and probably wouldn’t have been able to had she not already known where it was. She looked, but didn’t see Teller in the crowd, which wasn’t surprising; when there was actual work to do, he usually shuffled off, as quickly as politely possible, into his small office.

  On a day like today, with a crowd this size—and why in the Hells were all these people here anyway?—the small office would seem like a defensible fortress. She squared her shoulders, looking at the small gap between her side of the door and the office, and then marshaled her polite “excuse-me, pardon-me” phrases and stepped in.

  She made it, by dint of those words, and the discreet application of delicate elbows, to the front of Barston’s besieged desk. By the time she reached that desk, she understood that half of the people in the room were from the various quarters of the m
anse itself: people sent from the kitchens, people sent from the grounds, people sent from the stables. They were all here because of last-minute emergencies of one level or another.

  The other half, however, were better dressed, and she recognized at least one of them. It did not offer any comfort. Rymark.

  “ATerafin,” Barston said. Out of deference for his unfortunate adherence to gestures of hierarchy, she lifted the signet ring of the House Council. He didn’t technically need to see it; he knew the House Council members—and all of their various aides—on sight. But he did nod, as if her gesture were official.

  “This is not the time to speak to the regent,” he told her, his voice hovering between stiff and apologetic. “Unless this is another emergency.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I said—”

  “I heard you. A messenger arrived at the—” Her eyes widened and she suddenly did what for Barston was utterly unthinkable. She levered herself onto his desk, and threw herself over it, landing in a tumbling crash somewhere behind and to the left of his chair. She rolled to her feet, cursing skirts as she spun.

  Barston didn’t even shout at her, because he could see—clearly—why she’d leaped; there was a long, slender dagger driven into the desk’s far edge. Had she still been on the other side of it, the dagger would have passed through her.

  Silence eddied slowly from that dagger outward, before crumbling into a storm of sound.

  Jewel, however, was already on the move; she dodged as a second knife—this one apparently weighted and shaped for flight—took wing. It impaled the frame of the painting that had briefly been at her back, and that did make Barston cry out in panic. He found his voice and shouted for the guards—which, in a room full of people, was not the best option.

  A third dagger; this one winged her shoulder, splitting the fabric of the indoor jacket and the stupid sleeves of her dress. She didn’t think it had struck skin, and couldn’t stop to check; she knew this dance; she’d done it before. She couldn’t quite see who was throwing the knives, and that was bad, but she also knew that whoever it was, they were about to run out of opportunity.