Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “Wait,” she told them, watching the grounds before the shrine as they filled, at last, with the Chosen. She counted perhaps fifty men and women.

  Seventy, Avandar said.

  More than ten.

  She felt his brief chuckle. “Captain Torvan, are the Chosen fully assembled?”

  “Yes, ATerafin.”

  “Good.” She turned toward the gathered men and women, wishing she recognized more of them, and knowing it didn’t matter. They were watching their captains. They were also, she realized, watching her. Waiting. She wanted to ask Torvan what he had said to them, but knew the answer: assemble at the shrine. Nothing more. They had come at his command.

  She could not be certain they would remain at hers. Two at least would, and she faced the first of those, seeing the years that had passed as lines in his face and gray in his hair. “I am not The Terafin,” she said, clearly enough that her voice carried beyond the shrine which contained them. She couldn’t be certain how far, but wanted the words to reach every man and woman who stood waiting in the silence.

  She waited for Torvan’s response; it was a simple, silent nod.

  “I am not The Terafin,” she said again, glancing at the other Chosen assembled on the grounds. “Each and every one of you offered The Terafin your oaths of fealty at this shrine when she chose you. You felt those oaths deeply; you risked your lives, time and again, to live up to them, to fulfill your promise.

  “Amarais Handernesse ATerafin was born to the patriciate. She was born to the wealthy, educated by the wealthy, and introduced, in her season, to the powerful. She understood the corridors of power, both in Terafin and in Avantari as instinctively as she understood how to walk or breathe. But she was fair, and she was just, and in her fashion, she could be merciful; she was wise, and as she understood power, she could hope to wield it well.

  “But I? I was born to old-stock Voyani refugees in the hundred holdings. I had two names, not five; I was taught to read, but given very little to practice reading with. I was taught to write, but again, with sticks and dirt and the occasional slates and chalk when they could be afforded; in the winters of the holdings, that was never. I was not given fine silks and jewels. I was not given introductions to the men and the women who hold the purse strings of the Empire or the ears of the Kings.

  “But I was born with a singular gift. That gift, in the end, brought me to The Terafin’s doorstep. This House became my home; The Terafin became my mentor. What I have learned of power, I have learned by her side. When she knew—when we knew—that she would die, she did not cry or weep or plead; she did not bend knee to the gods in hopeless pursuit of their intervention. She planned, as she had always done.

  “She asked, of me, one thing: that I declare my intent to rule the House she would, by death—and only death—abandon. I was never Chosen; I did not, and could not, serve her in that fashion. But if I did not have the qualities and the qualifications that would make me fit for such a position, I revered her no less, in the end. I gave her my word that I would do as she asked.”

  They watched her now. He voice had dropped; she knew it. She wasn’t accustomed to speaking in front of large crowds, and although she had learned some of that skill from simple observation of Amarais, she had never fully mastered it. But they heard her nonetheless.

  Torvan was utterly still as she spoke, but not in his usual way; his attention wasn’t turned outward, as it was when he stood guard. He watched her, and only her.

  “You have followed the Captains of the Chosen since your creation. You have never disgraced the vows you made.” She turned full to Torvan. “What did The Terafin ask of you, before her death?” She spoke clearly, cleanly, but forcefully. She meant to have the question answered.

  He hesitated, but it was brief, and when he answered, his voice was the louder of the two. “She asked—as her final request—that I hold the Chosen for you.”

  “And as a gesture of respect, of fealty, you agreed.”

  He nodded.

  She took a breath, glanced once at Celleriant, and then said, “It’s not enough.”

  His eyes widened slightly.

  “She’s dead, Torvan. If her last command to you was to support me, you are bound to a dead woman—one who will never give another command. Even so, her word will hold sway over mine. And as it’s me you’re going to serve, it’s me who’s saying: It’s not enough.”

  She turned, once again, to the Chosen. “You no longer exist to serve Amarais Handernesse ATerafin. She is dead. You serve the House, but the House is divided. Two of your number have fallen in their attempt to assassinate Gabriel ATerafin, and I will not have it, not of the Chosen. The House Guard, yes; they stand to make their fortunes here, if they back the right leader.

  “But not the Chosen.” She took a breath, and said, “The Chosen will disband. They will disband this eve.”

  Into the silence that followed her proclamation, came one sound: hooves against marble. The Winter King mounted the steps and came to stand to one side of her; it was becoming crowded.

  “By what authority,” a voice came from below, “do you seek to disband the Chosen?”

  “By my own. The Chosen were left intact so that they might guard and support me in my attempt to seek the House rulership. But without The Terafin, they are no longer Chosen. I am not—yet—The Terafin. I don’t have the authority to raise House Guards to the level of—of oathguard. I seek it. But I am not Amarais Handernesse ATerafin.”

  To her side, Lord Celleriant drew not sword, but shield. A whisper traveled through the onlookers; breeze made heavy with syllables. Leaves drifted toward armored men from the heights above as the Winter King lifted his antlered head and gazed into their midst.

  The Chosen shifted, their gazes suddenly reaching for the sky as something large flew above their standing unit and skidded to a screeching stop on cold marble. It wasn’t terribly majestic, but a winged, gray cat didn’t require majesty. Still, Shadow didn’t speak; he merely came to sit by her feet—closer to her person than either the Winter King or Celleriant.

  “I will seek the House,” she continued, reaching out to lay one hand on Shadow’s head. “And I will do it with—or without—your support. But if I am to be given your support, it will not be because you feel obligated to honor the wishes of a woman who can no longer lead you. Pay her your respects, as is her due and her right, and then do as I have done: decide your own path and your own future without her.

  “If you will serve me, you will serve me. I will take your oaths upon the same altar, and I will treat them with the same respect—but I will never be Amarais Handernesse ATerafin; she cannot be replaced.”

  She turned to Torvan, who waited. “ATerafin,” he said gravely.

  She smiled and shook her head very slightly. “Are you mine?” she asked him, her voice as soft as his.

  He drew his sword and laid it across the altar; it was followed by his helm. He once again dropped to one knee—or he would have. But she’d done enough, endured enough, for one night; she caught his arm—made heavy and cold by metallic joints—and held it. He could have knelt anyway, but it would have been extremely awkward.

  He couldn’t therefore offer her the one-kneed bow that served as very deep respect. He smiled as she touched the altar with her fingertips, her hands inches from the hilt of his sword. To lift it was to accept him.

  “I understood your potential on the first day I saw you at the gates, with your ridiculously mismatched clothing, your den-mates, and your dying. But I was yours the night you came to the shrine to save my life.”

  “You didn’t appreciate it at the time, as I recall.”

  A glimmer of pain tightened his lips, no more. “We often learn to value what we’ve been given only years after the fact. I will serve you with my life, ATerafin. What you want for and from the House, I honor as I can by my choice.”

  She lifted his sword. The altar beneath it was far warmer than it should have been, given the cool air. S
he had seen The Terafin do this before, but The Terafin had always made the swords seem so weightless; Torvan’s was heavy. Her hand shook, although she’d been prepared for its weight. She returned it to him. “Will you be my Captain?” she asked, voice trembling slightly. She lifted his helm and returned it to him; he held it in the crook of his left arm.

  He nodded and she turned to Arrendas. Arrendas was watching her with an expression very similar to Torvan’s. She felt less certain of herself as the minutes passed. But he, too, drew sword and laid it across the altar; his helm followed. “You never saw her when she was younger,” he told Jewel. Mindful of her intervention with Torvan, he didn’t sink to one knee. “You can’t see the ways in which you’re alike.”

  “And you can?”

  “Yes, ATerafin. You’re right—you’ll never be her. But she,” he added, and turned, and met the gaze of the Winter King full-on, “would never have been you, either. I swear that I will serve you and defend you with my life.”

  “And will you be—”

  “Captain? If the Chosen are disbanded, you may have little need of one, never mind two.”

  “I don’t know how many men you need under you before you get to call yourself a captain; apparently you need several thousands before you get to call yourself The Terafin.”

  His gaze was measured, almost calculating. “How many of the Chosen do you think you’ll retain?”

  “At least one more,” she replied, voice low. “I wasn’t even certain you would stay.”

  “If we’re being that honest, ATerafin, I was not entirely certain either. I think it unwise to disband the Chosen, but you have already made that decision.”

  “Do you think I’m wrong?”

  “No. Unwise and wrong are not the same. Understand that your age works against you among the Chosen; you are young.”

  She nodded.

  “But your companions work in your favor, because they feel ancient, and they are willing to serve you.” He looked at the assembled Chosen. “You will not retain many,” he finally said.

  “No. But I can’t use them as they are.”

  “When you rule,” he replied, “it is a skill you will need to learn. Most of the men and women who bear the House Name serve the House; not you, not The Terafin, but the House itself. Each such man and woman has opinions and ideas about how the House is best served.”

  “I know. But I can’t watch my back while I’m fighting.”

  “That, too, is a skill that would benefit you—but we will watch your back, ATerafin.”

  Shadow snorted. Loudly.

  She drew breath and once again spoke to the crowd. “I have said you are not forsworn. Your oaths were given to Amarais Handernesse ATerafin, and received by her; I am not her. What you owed The Terafin, you do not owe me. I will ask it,” she continued, as murmurs once again wound their way through the Chosen, “but I will hold no grudge, bear no ill will, to any who do not choose to offer me their service in the way they once offered it to The Terafin. Stay, or go, in honor.”

  She watched as the Chosen conferred with each other, trying hard not to catch their words. She knew—who better?—that she wasn’t Amarais; knew that she couldn’t be. She’d given the fate of her den into The Terafin’s hands; she’d trusted her almost absolutely. It was a trust that she’d been incapable of extending to herself, a decade and a half past. She didn’t honestly feel that she could trust herself that way now. But she did feel that there was no one else that came close, and that was enough.

  The Chosen began to slip away, down the path and toward the other shrines—or the manse. They were lost to sight beneath the open sky. It was dark, and if starlight and moonlight shone in the crisp, cool air, it silvered everything, and illuminated only one fact clearly: of the seventy men and women who had gathered at Torvan’s command, perhaps two dozen remained upon the short grass and the interlocking stone.

  Two dozen, she thought. It was better than she had hoped for.

  The first to mount the stairs was Arann; she recognized him because he had removed his helm. He looked pale and tired, which is about how she felt. She smiled, weary; his smile was stronger. He set his helm upon the altar first, and then unsheathed his sword and laid it down as well, and she thought it fitting: armor first, weapon second.

  She wanted to tell him that she didn’t require his oath, but it wouldn’t have been true: she did.

  “We’re supposed to have three days to decide,” he told her.

  “I don’t have three days. And I don’t think three days is going to change anyone’s mind—not in my favor, at any rate.” But she drew an even breath. “I chose you,” she said quietly. “Twenty years ago, I chose you. You followed me. You stayed by my side when we were almost starving. You stayed when we suffered losses, and when we faced death. You stayed when you realized I couldn’t protect you.”

  “I knew you would try,” he replied, his voice soft where hers was pitched to carry. “I knew you would never stop trying. I couldn’t do less, Jay. I won’t. Whatever you need me to swear, I’ll swear.”

  But the altar was warm against her palms. “I think this is enough.” She lifted his sword and returned it to him, dismayed by its weight. When he’d sheathed it again, she retrieved his helm. “Arann—”

  “I’ve always been one of yours.” He saluted, a full Imperial salute. She both hated and loved it, at the moment. But he didn’t remain beside Torvan and Arrendas; he saluted them both in turn and then retreated. That was probably for the best, given the size of the shrine and the number of men who waited below, but she wanted to call him back.

  She didn’t.

  Gordon came next, and his smile was broad, loud; he had a voice, when he bothered to pitch it, that could have been bardic, it carried so cleanly. He didn’t have a quiet voice, on the other hand. He set his sword and his helm on the altar, and then he saluted her.

  “Will you serve me?” she asked.

  “With my life.”

  “Will you bear the burden of my trust and my faith, even if you feel it misplaced?”

  His blue eyes rounded at this departure, and he glanced at his captains. If their expressions gave him any answers, it didn’t show in his. But his face grew more thoughtful. “Yes, Jewel. I will keep my faith with you even in the gravest hour of my doubts.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted his sword and returned it to him as Marave approached the shrine behind him. Marave was older than Torvan, but not as old as Alayra had been when she had been assassinated. Her hair was iron gray, now, and it was very, very short. She unsheathed her sword, held it up a moment, and then placed it on the shrine. Her helm followed.

  Jewel asked the same questions she had asked of Gordon; Marave’s answers were slightly different, because Marave generally had no time for something like doubt. It served no purpose, in Marave’s mind, since it wouldn’t change her course of action.

  After Marave, came Corrin, and after Corrin, Kauran. She took their oaths and their salutes and watched as they retreated into a looser, but obvious, formation. Arrendas left the pavilion and joined them, standing at their head as they faced the shrine.

  But when Elton placed his sword upon the shrine, the Terafin Spirit moved. He came to stand across the altar from that sword and the helm that followed; his face was the white of death, his eyes the black of loss, as Elton gave his oath to serve and succor.

  The sword’s blade cracked and blackened as Jewel’s hand hovered above it.

  “There was a reason,” the Terafin Spirit said, in a remote and cold voice, “that The Terafin took the oaths of her Chosen upon this altar. These are the men and the women who must be trusted, and they must be worthy of that trust.”

  Elton took a step back, narrowly avoiding a tumble down the stairs; his mailed heel wobbled. He had enough balance to retain his footing, but not enough composure to shutter his expression; his face had paled and his eyes had widened. It was those eyes that now sought Jewel’s.

  “It appears,”
she said, almost wryly, “that your oath was false.” She raised her voice. “I have said that I will hold no grudge against those who will not vow to serve me. I am not so generous with those who have attempted to deceive. So I say to those remaining, those who wish to serve another master, leave now. This is the shrine of the House, and your will and intent will be known.”

  Elton’s eyes were still wide, but this time, he spoke. “This is impossible. It must be magery. Only The Terafin can command the properties of the altar, and only The Terafin—”

  “If by magery, you mean magic, then yes, of course it’s magic.” Jewel almost spoke in Torra, and reined herself in with effort. Her hands were clenched in the type of fists that implied someone was about to be hit, and soon. “If you mean to imply that it’s my magic, you’ve been drinking, smoking, or you’ve always been a moron.”

  Torvan cleared his throat; Jewel ignored him.

  Shadow said, “Can I eat him?”

  “You’ll just choke on the bad bits,” she snapped, her eyes never leaving Elton’s face. “I haven’t demanded anything of you. I’ve asked. I’ve asked politely,” she told him, in as reasonable a voice as she could muster. “As far as I can see, the only liar here is you. If you feel guilty or humiliated, good. But don’t confuse my actions or motivations with yours. I intend to serve the House. I intend to rule it. I intend to rebuild the Chosen. I’ve made this clear; I can try to use smaller words if it’ll help.”

  “You aren’t The Terafin—the altar should do nothing.”

  “Demonstrably whoever told you this was wrong.”

  Elton’s jaw snapped shut. It would have been gratifying if it had been because of anything Jewel had said; she was aware, however, that it had more to do with Celleriant’s sudden motion. She caught his shoulder. “No one is to be harmed here. Not in this shrine.”

  “I have no objections,” the Terafin Spirit said.

  “I have,” she snapped back. “And last I checked, the dead don’t rule here.” Shadow, however, had also risen to his feet; only the Winter King and Torvan—gods bless Torvan—stayed their ground. Turning to Elton, she snarled, “Leave.”