Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  Solran knew they were real.

  She walked down the path toward the closest of the trees, and stopped again: Jewel Markess ATerafin was standing beneath it. Solran had had cause to meet the young House Council member, but in truth not often. She had never seen her like this. Jewel ATerafin wore a dress that only song could capture, because it seemed to exist as a feeling, an emotion; it implied gossamer, but at the same time, heavy silk, something luxuriant and full. The sleeves draped in a way that made them part of the dress’ fall, blending with the gather of train as if they were liquid, but they rustled. The rustle reminded Solran of the movement of leaves, and she glanced at the branches above the Terafin Council member; they were in full bloom.

  Nor was that all—although that would have been enough, in Solran’s opinion, to keep the Courts in gossip for at least a half month. Jewel wore a pendant that seemed to harness sunlight’s more gentle glow around her neck; on her hand was the ring of the Terafin House Council—and one other, worn on the thumb. There was a story there.

  But by her side—by her side was a man who was tall, fair, and cold; he was also beautiful in the way things unattainable are. His eyes were the color of steel in the morning light, and they suited the cast of his face; his hair was pale, and it fell down his shoulders in a way that reminded the bardmaster of Jewel’s dress. He drew the eye, but everything about him discouraged speech or even gestures of greeting.

  Standing by his side, Jewel should have looked dowdy, short, plain.

  She did not. It was hard to look away from him—but at the same time, hard to look at him. She wondered what his voice would sound like to her bards, and made a note to ask, although she wasn’t certain he would speak at all; he had that look of silence about him. She managed to look from this armed stranger to the woman he was clearly guarding; it was easier.

  But as she approached, she saw the third strange thing: there was a large cat—a maneless lion—standing by Jewel ATerafin’s side; it was white—and winged.

  Winged.

  She drew one sharp breath and submerged the whole of her complicated reaction, donning an easy, friendly smile. She unslung her harp, and set it against her hip. She did not play, or rather, did not sing, but her fingers couldn’t hover above strings for long without coaxing something from them. She was not surprised when she realized what she was playing, but she wasn’t embarrassed either. Only the bards here would recognize the song, and once they’d laid eyes on Jewel ATerafin, they wouldn’t question it; were it not a funeral, they might bring it out into the open at last.

  This woman was no callow child, nor one who required shelter or protection from her gift. She had stepped into the heart of a battlefield no less complex than the fields in the South over which the Kings’ armies were, even now, waging their very necessary war against the forces that served the god Solran she didn’t care to name. She stood like a young Queen surveying her subjects.

  Solran had some experience with Queens, young and older, or she might have been intimidated. But she approached Jewel Markess ATerafin as if she were in truth a Queen, and only realized it when she was almost upon her; she might have changed tact or posture, but Jewel was now gazing at her, her eyes widening in a way that seemed far too young for the dress, the pendant, and the guard.

  “What is she playing?” the winged cat said, and Solran missed a beat. She’d no doubt hear about it when she returned to Senniel. Or maybe not; a peculiar majesty, unlooked for and almost never experienced, had descended upon the Terafin grounds, and in the end, the everyday mockery of the students for the master might not survive it.

  “ATerafin,” the bardmaster of the most famous bardic college in the Empire said. She bowed, shifting her lute gracefully as she did.

  “Do you like her dress?” the cat asked.

  Jewel ATerafin dropped a palm to the top of his head, and he hissed but fell silent.

  “Is it permitted to answer?” Solran asked, with care.

  “It is, although it’s probably not advisable if you like either dignity or silence.”

  “I value both in their proper context—but I have never seen a winged cat before, and I have never heard a talking cat either.”

  “See?” the cat said, as Jewel withdrew her hand, and with it her silent objection.

  “I have never seen a dress like it,” Solran told the cat. “It is like—like the dream of a dress, something too pure to be reality.”

  He nodded and straightened; in his fashion, he was as regal as Jewel ATerafin.

  “The Queen of the Winter Court might wear such a dress,” Solran continued.

  The cat’s eyes rounded. “She could not!” His wings rose, and his fur rose with them.

  “Snow, she meant it as a compliment,” Jewel now said. “She’s never met the Winter Queen, and if she’s lucky, she never will.”

  “Then why did she say that?”

  “She’s a bard.”

  “So?”

  “The bards know a lot of very old songs, some of them in a language I can’t understand. She’s speaking because she’s probably sung songs about the Winter Queen.”

  “They’re bad songs. Stupid songs.”

  The hand returned to the cat’s head, as Jewel turned to Solran. “Please accept my apologies. He’s not used to this much company and doesn’t mean to be insulting.”

  He demonstrably meant to be insulting, but as he wasn’t terribly good at it—and, more significant, wasn’t human—Solran had no difficulty forgiving him. “May I ask a question?”

  Jewel nodded.

  “Have you met the Winter Queen that you can speak so definitively? I have often thought there was far more fancy in the ancient lays than truth.”

  Jewel’s expression shuttered. After a significant pause, she said, “I would love to discuss this with you, Bardmaster, but I fear—”

  “Ah, of course. Forgive me. Seeing you, seeing these trees, and seeing your companion—I almost feel I am dreaming, and I’m far less careful about etiquette in my dreams.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” a man said. Solran recognized the voice: it belonged to the regent.

  “Ah, just the man I was looking for. Forgive me, ATerafin,” she added, bowing again to Jewel. “I’ve matters to discuss about the disposition of the bards who will be performing; our practice four days ago involved a slightly…different landscape arrangement.”

  “She will not keep this to herself,” Avandar said very, very quietly.

  Jewel didn’t even look at him; she did nod.

  To Snow, he said, “I strongly considered removing your tongue.”

  Snow hissed. “Try it.”

  But Jewel planted her hand on his head again. “Snow. I don’t mind if you speak to the guests, but I will send you back to the wing—with Celleriant as escort—if you call any of them stupid again.”

  “I would prefer silence,” Avandar said, his voice louder but chillier.

  “I’m sure we all would, but let’s concentrate on the possible. I think I see the head of the Guild of Makers.”

  “If you wish to speak with him—”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Simply stay where you are. He is unlikely to get across the green in any small amount of time.” Avandar raised a brow. “Have you some reason to dislike him?”

  “None at all; I don’t think we’ve spoken more than a dozen words in total. But I’ve never managed to offend him, and I’d like to keep it that way.” She nodded in Snow’s direction. Master Gilafas ADelios was not only a maker; he was an Artisan. He was also the head of the most powerful guild in the Empire, not because he was politically enormously adept, but because the Makers’ Guild had so much money they had to spend it on something. Land, buildings, art—anything, really.

  They also had first right of refusal on one of the gem mines that the House owned, and they paid top price for those gems they chose to retain.

  “Perhaps you are wise, ATerafin. I feel, however, that you might wish
to relocate, and quickly. He is most definitely approaching you.”

  The Guildmaster of the Makers’ Guild was, apparently, only a little less desirable and intimidating than the Kings themselves might have been. Avandar was right—he almost always was—but the man’s progress across the green was a series of interruptions, some of which he could not easily avoid. She thought him lucky; none of the rest of The Ten had yet arrived, and had they, he might never have made it through their social gauntlet to reach her.

  As it was, he spoke longest with Solran Marten—as the respective leaders of their organizations, they had much in common, and there was genuine respect and a hint of affection in their greeting—but he could afford to ignore or offend anyone else. Not even Duvari got in his way, and Duvari generally made it a point to offend and harass every notable person of any power in any gathering that included him.

  Sadly, if Duvari wished to be included, he was. Not even Amarais would have refused him, although her acceptance would have been brittle and distant. He couldn’t be excluded from the funeral because the Kings and the Queens would be in attendance. He’d made his presence felt among the Terafin House Council, he’d spoken a few words to Solran Marten, but he’d made no effort to approach Master ADelios at all. Whatever the Artisan had, Jewel wanted it.

  She meant to say as much, but couldn’t; his expression, when he finally stood only a few yards away, all but forbade speech. He certainly didn’t speak to her, although he did turn abruptly to ask a question of one of the women who was following in his shadow. She murmured an answer, but he had already turned away.

  “ATerafin,” he said, and it occurred to Jewel that what he’d been asking his attendant was her name, “I must ask you from whom you purchased the dress you are currently wearing.” It was more or less the question that she’d been asked a half dozen times since the non-House members had arrived, but it was said in a particularly pointed fashion, as if it were the precursor to an argument.

  “It was a gift,” she replied. “A singular gift. Why do you ask?”

  “It is not the work of a mere clothier, no matter how talented; there is an artistry here that is generally found in only one guild. Mine,” he added, in case this wasn’t obvious. “Yet I see most of the requests for commissions that come to the guild, at least within the city, and I do not recall any such commissions for a dress.”

  “I don’t think many people would go to the Makers’ Guild for a dress.”

  “You would be surprised. You would not, from the sounds of it, be surprised at how often such requests are refused.”

  “Are there any makers who specialize in—in cloth?”

  “There are very, very few. One, at least, does not choose to make her residence within the guildhall, but she is oft fractious and not inclined to work to the deadline most such commissions require. If I am not being impertinent, may I examine the dress?”

  He was being entirely impertinent, as he put it, but Jewel’s only fear of him was the usual one. He was a person of power she didn’t wish to offend. There was something about Master ADelios’ interest that was so focused, so extreme, and yet at the same time so entirely impersonal, she might have been a mannequin. “Please do.”

  “If anyone who is watching feels that they may follow my example in an equally impertinent way, I will deal with them,” he replied. His voice was cool and autocratic; he was a man who was used to being obeyed. But this man, or the expression on his suddenly unfamiliar face, was almost a stranger to Jewel; his eyes looked as if they were lit from within. He not only approached her, but knelt with care at her feet. Torvan and Arrendas allowed it without shifting their stance at all.

  He reached out, carefully, and lifted Jewel’s left sleeve, examining its hem, its weight, the fabric itself. He lifted it, exposed its sheen to as much sunlight as a crowded green let in, and slowly let it fall before he moved—still on his knees—toward the train. This, he touched with at least as much care, paying particular attention to the beaded crystal, the gold embroidery, the onyx stones that anchored the single strip of black.

  “The cape,” he said, rising, “does not suit.”

  She almost laughed; for a moment he sounded like Haval.

  “But the dress is acceptable?” She reached out and very, very firmly placed a hand on the head of her cat—a cat the guildmaster had failed to notice. Nor had he looked up at the trees, or at Celleriant. He had eyes for nothing, at the moment, but the dress itself.

  “The dress is, in my opinion, a Work,” he replied. “I do not believe I have ever seen this fabric before—and I have inspected many, many varieties in my time in the guild. The beading does not seem to adhere to the dress by something as workmanlike as thread; nor does the onyx. ATerafin, I ask you again, where did you get this dress?”

  Jewel surrendered. “Snow,” she said, “This is Master ADelios, one of the most important men in the Empire.”

  The master so indicated frowned, blinked, and shook his head. “That’s a rather large cat,” he said.

  “He is. The dress was a gift, however, from him.”

  The blinking grew far more pronounced. “You are serious.”

  She nodded. Snow was watching the guildmaster with far more concentration than his norm; it made Jewel nervous. She kept her hand where it was, and briefly considered the advantage of collars and leashes. The disadvantage—mostly attempting to put one on—outweighed it, possibly by a lot.

  “Does that cat have wings?” the Guildmaster asked.

  “He does.”

  “My eyes are not what they used to be, and I was preoccupied. You are saying this cat made this dress?”

  “Yesss,” Snow replied.

  The Guildmaster blinked and turned to the silent woman who waited at his elbow, looking like the patron saint of patience in one temple or another. She nodded without speaking.

  “You made this, yourself?”

  “Ye-ess.”

  He frowned. “May I ask where you came from?” As if talking to a giant, winged cat, while disconcerting, was within the realm of his usual reality. Jewel had always heard rumors that Artisans trod the very fine line between sanity and insanity.

  “Pardon?”

  “Where did you come from? This dress—it speaks of Winter. Or the end of Winter—at night. It hints at loss, but at dawn; it speaks, Snow. Did you do that? Did you make such a thing?”

  It was Snow’s turn to blink. Jewel, however, glanced at Avandar, and then her attention was caught by Celleriant. If the guildmaster hadn’t noticed the Arianni Lord, the Arianni Lord now noticed him. He was silent as he moved to stand closer to Jewel. But it wasn’t for her protection; he was watching the maker-born man with as intent a fascination as she’d ever seen him show for the merely mortal. “My Lord,” he said to Jewel. “Might I speak with the stranger?”

  Jewel hesitated, but nodded as Master Gilafas ADelios finally noticed Lord Celleriant of the Winter Court and the Wild Hunt. The older man’s jaw fell open as if it were broken. He turned back to Jewel. “This—this man—he serves you?”

  “He does.”

  “Do you know what he is?”

  “She does,” Celleriant answered. “But the wonder to me, Guildmaster, is that you do; you see it clearly. You understand what you see.” He took a step forward and said, “When have you walked in the Winter realm?”

  “I—I—”

  “You don’t need to answer that question,” Jewel said, taking one of his arms—his shaking arms—in both of her hands, as if he were in need of support. She glanced much more pointedly at the young attendant, but the attendant stood meekly by, watching the guildmaster’s expression with a mixture of resignation and fear.

  ADelios, for his part, seemed to be unaware of either Jewel’s hands or her words; he didn’t pull away; he didn’t acknowledge them at all. His expression was odd; he wasn’t afraid of Celleriant, although he had a clear idea of what or who he was. “I saw the Winter Queen,” he told the Arianni Lord.

&
nbsp; “And you yet live?”

  “I know some part of how to walk that road in safety, if such a thing is truly possible,” was the more dignified response. “But I lost—I lost someone—there. I lost an—” he shook his head. “Have you come from the Court of the Queen?”

  “I have come from the Queen’s host, but I will not return to her side unless—or until—Jewel ATerafin is dead.”

  “How long have you served her?” he asked, pressing his point as if Celleriant presented no danger at all.

  “For some mortal weeks,” Celleriant replied. He wasn’t angry; he was, if Jewel was any judge of the immortal, curious.

  “Then you were with the Queen of Winter until that time?”

  “I was.”

  The guildmaster closed his eyes, tilting his head upward, as if seeking sunlight, or the warmth of its promise. Eyes still closed, he said, “Were there mortals among you?”

  “There were those who were once mortal.”

  At that, ADelios opened his eyes. He was pale. “I will not play games with you, but I will make you an offer instead.”

  Both of Celleriant’s brows rose. “An…offer?”

  “Answer my questions. Answer them truthfully.”

  “In return?”

  “I will make you any object it is within my power to make.”

  Jewel almost stopped breathing. She glanced, wide-eyed, at her liege. It had never occurred to her that the autocratic and somewhat unfriendly guildmaster of the richest guild in the Empire might desire any information that Celleriant had; he wasn’t a mage, and study of the ancient was in no way his specialty. Nor did his words imply that that was his interest; there was an edge of desperation to them.

  “You are maker-born,” Celleriant said.

  “I am. I am the Guildmaster of the Guild of Makers—an entirely mortal organization, I’m afraid.”

  “The talent-born are entirely mortal,” Celleriant replied. “And of the talents, it is the strangest. Very well. I will entertain your questions, and if I do not feel that they impede my oaths or my duties, I will answer them.”