Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “How did you know—” she began.

  “Teller found me. Teller told me to find Devon.”

  “And bring him here?”

  Jester shook his head. “He didn’t say where; I thought you’d know what to do with him.”

  “And you were right,” Devon told Jester, in a deceptively mild voice. “ATerafin.” He bowed to Jewel; he bowed low. It wasn’t a long obeisance, but it was genuine. She hated it. “I will go with them, if Avandar has the power to take me.”

  “I have the power to send you both—” the domicis began.

  Jewel grabbed his arm and shook her head. “Go.”

  “I do not like—”

  “Go. I can’t be there—not yet. It’s here I’ll be needed, if there’s need.”

  Sigurne was watching Jewel; the guildmaster’s expression was still cold and harsh, a Winter face. “She is your Lord,” the mage said, and although she should have been speaking to Avandar, it wasn’t clear to Jewel that her words were meant for the domicis alone. “She has given her orders.”

  Avandar’s jaw tensed, his face paled, but he offered no further argument; not privately, and not in the open. Instead, he held out his left hand to Devon and his right to the Arianni Lord. “Consider only this: there is no advantage to be gained by the death of the heirs if the rulers themselves do not also perish.”

  “I have,” was her stark reply. “Snow,” she told the cat. “Tell Night.”

  “Shall I call the other one?”

  She hesitated and then shook her head. “I know he’s bored,” she said, “and I know he’ll be angry—but he’s where I need him to be, right now.”

  Snow hissed. It was a remarkably smug sound. “I’ll stay here,” he told her.

  “After you warn Night.”

  “Oh. I already have.”

  Cats. She turned to speak to Avandar, and Avandar exhaled. He spoke a single sentence she didn’t understand, but she felt the weight of it as a burden or a geas.

  He didn’t even gesture. He was standing, grim-faced and silent, and then he was gone—and the men at his left and right were gone with him. Where they had been standing, a harsh, harsh silver light, sculpted and brilliant, remained in their absence.

  “He is…not without power,” Sigurne said. Jewel wondered what she could see, as mage and not as undertrained seer. She didn’t ask. She found her feet, and she kept them firmly fixed to the ground, putting as much of her weight on Angel’s arm as necessary dignity allowed. “Did we miss the second chime?” she asked Sigurne.

  “We did, but we are not yet late, and there will be no argument when—and if—the cause is known.”

  “You’ve clearly never sat in on the Terafin House Council,” was the wry reply.

  Sigurne chuckled. “You may have a point, but I will say that I have endured many more such meetings of the magi.”

  “I think you win.”

  “Ah. I was not aware that it was a contest.” Sigurne folded slowly back into her age. “I fear the end of this day, Jewel,” she said quietly. “And I wish Meralonne were here; I had not thought to miss him in this fashion.” She frowned. “I believe I hear Duvari.”

  Jewel heard nothing, and almost said as much, but she turned in the direction that Sigurne had turned, and saw the Lord of the Compact; he was walking beside, of all people, Haval. Jewel felt her shoulders begin a natural inward cringe, and she even let them. It caused Haval’s distant features to crimp in an entirely normal—if slightly disapproving—fashion.

  “I will speak with him, ATerafin. Let your Angel and your Arann escort you to the ground, and we will join you.”

  Snow hissed, and Sigurne raised a brow; as the cat managed to curb its tongue, the mage did the same. “Did you see what, exactly, they would be facing?” Sigurne asked, as casually as she might have asked about the weather.

  Jewel hesitated. “Not completely.”

  “Your men will be unprepared.”

  She shook her head. “No. If it has been faced in the past, they’ll know what the danger is. Except for maybe Devon, but he’s always been good at improvising.”

  Sigurne approached Duvari directly, leaving Jewel to the Chosen and her den. Jester joined them, signing briefly to Arann and Angel; only Angel signed back, but it was quick enough Jewel missed all but the affirmative. Snow insisted on inserting himself between Angel and Jewel, rather than walking on the other side, and after a long and annoyed pause, Jewel gestured to Jester and he took Avandar’s place. All in all, not a bad trade. She was, and felt, exhausted, and the day had only barely begun; the service chimes had yet to ring for the third time. If they did before she was there, it would be unfortunate, as the third chimes announced the arrival of the god-born: the Kings and the Exalted.

  Jewel wanted Finch, wanted Teller; she wanted her room, her bed, and a few days of normal in which to find her bearings again after her sojourn in the Dominion of Annagar, with its ancient secrets, its deadly magics, and its demonic war. Instead, she seemed to have breathed that Southern air, and the ancient and deadly now clung to her, transforming the only home she wanted into something alien and terrifying. She was glad that Avandar was gone; he’d only be annoyed at her whining, even if she spoke none of this aloud.

  He would, indeed, ATerafin.

  She froze. She had forgotten the Winter King. The Winter King, however, had not forgotten her. “You—when did you disappear?”

  She felt the warmth—and the edge—of his smile. You are never observant enough. You rely on your gift and your instinct; you must learn to see without it, where it is possible, if you wish to command men.

  She started to tell him she didn’t, but that was wrong: if she meant to be Terafin, she did.

  I have come to carry you, ATerafin. Ride the rest of the way.

  “I can’t.”

  You arrived on my back.

  “When almost no one was watching, damn it. I’m already the object of every curious gossip on the grounds!”

  “Then how much worse could it be?” Angel asked. When she swiveled to glare at him, he signed: you’re exhausted.

  And the stupid thing was it was true. Her legs were shaking. She stopped walking and exhaled. “Yes,” she said aloud. “Yes, if you’ll carry me.”

  I will carry you, little seer, to the ends of your world, and back if you survive it.

  Would you have carried them? Could you have carried Avandar and Celleriant to the palace?

  He didn’t answer. But he knelt in the grass and waited while Angel gently guided her into the riding position a dress demanded. The Winter King was warm, steady, as he rose; she felt secure on his back, beneath the thicket of his antlers. The wild wind couldn’t unseat her, here, and if the earth suddenly broke beneath the Winter King’s hooves, it wouldn’t cause him a single misstep.

  I will stay with you, he told her.

  “You can’t. It’s the—”

  I will stay. Celleriant and Viandaran have obeyed your command; they are no longer by your side. In my youth, I was a match for neither, he added. The words were a shock to Jewel, coming from a man who decried all confession of weakness.

  It is not weakness to know one’s power and one’s limitations, he replied. If there is danger to you here, they will be angry.

  “Celleriant won’t.”

  Ah, no. He will be angry if you are injured—it will be his failure. Viandaran, however, will be angry regardless.

  “Mostly at me.”

  The Winter King’s chuckle was dry. You clearly have little experience with the powerful.

  “No, I have a lot of experience with the powerful,” was her somber reply. The bier had come into view. “And I know how power should be handled, because I saw what Amarais Handernesse ATerafin chose to do with it. If I’m to follow in her steps, I can’t be less than she was. And what you want, what they want—that’s less, to me.”

  Neither Viandaran nor Celleriant would have perished at the hands of her assassin.

  “No. But
countless hundreds of others would have perished at their hands on a whim, on a bad day. It can’t just be about our own survival. It can’t—there has to be more than that.” She hesitated before she reached out to touch the lowest of his tines. “You were a man, once. You were mortal. A King. You ruled one of the great Cities?”

  I did.

  “But you looked at the Winter Queen. You looked at the gods. You wanted what they had. I look at them, and I don’t. I want what I have. I want,” she added bitterly, “what I had before the gods and the demons chose to play their games in my House. I want my den, I want my friends, I want the people I love—yes, that word, and I don’t care if I should hide it. I want them to live, and I want to live among them.

  “Viandaran has lived forever, practically—what do you think he wants?”

  The Winter King didn’t answer.

  “ATerafin.” Duvari didn’t shout—exactly. But his voice carried anyway.

  The Winter King paused without any need for command, and turned in his tracks, his head and his tines facing the Lord of the Compact as he moved at a pace so brisk it was almost a run. He stopped just in front of the Chosen—Arann, in this case, although he apparently failed to notice Arann’s existence.

  “I must ask one relevant question, ATerafin.”

  “Please. Ask.”

  “Did Lord Sarcen and his retinue approach you at all during the reception?”

  She frowned. Lord Sarcen, Lord Sarcen. “No, I don’t believe so. Why?”

  Haval, beside the leader of the magi, joined Duvari. They exchanged a brief glance and no gestures at all, but somehow Jewel’s answer was passed between them. In a sharper tone than she’d intended, she said, “Is there a problem?”

  Duvari was not beholden to House Terafin or its leaders in any way, but he answered. “There are two dead guards. They are yours.”

  Her eyes rounded. “Dead? How?”

  “It is unclear. They appeared to be sleeping; they were not. I must ask you to make your way to the bier in haste, ATerafin.”

  “You fear demons.”

  “I fear nothing,” was his cool reply, “and suspect everything. But it was a significant omission on the part of Lord Sarcen; an uncharacteristic one. It is not his way to avoid what everyone else must see.” He joined her, displacing Jester without any apparent effort at all. Jester fell back, walking to one side of Arann. Snow hissed, and Jewel said, “Don’t even think it.”

  Together they made their way to the benches and the chairs that had been placed within the heart of the gardens of contemplation, cornered by four shrines that were largely hidden from view by the trunks of the huge and ancient trees that were nonetheless new. As the Winter King walked between these trees, and between the paths that had, in haste, been reconstructed to take advantage of the unasked for miracle of their existence, Jewel felt a soft, warm breeze touch her forehead and her cheeks. She looked up; saw a bower of leaves, and through them, spokes of sunlight.

  Frowning she looked skyward; what she could see was the gray green of encroaching storm, and not a small one, either.

  It is as you see it, the Winter King said, the timbre of his inner voice almost hushed. But these trees remember other skies. If there is peace for you at all, it will be here.

  Or nowhere?

  He didn’t answer. Instead he continued to walk; his hooves disturbed nothing, no matter where he placed them, and they came out into the assembled—and mostly seated—crowd. There were reserved seats for the House Council members, but not all were occupied; Jewel could see Elonne, Marrick, and Haerrad clearly. She could also see their advisers. They were allowed two guards for the funeral, rather than the customary four, and those guards were to stand to one side of the raised chairs; there were therefore six guards.

  No, Jewel though, with a frown; there were eight. Teller and Finch hadn’t chosen or arrived with their own guard; Torvan had requested that they allow two of the Chosen—each—to take up positions when they were at last seated. She couldn’t see Teller, but she could see that Finch was approaching the platform—and by her side, walked Jarven ATerafin. Finch was allowed two counselors or advisers; she clearly meant to take a risk and have Jarven seated as one of them.

  Jewel was willing to bet that Lucille would chop off both of her legs before she joined them, and sure enough, Lucille could be spotted in the thick of the crowd—and at a distance. Lucille had admired The Terafin greatly—but always at a safe distance. It was a pity; if their styles were different—and they were entirely incompatible—they had something in common. Lucille called it “a spine,” but Jewel privately thought it was more than that.

  Duvari gestured, and Jewel was aware enough of his presence that a slight gesture was all he required to catch—and hold—her attention. He didn’t speak; he merely changed the direction in which he was, apparently, following.

  Teller knew Lord Sarcen on sight; Lord Sarcen intended anyone of lesser power or rank or at least lineage in the Empire to know him on sight. He was allowed a small personal banner—all of the Houses who had very specific seating arrangements were—and had actually deigned to use this. Or rather, to have one of his retainers do so; Lord Sarcen was not a man who attended to his own tasks.

  The banner was in plain view, unfurled and weighted; it was in the center of the small arrangement of chairs—an arrangement somewhat different from that originally put into place by the regent’s office. The chairs themselves—not benches—had been pulled and gathered to one side; they had also been moved forward, displacing some of the other seating that had not yet been claimed.

  This would have annoyed Teller—given the hectic days of nothing but emergencies and what would, on the surface of things, appear to be trivial complaints from people who couldn’t be treated as inconsiderate boors—but he was already annoyed. Everyone of any import had been invited to attend the ceremony—and as with all such invitations, it had been made clear that the Kings would be present. The presence of the Kings generally implied that the invitation list was strict, not casual, and had that not been clear by implication, it had been made explicitly clear in various follow-up communications.

  Nonetheless, there were always men—and women, to be fair—who felt themselves above such petty dictates; those rules, of course, applied to other people. Never to the Lord Sarcens of the patriciate of Averalaan. The banner was present, yes, and beneath it, people were seated. Teller recognized Sarcen’s third wife—the first two had predeceased him—and two of his daughters. He recognized the sons-in-law, men of wealth but of lesser lineage. He did not, however, see Lord Sarcen; he certainly didn’t see any of his guests. He stopped to count the two attendants who had also been allowed entrance; they wore Sarcen’s colors, and they attempted to be almost invisible.

  But they were accounted for; if there was a breach of security, it would not be there. Not even the servants of attending guests had been beneath Duvari’s scrutiny; it had surprised Barston. It didn’t surprise Teller; had Teller the need or desire to infiltrate a House, he would do it as a servant, or as a temporary gardener, many of which had been necessary in the manse in the past two days. He wouldn’t do it as the guest of a Lord of great self-import—or as a guest of someone with actual import, either.

  Jester, however, argued the inverse: that people who were willing to present themselves as important were often overlooked when suspicions were high. If one had to lie at all, the brazen lie was better because brazen lies were so outrageous many people failed to question them. Teller decided that some point in between these two was now called for; he therefore approached the banner.

  The servants very politely intercepted him; politely and deferentially, to be certain. They noticed the House Council ring, although they’d done so without being obvious. Teller had long since become accustomed to treating servants as servants; he did so now. “I have a message for Lord Sarcen,” he told the older man. “Is he present?” He was clearly not present, but forms had to be observed. Or so Barst
on said.

  The two servants exchanged a glance; the younger, the woman, said, “You may leave the message with Lady Sarcen.”

  “Ah, no, I’m afraid that would not be possible.” He straightened his shoulders, smiled, and said, “The message is from the Lord of the Compact.”

  The servants were clearly of enough import in the Sarcen internal hierarchy that they blanched; it was the first sign that they were capable of panic. “Please,” the man now said, “Lord Sarcen was present but a moment ago, and I am certain he will return.”

  The woman, however, retreated, heading straight for Lady Sarcen as she did. That Lady, august and severe, lifted her chin as the servant approached. Teller couldn’t hear what was said, but Lady Sarcen rose from her chair, and her expression could have cut through walls.

  Teller straightened his shoulders. He had seen similar expressions in the office of the right-kin, and similar in the office of the regent, albeit not usually in such public circumstances. Facial expressions were like games to many, many people: a bluff. Not, sadly, to all; the trick was to know which was which. Teller had become adept at it, but he didn’t have Barston’s certainty of position and territory to fall back on here. This was not the right-kin’s office, after all. Any gaffe on Teller’s part reflected the whole of House Terafin, on the day for which respects for its most noteworthy member were to be offered.

  He kept fear—and grimace—off his face as Lady Sarcen brushed past the servant to whom he’d been speaking.

  Jewel heard Lady Sarcen’s voice as the small party approached the area clearly demarcated as Lord Sarcen’s, and she stiffened. She had dealt with her share of angry merchants in her time—many of them in theory affiliated with the House, and with her responsibilities in particular—in her office; she had not, however, been situated in Teller’s position, and the obvious, scathing contempt with which the grim-faced Lady now looked down at her den-kin set Jewel’s teeth on an edge so sharp if she bit her tongue, it’d fall off.