Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “Power is an answer that defines the lives—and the deaths—of many,” she replied, thinking of Haerrad. Of Rymark.

  “It is,” was his soft reply. “But it is not an answer you can tender, and not an answer that the land will accept. I ask again, what does Jewel ATerafin want? What will devour the whole of your life, your heart, and your will to bring into being?”

  She had already answered the question. She had answered it the day she had come to save Celleriant, walking the edge of the dreaming to where he was impaled, suspended in air, the means by which he might save himself momentarily rendered useless. She had answered it a second time when she had come bearing three leaves—leaves that shouldn’t have existed at all, given what she knew of gold, silver, and diamond. Those trees grew, not at her command, but with her permission.

  But the trees of the Common were different. They grew for two reasons. The first, the old land, long fallow, upon which she walked, and the second: she loved them. Not the way she loved Finch or Teller; not the way she loved Angel or Arann; not even the more complicated way she loved Carver and Jester, men she was just as likely to throw crockery at as not. No, the trees were the walls and the bowers of her first home, and those walls and bowers stretched unseen all the way to the Isle.

  The South had begun lessons she’d never dreamed existed—not for her, not for an orphan. But the learning of those lessons could only be done here, because this was home. Home, where Angel now rode the back of the Winter King, Sigurne before him, her hands pale and shaking because she could not quite bring herself to trust her mount; home, where Teller and Finch now sought to comfort the House Council and its various entourages as the rain began to fall with vengeance; home, where Arann—Arann!—now took command of the House Guard as if he were a captain, and not the least senior of the Terafin Chosen. Jester, she could not see clearly in her mind’s eye—but her imagination surprised her, there: Jester was helping the guests from their increasingly unstable seating; the earth had shifted, and shifted again, and the carefully planned arrangement of benches was in disarray.

  He held himself aloof on most days, choosing to divert any interest with a joke or a smile; he stood with them, but he never quite let himself be caught up in anything but an emergency. So: he knew this was an emergency.

  Carver had left the grounds; he was technically an adjunct to the Council, through Finch, but Council be damned; he raced across the edges of ruined stone toward doors that were barred by armored guards, and he managed to get in, racing down the halls and disappearing through the small paneled doors that only the servants used.

  She knew that Daine was in the infirmary; he had taken control, just as Arann had, although that was less surprising. The House did not—in theory—know Daine was healer-born; in practice, Jewel very much doubted it was a secret from many; he had been known to the healers in the Houses of Healing as a student, and word was bound to travel, greased by gold or guilt or veiled threat. At Daine’s side, drawn and tense, Alowan’s former assistants; two very overworked women. The two who had died on the day of Alowan’s assassination had yet to be replaced, as if the act of replacement diminished the loss.

  Perhaps it did, or would, but Jewel knew after today—if there was one—that would change. It would have to change. Daine had come to her in pain and anger, himself a victim of unscrupulous men: men who bore the name ATerafin. But he had stayed with her, backed by Alowan’s support against the ire and fury of Levec. She knew why Alowan wanted him: he had not expected to survive a second House War.

  Anger wouldn’t help her here, but it came anyway; that was the problem with helpless fury. A gentler, kinder man couldn’t be found in the streets of this entire damn city, and why had he died? For power. Someone’s power—a power that he himself had never desired, although he could have been both titled and wealthy with just a nod. But in the intervening time, he had trained Daine, and inasmuch as he could have a successor, Daine was ready. Nervous, she thought—he was young—but ready.

  She could not see Duvari, and was grateful for his absence; she could not see the Kings or the Exalted. But as she turned her gaze toward the manse, she froze because she could see Adam of the Arkosa Voyani. His eyes were dark, round, and unblinking; he was watching her, his hand in Ariel’s, hers missing fingers. By her side, bristling but silent, was Shadow. Shadow was also, sadly, staring right at her, in an if-looks-could-kill kind of way.

  “Jewel,” Adam said, mouth half open.

  “You can see me.” And hear her, which, given the wail of the storm should have been equally impossible.

  He swallowed and nodded. “Shadow can—”

  “Of course I can see her, stupid boy.” Shadow stepped on his foot. Adam, however, failed to notice until he applied weight.

  “Jewel—what are you—”

  “Stay there. Stay with Ariel and Shadow; if I fail, protect them both.”

  Shadow hissed in astonished fury; it was the first thing that had happened since she’d arrived at the shrine that made her want to laugh.

  “What will you do?”

  “Tell the world,” she replied, “that this is my home.”

  Snow sidled up to her. She knew he was doing the cat equivalent of sticking his tongue out—at Shadow—but at least had the sense to do it behind her back. Or her skirts. He nudged her gently, or what she assumed was meant to be gently, and she nodded, glancing once at the man who lay upon a sacrificial altar. He’d turned his face to look at her; his eyes were glowing softly. He did not move or rise; she wondered if he could now.

  No, not now, not yet. Bespeak them, ATerafin, and tell them what they must hear and understand.

  She tried to smile back at him, but couldn’t quite manage the simple expression. Dropping her hands to her skirts, she bunched them in her fists—which made Snow hiss in shock—before she walked back down the stairs, whose marble, gleaming in the shrine’s light, lay unbroken beneath her feet. She hesitated and then dropped her skirts and bent over her feet, where she unlaced the small, uncomfortable shoes that bound them. These she tossed to the side.

  Snow said nothing; Ellerson or Haval would have had fits. But Snow hadn’t made shoes for her; just the dress, and when the skirts and the train fell properly, who could see her feet?

  Barefoot, she stepped away from the shrine and onto the stone path that led to it. When she did, she heard the voices of water, earth, and air so clearly they were physical, tangible. They clamored not for attention, but for dominance, like men on Council attempting to drown out the words of their rivals by raising their voices. Except in the case of the wild, when voices were raised, seawalls fell, stone broke; men drowned, or were crushed.

  Men like, very like, Jewel.

  Jewel bent to touch the ground, and then stopped, straightening both spine and shoulders and lifting her own voice as she joined the fracas—very much as if it were the House Council on a tear. She couldn’t understand what the elements were saying, but then again, most of what her enemies on the Council said made no damn sense either, when it came right down to it; the difference was that the Councillors should. What sense did one expect from wind or water? What sense from earth?

  What sense would they expect, in their turn, from Jewel Markess ATerafin, if they could hear her voice at all?

  And they’d hear it. They’d hear every damn word. She knew it, as she stood, forcing her arms into a fall by her sides, her hands tense—and straight—as boards. What words were appropriate when dealing with forces that by their very nature rose above the limits of language? What words could she offer that would make them understand?

  Jewel Markess ATerafin had never been a diplomat and, with Kalliaris’ smile, never would be. The first words that left her lips were:

  “How dare you?” And they hung in the sky like a long, slow, flash of building lightning.

  For a moment, there was silence. The water froze; the earth stilled; even the wind’s voice dipped and vanished. Only Jewel’s words carried. They sho
uld have contained awe, reverence, or some acknowledgment that the forces of nature were in all ways above or beyond her; she might find a roof to shelter beneath, but against this storm, a roof made of sky would be just as useful as a roof of beams and tile. Earth, water, air—she accepted them as necessary, as inevitable, as forces over which she had little control and little say. But they belonged in the wild. They belonged in a storm of magic and gods and things ancient and almost unknowable.

  They sure as Hells didn’t belong here. Here was hers. Here was the home she’d built. Was it perfect? Gods, no. And no matter how hard she worked it would never be perfect, but then again, neither would she. Everything she loved was here. Everything she valued, everything she trusted, everything she hoped—one day—to be worthy of: all here.

  And the voices of the wild would destroy it without even noticing the damage they did. If she let them. Anger grew, or perhaps it was merely revealed as the danger of the wild swept the veneer of calm from her grasp. When she spoke again, she spoke two words:

  “Be silent!”

  And the silence which her first words had momentarily invoked extended, like ripples across a pond into which a stone has been thrown. She was that stone.

  They turned their attention toward her, as if pulled, and she held her hands out, not in supplication, but in denial. They spoke, but their voices were muted now; rain slowed to a drizzle and the wind that pushed it was little stronger than a breeze. She didn’t look to see what had become of the towering wall on the terrace; nor did she look to see what damage had been taken in the slow rise of earth. Her Oma’s voice was almost as strong as the voices of the elements: It can’t be undone, can it? Worry about what you’ll do now. There’ll be plenty of time for tears and recrimination later.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

  Avandar felt her anger from the remove of Avantari, but anger itself was not unusual; Jewel’s anger was a constant, to be shunted between events until it was spent. What was unusual was the quality of it, the focus; she had left no room for the conscience that plagued her, waking or sleeping, and no room at all for the doubts that did likewise. She spoke; he was certain of it—but for the first time since he had taken her to his ancient home in the bowels of the Stone Deepings, he could not hear her words.

  But he knew the moment the earth did; it froze in its tracks, a misshapen pillar with fists of broken rock. He knew when the wind suddenly stopped its ferocious play for power; Celleriant dropped like a stone, and landed, cracking marble; his opponent lurched and plunged, but managed to retain his command over the element.

  “What is this?” Kincallenne whispered, his soft voice audible because almost everything about the broken great hall now seemed to hold its breath.

  Avandar turned to his ancient foe. “It is the end of hostilities,” was his equally quiet reply. “If you will not be destroyed without recourse, you will take your companion and you will retreat; if you are now tired of the mortal plane, you may remain and return to the Hells.”

  “And you will send us?” Kincallenne said, brows rising in shock that was only half feigned, lips once again turning up in a smile of manic delight.

  “Ah, no. You mistake me, Kincallenne—and you were always perceptive; I must assume you have chosen to do so. It is not I who will destroy you where you stand, not the Swords of the Kings, nor the sons of the gods whom you came to assassinate.”

  “Then who?”

  “Ask the earth, if you dare; it might even answer before remembering its rage at your ancient betrayal. Ask the wind, if you do not.”

  Kincallenne’s frown was sudden, swift; it transformed the whole of his face, edged as it was with curiosity or confusion. He glanced at the Lord with the red, red sword. “Amaerelle, it is not your way, but consider a brief retreat.”

  Lord Amaerelle did not trouble himself to acknowledge the words.

  Celleriant, however, sheathed sword. To Avandar he said, “Viandaran—will we survive?”

  The domicis smiled. “If I can guarantee little else, Prince of the Winter Court, I can guarantee that. She is not the Lady you once served, but in her own fashion—her mortal, flawed fashion—what she claims, she holds.”

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  She had their attention. It was attention she had never thought to want, but it didn’t matter; they spoke to her now, and they spoke as politely as forces of natural disaster could. Their voices offered no words, nothing she could easily grasp and hold onto. But what she could grasp, she had. She didn’t decline to use words, because words were what her voice conveyed. But she spoke in Torra, a concession to her Oma, who had considered Weston a language of merchants and commerce—on her good days.

  She also kept it simple and concise; there was no point in talking to elements about petty things like love, loyalty, and trust. “This is my home. It is bounded by sea to the east and earth to the west, and it is open to the whole of the sky—but it is mine. If you want to walk here, you walk through me; if you want to pass through, you ask my permission.” She gentled her voice and continued. “You have given us gifts, in your time: water sustains us, earth sustains us; we die at birth without air. You are not unwelcome in my home—but you are forbidden to destroy; if you must fight among yourselves, you must do it on unclaimed ground.

  “This city is mine.”

  Water spoke; the rain strengthened. She felt its slow and cumbersome movement as it built itself into a wall without containment.

  “Yes,” she replied, her voice soft. “I know you did not waken here at your own behest. But you will sleep at mine; no one can command you here without my permission, and I do not grant it to those who force you now. Be still; be at peace.”

  She felt resistance, and to her surprise, she realized it was not the water’s; it was other. She couldn’t see whose, and at the moment, didn’t much care. She called on the water, and it came to her in a rush, the wall falling, and the volume of water that had composed it rushing away like a swollen brook in Veral. It pooled at her feet, and she realized that she had walked, unaware of all movement, to stand by its side. But it failed to touch her or the boundary defined by the fall of her skirts. Instead, she reached out to touch it; it slid between her fingers, cool, clear; light absent from the sky seemed to be caught entirely in its folds.

  “Go back to the fount,” she told it. “Please. It is your home here, and men and women will travel from foreign lands just to gaze upon your movement. Go back and be welcome.”

  It receded as she spoke, withdrawing. As it did, the broken and ruined terrace was fully revealed; Jewel grimaced, took a deep breath, and let it out in a long exhale. To the earth, she said, “I think I know why you’re here. I’m not angry. But help me now; what is broken, I must remake, for I, too, have my duties to my home; they cannot wait. The greatest of my kin, the most worthy, waits upon our farewell; she has waited too long already for the respect that is her due.

  “There is no place within my lands where you cannot sleep in peace, but before you sleep, help me.”

  She gestured again, and watched as the earth moved, touching stone and dirt and flower bed as it rippled carefully outward. Where its first movement had broken the things that lay upon its surface, the second now built and healed; the stones that were cracked re-formed. She had seen this once before, had watched in awe and terror. Now, she simply watched as the earth remade the whole of the grounds.

  But it continued beyond the grounds of the Terafin manse.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

  The living, moving column that Avandar had summoned began to dissolve in an instant.

  Lord Kincallenne lowered his blade as the broken and cracked marble floors began to seal themselves, becoming flat, smooth—and utterly seamless. A casual observer might think them the same floors as those that had been destroyed when the earth had risen; the Kialli
were not capable of so casual, or ignorant, an observation. Even had they been, they could not mistake the shuddering reformation of the stone support pillars as they, too, were remade.

  No smile touched Kincallenne’s lips; what touched it instead was thin and sharp; a brief acknowledgement of pain. “This is not your work, Viandaran, unless you have learned subtlety in my long absence.”

  “It is not my work,” Avandar agreed. “You were ever my superior before the long choice; this, you could have coaxed from the earth without pause.”

  A shadowed smile replaced the expression of pain, but the wild, exuberant humor was guttered for the moment. “Not without pause,” he said, looking down the long hall. “If you survive what must follow, you must explore; I think you will find the architecture somewhat changed in the earth’s passage.” He nodded. “I will leave you now, but I am certain, Viandaran, that we will meet again, you and I.”

  “May it be on neutral ground.”

  “Ah, indeed. I fear that our Lord is not a Lord who accepts such a concept. Amaraelle, it is time.”

  “I am not yet done.”

  “Then I will see you in the abyss; can you not feel the power waking beneath your feet?”

  “I can, but I am no stranger to the hidden paths.”

  “You were not, when you lived; what they are to you—or I—now, no one of us can know for certain. If you will test it, test; I at least must depart. Word must travel,” he added, his smile growing edged.

  Celleriant’s sword was drawn again in an instant and he leaped forward, slowed in his passage and his attack by the utter absence of the wind that oft carried him. When he landed, Kincallenne was gone. “Viandaran—”