Skirmish: The House War: Book Four

by Michelle West

  “Do you think he will not know?” Avandar replied. “Do you think there is any denizen of any note who can walk—and claim—the hidden paths, the sundered ways, who will not know? What he tells his Lord might buy him a moment’s mercy.”

  “They will come prepared.”

  Avandar nodded. “We cannot tarry; I fear we must leave Devon behind. Our Lord is unaccustomed to the power she now wields, and if she is not careful, it will devour her.” He turned and held out a hand to Celleriant, who ignored it.

  “Lord Celleriant—”

  “It is not necessary to travel that way, not now. It will also be costly, and I fear our Lord intends to continue the ceremonies these events have interrupted; she will require your presence.”

  Avandar slowly lowered his hand.

  “Look, Viandaran,” the Arianni Prince continued, his voice softening into hush. “Can you not see it?”

  Avandar did not reply, not directly; instead he said, “Lead the way; I will follow if I am able.”

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  The earth was slow to move, slow to subside, but Jewel was almost grateful; her feet were now wet, and were it not for the warmth the living earth radiated, they would have been cold. It had seemed a good idea to remove her shoes—why, she couldn’t now remember with any clarity—but mud squelched between her toes as she walked. She reached up without thought, pushing wet curls out of her eyes.

  Then she frowned, knowing exactly what Ellerson would—or in this case would not—say. To the wild air, she now said, “Give me back my hair pins.”

  “You should tell it to put them back,” came Snow’s almost meek suggestion.

  She glanced at the cat; the water that her dress had failed to absorb had beaded on his wings and had finally penetrated his fur; he looked, to be charitable, bedraggled.

  She was curious enough to consider it—but only barely; she felt strangely exhausted by what had, in the end, amounted to simple speech. “If it gets it wrong,” she told the cat, “I’m the one who’ll suffer.”

  “If you know how to do it properly,” was Snow’s arch rejoinder, “there will be no mistakes.”

  “There’s a reason I let Ellerson do my hair for all the important occasions.”

  “He won’t like the way it looks now.”

  “It doesn’t look worse than yours.”

  His hiss could probably be heard across the grounds and the back half of the mansion.

  “I don’t like the pins anyway. They pull my hair so tight it makes my head hurt. But they cost a lot, so I want them back, I just don’t want them back in my hair. Yet.”

  The breeze began to finger the hems of her skirt; it was, like the earth, almost warm. It was certainly warm for Henden. She stopped walking and waited; small, slender pins and two enameled golden combs began to dance and spin in the air, weaving in and around each other so smoothly they might have been alive.

  She held out an open palm—her left, and they came to rest there one long moment later. Like the breeze and the earth, they were warm.

  “You don’t have any pockets,” Snow pointed out, with some satisfaction.

  “Pay attention. I do.”

  “You don’t.”

  Jewel shook her head. “I do. Watch.”

  The cat’s wet brows rose; she did have pockets. “I didn’t make pockets!” His second hiss devolved into what was mostly a growl.

  “Don’t look at me like that; I didn’t make ’em either. But they’re here, as needed. Let’s find the Winter King and your brother.”

  “Brother?”

  “Night.”

  “Oh, him.”

  The sky lost the gray-and-green pallor of storm as she walked. Jewel couldn’t find her shoes, but didn’t look very hard; she couldn’t. Although the shape of the path the earth had built—at her request, at her plea—conformed to the path the Master Gardener had designed for this very important occasion, the texture was different; the stone was smooth and it was, to her eye, all of one piece. The flowers that had been all but uprooted and overturned in the slow breaking of the earth resided in beds that were also similar in shape and form, but here, the earth proved it was no deliberate gardener; they were not so uniform in placement as they had been, and many of the stems had been snapped or broken. Yet, free of dirt, there they were.

  The shrines had been built so long ago, mages had attended them; they survived the beginnings of the conflict well enough. But the rains had washed them clean. All but the Terafin shrine. There, the altar was now dark with blood; the color was no longer so deep and consistent a red, and the man who had shed it was gone.

  The Winter King, Sigurne and Angel still astride him, came upon her as she walked. He lowered his tined head, but did not otherwise bow to ground.

  ATerafin.

  “Winter King.”

  He did not admonish her for speaking aloud. The worst of the danger has passed? It was a question, not a statement.

  “I don’t know. The water is free, and it sleeps; the earth and the air are quiet.”

  Angel slid off the Winter King’s back. He was wet, which wasn’t remarkable—everyone would be—but he was worried. That much was clear from his expression; he was almost tentative.

  “Jay?”

  She nodded.

  “What did you do?”

  “I told them to stop fighting,” was her quiet reply.

  “Them?”

  “The water. The earth and the air. I wish my Oma could have seen me. She’d’ve been proud. I think. She’d’ve hated this dress, though.”

  The Winter King knelt, and Sigurne Mellifas now slid off his back, looking more crumpled but less frail than she had. “ATerafin,” she said, in a voice as sharp as any voice her Oma had ever used.

  “Yes?” Jewel hesitated as the guildmaster approached. “Sigurne?”

  The guildmaster nodded. But she lifted one hand and very gently pressed the back of it across Jewel’s forehead. “How do you feel, ATerafin?”

  “Strange. I won’t have seizures,” she added. “But—strange. Like I weigh nothing, or like the world does. Weigh nothing, I mean.” She closed her eyes. “I can see the City, Sigurne. With my eyes closed. I can see the Common. I can see the streets of the twenty-fifth holding. I can see people heading into Taverson’s—his door needs oiling. People are trying to get out of the rain.”

  “Open your eyes,” Sigurne commanded her. “Open them. Stop looking at the City. Look at nothing but your Angel.”

  “I—”

  “Now.” To the Winter King, the mage said, “She must be taken indoors.”

  The stag did not move.

  “No, I don’t know if it will help—but it can’t hurt. I must attend the magi and take their reports—if they even survived to make them. I do not know what occurred to presage these events, but I can guess. Angel.”

  Angel nodded.

  “She must go—to the healerie if you judge it safe, and to her wing, if you do not. Do not let her speak of the City or the holdings—do not let her speak of anything at all if you value her life.”

  He looked bewildered. “Sigurne—why? What did she do?”

  Sigurne’s smile was brief, more of an expression of sorrow or pity than Jewel deserved. “I do not, and cannot, say. But others will, I fear.”

  “But she saved us—”

  “Yes. And it is my belief that every man, woman, and child on the grounds—if only there—heard each word Jewel spoke as clearly as you and I could. I would not be surprised if her voice was heard over half the Isle. Something has changed, and it is neither a small change nor one that will be welcome to those who now rule. Take her, and go. Avoid Duvari if you can; if you cannot, speak for her. He will not allow it easily—it is essential that you do so, regardless.” She bowed wearily to both of them. “We are in your debt, I think—but debt does not rest easy on the shoulders of the powerful, and it may be that when we next speak, I will be in no p
osition to give you advice of any kind.

  “Therefore, remember: what she has done here, and what she claims to have done, will be heard—but it will be heard by the Exalted, by the Sacred, and by the Kings. It will be examined to the last syllable by the Lord of the Compact; were he not now embroiled in his search for the kin, he would be here now—and I am not certain that it would end well, if it ended at all.”

  “Look, Viandaran,” Celleriant whispered, lifting his face toward the bowers of trees that lined the road. His gray eyes were almost round, and wonder softened the edges of his face. Although he moved with the supple grace that characterized all of his actions, he stepped lightly here, as if afraid too heavy a tread would shatter the landscape.

  Avandar glanced skyward in silence. The trees that marked the Common—and that now graced the Terafin grounds—lined a path too narrow to be road to anything but foot traffic. That road, Celleriant had found in the heart of Avantari’s famous, private gardens; he had done so without pause or hesitation. What he could clearly see, Avandar could only see with effort and long experience, and for the moment, he was content to follow the Arianni’s lead. They both knew where this path would bring them; the trees marked it, if nothing else did.

  “You are quiet,” Celleriant said, after a few moments had passed.

  Avandar nodded.

  “You understand what you have seen. It begins here.”

  “It began,” Avandar replied, “long ago. But it is possible it will end here.”

  “And you do not relish an ending?”

  “I?” the man once known as the Warlord smiled.

  The Winter King carried Jewel. Angel chose not to mount; instead, he walked by her side. For this reason, the Winter King’s gait was slow and stately.

  “If Duvari appears,” Angel said quietly, “take her and go.”

  The Winter King inclined his head. Angel wondered—briefly—what his voice must sound like; he had never heard it. Jay had, and did. Jay had also heard the voices of the water, the earth, and the air; she heard the voices of ancient forests, and when she called them, they answered. She wore a dress that not even the Queens could wear, and yet somehow it now suited her.

  When they reached the height of the terrace, Angel could see the House Guards in the manse’s interior; they stood four abreast, weapons drawn. He hesitated at the doors; the Winter King, however, approached them. He touched them with his tines and they flew open; Angel cringed. On a day like this one had been, he would have chosen a vastly more subtle approach.

  But on this particular day, while the House Guards fell into a familiar, defensive stance, Arann appeared. He took one look at Jay, his eyes changing shape before he lifted an arm. “Let them pass.” If there was worry or doubt on his face, there was none whatsoever in his voice; the guards obeyed. Arann gestured in brief den-sign. Where?

  Angel glanced at Jay, and gestured, home.

  Arann nodded. Escort?

  No.

  But Arann hesitated here, and in the end, shook his head. Turning to one of the older men by the wall, he said, “I’ll escort the Councillor to her quarters; take over for me until I return.”

  The man saluted, a sharp, metallic gesture that was the whole of his reply. It was enough.

  “You’re expecting trouble?” Angel asked, when they were far enough down the hall that acoustics wouldn’t trap and convey the words to any of the guards.

  Arann’s brows rose. “You can say that after today?” He shook his head. “There are at least four dead. One of the dead is Lord Sarcen; it was not cleanly done. There are two dead House Guards, and one dead member of the Order of Knowledge—but Matteos Corvel implied that there would be more among that number by the time cursory investigation was complete. The terrace was destroyed, and apparently, rebuilt in a day; Duvari had the House Guards and the Chosen reroute the Kings, and then had their entire progress halted completely. How could anyone sane not expect more trouble?”

  Snow, almost forgotten until this moment—and that should have told Angel something—snickered.

  “Is she all right?” Arann asked.

  “Why don’t you ask—” Angel glanced at Jay; her eyes were closed. She was listing to the left, but he wasn’t concerned; the Winter King held her, and he would not let her fall. “I don’t know.”

  “I heard that,” she said. Her eyes, however, remained closed. “And most of Arann’s list—which was impressive. The magi—did anyone say how they’d died?”

  “No.”

  “Anyone ask?”

  “No, I’m sorry—the House Guards have their hands full at the moment. Duvari won’t allow anyone—anyone at all—to leave the grounds; he has every exit and entrance covered by his Astari. Gabriel has his hands full; if Duvari weren’t known for his blatant disregard of both power and social standing, it would be very, very bad for Terafin.”

  The rain stopped.

  It stopped abruptly, as if a giant umbrella had suddenly been erected; the umbrella was also invisible, by which Finch knew the magi had once again taken the situation in hand. The House Council had had some debate about the expense of the magi and their protection from seasonal rain; she knew that the rain should never have fallen at all. By her side, Jarven was very, very grave.

  “That was your Jewel?” he asked, giving voice to the concern of the Councillors who now remained: Teller, Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad. Rymark was not to be seen, which was usually a blessing; Finch somehow doubted it would be that, today.

  Since Jarven wasn’t technically a member of the House Council, and since he was also known by every other member of said Council, she would have been much happier had he retreated into silence; absent that, his usual dissembling would have also been acceptable. But he was sharp-eyed now, his expression so focused this might—might—have been the biggest trade deal the House had ever been offered.

  She wanted Lucille, badly.

  Lucille, however, was not here. “Yes.” Finch took a deep breath, glancing as she did at Teller’s hands; they were utterly still. “Yes, it was.”

  “Impressive,” he said, in exactly the wrong tone of voice. She wanted to tell him, then, that Jewel was not—would never be—his enemy. She would never be his rival. But she had known Jarven for years; she knew the look on his face. He would not be moved by her words—or even by Lucille’s—until he had seen, and judged, for himself.

  “She was bold,” he said, lips curving in a smile that suited the harsh brightness of his eyes. “She has not, to my knowledge, declared her candidacy for the House Seat.”

  That sent a ripple through the rest of the Council, a ripple that even the rains hadn’t.

  “She didn’t declare it there,” Finch replied, forcing her voice to be as steady as his.

  “Finch,” he said, looking down—for he’d straightened to his full height almost unconsciously, something he seldom did, “she has done far, far more than that. Did you not hear what she said?”

  “I heard it.”

  He turned to the House Council, eavesdropping, all, with the care of long practice. “Did you not hear what she said?”

  There was no definitive answer, although murmurs could be heard, replete with muted syllables that blended into a kind of gray noise.

  “Do you not understand to whom—to what—she spoke?”

  “Jarven—” Finch caught his arm; he allowed this. “This is a House Council affair, and you are not a member of that Council. Please.”

  At that, he lifted one platinum brow. “Finch—” he paused as a young man careened around a tree, skidding on damp grass. The young man wore the House tabard. He bowed, and if his entrance was unorthodox for a servant of his class, his bow was perfect.

  “My apologies,” he said. “But the regent has sent for the Council; he requires the authority of their presence.”

  “Where?” Haerrad demanded.

  “In the public gallery. Many of our guests are now there—as are the Kings and the Exalted.”

  S
ilence. Jarven, arm still in Finch’s grasp, nodded to the young man with all the authority of a Councillor—authority which she had just reminded everyone present he didn’t actually possess. Regardless, the young man bowed again; he did not take the nod as a dismissal. “I am to escort you there,” he told them gravely. “My apologies for my presumption; the request was made by the Lord of the Compact. Gabriel asks me to tell you all that he is also present in the public galleries.”

  The Council fell silent, considering the future. But they followed the young man, drawing their guards and their adjutants with them as they went.

  Jewel made it to the West Wing. Its doors were open, and almost before the Winter King nudged them wide, Ellerson appeared between them. He glanced at Jewel’s hair—it was the first thing he did—and then stepped neatly out of the way to allow the Winter King to enter.

  The Winter King, however, did not. He allowed Angel to help Jewel dismount, and turned.

  Take what rest you can, ATerafin. If you mean to continue today’s task, it will be scant.

  She nodded, although by the time the words had penetrated the foggy images and half-remembered words that now passed for her thoughts, he was gone; the halls had failed to contain him. Angel, however, was not. Arann saw them through the door, and turned to leave; she called him back. Her voice cracked.

  He looked so much like one of the Chosen she could almost forget he was Arann—and she was tired enough that she hated it. “Torvan?” she asked.

  “Torvan and Arrendas have their hands full; the Chosen—those of us who remained by the shrine—are dealing with the House Guard and Duvari. The Magisterium has not yet been summoned.”

  “Gabriel must be having fits—”

  “Gabriel is waiting—for you—in the public gallery. Word was sent that you’d reached the manor.” He grimaced, his face folding into a much more familiar expression. “I’m sorry, Jay.”

  Not half as sorry as I am, she thought. But thinking it, she wasn’t certain she could make herself believe it; she let it go. “Go back to the House Guard. I’ll clean up here—I’ll let myself be cleaned up,” she amended, “and I’ll meet the regent in the gallery. Did he say—”