Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  There was a desk, a small desk. Two closets of different sizes. A . . . dresser, a thing in which important and small personal items could be placed. Were there paintings? She tried—and failed—to remember; she often didn’t notice art after a brief glance, and nothing in the room had demanded her attention. Magelights. There were magelights. The room never had to be dark; the light that it contained didn’t have to be filled, fueled, watched.

  She bent head, bracing herself as if to accept a heavy weight.

  This was the heart of her forest. The tree of fire, surrounded by the Ellariannate, silver, gold, and diamond. She had identified the forest—and its heart—as the trees. But it wasn’t. It was the land on which the trees stood, sometimes bisected by footpaths, sometimes by cobbled roads.

  The land was hers.

  It was, in some fashion, her. Dreaming or waking, it didn’t matter. She was asleep now, in the waking world; in the realm of the Exalted, the Kings, The Ten, she had failed to wake. But she was not a simple dreamer. She was dreaming, but it was lucid.

  And the test of lucid dreaming was volition and understanding. It was time to wake.

  Chapter Nine

  SHE OPENED HER EYES to ceiling. She opened them to walls and the glimpse of a window that she knew was subtly wrong. Adam lay by her side on his back, his hand in hers. His lashes—which had always been ridiculously long—began to flutter and tremble as he, too, opened his eyes.

  She turned her head to the side Adam didn’t occupy and saw that Snow was aground just beside the bed; his wings were jerking. Beneath Snow, rug was being shredded because his claws were extended and they were also opening and closing almost at random. He had not diminished in size in the transition between the waking and dreaming worlds.

  Beyond Snow, Angel stood; Arann, in armor; Avandar in his usual domicis robes. Everything seemed suspended, still, as if the room were a painting without any of the usual artistry of composition.

  Several things happened at once; she heard Angel shout.

  She heard Avandar shout.

  They weren’t shouting about the same thing, because if the voices that had been so indistinct and muffled had suddenly become clearly audible, the sounds of the forest and the dream hadn’t diminished—at all. Shadow and the Warden of Dreams now stood in the room, by the wall farthest from the bed; the cat remained mired in burning webs, he was still large, and he was enraged. Rage did not tear the webbing down, although the fire ate away at it steadily.

  The Warden, however, was no longer concerned with Shadow. He turned, eyes widening, as he took in the sudden shift in surroundings; gone were the trees, the undergrowth, the forest floor; gone were the butterflies—and that caused Jewel’s heart to sink. Where trees had stood, there were men—the armored Chosen.

  She heard—felt—the drawing of a single sword and knew Celleriant was very close by. Shadow was no longer in the air—but neither was the Warden of Dreams.

  In his hands were an ordinary sword, an ordinary whip; in the room, in less than a minute, other ordinary swords were drawn. One of them was Arann’s,

  The Warden’s wings expanded suddenly, as if he were still in the dream world and they could encompass the whole of a deep, clear purple sky. There were walls on all sides and ceilings above; the wings hit wall and parts of the wall crumbled. They hit swords, but the swords did not break.

  “Nightmare,” she said, pushing herself up, “is rooted in reality.”

  “It is stronger than reality.”

  “Not here,” she told the Warden. “Never here, again. It’s true that I cannot destroy you.”

  Celleriant entered the room at a graceful, deadly run; he saw the Warden, but he did not slow. A shield girded arm—it was the same blue as the sword in his right hand. The Warden’s wings once again shot out, unbalancing two of the Chosen; they did not shear armor, but they dented it.

  Once, Jewel would have said that the Warden was beyond the Chosen; the Chosen were men, and the Warden a child of living gods. She would have left the Warden to Celleriant, Avandar, and the cats, because in some fashion, they were part of the same story; not mortal, not human—or in Avandar’s case, only barely—imbued with magics that were wilder, greater, and ultimately incomprehensible to those who did not possess the same.

  But the Warden’s sword was not an Arianni sword; it was not a golden one; it did not come from the forges immortals—or gods—might use, if they needed them at all to create. That sword, and the swords that were now raised against him—all save one—had come from the dead earth, or the sleeping earth; they had been forged in fires that obeyed the whim of men, in heated, enclosed rooms that smelled of sweat and coal and fire and oil. They were wielded by men and women whose oaths of service were simple words, not binding ones.

  And here, it was enough. It was enough because they were as real as the people who wielded them.

  Celleriant’s sword swung in from the left, and the Warden’s whip caught its blade as if the tongues were prehensile. It was not, therefore, Celleriant’s sword that struck the first blow—it was Torvan’s. The Warden’s eyes widened as blade pierced flesh; his blood fell. It was not red, not crimson; it was gold, and thick, like amber honey.

  The walls shifted shape where the Warden’s wings touched them; plaster cracked and shattered; paper, laid across it, tore so quickly the color of the room changed every time the Warden struck. Armor took dents as the Chosen struggled to maintain their footing; Celleriant’s sword finally managed to slice the bindings of leather.

  Wind howled in the contained space, its voice growing as it responded to the Warden’s summons.

  No, Jewel told it. Not here, and not now. Remember?

  And the Wind fell silent. As it did, the bits and pieces of detritus it had gathered fell as well; inkstand, inkwell, quill, stoneholder, and magestone itself; two trays and the contents of two large pitchers, brushes, one small mirror, quivered a moment before crashing to the ground.

  Avandar lifted his hands in a wide, sweeping arc; light trailed down the length of his arms like a bright, thick liquid.

  Avandar, wait.

  He is—

  He is the child of absent gods; I don’t think we can kill him—

  It is possible now.

  But she hesitated, and he lowered his arms at her unspoken plea. It wasn’t a command.

  “You are,” Jewel told the Warden, her voice clear and cold, “like the wild air, the wild earth, the wild water or the very fire. You are not welcome in my lands without my permission. I cannot kill you—not yet—but I can contain you; you will take root in my garden and you will grow branches and when I sit under your bowers, the dreams I have will be yours. No more.

  “Is this what you wanted? I am awake, Warden, and I am still dreaming. I understand the ways in which the dreaming world has its roots—and its heart—in the waking one. These men and women are mine; they will grant you no purchase here, and they will hurt you. But they will not kill you. Leave the dreamers; they are mine. Leave the gardens. If you need to return, you will ask my permission. Chosen,” she said, in a sharper voice.

  They stepped back, swords still readied; they did not look in Jewel’s direction once.

  The Warden of Dreams lowered his weapons in response, although he reserved most of his attention for Celleriant; the Arianni prince did not look peaceful.

  “Lord Celleriant.”

  His gaze, when he turned to her, was cold; unlike the Chosen, he treated the Warden of Dreams as if he were almost inconsequential. “Lord.”

  He stepped back, crossing the subtle line the Chosen made. He was not pleased, and she knew why; like the cats, combat defined him; it was his most visceral joy.

  The Warden of Dreams retreated two steps; his back touched the wall that had been shredded by the force of his wings’ multiple blows; it framed him. “Jewel,” he said, his voice changing, his expression altering the lines of his face.

  “Does he always leave when—”

  “He
is like your Lord Celleriant. This is his crucible, his testing ground.”

  “And if he’s losing?”

  The Warden smiled. “He does not acknowledge loss; all loss, therefore, is mine.”

  To Jewel’s surprise, Celleriant immediately put up his sword; the blade and the shield vanished as he tendered the Warden a deep bow. She had never seen Celleriant employ sarcasm, and assumed the gesture of respect was genuine.

  “It is over, for now,” the Warden told her.

  “Almost,” she replied. She turned to Adam, who was sitting up; he was pale, but grim. “I am grateful to you, but you are inseparable from your brother, and where he cannot go, you cannot go.”

  “We are not forbidden the dreams of men,” was the Warden’s grave reply.

  “You’re forbidden them in my domain.”

  He shook his head. “You do not have that power—even in this place. We cannot entrap the dreamers; we cannot compel them. But the visions we have carried to you, we will carry if it becomes necessary. You are not asleep now,” he told her. “But you will never fully wake again. The dreams will be stronger, and they have the power to harm you, now.”

  She knew. They had had the power to harm her from the moment the cats had appeared; Shadow had told her that months ago. She hadn’t believed him—not while she was awake. And in dreams, belief didn’t matter. Everything was true.

  “Can you tell me one thing before you leave?”

  “If it is within my power.”

  “How do I get the cats to change back?”

  The Warden frowned; he looked genuinely puzzled. “Change back?”

  “Yes. To what they were before—before last night.”

  Shadow was now free of the webbing; it had vanished when the Warden of Dreams had once again turned the other face. He didn’t look particularly happy about the shift in personality, but like Celleriant, he seemed to recognize it instantly.

  “Are they different?” the Warden finally asked.

  “They’re half again as large as they were and they look extremely dangerous.”

  The Warden bent to the bristling Shadow and whispered a few words that Jewel’s hearing wasn’t acute enough to pick up. The cat hissed. It was a lower, louder version of his laughter.

  “He says they are not changed,” the Warden told her gravely.

  “But they—”

  “They do not appear altered, to me. Perhaps my vision and yours depend on different things.” His frown deepened. “But you are Sen, and it is the way of the Sen to see things as they are. It is vexing.”

  Shadow’s hiss increased in volume; the sides of his lengthy body began to heave. “She is less stupid,” he finally managed. “But not by much.” He rose and padded across the room to where Snow lay. Jewel gasped as he jumped on the injured cat, hissing in a totally different tone.

  “If you break the bed,” she told them both, raising her voice to be heard over the cats—Snow, not to be outdone, had begun to hiss back, “I will—”

  “Yessssss?” Both cats said, swiveling to face her, their own brief spat suspended. “What will you do?”

  “I’ll have to think about it. Turning you to stone has a certain appeal.”

  Snow hissed, his eyes widening. Shadow, however, snorted.

  “Stop fighting in my room and go find your brother.”

  “Oh, him.”

  “I mean it. Find Night and bring him back.” She paused and then added, “Do not fight with each other in the manse if you don’t intend to leave by the window.”

  * * *

  The room was silent after the cats had departed; they left through the doors. The window was apparently not to their liking.

  The Warden of Dreams watched them go.

  “Will they be able to find Night?” she asked.

  “If that is your desire, yes. You did not, as you fear, leave him behind.”

  “And the dreamers?”

  “More difficult, but you have begun the work you must do to find them. They will find you,” he added, “if it is possible.”

  “In my dreams?”

  “There, yes; possibly while you wake. It has been long indeed since I walked through the streets of such a city. I will not counsel caution; you do not require it.” But he turned once more. “Viandaran.”

  Avandar stiffened, but nodded.

  “You have not yet found the answers you seek.”

  “No.”

  “And have you now set the search aside? You serve the Sen. I remember when—”

  “Enough.” The word was a single, sharp, command. It sounded like thunder.

  The Warden raised a brow. “Do you think she does not know?” he asked.

  Avandar did not reply.

  “The time is coming, Viandaran. We will meet again.”

  “No doubt.”

  The Warden turned last to Adam. He bowed. “And you, Adam. We will meet again, on the far road. Your sister dreams of you—you must go home, soon.”

  Jewel frowned.

  “It is the Wyrd, Terafin. It is not just you who bear the burden of dreams of fate.”

  “How am I to get home?” Adam asked.

  “You will know.” He bowed to them all and when he rose, he vanished. It did not happen all at once; he thinned and grayed, becoming translucent, transparent. “It is good that you are here,” he told Jewel. “Remember it, in the end. There are others who have seen the coming war, and they have surrendered more than their lives to prevent what is almost an inevitable outcome.”

  “What outcome?” She demanded.

  “There is a god upon the plane. Do you think he will remain in his frozen splendor forever?”

  * * *

  The Chosen turned toward her in the silence. She stared at the space that had, moments before, been occupied by the Warden of Dreams. She felt curiously hollow. Isolated. Without thought, she turned toward Adam; Adam was watching her with wide eyes. Vulnerable eyes.

  “Well done, Terafin,” Avandar said, in a pinched tone of voice that implied the opposite.

  “I think there’ll be no new sleepers,” she said, speaking to the halfway point between Adam and Avandar. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  Angel was at her side just before her knees collapsed. She didn’t faint; she didn’t lose consciousness, but the world felt suddenly both fragile and untenable, somehow. Angel caught her, lifted her; the Chosen began to converge and paused as she lifted a hand, palm out. The words that should have preceded the gesture wouldn’t come.

  “Is Levec in the manse?”

  “He’s in the West Wing,” Torvan replied crisply.

  “Get him. Tell him—tell him Adam needs to leave the rooms.”

  Adam stiffened and then bit his lip; the gesture made him look so much younger. It was strange; she knew that the healer and the healed were somehow joined; that the healer had to see, to know, the person who skirted the outer edge of life to even call them back. She knew that Arann had been called back from the brink of death by Alowan, and when Arann had awakened, he knew Alowan as well as Alowan knew himself—and Alowan, in turn, had the same knowledge of Arann. It was because Alowan had healed Arann that Alowan had developed an instant affection and respect for the young Jewel Markess and her den.

  Yet Jewel, at this moment, did not feel that she knew any more about Adam than she had before she had inadvertently dragged him into the dreaming with her. She wondered what Adam now knew about her, and wondered if—in part—this was why he looked so strained. The Matriarchs did not suffer their secrets to be known; she wondered if Matriarchs ever put themselves into the hands of the healer-born.

  Levec came so quickly time barely seemed to pass. The two Chosen who were still on guard duty in the room barred his entrance until Jewel commanded them to let him enter.

  He looked like hell.

  Jewel suddenly became aware that she probably looked worse. Sure enough, her night robes were stiff with caked blood—and not a small amount of it, either. They weren’t torn; they
weren’t the dress she’d ended up wearing after visiting the world of Leila’s dreams.

  Avandar bowed. “Allow me.”

  She nodded but approached Levec directly as the Chosen fell to either side of her. “I’m sorry,” she said, without preamble. “Adam is awake now.”

  “I can see that.”

  Adam’s clothing was also stiff with blood that had mostly dried. He glanced at Levec, no more; his face was pale, and his eyes were anchored to Jewel. Levec’s single brow bunched more tightly across the bridge of his prominent nose. “You will tell me what happened.”

  Since Jewel had seen Levec talk to Duvari that way, it was hard to find the demand insulting. The Chosen clearly didn’t care for his tone. Neither did Jewel, if it came to that—but in this case, she felt it justified.

  “We had a little trouble with the dreaming,” she said.

  “Your definition of ‘little’ in this case leaves much to be desired. Adam, did you heal her?”

  Adam nodded.

  Levec exhaled. “I will not tell you that you were foolish.”

  “She was fighting for the sleepers,” Adam continued, when Jewel failed to insert any further words of her own. “There is at least one who has woken, and will not fall asleep again.”

  “Which one?”

  “Leila.”

  “You are certain?”

  Adam nodded again.

  “If every time a sleeper is permanently woken it causes injuries that would absolutely be fatal without the intervention of the healer-born, I am not certain it is worth the risk.”

  Adam drew breath, expanding his slender chest; his arms slid down, to their full length, and his hands tightened. It was clear he found Levec intimidating, but clear, as well, that intimidation was not terror. “I do.”

  “No doubt. No doubt she does as well.”

  “The Terafin,” Adam continued, emphasizing each syllable in a way Jewel herself wouldn’t have dared, “does.”

  “Adam—”

  “It’s not something I know because of the healing, Levec. It’s what she is. It’s what she’s always been. In the streets of the twenty-fifth holding—”