Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “Trust him.”

  Jewel stared at Angel as if an unexpected gulf had opened between them, swallowing the floor, the chairs, and anything else in the room in the process.

  “Jay, he can’t be what you are. No one can. If it was that simple, we wouldn’t have followed you.”

  “But—”

  “He’ll do what you tell him to do here. He’s not stupid enough to do otherwise. He’ll do more, yes, and you can’t prevent that—but he won’t work against you. He’s got knowledge and experience that none of the rest of us can offer. Let him in.”

  She was silent. Devon, drink once again replenished, watched her; he never once turned to look at Angel. But Angel hadn’t finished.

  “We know what we’re up against. No, I’ll take that back—we don’t know. But we know that the chances we’ll all survive are next to none. We know what The Terafin wanted—but Jay, we follow you. Always have.”

  “No,” she finally replied. “The rest of us are all ATerafin.”

  “They wanted the name because you wanted them to have it. I didn’t care what you wanted; I cared about what I wanted. I cared about my own pride. I wasn’t willing to swear an oath to anyone else while you lived.”

  At this, Devon’s brows rose—slightly—and this time he did turn in his chair to look toward the wall at his back. Angel’s spire of hair bobbed as he met Devon’s gaze with a nod.

  “They want more from the House—”

  Angel exhaled. “Yes. They do. But what they want from the House is a grown-up version of what they—what we—wanted from you when we lived packed in two rooms in the holdings. You’re the only avenue to that future. We’re not going to walk to our deaths; we’ll make them expensive. But we’re not going to avoid the fight, either. We can’t.

  “Devon ATerafin is an intimate part of that fight. If we didn’t need him, The Terafin wouldn’t have made him promise to support us.”

  Devon turned back to Jewel and set his glass on the table. He added nothing to Angel’s words, and Avandar had once again achieved invisibility on the Devon scale of attention. Jewel, unfortunately, had not.

  “Jewel,” he began.

  What he might have said was lost as his expression suddenly stiffened. A second later, so did Avandar’s, and they both looked toward the closed door that separated these rooms from the rest of the manse.

  Avandar headed toward that door first.

  “ATerafin,” Devon said sharply, “tell your domicis to be cautious. I believe magic is now being used in significant quantities not far from here.”

  Jewel felt the blood leave her face in a rush.

  Celleriant.

  Chapter Five

  1st of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  THE WINTER QUEEN had commanded Lord Celleriant to serve Jewel ATerafin.

  It was therefore the Winter Queen’s command that had brought him here, to the Terafin manse. This manse, with its small people and its equally confining concerns seemed to leech color and vitality out of all who inhabited it; absent was the wild fury of the elements and the subtle beauty of the hidden ways.

  Celleriant had casually suggested that he and Viandaran could achieve, in minutes—or perhaps hours—what Jewel herself felt must be achieved: dominance over the House. She spoke of four possible rivals to the seat she would claim as her own; they were all, without exception, human; only one was talent-born, and his power, according to Viandaran, was insignificant.

  Let us leave these rooms, Celleriant had said to Viandaran. The four are closeted here, like rabbits in these crowded warrens. Let us kill them now. He had offered Jewel his sword and his service, albeit reluctantly, for that very end, and what had he received in return?

  Her anger and contempt. It was to be expected, and for that reason, it did not gall him—but Viandaran did. Here, he played servant to her master.

  It is inadvisable.

  Inadvisable? Of all of the men and women gathered beneath these many roofs, only Viandaran was worthy of note; only Viandaran was worthy of fear. Even in the Court of the Winter Queen, Viandaran’s was a name that was considered apt for song or verse.

  Yet he, too, chose to huddle, damping his light. Given the way the others treated him, he had also hidden the vast depths of his power. And to what end?

  To play these pathetic, mortal games?

  The world was shorn of glory. Once, it had been driven by, possessed by, and almost destroyed by a wild, savage beauty. Such beauty might be found around any corner, through any pass. Had there been death? Oh, yes. But it hardly mattered; death made life so vibrant, so immediate.

  And the only thing that remained of it lingered on hidden paths, hidden roads. The Winter Queen.

  He felt her presence, as all sworn to her service must, no matter where they might wander; he heard the attenuated music of distant bells, distant flutes, distant horns. It disturbed him; the Wild Hunt had been called in the lands of the distant South, but the Winter had not yet given way to the Summer. It was the Summer he yearned for; warm beauty instead of cold. The Summer, the Queen, and Mordanant, his brother.

  Yet a different face, a different voice, troubled him as he walked these halls; not immortal, not perfect, not firstborn. A different song, both mortal and yet as beautiful, as haunting, as any voice raised in the Court of the Winter Queen save only her own.

  Kallandras.

  The Senniel bard faced war in the South; war, Kialli, and death. In the North? Celleriant faced squabbling mortals, too timid to lift sword. They might bare their fangs at each other, but only at a safe distance. It galled him. Even had they lifted swords, their weapons were like dining utensils in comparison to true weapons.

  And yet, the assassin that had killed Jewel ATerafin’s beloved ruler had been no mortal. That thought brought him his only comfort, even if scant—it had taken no great effort to kill the creature, after all. If the demon had managed to escape detection up until that moment, it meant two things: that someone within the House was conversant with the kin, and that the kin themselves were extending the humiliating effort to pass undetected among the rabble of humanity.

  * * *

  An hour passed, and the halls grew no less tedious, but they eventually led to doors that were all of glass, and faced the outside world. Celleriant had yet to see any significant portion of the city or the Isle, and he paused a moment before these doors. Beyond them lay grass and carefully constructed flower beds. He opened them and stepped out into the cool air.

  This was a mortal garden. Yards away, trees—carefully pruned and cultivated—stood. They girded slender paths, which were marked by small statues and standing lamps. Along these narrow walkways, flowers had been carefully but hastily planted; he judged the weather cold for them, but understood that this was some necessary part of the funereal ceremony for those who lived huddled behind the walls he had momentarily escaped.

  But here, he thought in disgust, mortality had leached all wilderness from the plants themselves, and all struggle; no weeds choked the flower beds, exerting their more primal power, and all that grew on the trees above were small buds; there were no leaves. Even had there been, they would be small and green; the wonder and the majesty of the ancient forest had never touched them. He could walk among them—and he now did—speaking and cajoling as he pleased, and they would never wake, never answer.

  They lived, domesticated and fettered.

  Is this the world you wanted? There was no answer. His question was meant for the gods, and the gods could no longer hear him; when they had been able to do so, they would never have deigned to reply. Is this the only world in which the mortals could survive?

  It wasn’t even a world worth destroying.

  And yet, if he but closed his eyes, he could see the worn visage of Kallandras of Senniel; he could see the mark on his ear, invisible to mortal eyes, that spoke of oaths that death itself could not destroy. He could almost hear his voice; could see the elegant and g
raceful way he navigated the currents of the wild air, weapons in either hand that might have been made when Man was near the apex of its power.

  Not for Celleriant, the love of mortals; not for Celleriant, the unhealthy obsession with their brief lives. But this one man had been born in this diminished age, and this one man had called him, in the end, by his name.

  Where are you, Kallandras? What do you face?

  He expected no answer, and received none; he wandered the grounds, restless, searching for anything that might bring a passing color, no matter how faint, to this dreary world. As he walked, his desire was answered; he found the one tree in the Terafin gardens that was not untouched by immortal hands. It was not alive; that, not even the Arianni could grant, but it was enchanted, and the magics were dark and cold.

  “So,” he said, speaking the ancient tongue. “I am not entirely alone in this place.” He did not draw sword, not yet; instead he approached the tree’s trunk. It was not a young tree; it was perhaps the oldest in this garden. Its leaves had not yet begun to flower, and its branches were thick and high.

  He became aware, as he approached this single tree, that the mortals showed some respect for the age it had achieved; it was the centerpiece of a network of paths, and it was ringed by slender flower beds that, when in full bloom, would keep distance between any passing visitor and the trunk of the tree itself. Those beds had been turned, but whatever might be laid in them had not yet been brought.

  In sight of this tree was a pavilion, and it was tented in colors that were somber: white, black, and trailing golden ribbons. It was large, and two smaller, sister tents—one entirely black and one entirely white—stood just beyond it. Celleriant smiled. The tents were empty, now, but they were clearly meant for use.

  Ah. This, he thought, would be one of the areas in which the funeral services were meant to be held. He glanced at the tree’s height again, and this time, he whispered a small benediction to the slight breeze that moved through the grounds, and it gathered beneath him. He cajoled it with more care than he had ever chosen to display when speaking with mortals, and it lifted him toward the lowest of the tree’s branches. There, he drew even with the furled buds, and as he did, his eyes narrowed.

  No mortal magic touched this tree; very little mortal magic was capable of this subtle infestation and influence over the form of living things. The magic that was there was deeply rooted, and it would express itself in the leaves, if only that. Reaching out, he grabbed a slender branch and snapped it off the tree.

  Or he tried; the branch did not break. It stiffened, instead. The bark hardened, and the branch lengthened in an instant; Celleriant swiveled to the side before it pierced his chest; it nonetheless sheared through his tunic’s left arm. Releasing the branch, he pushed himself back; the branch twisted as if it were an arm, as it followed, lashing out, supple where it bent. Once again, he dodged, but this time he felt the edge of the branch break skin.

  It annoyed him. He coaxed the elemental air, and began to move as quickly as the anchored branch did; he was not yet ready to draw weapon against something as lowly as a tree. But the tree was not likewise constrained; the branches that faced Celleriant now shed all appearance of bark. This time, however, the buds burst into blossom, revealing leaves; they were a harsh, metallic red, livid and glowing even in the bright, cool sunlight.

  The subtle aura of magic fled like clouds in a windstorm; in its place, the heart of the storm itself stood revealed. Celleriant’s hair rose in fine strands as if electrified—and he was: this magic was ancient, wild. He understood what he faced mere seconds before the whole of the tree shifted its hundred arms and they converged on the spot where he stood suspended in midair.

  The world was red; red and black. Buds burst, blossomed; leaves drew blood and grew from that sustenance. His blood, and he shed it because that was the price of carelessness. But he laughed, and his voice was like thunder in a sky so full of twisting limbs it was no longer clear or blue.

  “Jewel, where are you going?” Devon’s voice was at her back; she was sprinting. The halls weren’t empty, but she’d never lost the ability to navigate crowds in an emergency; she could break her stride to pivot in order to avoid collision, and pick it up again smoothly. Angel could keep pace with her by moving in a similar fashion although he was larger. Avandar and Devon brought up the rear and she knew Avandar was less than happy about that position.

  She took stairs two and three at a time, heading down, her palm skirting the surface of brass rails for balance. The manse’s first floor was more crowded than the upper hall had been, and the gallery was worse still. People cursed her as they jumped to one side or another to avoid collision; she apologized without looking back.

  Angel didn’t ask where she was going; he followed. She was certain Devon and Avandar did the same. It didn’t matter. By the time she could answer Devon’s question, she was almost at the door that led to the Terafin grounds. She wasn’t the only one. A handful of House Guards clanked their way toward the same doors from the opposite end of the hall. Armor had the advantage of weight and sound; people moved out of the way of the House Guards, and they didn’t curse them in passage.

  But she lifted her hand, palm out, and the guards slowed as they recognized the House Council crest she now wore. “Go,” she said, pausing only for breath. “Summon Sigurne Mellifas. She’s in the manse. Have her meet us in the gardens.”

  “Where, ATerafin?”

  “She’ll know,” was the grim reply.

  Jewel threw the doors open and ran out toward the grounds. She didn’t have to look very hard to see where Celleriant was; he had cleared both ground and the height of the trees, wielding a sword that looked like barely contained lightning. Were it not for the sword, she might have missed sight of him, because what he now faced was infinitely worse: A black tree with leaves of scarlet and crimson, whose branches twisted in air as if they were limbs or tentacles.

  “Avandar!”

  He was there; the doors had slammed behind her, although the sound was distant and almost unremarkable. It wasn’t the domicis who grabbed her shoulder, and it certainly wasn’t Angel, who knew better; it was Devon.

  “Jewel, what is that?”

  The imperative to run deserted her; her legs were shaking. “It’s a—it’s a demon,” she whispered, certain that she was wrong, but not certain why. It occurred to her, after the words had left her mouth, that he might have been referring to Celleriant, because Celleriant stood revealed in the heights. His hair was a white spill of something that seemed to gather and reflect light; his sword was pulsing like a pale, blue heart. He wore armor now, and he bore a shield; the black limbs that might once have been branches clattered audibly against it.

  But even at this distance, Jewel could see his smile. It shouldn’t have been possible, but she didn’t doubt her vision; he was exultant in the way that only immortals could be, wild and unfettered.

  Gardeners were running toward the manse, their tools carried in clenched fists as if they were weapons; their eyes were wide with both fear and purpose. They passed Jewel and her companions, heading straight for the glass doors; they paused only when they reached the House Guards, who had begun to spill onto the stone terrace. She heard their frantic babble, the syllables crashing and colliding in such a way that whole sentences were hard to distinguish.

  But she saw Celleriant, and the rising black shadow. Drawing breath, she made her way down the stairs and onto the path that would lead her to them.

  * * *

  Stubbed toes and snarled hair made it clear that she needed to watch where she was going, but it was hard. She saw branches riven by sword and heard the clatter they made as they fell; she saw leaves—what might have been leaves—stiffen like tines, and she thought they broke skin, scraped armor. Walking while watching the heights, she ran into a slender lamppost, cursed in very liberal Torra, and looked back at the path again.

  This time, she saw natural shadow in a shape that the gr
ounds didn’t usually contain, and she recognized the silhouette—in sunlight—of the Winter King. It moved and as it did, it gained solidity and form; she heard Devon’s sharp intake of breath at her back.

  Jewel.

  Can you carry two?

  He bowed his great antlered head; he was, to her surprise, amused.

  “Angel,” she said curtly, as the Winter King knelt on his forelegs, “get on.”

  Angel was more hers than anyone’s; he looked dubious, but he didn’t hesitate. He clambered—awkwardly—onto the sloping back of the great stag. Jewel climbed up behind him.

  “He won’t drop you,” she shouted, as the Winter King rose and turned. “If he’s willing to carry you at all, there’s no way you can fall off.”

  “Jewel!” Devon cried. The second syllable was noticeably quieter than the first. The stag leaped forward on a path that should have been too narrow, and they were borne aloft.