Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  As if he were regarding it in the same way, Gabriel coughed gently. She stiffened, met his eyes, and was rewarded by the slightest of smiles. “There are things you will never learn,” he said softly. “You will never dance well. You will never be a swordsman. You will never be an artisan.”

  She nodded.

  “But there are things that you are that no one else will ever be; do not forget it.” He lifted his head as the first of the priests preceded the Exalted into the audience chamber.

  If everyone else in the room looked as if they required another week of sleep, the Exalted didn’t. It was something about their eyes, Jewel thought; they were golden and warm and that light touched the contours of their individual faces, softening the whole and dispelling the shadows cast by something as insignificant as lack of sleep. If hosts were required to dress and comport themselves with the utmost dignity, guests were not. The Exalted arrived in the same robes they had worn scant hours past. Jewel knew this because some dirt still clung to the hems and knees of the Mother’s robe. They had repaired to their cathedrals, in theory to speak with their parents, the gods in whose name they ruled their churches.

  Jewel felt her throat tighten as she watched the progress of the Exalted. Their eyes appeared to be far brighter than they normally were; she knew, because each and every one of them gazed, as they walked, at her, their expressions troubled. She noted that Duvari was also in the audience chamber, and that he stood with his back to the far wall in the cold silence that passed for a personality.

  The priests that attended them carried the ever-present braziers on their long poles, but they stopped halfway between the doors and the throne, and set those braziers—carefully—to one side; they then drew what looked like small stands from somewhere in their voluminous robes and set them up, with care, at three points. The braziers, still wafting smoke, were placed atop them.

  This did not seem all that positive a sign to Jewel who, of course, said nothing. She did hazard a glance at Gabriel; he didn’t return it. His gaze was on the Exalted as they approached.

  Etiquette did not demand that the children of gods abase themselves before any man or woman in the Empire. On occasion, the Mother’s Daughter set etiquette aside as a gesture of either gratitude or respect, but today wasn’t going to be one of those. She, of the three, was the grimmest, although it took Jewel a moment to realize why she’d reached this conclusion. Some of her Oma’s anger—and worse, much worse—fear could be seen in the set of her jaw and the stiff line of her shoulders.

  She bowed to Gabriel, who rose. “Exalted,” he said, bowing deeply to each of the three.

  “Regent,” the Mother’s Daughter replied. “We have, as promised, asked for the guidance of our parents.”

  Gabriel nodded, waiting.

  “They are concerned with the events of yesterday. While we could answer some of their questions, we could not answer all of them, and they asked for the opportunity to speak with Jewel ATerafin.”

  The braziers on the ground suddenly made a lot more sense. Following Jewel’s gaze, the Exalted of Cormaris now stepped forward. “It is a request,” he said quietly, speaking to her and not to the regent. “The gods cannot command you.”

  Jewel smiled; it was a grim smile. “Not directly, no. But if I were foolish enough to refuse, Exalted, would the gods not then speak to the Twin Kings?”

  He was silent.

  “The Twin Kings, of course, can command. I’m nervous. Gods make me nervous. But I’m not opposed to speaking with them. I would have liked more time to prepare, but I don’t imagine the gods actually care all that much what I’m wearing, how my hair is styled, or how I speak.”

  At this, his lips twitched, and the gold of his eyes warmed. “As you surmise, ATerafin, they do not.”

  “The Kings do. So I’ll happily grant the request now.”

  “There is one more favor,” the Exalted said.

  “And that?”

  “You traveled to and from the garden grounds with…unusual companions. My father would like to speak with them, as well. There were three unusual creatures, your mount, and another that we deem immortal.”

  Jewel winced. She was certain the gods wouldn’t find the cats all that charming—and equally certain that telling the Exalted their parents didn’t know what they were asking for would be very stupid. She had no idea where Celleriant was, and she didn’t look forward to riding the Winter King in the middle of a House full of servants who were already stressed beyond their capacity by the prospect of the funeral and its many, many visitants. She finally settled on, “I’ll try.”

  The Exalted of Cormaris raised a brow.

  * * *

  Since she knew where the cats were—and couldn’t immediately face the prospect of attempting to herd them—she set out in search of Celleriant. She did not, however, set out alone; the moment she descended the stairs that led to the throne, Torvan and Arrendas detached themselves from the House Guard and followed her. Avandar likewise retreated from the wall behind the throne.

  Jewel paused in front of the Mother’s Daughter; she bowed. “I’m not entirely certain where some of my companions are to be found.”

  The Mother’s Daughter reached out and caught both of Jewel’s hands in hers, forcing her up from the bow. She met Jewel’s gaze, held it, and then released her hands.

  “I cannot help but think that the gods are unlikely to be impressed by your guardians,” Avandar said, when they’d cleared the doors.

  “I’m sure they won’t, but they asked, and I’m not about to argue with the Exalted. Do you know where Celleriant is?”

  “I? No.”

  “Avandar—”

  “Lord Celleriant is not a House Guard, Jewel. Nor is he Chosen. He was ordered to serve, but—”

  She shook her head. “He gave me his oath,” she said in a soft voice.

  Avandar stopped walking.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, although she didn’t actually look back to see his expression. “I would have told you if you hadn’t ducked out.” She continued to walk; Avandar didn’t. When she was half the gallery’s length ahead of him, she turned.

  He stood in the slanting light shed by open windows. Dust, like flakes of snow on a dry, cold day, rose and fell in the air around him. “ATerafin,” he finally said. She heard the word as if it had been spoken in her ear.

  She saw, for just a moment, the face of a different man emerging from the shifting lines of his unfamiliar expression.

  “You do not understand,” he told her, voice still much closer than he himself. “Lord Celleriant is one of the host.”

  “I understand.”

  He shook his head. “How often do you think an Arianni Prince swears fealty to a mortal?”

  Torvan and Arrendas now flanked her, and she wished—for just a moment—that they would go away. Them, the guards that were on display up and down the gallery, the visible servants and pages walking briskly to and from other destinations.

  She took a deep breath, expelled it, and let her shoulders sink. “Avandar, I don’t know.” When she met his gaze again, she saw an echo of ancient cities, ancient wars, and ancient deaths. She saw the ghost of a sword in his hand. “Please,” she half whispered. “Let me bury her. Let me pay her the respect she deserves. I’ll think about all of this after, I promise.”

  “Jewel—”

  “Be what you’ve been for half my life. Until then. Just until then.” She lifted a hand toward him.

  His expression slowly shed the ages, but when he walked toward her, it was not as a servant. “I will wait,” he told her quietly. “But, Jewel—”

  “I know. You want to tell me that it’s never happened before. You’d be wrong,” she added, before she could stop herself.

  He lifted a brow, and this was a familiar expression; she clung to it. “I would like to know more about how I am, as you suggest, incorrect.”

  “I don’t know. I know it’s true,” she added almost wear
ily. “But you’d probably have to ask Celleriant, and I’m betting he’d be damned if he answered.” She frowned, and turned back down the gallery hall. Torvan and Arrendas followed, as did Avandar.

  The grounds were, in theory, off-limits. Theory was tenuous; the Master Gardener still had work to do, and if he had been ordered to wait upon the decision of the Exalted, he was nonetheless working at the edges of what had been a disaster some scant hours past, along with some half dozen men and women who all wore the distinctively dirty colors of the House. House Guards, meant to work and not to present Terafin’s best face to visitors of import, were not in the best of moods; arguing with the Master Gardener the day before every noble of note in the Empire was due to descend upon his territory was a task Jewel envied no one.

  They did not, however, offer much argument to Arrendas when he spoke with them; Jewel didn’t hear what was said, but whatever it was, it allowed her access to the grounds; the House Guards simply looked through her.

  “He is here?” Avandar asked.

  Jewel frowned, but didn’t answer; she walked the newly remade path until it once again gave way to a destruction the distraught gardeners had been forbidden to repair. She moved beyond that with care, aware that a stumble or fall in this dress would be disastrous. But she looked, as she walked, to the tree. To the trees, really. They were so tall and so wide they might have been transplanted from the Common, and they’d shed leaves on the turned dirt and broken stone.

  “Celleriant,” she called.

  She wasn’t surprised when he came out from behind the trunk of the central tree. His hands were empty; he carried no sword. He was pale—although, given his complexion, this wasn’t as obvious as it could have been. She thought him not fully recovered from his fight—with either the dreaming tree or the demon—but something about his bearing prevented her from asking.

  He didn’t speak. Didn’t bow. But he left the lee of the tree and approached her, his eyes silver-gray in the morning light.

  “Celleriant,” she said, relief warring with a growing sense of discomfort. “The god-born are here, and they want—they ask—you to speak with the gods.”

  He raised a pale brow and then shrugged as if gods were of little import. “What is your desire?”

  “Politically speaking, that you agree.”

  “Very well. I agree.”

  She turned back toward the manse, and he fell into step beside her; Torvan and Arrendas had to widen their paths to make room, and at least one of them didn’t like it much. She couldn’t blame him. Celleriant looked very much like the reason one had guards to begin with: wild, dangerous, unpredictable. Deadly. But then again, hadn’t he always?

  She could forget it for moments—or days—at a time. She glanced at him; his hair was long and fine, as unlike hers in color, length, or enviable straightness as hair could possibly get. He’d lived forever; she’d struggled for thirty years. She knew he could kill without blinking; knew, further, that he could face death with anticipation and joy. He wasn’t Duster; she knew that. Duster? She’d liked—and hated—foods. Mornings. Cats. She could be embarrassed, could feel guilt, could rage in fury at the oddest moments.

  Her ability to kill had never completely defined her.

  Jewel stopped walking at the sound of an extra pair of feet—or two pairs. The Winter King had also left the forest.

  In the desert, the Winter King and the Arianni Lord had somehow seemed more natural; at the base of the stairs—adorned by House Guards who looked, sadly, a lot less bored as they approached—they clashed with the life she’d worked so hard to build. They weren’t part of it. But they would be, and she knew it. What she didn’t know was what her life would then become.

  To Avandar, she simply said, “Let’s go get the cats.”

  It was a strange procession that made its way through the early morning halls of the Terafin manse, and Jewel was more aware of it on this occasion than she had ever been. She had managed to pry only two of the cats out of the wing; the third, Snow, was closeted in the closed room within which Haval was working, and wouldn’t come out. She’d stood on the other side of the door, hesitating, when Night and Shadow offered to go in and get him for her; that made the decision to leave him behind much easier.

  Besides which, Shadow seldom fought with either Snow or Night, and if one of the two were left behind, she might be able to sustain the faint hope that the cats would behave. They were certainly behaving now, which she found unsettling. They were silent, and their silence seemed to enlarge them; their wings were folded loosely over their backs, and their fur—black and gray—caught light, gleaming with it, as if they were partly metallic. Their eyes were steady, unblinking, their heads were not held high, but rather, closer to ground, as if they were prepared to hunt.

  She hadn’t chosen to ride the Winter King, although he had all but insisted; he walked to her right. Celleriant walked to her left; Avandar and the two Chosen took up the rear. The cats, of course, headed the strange procession—and it was strange enough that the House Guard in their full finery couldn’t help but stare.

  “Shadow. Night. It’s on the right. The big doors.”

  Shadow turned one baleful glare on her, but dutifully headed toward the doors she had labeled as big. Night hissed, but it was a relatively quiet hiss, and did the same.

  They entered the audience chamber.

  Gabriel was seated upon the distant throne, but between the doors and the throne, the Exalted waited. Chairs—fine chairs—had been brought for their use, but they had apparently been declined; the chairs were empty. Duvari was to the right, nearest the doors, his gaze hooded and unfriendly—but this, at least, was normal. And a day where Duvari came as a bit of a relief was far too strange and uncomfortable.

  The cats continued to lead, and Jewel walked past the braziers that had been set up in a very flat, loose triangle on the floor; frail threads of smoke rose from their incense. When she approached Sigurne Mellifas, the guildmaster nodded. Matteos, however, was watching the cats, Celleriant, and the Winter King as if he couldn’t quite decide between awe and worry. On the other hand, it was Matteos; worry was likely to win out.

  The cats stopped a few yards from where the Exalted stood. Jewel approached them, but the Winter King and Celleriant likewise held their ground, waiting. This left her with Torvan and Arrendas for comfort, but the Chosen once again took up positions at the end of the House Guards.

  Jewel bowed to the Exalted. She held the bow until the Mother’s Daughter bade her rise.

  “I’m sorry it took so long,” Jewel told her. “But my companions were scattered.”

  The Exalted didn’t answer. Instead, she looked past Jewel’s shoulder to where the priests were milling. The priests, unlike the House Guards, had clearly not been chosen for their ability to stand at attention. They were staring—some of them openly—at the cats and the Winter King.

  “We will begin,” the Exalted said, with just enough edge in the simple words that the priests immediately forgot what they were looking at and concentrated on whatever it was they were supposed to be doing. Night snickered.

  Jewel turned and glared him into silence, which unfortunately caused Shadow to snicker. She knew they could kill, but it was impossible to keep that at the forefront of her thoughts; mostly she wanted to smack them or send them back to their room.

  “Are they dangerous?” The Exalted of Reymaris was staring at the two cats; it was the first time this morning that Jewel had heard him speak.

  “They can be.”

  “Will they cause difficulty now?”

  “No.” Turning to the cats, she said, “Come here.”

  They did, although Night hissed a little and lagged behind Shadow. She crouched between them. “We’re going to the Between.”

  “What is the Between?”

  “The place where men can talk to their gods.”

  The two cats exchanged a glance. “Why do we have to go somewhere else?” Night finally asked.
<
br />   “Because that’s where the gods are.”

  “Make them come to us.”

  Jewel winced.

  The Exalted of Reymaris said, “Oh, they will,” as the mists began to roll in.

  Something about the way the mists rolled in felt familiar. Jewel rose, but kept her hands on the tops of the gray and black heads with their twitching ears. The walls of the audience chamber faded from sight first. She was surprised when the throne—with Gabriel on it—did likewise. He wasn’t here. Neither, she saw, was Duvari, and that would piss him off. The House Guards, like the throne, failed to be encompassed by the fog; the Winter King, Celleriant, and Avandar did not. Nor did the magi.

  “Duvari is going to be really, really angry,” Jewel said.

  “Indeed,” the Exalted of Cormaris replied. “But the request did not come from Duvari; nor did it come from the Regent. It came from our parents, and it was tendered, specifically, to you.”