Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “I’d rather you included him. He can’t get angry at you—it’s me he’ll—”

  “He will not.”

  Clearly, the Exalted were used to two things: their position of unassailable power and their position of unassailable trustworthiness. Duvari did not—ever—speak word against the Exalted.

  “Child,” the Mother’s Daughter added, “it is, in its entirety, for your sake that we have chosen to exclude him.”

  She hesitated and then lifted her chin. “You think something will be said that will make me more of a threat to Duvari than I already am?”

  “We cannot say for certain,” the Mother’s Daughter said. But the Exalted of Reymaris said, “Yes. And it is not to my liking to exclude the Lord of the Compact, although we have had our disagreements in the past.”

  A glance passed between the Exalted of Cormaris and the Mother’s Daughter; the Exalted of Reymaris frowned. “We have reached an agreement,” he told them in a cool voice, “and not all agreements require consensus.”

  The mists rose as they spoke. Night hissed and unfurled his wings; Shadow, however, sat and began to lick imaginary dust off his paw. The cats’ eyes were gold and shining, and Jewel thought it odd how very like the eyes of the god-born they were in color, if not shape.

  “ATerafin,” the Exalted of Reymaris said softly. “Mind your attendants.”

  Frowning, she turned to look at the two she couldn’t see, as the cats were relatively well-behaved. Avandar was, of course, himself; starched and cool. But Celleriant had drawn sword, and even as the mists rose, they rose to either side of the blade.

  “Celleriant, we’re not here to fight,” she said, in quiet, evenly spaced syllables.

  He said nothing.

  “They like to fight,” Shadow whispered. “It’s what they do.”

  She was very glad that Duvari wasn’t here. “Celleriant, the sword.”

  He glanced at her, his eyes narrow. “Do you know what you face here?” he finally asked.

  “Gods.”

  “And now I understand how little meaning that word has to you and your kind. Very well, ATerafin.” To her surprise, he sheathed the sword. It did not, however, vanish. He drew slightly closer to her and waited. Mist continued its slow accretion until there was nothing left of the audience chamber except some of the people who’d been standing beneath its vaulted, impressive ceilings.

  Jewel glanced up; those ceilings were no longer visible; the sky was as gray as the ground—if it was ground—beneath her feet. No birds flew in the heights; no wind blew; and if the sky knew sun or moon, neither now graced its height.

  Night began to hiss; his was the only voice she could hear. His ears straightened, and his fur rose. Shadow, seated, affected nonchalance, but his ears had risen as well.

  Avandar gently tapped her shoulder; she startled and then forced herself to relax. “You have little to fear,” he said softly. “There are some things the gods cannot do, not even in this place, unless you ask it of them. And even then,” he added bitterly, “it is not always within their means.”

  They lifted their heads and turned as they heard the screeching caw of an eagle; the gods, at least one, had come.

  He came through the mist on the far side of the Exalted, and he towered above his half-kin; Jewel thought him eight or nine feet in height, although she couldn’t be certain. He wore armor, not the robes in which he was so often depicted. The eagle was perched on his left shoulder, and in his mailed hands he carried not sword, but rod. It was a damn big rod. His eyes weren’t gold; they weren’t any single color, and that made it hard to meet them; his skin was likewise difficult to pin to one shade. His hair, however, seemed pale, white to Celleriant’s platinum, and his face was etched with lines that seemed, at this distance, severe.

  His son bowed.

  “Bird,” Night whispered to Shadow. Jewel swallowed her tongue. She rapped the black cat sharply on the head, and he hissed.

  Reymaris came next. Lord of Justice. He, too, wore armor, but he was depicted in a more martial way in the cathedrals of Averalaan. His hair was braided, dark to Cormaris’ white; his eyes were the same non-color. He was bearded; he looked, for the moment, like a man in his prime. He also wielded sword and shield.

  His son now bowed.

  Last to come was the Mother. She wore the robes that the two men lacked, and in the gray of the mists, they were warm with color: burnt orange, brown, harvest gold. A wreath adorned her forehead, and a garland, her neck. She carried a basket from which the hint of harvest could be seen. Her hair was long, and it fell trailing into the mist, but her age? Her age was elusive; she was young and old and in between, her weight shifting and changing, although her robes did not.

  The Mother’s Daughter did not bow to her, but stood instead and waited.

  Jewel felt a twinge of envy when the goddess enveloped her much smaller daughter in a hug.

  It was the Mother herself, some eight or nine feet tall, who turned to Jewel. “Jewel Markess,” she said. Her voice was not one voice, but a multitude, and it felt like thunder. But in spite of that, it wasn’t unfriendly. Just…alien.

  Jewel nodded; she couldn’t speak.

  “We meet again.”

  Jewel frowned, her forehead creasing. She could not remember having met the Mother before—and even if small details of her own life now eluded her, meeting a god was not something anyone could forget.

  The Mother smiled. “We did not meet like this,” she said. “But I heard your voice and I felt your presence. It was not so very long ago.”

  Jewel looked, in deepening confusion, to the Mother’s Daughter. The Mother’s Daughter, however, was silent.

  “You prayed to me in an ancient place, one long deserted by your kind—or mine. You prayed; I heard you. You were not alone.”

  Jewel closed her eyes. “I remember,” she said softly. “I remember now.” She had been with Duster in the undercity. “You opened the door.”

  “I did.” The Mother’s expression grew remote. “Do not give me cause for regret.”

  This was, in its own way, as confusing as the Mother’s greeting. Jewel opened her eyes and shook her head.

  But the Mother moved past the Exalted toward the cats, and there she paused. They eyed her from the ground, wings flexing. “How long,” she asked Jewel, in the same disturbing voice of the multitude, “have you known the three?”

  “Not—not long.”

  “You summoned them.”

  “No!”

  Night hissed.

  “They came on their own.”

  “How did they know where to find you?”

  Jewel had no idea, and made that clear. “I met them—in another place. In the forest of the Winter King.”

  “It has long been Winter,” the god replied. She bent and touched Shadow’s head, and he looked up at her without fear. “It has been long, little one. Are you weary?”

  “We’re bored,” he told the Mother in his sulkiest voice.

  The Mother rose. To Jewel, she said, “How did you come to be in the forest of that King?”

  Jewel glanced at Avandar, who was both rigid and utterly silent.

  The Mother now turned to face him. “Viandaran.”

  He bowed then. It, like his posture, was a stiff, rigid gesture.

  “You live, as you desired, so long ago. Were you not told to be cautious?”

  “I was.”

  “And you now understand why.”

  “I do.”

  “Why are you here? Why did you take Jewel ATerafin into the Deepings?”

  “To save her life.”

  “It is a perilous way to save a mortal life.”

  Avandar’s smile was shocking because it was offered at all; it was also thin. “Yet she is here, Lady.”

  “Why did you seek to save her life?”

  Avandar said nothing.

  “He’s my domicis,” Jewel replied, in his stead.

  “There is no death for you at her side,
” the Mother told him, as if Jewel hadn’t spoken.

  Avandar again remained silent.

  “Do you think she can give you what you desire?”

  “Perhaps not,” he replied, relenting. “But there is now one who walks the world who can.”

  It was the god’s turn to fall silent; she did, but turned in that silence toward the Winter King. She spoke to him, and Jewel didn’t understand a word she said. But he approached, lifting his head. They conversed briefly, and then the god turned back to Jewel.

  “You stood against the Winter Queen upon the open road?” the Mother asked. Her eyes rounded, softening in shape.

  Jewel nodded.

  “Why, Jewel?”

  “Because someone had to—and I could.” She hesitated, and then said, “I could see him. I could see the man in the stag.”

  “And so you now claim the mount of the Queen and a prince of her Court as your servants?”

  “No.”

  “They serve you?”

  “…yes.”

  The Mother now turned to the two gods who watched—and waited—in grim silence.

  Cormaris did not move, but he lifted his head and filled the air with the sound of his voice—his many voices. “Lord Celleriant,” he said. “Step forward.”

  Celleriant, however, stood his ground. “I have not come to be judged by you. I have offered you no oath and no service; I have pledged no allegiance. You are their gods; you are not mine.”

  This caused the Lord of Wisdom to smile; it was both sharp and resigned. “The passage of time has not changed you at all, has it?”

  “Time changes mortals.”

  “It changes all, Celleriant.” He frowned now. “You do not serve the Winter Queen.” It was not a question. Nor did Celleriant seemed surprised by the statement; Jewel certainly was. “Lord Celleriant, if you did not come to be judged, why did you come at all?”

  He offered silence, and Cormaris’ brow creased.

  It was Reymaris who spoke. “Have you given your oath to the mortal?”

  Celleriant did not answer.

  Reymaris moved, where Cormaris had not. He strode across mist, and the ground shook at his passing. The cats moved out of his way, hissing. Jewel, however, did not. She raised her chin as he came to a stop feet away from where she stood. “Yes. He has given his oath to me,” she said, because she knew Celleriant wouldn’t. “He came because I asked it; I asked because you asked it.” She met and held his gaze, and as she did, the mist at her feet began to twist into columns that gleamed like polished, new marble. Evenly spaced, they started to her left and right and emerged in two rows beyond his back, encompassing, as well, Cormaris and the Mother.

  Reymaris glanced at the columns by her side, frowning.

  “Brother,” Cormaris called, and the Lord of Justice turned to see how far back the columns went. As he did, the mists hardened and flattened until they were flooring—and something about them looked familiar to Jewel. The stones that had been laid across the ground were large enough that they seemed seamless, and etched into the surface of dark, oddly brown stone, were words.

  She drew breath; it cut. Turning rapidly, she looked for—and found—walls.

  “Avandar—”

  Avandar shook his head.

  “Celleriant?”

  “I do not know this place, Lady.”

  She did. She thought she did. She walked past Reymaris, toward the Mother and Cormaris; they watched her, but made way for her as she passed them as well. Avandar followed; Celleriant did not. “ATerafin,” he said.

  “Why here?” she whispered.

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “I—” The columns ended. The walls met wall, and in that wall, built it seemed for giants, stood two doors. Familiar doors. She had seen them once, with Duster.

  * * *

  She reached out to touch them and then lowered her hand; there was a bright, bright symbol that crossed both doors, sealing them. The symbol itself was not Old Weston, not Weston, not Torra—not any language she knew. But the gods did.

  She turned to those gods, those three, her back to the closed door. She was shaking, and to her surprise, she was angry. She struggled with anger, and won. It was no fault of the gods that Duster was dead.

  “You know what lies beyond those doors,” the Lord of Wisdom said.

  She swallowed. “Why are you showing me this?”

  The three gods exchanged a glance.

  And Celleriant laughed. His laugh was deep, yet also high and wild. “Lady,” he said, as if she were one of the Arianni, and not Jewel Markess ATerafin. “Do you truly not understand what you see?”

  This time her struggle to control her anger failed, because the consequences were less profound. “If I understood, Celleriant, I wouldn’t be bothering the gods.”

  “They show you nothing. You show them the past.”

  She stared at him as if he had lost his mind. “What are you talking about? I’m not doing anything!”

  “Can you not feel it, Lady?”

  “And stop calling me that. Just—stop.”

  His smile was so cold. “At your command.” He walked between the gods, and the gods allowed it; they had eyes for her, at this moment—or for the door at her back. At this distance, she couldn’t tell.

  “Do you know what lies beyond these doors?” she asked him.

  “Yes, ATerafin. I know.”

  She looked to the gods again; they were watching. “Tell me. Explain what you meant.”

  “This hall, these doors—they are not visions the gods have granted.”

  “These aren’t visions,” was her flat reply.

  “Ah, but they are. They are, in this formless land. Visions, ATerafin. Dreams. Nightmares. They are not crafted by the three who have come to meet you here; they are yours.”

  She shook her head, and reached up to push hair out of her eyes. Thanks to Ellerson’s ministrations, there wasn’t any. She was afraid.

  Avandar placed one hand firmly on her shoulder. “ATerafin,” he said, voice cool in warning.

  “I’m not—”

  “Listen to Celleriant.”

  “You do not understand the path you now walk, ATerafin,” the Arianni Lord continued.

  She started to speak. Stopped. The Winter King, forgotten until this moment, crossed the floor in silence; his hooves made no noise. He knelt before her. Mount, Jewel.

  She did as he asked because for a moment it felt safer than thinking.

  “It is as we feared,” the Mother said heavily.

  “No,” the Lord of Wisdom replied. “It is worse.” He looked long at the closed doors with their unbroken symbol.

  The Winter King walked toward them, Jewel on his back, her hands gripping his tines as if she feared to fall.

  “Is it, brother?” Reymaris asked softly. “Viandaran is correct. One at least of our number now walks the mortal plane.”

  “He has walked it only a handful of years—” the Mother began.

  “As has the young ATerafin,” the Lord of Justice countered. “And handful or no, he must know that every effort is being made by our kin to halt his progress. If he does not act soon, he might find the war harder than he anticipates.”

  “Not only your kin,” Celleriant said, for he had followed in the wake of the Winter King. “But my Queen. She is hampered by the shape of the hidden ways.” He glanced at Jewel, and then added, “but perhaps not for much longer. Regardless, the Winter Queen can stand against Allasakar for some time, and will.”

  “She is not a god.”

  “No.” It was Celleriant’s turn to look at the closed door. “But it was not, in the end, the gods who brought Allasakar low. It was a mortal.”

  “And it is in the hands of mortals now.”

  The Mother shook her head. “Jewel is not that mortal.”

  No, Jewel thought; she couldn’t be. Moorelas had been dead so long people didn’t believe he’d ever lived—unless they thought the world was en
ding.

  “And Moorel of Aston was gifted with a sword that the gods themselves strove to craft; it was forged in living fire and cooled in living water; it was honed by living stone and given breath by the heart of the wind itself. We could not craft such a weapon again, nor could the master swordsmiths of the Summer Court at its height.”