Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  The guards had noticed that Carver was now scratching behind Shadow’s ears, and for a moment, the food on the large serving trays on the table stopped disappearing. Only a moment, though. If they had questions, they wanted to ask them on full stomachs.

  The great room was the largest room in the wing; it boasted three fireplaces, several large windows, and walls adorned with tasteful if sparse works of art: paintings, tapestries, one lone sculpture. Ellerson had chosen most of them; the sculpture had come with the wing, and it was, in Ellerson’s words, valuable and prohibitively expensive to have repaired if the task of moving it caused damage. Moving it, on the other hand, was the work of several men.

  There were, of course, chairs and long tables, but most of these were low and meant for convivial social gatherings. They were therefore mostly impressive for their expense, although they weren’t entirely impractical. Jewel plunked herself down on a patch of floor nearest the long table by the roaring fire; it was cold.

  Arrendas and Torvan were seated in a similar fashion; the chairs were occupied by various members of the guard, but although half a dozen rose as she passed in an attempt to vacate their own seats, she ignored them. Gabriel, however, was seated.

  “I hear,” he said, without preamble, “that you’ve disbanded the Chosen.”

  She winced.

  “I assume you intended to mention it at some point,” he added, as Ellerson emerged carrying a tray with a very fine decanter in its center. He carried it straight to the small table at Gabriel’s left, and set it down.

  “After I’d finished eating, if you want the truth. I didn’t think it would take so long to gather the Chosen.”

  “Not all of the Chosen were in the manse at the time,” Torvan pointed out.

  “They live here,” she replied with a shrug.

  “So do Angel and Carver, as I recall.”

  Carver ducked his head; Angel only looked chagrined.

  Gabriel took the cut crystal glass that Ellerson offered him and cleared his throat. “If I am not mistaken, the men and women who are in this room now are all Chosen.”

  “They were.”

  “The others?”

  “They chose not to serve me.”

  “Barston is going to have my head over this, you realize. There is no small amount of paperwork to be done, and some deference is owed the Captain of the House Guard.”

  “I doubt it; he’ll wait until the funeral rites are done.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “He will, indeed. Very well. You have disbanded the Chosen. The men and women here will also be reabsorbed into the House Guard.”

  “Yes—but assigned to me, as a Councillor.”

  “If they are assigned to you personally, you are expected to cover some part of their salary.”

  She swallowed a distinctly underchewed bit of meat and nodded, unsurprised. “You’ll take the cats?”

  “I will, as you so eloquently put it, allow the cats to serve in a position of honor among my guards. Your own, however...”

  Torvan nodded. “The men have a few questions.”

  “They’re Chosen for all intents and purposes,” Jewel replied, “and I’m used to fielding questions from my own.”

  “Ah, yes, the infamous kitchen discussions. It is to be hoped that the Chosen are more restrained in their questions.”

  “And I’m to be equally restrained in my replies?”

  He laughed. “Indeed.”

  Corrin lifted his head. “We want to know about the rest of your guards.” He spoke without pause or hesitation.

  “You’re it.”

  “You have the three who stood by your side at the height of the shrine.”

  Ah. “Lord Celleriant is not entirely human.”

  “He can fight?”

  “He can fight like a demon.”

  “Will you use him in our rotations?”

  “I’d prefer not to, if I can avoid it.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “Yes. He fights as if he is a demon, and he tends to have very little respect for life. His own. Anyone else’s. He’s not particularly kind and he is certainly not gentle. But if we’re ever confronted with another demon—or, gods help us, worse—he’ll be in the front line. Hells, he might be the entire front line.”

  This was clearly not to Torvan’s liking.

  “He’ll obey me,” Jewel told him. “And he won’t interfere in House politics without a direct command; the politics of the House don’t interest him.”

  Torvan and Arrendas exchanged a glance. “The stag?” It was Arrendas who asked.

  “He—” she shook her head. “He’s harder to explain. Can he fight? Yes. But I don’t think he can stand guard in any meaningful way, at least not indoors.”

  “And the cats can both guard and fight.”

  She nodded. “I can’t speak for their discipline, though.”

  Shadow hissed.

  She thought Torvan or Arrendas would move on and ask about the trees; they didn’t. “You will not keep one cat as a guard for yourself?”

  “Torvan—I can’t.”

  He raised one brow.

  “They’re not—they’re not exactly normal.” Shadow’s hiss deepened into a rumbling growl. “Don’t growl at me. You’re not.”

  “Normal is boring.”

  “Yes. But most of life is, as you put it, boring. At the moment, we only want the bits of nonboring that appear mostly normal. It doesn’t matter if Gabriel’s guarded by the cats. He doesn’t want to rule.”

  “And when you take the House Seat, the cats will mysteriously disappear?”

  “…No. But if I have the House Seat, it won’t matter.”

  Again the captains exchanged a glance; it was longer and appeared to be more significant. Torvan then turned to Gabriel and bowed. “Regent.”

  Gabriel’s smile was tired and complicated. “I will leave her detail in your capable hands; I will speak with Jed’ra myself in your absence. This will, of course, have been noted.”

  Torvan nodded. Turning toward the Chosen, who were all listening intently, he said, “We have five shifts of four; six hours a shift, one in rotation. It’s tight, but workable.” He began to name names and shifts, paused, and bowed politely to Jewel. “ATerafin.”

  “I’ll just be getting to bed,” she replied, because she was very tired and she could nonetheless take a hint. “Will you station the Chosen outside of the wing, or inside it?”

  “Two of the Chosen will stand at the doors; two will stand outside of your rooms.”

  Great. “Our halls aren’t exactly—”

  “They’re wide enough.”

  Jewel glanced at Angel; Angel nodded. She surrendered and headed toward her room. Avandar trailed after her, as did Shadow; they collided in the door. She turned to Shadow, who was stepping on one of Avandar’s feet, and said, in sharp Torra, “Cut it out right now. I’ve had a long day. I’ll have a longer day tomorrow, and if I’m very lucky, nothing will try to kill me. I do not need you to play games with Avandar.” Pausing only for breath she added, “Or Celleriant, either.”

  She stalked into the hall, and Shadow said, “But you don’t want me to hurt anyone.”

  She wheeled.

  “They’re almost impossible to injure by accident.”

  “Never mind. I’m going to bed. I’m done for the evening, and Ellerson is going to wake me up before the crack of dawn.”

  Shadow nodded and ambled after her. She wanted to shut the door in his face. Conversely, as she approached her bed, shrugging herself out of her clothing in a way that would have outraged Haval, given that she left it where it had fallen, she wanted to keep him by her side. Avandar was here, and Avandar came with light to ward off nightmares—but Avandar had never been comfortable enough to sit sentinel on her bed, stealing covers and shoving pillows onto the floor.

  And, if she were being fair, she would have hated it had he tried. Shadow was a cat. A cat who now bounded past her and leaped up on the bed, taking
up more or less all of its center. She made a halfhearted attempt to push him off the other side, but gave up when he deliberately flexed his claws; she could just imagine what Ellerson would have to say on the morning of the first day of funeral rites if Shadow actually shredded the sheets or the mattress.

  His eyes were glowing faintly in the dark; they were golden eyes, rounder and wider in shape than human eyes.

  “Sleep,” he told her, as he settled his head across his forepaws and folded his wings. “Sleep.” Lifting his head, whiskers twitching, he spoke across her to Avandar. “It is not a good night.”

  Avandar, unblinking, nodded. He made his way to the chair that Ellerson had so often occupied on his night watches, and sat heavily. Jewel started to sit up and Shadow placed a paw on her stomach. “Sleep,” he said again.

  “I think he’s injured,” she said in a soft voice.

  Shadow nodded. “There is blood, but it is dry, and there is not too much of it. Sleep, Jewel. Tomorrow it will be harder.”

  “But why is he—”

  “He’s been gardening,” the cat replied. “Don’t snarl at me—it has to be done. Celleriant is with him.”

  “Avandar—”

  “The cat is correct, ATerafin. It is work that must be done.”

  “But I could—”

  “Yes. It is possible that you could. But not easily, and not—demonstrably—deliberately. Both Lord Celleriant and I know how to traverse some parts of the path without revealing the whole of our presence, as does the Winter King. What we can do, we have done—but I am not certain it is enough.”

  “What does Celleriant think?”

  “In this, I do not entirely trust him.” Avandar shook his head as Jewel’s expression shifted. Reaching out, he dampened the light. “I would now trust him with your life, and beyond it, the lives of your den, however much it has grown over the years. But the path is not part of his service; it is still wild in places, and what dwells in that wilderness draws beings such as Celleriant.”

  “Meaning he wants a fight?”

  “Meaning, indeed, that he desires a battle that will test everything he can bring to bear. I have managed to make clear that such a battle does not and will not exist by accident; if we prepare and we clear, it will take both intent and will to reach us—to reach,” he amended, “you. I dislike the cats, but they serve a purpose.”

  Shadow hissed as Jewel sank back into the pillows. Staring up at the canopy that served as nighttime ceiling, she said, “But you were injured.”

  “I was. It was minor.”

  “And your magic—”

  “I am a mage, yes. When power is used at too great a rate, there is often some discomfort. I can suffer mage fevers; they cannot kill me. Nothing can,” he added, his voice shuttered.

  She closed her eyes. She thought there should be comfort in that knowledge: nothing could kill Avandar. Unlike her father, her mother, her Oma. Unlike Rath. But as she drifted toward sleep, she remembered that he had once surrendered the entirety of a city in his keeping to a dark god in order to be granted death; and untold thousands had died at the god’s hand, in vain. He lived. He still lived.

  She woke to the endless dunes of desert at the height of the day. The sky was azure, the sand gold—a reminder, if it were needed, that gold alone offered no shelter, no sustenance, no safety. It was only in the eyes of men that it could be transformed into any of the three, and the transformation was never perfect.

  She was dressed in the vest and leggings of the Voyani, and a waterskin hung at her side. Her hair was secured by a band across her forehead that would catch the worst of the sweat and keep it from her eyes. At her hip was a long knife, and in her boots—her dusty, cracked boots—the hilts of daggers. She could see the caravan in the distance, the large wagons scudding off edges of sand.

  She knew she stood in the Sea of Sorrows, and for a moment, she felt as if she had never left it; the endless desert was untouched and untroubled by anything as insignificant as her absence. She began to walk toward the caravan and its gently floating wagons.

  But as she approached, she frowned. There was no movement around those wagons; no sign that the Voyani were present at all. There were no children, of course—the Voyani did not bring their children here, where something as simple as desert rain or wind could take them all in a matter of hours. But the wagons were here; there were four. No, she thought; there was a fifth as well; it hovered much higher than the rest, and it cast a distinct shadow. Here, shadow was prized, and she found herself heading toward the darkness.

  She hesitated before she reached it. Something felt…wrong. Yes, this was the desert, and that was wrong enough for a girl born and bred to the harbor city of Averalaan—but it was more than that. There were no people. There was a campfire, nestled in a hollow in the dunes. At this time of day, there shouldn’t have been; as the wood for such fires was in such scarce supply, they were rarely lit in the desert—and never at this size.

  It grew larger and larger as she approached, mesmerized by the weaving dance of translucent flame in its reds, its oranges, its golds, as caught by their heights as she had been when fire had been contained in a grate in her childhood. But as she reached the lee of the fire, she realized that there was no wood to sustain it. It existed without an anchor, and as it turned toward her, she knew that something as flimsy as wood could never be an anchor for this fire.

  You walked my path, the fire said, in a crackle and hiss of a voice.

  She started to argue—because arguing with fire made sense at the moment—and stopped herself, remembering: she had emerged from the heart of a fire cast by the four Voyani Matriarchs near the Tor Leonne. It had been a bonfire. She glanced at the wagons that floated not far from the fire, and understood the significance of the four. She was dreaming, and she was aware of it.

  “Did you bring me here?” she asked, because she couldn’t think of much else to say.

  You left me. This was not, from the sudden heat the fire shed, meant to comfort; it didn’t.

  She backed up the incline as the fire continued to inch toward her, and then turned and ran, the way she almost always ran in dreams: slowly. Horribly, painfully, slowly, each step, each lift of foot and bend of a knee an act of will gone wrong. She reached the closest wagon, and she recognized it as the wagon occupied by the Arkosan Matriarch. But as she approached, she saw the strange magical markings that kept it afloat and scudded to a full stop. They were black and lifeless. Before she could even attempt to climb up to the relative safety of its small platform, the wagon suddenly tilted toward the sand dunes. It fell.

  The fire wasn’t moving quickly, but it never paused, and as she leaped clear of its low, wide flames, they wrapped themselves around the wagon instead, and the wagon began to burn. She didn’t wait to see how quickly the fire consumed it. Feet heavy, breath labored, she turned and made for the next wagon.

  It was similar in shape and size to the Arkosan wagon, but it had a lower, wider platform at back on which at least four people might stand, if pressed together. The rails that surrounded that platform were half-height. They were also broken; the remnants of a rope ladder clung to spindles of aged wood. Jewel reached out for it anyway, and as she touched its coarse, dry strands, the wagon creaked, as if groaning beneath the whole of its ancient weight.

  It fell. The impact raised clouds of dry dust; they looked, for a moment, like smoke—but only a moment; the real thing came when the fire crawled over its fallen shape, pausing there to feed.

  Twice more she ran to the wagons that remained, and twice more she saw the symbols painted on their sides, their doors, as the black and lifeless corpses of living magic; twice more, the fire paused in its pursuit just long enough to consume what was left. Lyserra, Corrona, Havalla, Arkosa. The Voyani Matriarchs had clearly abandoned their ancient, moving seats; there was no safety to be found in any of them.

  It was a dream, she thought, and began once again to run—almost to crawl, she was bent so low
to the ground—toward the last of the wagons she’d seen at a distance. She should’ve come to this one first, because it was the only one that was visibly, obviously, in the air. But it was high in the damn air, and she hadn’t sprouted wings in the interim. She shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth, attempting to funnel sound in the dry air, the dry heat; that much she could do, the sound was on the edge of a scream.

  The wagon’s distant driver must have heard her; it began to move, maneuvering in a way that was deliberate, toward her. She saw the trailing, twisting end-knot of a long, thick rope and cursed. She’d never been the world’s best rope climber. The thick, ungainly ladders, with their wooden, slat rungs, were her preference. But the fire was an argument she couldn’t win.