Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  “You did. The first chimes have sounded.”

  “We’re not due to leave until the second.”

  “They sounded ten minutes ago.”

  “Oh.” She glanced around the flattened grass; most of the guests had departed. One or two remained, and like Jewel, their gazes were pinned to the sky, where the crowning glory of impossible trees met the flight path of impossible cat. Notably, none of the watchers were among The Ten or their entourages. One or two, however, looked like priests from their robes; she recognized the gold and silver of eagle and rod. The Church of Cormaris had arrived. The Exalted, however, had not. Or rather, they hadn’t set foot in the grounds yet.

  Gathering her skirts, she moved out of the lee of the great tree. Torvan and Arrendas formed up in front of her; Arann watched her back. It was an arrangement that brought her a much needed sense of comfort, if not familiarity. Angel was at her side.

  “Did Carver and Jester not arrive?” she asked him, out of the corner of her mouth.

  Angel nodded. “They arrived thirty minutes ago, but you were busy.”

  “And they went where?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want to leave your side to babysit.”

  She couldn’t help herself; she snickered. When he offered her his arm, she took it; Celleriant chose to walk on the other side of Arann, leaving Avandar the space to Jewel’s left. They made it most of the way down the clearly marked path before Jewel stopped walking. The path was glowing faintly in her vision—the mages had worked here, casting protective spells across the grass, the path, the lamps, and the area itself. Shadows encroached on them now; Jewel glanced up to see that the sky was darkening by shades as clouds rolled in.

  “Well,” Angel said, “At least the work of the mage-born wasn’t wasted; we’re going to see storm today.” He stopped walking first. “Jay?”

  Jewel swallowed. Angel caught the hand that rested against his arm as it tightened suddenly around the fabric of his jacket and his shirt. “Avandar!”

  The domicis frowned.

  “Where’s Teller? Where’s Finch?”

  “Finch is with the delegation from the Merchant Authority. I am uncertain as to the whereabouts of Teller. ATerafin?”

  Jewel’s hands were shaking; her eyes were wide, unblinking. For a moment her face was a blank composed of all the familiar pieces: nose, mouth, eyes.

  Angel understood instantly what it meant. He looked up at Snow and shouted, and this time, Snow deigned to land. He landed on one of Angel’s feet, which, given his size and the small space in which he had to maneuver, was no mean feat. But whatever he’d meant to say when he opened his mouth, exposing large fangs, he forgot as he stared at Jewel.

  “Oh,” he said, his voice dropping. He turned to Avandar. “She is seeing,” he told him. The fur on his ears and around his neck began to rise, as did his wings.

  She was also trembling. Angel turned to Avandar; the domicis, frowning, had pulled a small rod from the folds of his robes. Jay called it “the bit”; she disliked it, but didn’t forbid its use—mostly because when it was being used, she was pretty much incapable of speech. When she dreamed, when her visions came in the dreams that caused a den migration to the late-night kitchen with its multiple lamps and its old-fashioned slates and chalk, she didn’t have seizures.

  But on those rare occasions when vision—certain vision, not a nameless, instinctive dread—came during the waking day, she could start to tremble and shake so much she couldn’t control anything physical at all. Not today, Kalliaris, not today, Angel prayed. But he shifted his grip to her shoulders as her mouth began to tremble. She swallowed.

  “Angel—Angel get Duvari. Get him now.”

  Avandar shook his head. “ATerafin, I will find him. What must I tell him?”

  “It’s not here—they’re not coming here, not today, not now.”

  Avandar didn’t ask who she referred to—even odds she wouldn’t be certain herself. But in this case, they was always bad. He nodded grimly. “Celleriant.”

  Lord Celleriant nodded, cool now.

  Torvan gestured, and Arann joined him. He then said—to both Arann and Angel—“This is a seeing?”

  Angel nodded. Arann was slower, but nodded as well. “It’s—not good,” Arann told the former Captain of the Terafin Chosen. “But—it’ll be clearer than most of her ‘feelings.’ ”

  Her hands had tightened again; Angel could feel his arm going numb. “Angel—Arann—”

  They gathered around her, as if they were in her room or the kitchen, and not in the grand gardens of the most powerful House on the Isle.

  “They’re going to Avantari. They’ll kill the Princes. They’ll slaughter the Swords, and they’ll kill the Princes.”

  Celleriant was the first to reply. “Are these Princes significant?”

  The question robbed every other person present of speech for a moment. It also annoyed Jay, which was not a bad thing. She struggled to take control of her body, to separate herself from vision’s grip. Angel understood that this meant she thought she’d seen enough—and was aware that more could be costly on a day when she couldn’t afford it.

  “They’re the heirs to the Twin Thrones,” she practically spit. “Yes, they’re important.” She glanced at the sky as if she hated the sight of it, and then at the cut stone beneath her feet. Her knees buckled, but she locked them before Angel could shift to take more of her weight in his hands. “We have time—but not much of it. Not much. Is Sigurne—”

  “I am here, Jewel,” the guildmaster said, in a tone of voice that Angel had never heard her use. “You are certain of what you’ve seen?”

  Jewel swallowed. Nodded. No one else would have dared to ask.

  “How long do we have?”

  She shook her head. “Not—not long. Not long enough to ride. But long enough for—”

  But Sigurne shook her head. “The magi are under the auspices of the Lord of the Compact; if there is an attack upon Avantari in his absence, he will not divert the only mage present who can arrive in safety at the palace in time; the Kings themselves are here, and they demand precedence. He will have the magi send word to the Kings’ Swords—immediately—and he will confer with the Kings when they arrive. The Kings may countermand his decision, and they may choose to cancel attendance at the funeral, but I fear the argument will not be brief; if there is an attack of significance in Avantari, Duvari will see the Kings in safety here.”

  “Send word,” Jewel said sharply.

  Sigurne said, “It is already done, ATerafin. The rest, I fear, is in your hands.”

  I know. I know that. She was trying not to shudder. She could feel the involuntary muscle spasms in her arms and legs, and she knew, she knew, that if she pushed it, if she clung to the vision that even now seemed to transform the visible landscape, muddying the colors and the physicality of location until almost everything in it was malformed, she would collapse, fancy dress and guards notwithstanding.

  She couldn’t afford that, here. It wasn’t about the dead anymore. It wasn’t about the respect she should show them—and gods knew no one deserved more respect than The Terafin. The living mattered. The living had to matter more. She forced herself to see the gardens, to see the grounds; she forced herself to look up at the trees, their branches in full bloom and out of season. As she did, she felt her body slow its frenzied shudder; she closed her eyes, hoping that the lack of visual confusion would help. It at least made her feel less dizzy.

  “Avandar. Celleriant,” she said, eyes closed, vision blanketed in a red, red darkness, “Go to Avantari. Go. Save the Princes.”

  Celleriant was silent.

  Avandar was not—but his voice touched only Jewel. I do not like it, Jewel. We will leave you undefended.

  The attack’s not here—not yet—and I’ve a record of survival. Duvari is here. The Exalted are here. The damn cats are here, as are the best of the Chosen. Angel’s here, she added. No one’s there.

  They do not em
pty the palace when—

  No one who can face what’s coming.

  Then send Celleriant.

  He won’t get there in time if you don’t go with him. She opened her eyes and faced him squarely. “You can travel there the way mages do. You brought us all from the South to the manse—all of us—and you were still standing. You’ll have two. You, Celleriant. You’ll still be able to fight.” She glanced at Celleriant, who had offered no argument, and she recognized the pale light in eyes that looked, for a moment, silver.

  “You’re not entirely healed,” she told him, knowing in that instant it was true. Knowing, as well, that he didn’t care.

  “There is not the inconsequential fact that the alarms and defenses across the palace will alert every member of the Palace Guard the moment we arrive,” Avandar pointed out, “and the Palace Guard is unlikely to recognize a simple domicis. They are also likely to mistake Lord Celleriant for an enemy.”

  “They would,” a new voice said, and Jewel spun on her feet, nearly unbalancing as her knees gave. Angel caught her. Angel helped as she faced Devon ATerafin; Devon, who was standing beside the previously absent Jester. Jester’s face was almost the color of his hair; he’d run, Jewel thought, to Devon and back. And he’d dragged Devon with him.

  “How did you know—” she began.

  “Teller found me. Teller told me to find Devon.”

  “And bring him here?”

  Jester shook his head. “He didn’t say where; I thought you’d know what to do with him.”

  “And you were right,” Devon told Jester, in a deceptively mild voice. “ATerafin.” He bowed to Jewel; he bowed low. It wasn’t a long obeisance, but it was genuine. She hated it. “I will go with them, if Avandar has the power to take me.”

  “I have the power to send you both—” the domicis began.

  Jewel grabbed his arm and shook her head. “Go.”

  “I do not like—”

  “Go. I can’t be there—not yet. It’s here I’ll be needed, if there’s need.”

  Sigurne was watching Jewel; the guildmaster’s expression was still cold and harsh, a Winter face. “She is your Lord,” the mage said, and although she should have been speaking to Avandar, it wasn’t clear to Jewel that her words were meant for the domicis alone. “She has given her orders.”

  Avandar’s jaw tensed, his face paled, but he offered no further argument; not privately, and not in the open. Instead, he held out his left hand to Devon and his right to the Arianni Lord. “Consider only this: there is no advantage to be gained by the death of the heirs if the rulers themselves do not also perish.”

  “I have,” was her stark reply. “Snow,” she told the cat. “Tell Night.”

  “Shall I call the other one?”

  She hesitated and then shook her head. “I know he’s bored,” she said, “and I know he’ll be angry—but he’s where I need him to be, right now.”

  Snow hissed. It was a remarkably smug sound. “I’ll stay here,” he told her.

  “After you warn Night.”

  “Oh. I already have.”

  Cats. She turned to speak to Avandar, and Avandar exhaled. He spoke a single sentence she didn’t understand, but she felt the weight of it as a burden or a geas.

  He didn’t even gesture. He was standing, grim-faced and silent, and then he was gone—and the men at his left and right were gone with him. Where they had been standing, a harsh, harsh silver light, sculpted and brilliant, remained in their absence.

  “He is…not without power,” Sigurne said. Jewel wondered what she could see, as mage and not as undertrained seer. She didn’t ask. She found her feet, and she kept them firmly fixed to the ground, putting as much of her weight on Angel’s arm as necessary dignity allowed. “Did we miss the second chime?” she asked Sigurne.

  “We did, but we are not yet late, and there will be no argument when—and if—the cause is known.”

  “You’ve clearly never sat in on the Terafin House Council,” was the wry reply.

  Sigurne chuckled. “You may have a point, but I will say that I have endured many more such meetings of the magi.”

  “I think you win.”

  “Ah. I was not aware that it was a contest.” Sigurne folded slowly back into her age. “I fear the end of this day, Jewel,” she said quietly. “And I wish Meralonne were here; I had not thought to miss him in this fashion.” She frowned. “I believe I hear Duvari.”

  Jewel heard nothing, and almost said as much, but she turned in the direction that Sigurne had turned, and saw the Lord of the Compact; he was walking beside, of all people, Haval. Jewel felt her shoulders begin a natural inward cringe, and she even let them. It caused Haval’s distant features to crimp in an entirely normal—if slightly disapproving—fashion.

  “I will speak with him, ATerafin. Let your Angel and your Arann escort you to the ground, and we will join you.”

  Snow hissed, and Sigurne raised a brow; as the cat managed to curb its tongue, the mage did the same. “Did you see what, exactly, they would be facing?” Sigurne asked, as casually as she might have asked about the weather.

  Jewel hesitated. “Not completely.”

  “Your men will be unprepared.”

  She shook her head. “No. If it has been faced in the past, they’ll know what the danger is. Except for maybe Devon, but he’s always been good at improvising.”

  Sigurne approached Duvari directly, leaving Jewel to the Chosen and her den. Jester joined them, signing briefly to Arann and Angel; only Angel signed back, but it was quick enough Jewel missed all but the affirmative. Snow insisted on inserting himself between Angel and Jewel, rather than walking on the other side, and after a long and annoyed pause, Jewel gestured to Jester and he took Avandar’s place. All in all, not a bad trade. She was, and felt, exhausted, and the day had only barely begun; the service chimes had yet to ring for the third time. If they did before she was there, it would be unfortunate, as the third chimes announced the arrival of the god-born: the Kings and the Exalted.

  Jewel wanted Finch, wanted Teller; she wanted her room, her bed, and a few days of normal in which to find her bearings again after her sojourn in the Dominion of Annagar, with its ancient secrets, its deadly magics, and its demonic war. Instead, she seemed to have breathed that Southern air, and the ancient and deadly now clung to her, transforming the only home she wanted into something alien and terrifying. She was glad that Avandar was gone; he’d only be annoyed at her whining, even if she spoke none of this aloud.

  He would, indeed, ATerafin.

  She froze. She had forgotten the Winter King. The Winter King, however, had not forgotten her. “You—when did you disappear?”

  She felt the warmth—and the edge—of his smile. You are never observant enough. You rely on your gift and your instinct; you must learn to see without it, where it is possible, if you wish to command men.

  She started to tell him she didn’t, but that was wrong: if she meant to be Terafin, she did.

  I have come to carry you, ATerafin. Ride the rest of the way.

  “I can’t.”

  You arrived on my back.

  “When almost no one was watching, damn it. I’m already the object of every curious gossip on the grounds!”

  “Then how much worse could it be?” Angel asked. When she swiveled to glare at him, he signed: you’re exhausted.

  And the stupid thing was it was true. Her legs were shaking. She stopped walking and exhaled. “Yes,” she said aloud. “Yes, if you’ll carry me.”

  I will carry you, little seer, to the ends of your world, and back if you survive it.

  Would you have carried them? Could you have carried Avandar and Celleriant to the palace?

  He didn’t answer. But he knelt in the grass and waited while Angel gently guided her into the riding position a dress demanded. The Winter King was warm, steady, as he rose; she felt secure on his back, beneath the thicket of his antlers. The wild wind couldn’t unseat her, here, and if the earth sudd
enly broke beneath the Winter King’s hooves, it wouldn’t cause him a single misstep.

  I will stay with you, he told her.

  “You can’t. It’s the—”

  I will stay. Celleriant and Viandaran have obeyed your command; they are no longer by your side. In my youth, I was a match for neither, he added. The words were a shock to Jewel, coming from a man who decried all confession of weakness.

  It is not weakness to know one’s power and one’s limitations, he replied. If there is danger to you here, they will be angry.

  “Celleriant won’t.”

  Ah, no. He will be angry if you are injured—it will be his failure. Viandaran, however, will be angry regardless.