Skirmish: A House War Novel

by West, Michelle

  The stranger laughed. “You have grown addled, Warlord, if you seek to face me without a weapon.”

  “I do not seek to face you at all. I am not Arianni; nor am I Allasiani; I have nothing to prove.” He gestured, a sharp twist of wrist, and the fractured floor broke as if it were a shell, and something was pushing pieces aside in order that it might emerge. “ATerafin,” he said, “order your men to withdraw.”

  They were not Devon’s men, but he didn’t argue. He gave the order quickly. The Kings’ Swords hesitated; those who could still stand had a duty to the Princes who lay in safety—such as it was—beyond the closed doors. Devon called them again. “Your deaths here will serve no purpose, and it is death you face—not in battle and not in defense of the future Kings, but as afterthought. Come, gather your fallen; retreat to the Halls of the Wise.”

  “The Princes—”

  “They are as safe as they can be; I will remain.”

  They stood their ground. Devon grimaced. He lifted his hand, gestured, and a sigil appeared in the air, directly in front of his chest. It was the symbol of the Lord of the Compact, the leader of the Astari. What common sense could not do, the sigil did; the men moved.

  So, too, Celleriant. The broken floor beneath his feet didn’t hinder him at all; he leaped to the height of the halls and remained there, his hair flowing on currents of wind that Devon couldn’t see. He could feel it and hear it, though. Amaerelle leaped as well; he failed to land. But where his sword struck Celleriant’s, lightning flashed, red and blue, and it spoke with the voice of resonant thunder, like a note struck against the shell of the world.

  Devon stumbled as the floor beneath his feet tilted. Leaping, he found flat ground, marble with sheared edges. The earth rumbled beneath his feet as he turned. Rising and shedding shards of marble and long splinters of the beams beneath it was a moving mountain.

  The earth itself had risen at Avandar’s behest.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  House Guards emerged from the manse and headed toward the terrace, their plated feet striking the stone in a way that implied large numbers.

  “Head them off,” Arann told the Winter King. When the stag failed to move, he added, “Please.”

  The Winter King’s tines shifted slightly, as if he were nodding; he sprang and landed a few yards from the frontrunners. Arann shouted, “Halt!” and to Angel’s surprise, they obeyed.

  “The magi and the House Council ask that you remain by the manse; prevent anyone in it from leaving—it is not yet safe. Wait upon the word of the regent or the captain.”

  No one questioned him. Behind his back, they could see the rearing of the water, and not a single man present felt their swords would do it any harm. They withdrew. “We won’t lose anyone here,” Arann told Angel quietly. “Unless the water can shatter the walls.”

  Angel gestured, den-sign, and Arann nodded. He slid off the back of the Winter King. “I’ll join them. Will you stay?”

  “I’ll stay.” The Winter King had already turned away; Angel could see Jay’s stiff back, and at her side, the gray, plain robes of Sigurne Mellifas. The water now towered above them, its shape changing as he watched. When it fell, it crashed to the ground; water rose in a spray. But neither Jay nor Sigurne was so much as dampened, although the mage stumbled. Jay caught her arm, righting her; Angel wasn’t certain he’d’ve dared.

  She heard the voice of the water. Not in the crash and the thunder of its fall—that much, she’d witnessed before, and at the time, people had fallen to its moving rage. Her grip on Sigurne’s arm tightened as she said, “the water—it’s angry.”

  Sigurne said nothing, but the slender line separating the two women from the wall of water that was once again regrouping—as if each drop, each splash of liquid was a single man in an army of tens of thousands—grew brighter and sharper. “I cannot hear the water,” Sigurne replied, through clenched teeth. “Nor should you be able to, if my understanding is correct. But if you can, ATerafin, bespeak it. Calm its anger.”

  Jewel turned to stare at the lined—and tired—visage of the older woman. “I can hear Duvari when he speaks,” she murmured, “but nothing I can say—or do—influences him at all.”

  The water was not Duvari. Not the Lord of the Compact. Not a man. It was bound, Jewel thought; bound, compelled, and angry to be either. She felt the earth rumble at its movements; the ground shook. “We need to get off of the terrace,” she told the mage.

  “I cannot move and maintain these protections,” Sigurne replied.

  “The terrace won’t last,” was Jewel’s grim response. “We need to move.” She turned to the Winter King as the water struck again.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Avantari, Averalaan Aramarelas

  The creature that rose from the remains of the floor was not so much dirt as stone. It was almost the shape of a man, although its fists were fingerless, its head featureless; it wore no armor, wielded no weapon that was not part of itself, but it moved inexorably toward the stranger with the red, red sword. His laughter was wild now, higher in pitch but no less delighted. If demons could be judged by the standards of men, he was insane.

  Fists of dirt and stone drove new cracks into the floors as the living earth struck home; the demon was not beneath them, although it was close. His sword struck earth, bit, and lodged in what might have been wrists. It did not sever hands, and the demon’s brows rose. “Viandaran, you have grown!”

  “It is not I who have grown,” was the cool reply. “But you who have become diminished. You speak of the gray and empty present, Kincallenne; how much of that now resides in your perception? You are not, you will never again be, part of this world; you are given the flesh you can force from the plane for your brief, brief sojourn.”

  There was no laughter in response.

  “Prove that I am wrong,” Avandar continued. “Bespeak the wild earth; tame it, ask for its favor. You were a Lord of the wild earth, in your youth; a Lord of the wild water in your prime.” He smiled. It was a perfect, cold expression in a face that had lost color. Devon thought, watching the domicis, that he was pressing his power to its upper limits. The earth struck again, and this time the demon rose.

  He rose toward the ceiling, borne aloft by wind that now howled. It was winter wind, the edge of its chill enough to kill the unprepared, and it was far, far louder than it had been.

  “What we cannot cajole, Warlord, we command.”

  “There is no other choice left you. Have you now discovered the bitterness of things that must be taken because they will never again be willingly offered?”

  “You speak as if we were ever mortal. That curse, that long curse, belongs to you, Warlord, and only you. What care have we for the affections of the wild? What loss are their voices to us? We will remake the plane, Viandaran, and if rumors are true, you alone might witness it—whatever remains of you.”

  “ATerafin,” Avandar said, raising his voice. “You must depart; attend to the Swords, or Avantari’s magical defenses. The earth and the air have now noticed each other; I cannot concentrate on anything but the earth’s voice in this place.”

  The earth, Devon thought, and the Kialli. Lightning flashed beyond the domicis’ shoulder, and the sound of unintelligible war cries blended with the sounds of nature’s fury; of the two, it was not the former that was suddenly awe-inspiring and terrifying. If the earthen pillar could not be contained, the hall would be destroyed, and with it, the long room in which the Princes now resided, if they had indeed remained there.

  They would have Duvari to contend with if they had, and they somehow survived. Not even the Princes were immune to the ice of Duvari’s wrath.

  * * *

  The earth rumbled; the wind howled. It was the wind that was safer for the Kialli, but Celleriant knew that their mastery of it was forced, enforced; they could not cajole it now. He could, and did, dancing between its thermals, rising and falling at
both its whim and his own, plunging past the expert swing and thrust of a Lord’s blade as its tip grazed the side of his shield. He sliced at shins and feet; felt some resistance in the arc of the swing. Red light and blue twined in the moving air, like a twisted frame around them.

  He heard the wind’s voice as his own, and spoke with its breath, challenging the Kialli. But he avoided the ground and its moving column of earth, for he knew what Viandaran had done. He could hear the earth and its rumbling anger—was surprised that the anger was directed not toward its ancient enemy, the wild wind, but toward the Kialli Lord Viandaran now faced. More than that, he could not discern; even that was a risk. The red blade’s edge passed an inch beyond his nose.

  The roof shook above them; the support pillars that bracketed the hall cracked.

  A thought occurred to Lord Celleriant of the Green Deepings as he asked the wind to shunt aside small falling shards of rock and tile: Jewel ATerafin was not going to be pleased.

  4th of Henden, 427 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  For years, Sigurne Mellifas had adopted the appearance of the absentminded fragility assumed to be the natural progression of age; it suited her purposes. But here, now, holding a spell of protection that she knew was far too delicate to provide defense for long, she felt that age as deeply as she ever had; the rain was chill, carried by a Henden wind that knew no mercy. It was as remote as gods, as demons, as far from the human condition as any being that had ever claimed people as cattle or fodder.

  “ATerafin,” she said, wanting—missing—the fractious and difficult Meralonne APhaniel, “step back, step slowly and evenly. I will cover your retreat.” She did not look at the girl; the whole of her gaze was focused on the roiling, rising wall of water. She had lived the majority of her life in Averalaan; she knew how easily water could kill. The rain fell harder, as if to drive the point home.

  “AMellifas. Sigurne.”

  The girl—ah, no, she was hardly a girl now, except in comparison—had not obeyed the guildmaster, a woman who, in crisis, depended upon obedience. Even from the Lord of the Compact, deny it as he might. “ATerafin,” she said again, through clenched teeth, “there is very little time. Retreat. Take your men with you.”

  “You aren’t moving.”

  “I told you, I cannot move and maintain the shield.”

  “And I told you the terrace won’t last. If you’re here—”

  “My shields will hold; they will be small enough to contain and preserve a single person.”

  “You’re lying.”

  At this, Sigurne did glance at Jewel as the water continued its rise. She forced herself to focus again, but she had seen the expression on Jewel’s face. “It was not a lie, ATerafin; it was a hope.”

  Jewel knew no mercy; she was like the howling wind, the driven rain. “It would be hope if you believed it. It’s not. If you can’t retreat, I won’t leave you here to perish. The magi—”

  “The magi have their hands full; they are not, now, with me—not even Matteos. The shields that protected—that were meant to protect—the funeral rites from something as unfortunate as weather, have clearly fallen; whether it is by their deaths or their sudden incompetence, I do not know, but I do not suspect the latter. Leave me; go. Finish what you have started here, if you even begin to understand it.”

  “What have I started, Sigurne?” the question was low, intent; the older woman heard the fear in it and flinched. If she was not by nature a gentle woman, and not by nature a kind one—how could she be, raised to ice and snow?—years of aping either had taken their toll, and the impulse to offer comfort was strong. It surprised Sigurne. It annoyed her, as well.

  “Go,” she said.

  She felt a hand on her arm; it made the whole of her body ache; her skin felt taut, stretched, and so terribly thin, the slightest of touches might tear it. The water hammered at the shields and she felt the force of its blows; water splayed across it, as if thrown.

  But Jewel said, “You are a guest in my lands; I have invited you into my home, and I have offered you my hospitality.” The words were formal, severe, as if they were issued from the mouth of a much older woman. Sigurne knew, then, which older woman came to mind: she was dead now and waited only the dignity of burial. “Guest or no, Guildmaster, you do not have the right of command here; you are not the Kings, and the Kings are not present. If you cannot retreat while maintaining your defenses, the defenses will have to fold.”

  “You cannot—”

  “I can. Angel.”

  Her companion was there in an instant. He lifted his hands, fingers flying in the rain in deliberate gestures.

  “Yes,” Jewel replied. “Help the guildmaster mount the back of the Winter King; he has agreed to carry her to safety. Snow!”

  The winged cat now landed, hissing. It was convenient to think of him as a cat; it diminished his glory, diluting the awe that Sigurne might otherwise feel in his presence. And very like a cat, he was swatting at the heavy drops of falling rain, as if by so doing he could kill them or scare them away.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, and Sigurne now risked a second glance at Jewel ATerafin. The rain that had soaked and flattened the hair of all but Angel ran in rivers through hers; hers had been heated and combed out of its habitual nest. But her dress seemed to take no damage, to allow no water to soak or touch it; it was pale and white, and it glowed, in the darkness of stormy sky, like moonlight.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped back. “I’m riding you.”

  Wet fur didn’t rise in hackles; if it could, Sigurne thought the cat would appear twice his normal size in his bristling outrage. Jewel, however, seemed immune to the threat of his extended claws, the appearance of his long, glinting fangs.

  “What? It’s not like I haven’t ridden you before.”

  “That was different,” the cat said, wings widening.

  “Don’t even think it. How was it different?”

  “We had orders. We weren’t allowed to harm you.”

  “You’ve got orders now, and you’re not allowed to harm me. Be careful or you’ll damage the dress. Angel, what are you waiting for?”

  “My permission,” was Sigurne’s reply. It was dry and slightly amused, and given the weather and the threat they now faced, any dryness was welcome. “ATerafin—”

  “No one will reach the terrace; if the guards have any brains at all, they won’t be anywhere near the back doors.”

  “Arann’s with them,” Angel told her.

  “Good. Guildmaster, understand: I cannot leave you here. Not like this. If you take insult from it, the regent will no doubt be waiting to offer his most profound and sincere apologies.”

  “And not you?”

  “I won’t be sorry.” She tightened her knees and the cat sprang up, as if attacking the sky, Jewel ATerafin on his back.

  Angel offered Sigurne his hand; her own were splayed forward in the air, as if by physical strength alone she could support what she had, by magic and will, built. “The water won’t kill her,” he said. “The same can’t be said about us, if we stay much longer.”

  She hesitated; her arms were trembling. If the water did not kill her, other dangers waited; she had used much power today, and this expenditure had been neither planned nor well executed. She glanced at the Winter King, who waited in silence, his wide, dark eyes unblinking. “Can he carry us both?”

  “He can, if he’s willing; Jay—Jewel, I mean, said he’s willing. If you climb him and he doesn’t want you to fall, you won’t; you might die on his back, but you’ll still be there when he stops.”

  “You speak with certainty.”

  Angel laughed; there was an edge to it. “I speak,” he said, as she surrendered and placed one hand in his, “from experience.” He was young; he was strong. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, depositing her on the back of the stag and clambering up behind her. Before she could say another word, the stag leaped clear o
f the terrace; he practically leaped free of the earth.

  No, she thought, he did leap clear of the earth; whatever path his hooves touched was not a path that Sigurne herself could walk without the aid of magic.

  In the distance, Jewel could hear the piercing howl of wind; she could hear, as the water broke free of Sigurne’s restraints, the rumbling fury of water; she could feel, as the terrace cracked—its steps shattering as if they were made of brittle, thin glass—the implacable anger of the earth. The only blessing given her in the driving rain was the utter absence of fire, and its raging voice.

  She had seen mobs in her time; had seen and understood the transformation that came over people she knew—and sometimes liked—when anger and fear spread through them in alternating waves. There was freedom of a kind in the grip of those visceral emotions, but it required a complete surrender of self, of the things that defined self.