Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  Winter King, she called.

  Jewel. The manse could be seen before they had left the channel behind—the great trees rose in clusters, obscuring the building’s fine roof. Here, leaves caught sunlight in a sky that was neither red nor blue, and it seemed to Jewel that they reflected it in bright, sharp bursts, glittering like unidentified metal. She shook her head; these were not trees of diamond, gold, or silver; they were too tall, too alive, for that. But where the wind at the heights of their crowns moved through their laden branches, the rustle formed whispers from which words emerged.

  Too many words, spoken at once; she could not separate the syllables into something she could recognize.

  Snow did not even try to reach the manse, and for that, she was grateful. Night cut across their path; Meralonne was not on his back. “Night—clear the grounds. Tell the gardeners to go inside.”

  “The grouchy man won’t listen.”

  “Make him listen. Make him listen without making him bleed.”

  Night hissed.

  “Don’t hurt him at all. But tell him—damn it, tell him demons are coming and they’ll be safe only if they’re indoors.”

  Night wheeled toward the thickening trees as Snow brought them in. She shouldn’t have been surprised to see where he’d chosen to land, but she was: his claws clicked and slid across the hard marble steps of the Terafin shrine. There was no spirit standing beneath the small, polished dome—and no ghostly image of his dying body bleeding into the altar. The shrine was silent. Jewel’s legs had been locked so tightly around Snow’s back that they cramped as she dismounted; she stumbled, cursed, and rose.

  The Winter King stood on the path that led to—and from—the shrine; his eyes were dark, wide, his coat the color of ice on snow. He was a stag, yes, but at that moment she saw in him something as ancient—as wild—as the elements. She couldn’t run easily until her legs adjusted to the freedom of movement, but she tried anyway.

  “Snow—help him, help Night!”

  “No. I will not leave you. Not now, not now.” He growled, his voice dropping. “Shadow is coming.”

  “Tell Shadow to stay with—”

  “You must command him yourself, silly girl.”

  “Go now.” Hands curled into fists as she turned; Snow was already gone. The Winter King approached and knelt; she leaped onto his back as if it were home. Riding Snow was not the same; the Winter King was haven.

  She heard dragon’s roar.

  Not dragon, the Winter King said.

  Will he come?

  He is coming; the winds carry him. The fire hinders his movement—but he knows where you are.

  Take me—

  The great white stag leaped as if words were superfluous. She wasn’t certain if his hooves touched stone or earth at all; he moved over and around the small ornaments and flower beds as if they were simple illusion, colorful shadow. But as he did, he approached the trees; their shadows were darker, longer, and far more solid. He slowed; before he had come to a stop, she was already halfway off his back. Her feet touched earth, and as they did, the whisper of leaves grew louder—louder and more distinct.

  Beneath the bowers of the trees that lined the Common were the trees that existed in story, song, or dream: diamond glittered as she approached, finding the path, finding the way. She did not mount the Winter King again, although it might have been faster. Her hand touched gold leaf, gold bark, glanced off silver. She did not stop moving until she reached the lone tree of fire, around which nothing grew. She did not touch bark or leaves, but watched as heat distorted the air above its many branches.

  It was so quiet here. There were no gardeners in sight; no cats. Only the Winter King, the trees, and the darkness of an almost unknown forest beyond her feet. She looked into the distant shadows and saw movement; light surrendered no shape, no form.

  Do not leave the path.

  I know. I know but—

  It is not yet safe, Jewel. In time, you might make paths that touch the whole of this forest—but you have not walked beneath these bowers since the first day.

  A roar broke stillness and silence, and in this forest, it became wind, became gale; the leaves flew at right angles to their many branches, and the branches themselves twisted and intertwined.

  “He’s here,” Jewel said. The Winter King said nothing.

  * * *

  She was afraid. She hated it.

  Hated it, fought it. This was her home. This was her stronghold.

  But Avandar had drawn his sword; Avandar had taken to air, just as Meralonne APhaniel often did. Both were significant, terrifying acts—but far worse was that in spite of the unveiling of his power, in spite of the presence of Lord Celleriant and a First Circle mage, he was not certain they would triumph.

  The hidden forest—Jewel’s forest—took the roar of the demon into itself, shaking as it did; the earth trembled beneath her feet, and around the path, it broke, disgorging deep roots—roots of gold, of silver. She cried out; her voice carried, wordless, to where those trees foundered.

  She heard the crack of wood and remembered the way the whole of the raised pavilion in the Common had broken like paper when the demon had chosen to reveal itself. Branches snapped and fell, trunks followed. This was her forest, and it was of her. And who was she? Jewel Markess ATerafin, a stiff, strained echo of Amarais Handernesse ATerafin.

  The demon did not speak, not in words. He didn’t demand that she show herself; didn’t accuse her of hiding. It wasn’t necessary. The sounds of his carnage approached with him.

  But even had he moved silently, she would have known where he was; she could feel his feet break the earth; could feel the burning folds of his wing scorch undergrowth and wild plants. She could almost feel his breath in the wind that reached her upturned face. He didn’t belong here; he would never belong here. Even so, he knew—and had known, even in the Common—exactly where she was.

  And he knew he had lost time to words and the need to assert his power in the presence of the powerful; he had given her the time to flee. He brought his darkness with him, but it was not the darkness of unknown forest; it was wilder, darker, colder. He brought his fire with him, and uncontained, it began to spread through the standing trees.

  It traveled far more slowly than it had in the Common, and for the first time today, the smile that touched Jewel’s lips felt natural. “I did not flee here in terror,” she told him, although he was not yet in her view. She stepped back, drew breath, lifted arm; her palm faced the coruscating bark of the tree of fire. Closing her eyes made the heat more intense, not less.

  The Winter King left her side, leaping to the right as fire blossomed beneath her hand, spreading up her arm and across the whole of her body between breaths. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the forest through a flickering mask of red, orange, yellow. She herself was almost white.

  The roar of the flames she now heard most clearly was her fire. In it, she heard the tinkling of metallic leaves, and, loud as the ocean waves she had heard for all of her life in the city, the rustling of living ones: gold, green, and white, high above where she stood. She saw shadows cast by firelight that were the wrong size, the wrong length, and the wrong shape; it took a moment before they resolved themselves into the outlines cast by buildings when the sun was heading toward its height.

  She whispered a word, two, and the trees she faced parted, moving to the right or the left; she knew where the demon had destroyed parts of the forest; she could feel the broken, burnt trunks as if they were fingers or toes. She desired to lose no more of them. But the trees, from a height, seemed to bend toward her; the trees she had moved leaned over the path that their parting had revealed.

  Movement drew her eye; it was silver and white. The Winter King stood at a distance, like moonlight in the heart of night sky. He comes.

  I know. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Pause. Winter King.

  Jewel.

  Why is it always night in this forest?

  She f
elt his approbation. You begin to understand, he told her. It is not always night.

  It was night where the demon lord walked.

  He carried a red great sword and long kite shield. She carried nothing. Nor did she attempt to force the shape of weapons from the fire that surrounded her; she knew that had she, she would die. She might have the knowledge to build them—she did not have the experience to wield them.

  He paused ten yards from where she stood; his eyes were red, and his skin was obsidian, glittering in reflected light. “So,” he said.

  “I am Jewel Markess ATerafin,” she replied, her voice steady but thin compared to the richness of his. “And you are not welcome here. Go back.”

  He smiled and began to walk toward her. “Or? A command is rendered a plea if the person who makes it lacks the will—or the power—to enforce obedience.”

  She gestured. Fire encased her.

  She felt the sudden rumble of earth beneath her feet. “No,” she told it. “You are not welcome here yet; he does not have the right to invite you.” The earth stilled. It did not speak again.

  The demon’s eyes rounded slightly, and then of all things, he laughed. And oh, the sound of his laughter. It was cold, yes, and cruel—but it was also warm and bright and enticing. Wind came in a sudden gale, and again, she said, “No. Not yet, not now.” It stilled.

  “They are yours to deny,” he told her. “But not yours to command.”

  “Not yet,” she countered.

  He brought his sword down.

  * * *

  She raised her arms, crossing her wrists over her head; it was almost a cringe. But it was a defiant cringe, and fire pooled like armor—like a sudden dome—above her head. The impact drove her to her knees, and she raised her head, arms still crossed, to see the very edge of the blade inches from her sleeves. To either side, fire flared, but did not break. Instead, for a moment, it seemed to absorb the color from the blade.

  Roots burst from the earth around Jewel’s ankles, wrapping themselves around her legs. She had no time for any other defense; he brought his shield in from the side to sweep her off her feet. She shuddered with the impact, and even with the grounding of those roots, she staggered; fire fled from her side as if it were blood.

  You cannot triumph here if you do nothing but defend.

  Voice dry as ash, she said, Thank you, Avandar.

  He did not laugh. All of the wilderness in this place was hers. But he appeared by her side, and when he gestured, when he spoke, when he brought his arms up in a circle that ended with his palms, the earth trembled again.

  Yes, she told it. Yes, now.

  If the earth heard the relief in her voice, it gave no sign. Avandar was unarmed. Avandar carried no shield. He carried the weight of experience and the talent of the magi—but he’d always had those and they had never driven him to the very edge of sanity.

  I was not insane, her domicis said.

  We can define sanity later.

  Lightning flashed in the clearing she had made; Avandar was its cloud, its gray-green sky. White light struck the demon lord’s chest; it drove him back two steps. At his height, at the length of his stride, that was a good ten feet. Claws broke earth as the Kialli halted his progress; runnels formed beneath his ancient, unseen feet.

  Pillars of stones rose around The Terafin and her domicis. They spoke with the voice of the old earth, and it was angry. Had she thought them pillars? No. They were stone trees; she realized this the minute they stretched out their many, leafless branches. The demon was fast; he raised shield and stone splintered against it without causing any visible damage.

  But he had one shield; the pillars, many arms. Nor were they kind enough to strike from only one direction. The great sword rose and fell in a whistling arc; branches clattered to the ground where the earth instantly absorbed them. Avandar, arms raised, head bowed, was pale. The stone pillars moved as the earth trembled, giving it voice; the earth did not break beneath the demon’s feet. Nor did it attempt to swallow him.

  His knees bent as he pushed himself up in one lean, graceful motion, wings unfurling and taking, as they did, whole branches from the trees themselves. Those branches, like the great stone spears, moved to impede him, and diamond sliced obsidian as it passed. The demon roared in rage. Diamond shattered as his sword rose and fell.

  It was not the only sword in the clearing now; it was the only red one.

  Celleriant—angry—had arrived. The wind carried him; Jewel whispered a benediction to its rushing, agitated currents. It was not slow in the way the earth was, but it carried the only sworn knight in her very small Court toward his opponent. Like the earth, it was not hers to command; she granted permission, no more. But permission now was all that was needed.

  * * *

  Why is it always night?

  Blue blade struck red. When two such blades were drawn, what other outcome could there be? Sky of red fire, sky of blue ice, and the clear, clean sound of metal and metal. The demon had no wind to buoy him; Celleriant, smaller, was in constant motion. He should have been faster; he was only barely fast enough.

  It isn’t.

  Was it only at night that she entered the forest? Was it only at night that she walked the hidden paths that were at once wild and strangely familiar? She was not safe yet, and knew it—but beneath the din of blades, and words that were at least as cutting, she closed her eyes. The fire still enveloped her, offering warmth, not pain. The sun—in seasons that were not Summer—was warm in the same way.

  The Summer.

  Meralonne APhaniel, on the first day she’d seen him, had called Summer in The Terafin’s reception room. There, daylight streamed through windows that were framed by heavy curtains; the Summer was close, the night absent. Here, it was night—but dawn followed night. Always.

  She could see and feel sunlight, broken as it was by leaves that also grew toward its touch. It was time, she thought, for night to retreat; to surrender its indigo to the pale purple and pink of morning light. It was time, now, for azure to reign in the skies above the forest. She couldn’t call day; no more could she call earth, wind, or water. But she could welcome it. As if she were leaf, she lifted her face, seeking the sunlight that would deny the night the demon lord kept wrapped around him.

  When she opened her eyes, she had to squint; the whole of the clearing was bathed in a brilliant, pale light. It wasn’t white, would never be white—that was a Winter color, harsh and lifeless. This light looked like burnished silver. She stood in the center of its gentle brilliance and watched it as it spread in all directions, rippling across the familiar forms of standing trees, undergrowth; changing the color of pillars of moving stone and new-turned earth.

  The light was not kind to Avandar. In the pale brightness, he was ashen, the skin beneath his eyes, dark. But his lips were curved in a cold smile as he lifted his face.

  There, above them both, the demon lord was caught for a moment in spokes of light that passed through his wings as if they were blades. Celleriant was likewise illuminated, but the Summer did not cut or burn him; the wind carried him, and he drove his blade into the demon’s leg. Or he would have, had the red shield not blocked his sudden thrust. Even injured, the demon lord was fast.

  And if Celleriant’s blade had not struck home, the Kialli was wounded; the light burned; smoke streamed from his still-perfect skin. The pillars of stone stretched and thinned as they reached for the demon, and even in his obvious pain, he broke them. Not with sword or shield; those were reserved for Celleriant; he kicked them and they shattered.

  What is he? Jewel asked the distant Winter King.

  He is firstborn, Jewel. Among the Kialli, he is Prince.

  He’s like Ariane?

  No; she is Queen, and she is other. But even Ariane would find such a foe difficult. Viandaran is correct; he is beyond us.

  The wind buffeted his injured wings; the earth attempted to break him; Celleriant harried him with ferocious concentration. The only thing that
had done notable damage was the Summer light. It had not, however, destroyed Darranatos; nor did he seem intent on destroying himself. He was angry, yes; he roared and the whole of the forest shook.

  But only when Meralonne APhaniel arrived did the demon lord take the risk of exposing his back. He wheeled, turned, and dropped in a short dive that ended with Jewel.

  It should have ended her life, but the trees surrendered whole limbs in a sudden converging of branches; he broke them all, but they slowed his fall enough that she could dive toward the burning tree. It was an instinctive reaction. The fire with which she’d cloaked herself had saved her once; she wasn’t certain it would save her again—but she had time to think this only after his sword pierced earth—and stayed there. He could not easily withdraw it.

  Nor could he easily avoid the twin blades of Celleriant and Meralonne, who took advantage of the opening to thrust swords through his back. Blood, dark and only barely red even in this light, darkened their swords as they were withdrawn; he had the strength of earth, and the strength to bind those blades. Jewel knew it, and didn’t question the knowledge.

  He tried, once more, to dislodge his own weapon; earth flew in a wide circle—but it did not surrender blade. His hands, straining around the sword’s hilt, were bleeding. Twice more, two men struck, but not a third time; he snarled, roared; his sword disappeared as he released it.

  And then, wings flagging, he revealed a whip of fire; with its many tongues he attacked not Celleriant or Meralonne, but the air which carried them. She heard the wind’s sudden anger and realized that the fire was not natural—if demonic magic could ever be natural—but wild. She did not hear its voice. The wind did, and the earth, and their voices were as clear as thunder. They had been kept from warring with each other by the skill of their summoners—but the fire was one foe too many.

  Avandar’s jaw tightened; Jewel saw his fists clench. She heard Meralonne’s cry of warning and she cried out, wordless, as her own hands curled into fists. The trees had been broken and burned by the demon and his great wings, and they had suffered in silence; this fire enraged them. It was almost as if—as if—