Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  She shook her head and lifting her hands, pulled the trees’ branches up toward their trunks, skirting fire as the wind tore it into many smaller pieces—none of which guttered. They were driven to earth and bark; they were blown toward the trailing length of her hem. In each case, they began to burn. But this close to earth, these small fires could not survive; the earth swallowed them whole. Jewel almost fell into the pit that opened beneath her burning skirt; roots caught her legs as she stumbled, leaving bruises.

  The earth closed like a giant maw. She could live with the bruises; she was certain she wouldn’t have survived the earth.

  Day gave way to dusk. Had she summoned Summer? No, she thought, as the season slipped away. She had drawn it from the memories of these standing giants with their roots in the deep earth and their crowns in the wind. But it was not Summer in this forest, and the trees wailed as it slipped away, as if it might never be Summer again.

  “Meralonne!” she shouted.

  But he knew. As Celleriant continued to harry the injured demon, Meralonne put up his sword and stepped back; the wind drove his hair as if it were snow. He spoke, his voice resonant and clear, and as he did, she saw again the golden, glowing light that had once saved The Terafin’s life. It encircled the demon; the demon roared.

  “Illaraphaniel, you will die for this.”

  The mage did not laugh, as he might once have; nor did he frown. “I will not die here, Darranatos. Not so far from my home, and not in this season. If you wish my death to be at your hands, you must find a different battlefield; you will not have victory here.”

  The Summer light intensified, hardening around the demon lord as if it were shell.

  Jewel knew it wouldn’t last. It caused pain, yes, but it could not destroy the creature Meralonne had called Darranatos. As if he’d heard the thought, he summoned not dusk, but night. It came like a flood, filling all of the space that existed between his body and the summer shield of the mage’s construction.

  “Illaraphaniel!” Celleriant’s sword passed through the barrier. It slowed in its sweeping arc, and then passed through the night as well; black clung to the edge of his blade as he cursed. The demon had fled. With him went fire, or rather, fire’s sentience; what remained, the earth smothered.

  Meralonne descended. His eyes were silver. “So,” he said softly. “Sigurne was correct.”

  Jewel didn’t ask him what the guildmaster had said. She was staring at the Kialli-shaped darkness that lay beneath a thin, thin sheen of Summer light. “You’re not—you’re not just going to leave that standing there, are you?”

  Meralonne reached into his robes and produced a familiar pipe. “No. I will destroy it, with your permission.”

  The Winter King came to stand by her side. Be cautious, Jewel.

  The mage lined the bowl of his pipe, but his eyes never left her face. He was waiting for her answer—and waiting with an uncharacteristic patience. “Why is my permission required?” she finally asked.

  His smile was slight, sharp; it acknowledged a hit. “Ask your companion,” he replied, nodding not to Celleriant, but to the Winter King. The Winter King lowered his tines in what Jewel assumed was a gesture of respect.

  It was both that, and a subtle threat.

  I’m not sure Meralonne understands subtle threats.

  Lord Celleriant had set aside both sword and shield in the aftermath of the interrupted battle; he joined Jewel just before the cats—all three—flew down in a loud, messy rush. They did not knock Jewel over, but it was close. She turned to Shadow immediately.

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  Shadow hissed.

  “I mean it, Shadow. There was a demon here—”

  “I know that. It was a big demon.” He glanced at Snow and Night, who were now standing to the left and right of him. And two steps behind. “He told me you were alone. He didn’t mention the ugly one.”

  She cleared her throat loudly. Shadow’s belly reached for ground, and his ears flattened. His lips, on the other hand, pulled up over teeth that were already too prominent. “We have a guest,” she told him evenly.

  “Guest? What guest?”

  “Behind you.”

  Shadow moved his incredibly flexible neck to look over his shoulder at Meralonne APhaniel, whose pipe remained unlit. The mage was staring intently at the cat.

  “They came with the forest,” she told him, folding arms across her chest.

  Snow, however, sauntered over to the mage, pausing a few yards away. It was, for a cat who assumed ownership—or at least superior power—over everything, significant. “I know you,” he said.

  The mage said nothing. After another moment, he lit his pipe.

  Night, not to be outdone, approached Meralonne as carefully as his brother. Only Shadow remained where he was, although he rose and turned toward the mage. “Don’t let him destroy the shadow,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It is not his forest.”

  “I’m not asking him to claim the forest. I just want to get rid of the—”

  “Yes, yes.” Shadow stretched his forepaws, his back sloping, his wings rising. “We will eat it.”

  She raised a brow. Before she could speak, Meralonne removed the pipe’s stem from his lips. “It is not impossible for them. How did they come to be with you?”

  “They came, as I said, with the forest.”

  “They are dangerous.” He blew smoke rings in the direction of the cats. “Have you bound them to your service?”

  Shadow hissed. Snow and Night, however, growled.

  “No.”

  “Unwise.”

  “Do not attempt to eat him,” she told the cats severely. “I need him.”

  “You don’t. No one needs him.”

  Meralonne surprised her; he smiled. “No, indeed.” He pointed with his pipe hand. “That tree, Terafin, I do not recognize.” He meant the tree of fire.

  “The demon today wasn’t the only demon to walk in this forest,” she replied with care. The dense, standing darkness bothered her far more than the tree. “He brought fire with him.”

  “And you retained it?”

  She nodded.

  To her surprise, Meralonne turned to Celleriant. “Did you recognize the demon to whom she refers?” He didn’t ask Celleriant if he had been in the forest at the time of the demonic attack; he assumed it.

  Nor did this seem to surprise—or concern—the Arianni Lord. He nodded. “Lord Ishavriel,” he told the mage. “Of the Shining Court.”

  A silver brow rose; for the first time that day, Meralonne smiled. It was a Winter smile, at home in his angular face. “You witnessed the birth of this tree?”

  “I did.” Celleriant’s smile now matched Meralonne’s.

  “Can we?” Shadow asked, as if neither man had spoken.

  “Can you what?”

  He hissed and shook his head at the sheer stupidity of the question. “Can we eat it? Or will you wait until it dies of boredom?”

  Still hesitating, she nodded. The cats turned as one from Meralonne APhaniel, and leaped toward the darkness. The Summer light didn’t stop them.

  “No, wait—be careful—don’t jump—” She might as well have told them not to breathe, speak, or fight. They hit the darkness, claws extended, and passed right through it. Unfortunately, they didn’t come out the other side.

  “They were never terribly bright,” the mage said, pipe once again trailing smoke. “And they were always the antithesis of caution.”

  Jewel could barely find voice to answer. “Where did they go?”

  “Who can say, with cats? There is a reasonable chance they will return. Look.”

  She couldn’t look away. The patch of darkness, through which nothing could be seen, began to change shape; it grew shorter, squatter; it pressed against the containment of Summer magic as if seeking escape. It shrank.

  That was the good news. But when it was smaller than the size of a single cat and the cats had fa
iled to emerge, she approached it; she couldn’t quite stop herself. The Winter King, however, could. He was there, his tines between Jewel and what remained of the demon lord’s passage. Do not touch it.

  She turned to Avandar, wordless.

  “In my opinion, you would be well quit of them should they fail to emerge. They are quarrelsome, difficult beasts; it is in their very nature to cause damage and trouble if not carefully supervised. They have not,” he added, in case it was in doubt, “been carefully supervised for the entire duration of their stay.”

  “They’ve killed no one.”

  He stared at her.

  “They’ve killed no one who wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “True. But had at least one of those people remained alive, we might have been able to retrieve information from them.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We can’t bring them back. Avandar—the cats—”

  Meralonne exhaled. It was like a loud sigh, but adorned with smoke, which he then blew into rings. “They are only foolish, Terafin. They are not suicidal. But they will not return this way.”

  “We should have just left the darkness—”

  The Winter King and Celleriant turned to stare at her, and she failed to finish the sentence.

  “I am still,” Meralonne said, “by contract, the Terafin House Mage. If you will allow it, I will remain in service to the House.” He glanced once again at the tree of fire.

  “I will, if the terms of employment don’t radically change.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t want to pay through the nose for the services of the magi at the present time. And I know how much the Order of Knowledge raises its price when they believe the situation might be ‘difficult’ as they call it.”

  His brows rose and then he laughed. It was not a quiet laugh.

  Celleriant, at his side, was smiling. It was clear to Jewel that they knew each other. They had both been in the South. But there was something about their proximity now that implied, strongly, that the knowledge was older than the war in the Dominion. How old?

  “I believe,” Avandar told her, voice dry as autumn leaves, “that you are in the unusual position of being able to bargain the Order of Knowledge down in price, not up. The magi are free to accept legal employ—with the guildmaster’s permission, of course—at their own convenience. If you attempt to secure his services for less than the Order is accustomed to receiving from the House, and you succeed, it will be a point in your favor in the newly constituted House Council.

  “The Order may react poorly to the attempt, but they cannot reject it out of hand; Member APhaniel is a First Circle mage, a member of the magi; should he desire to do so, he could remain as the Terafin House Mage for free. It is entirely in the hands of Member APhaniel.”

  “I rather think,” Meralonne said, although he was clearly still amused, “that such a tactic would not stand me in good stead.”

  “And this is a concern of yours?”

  He shook his head. “No. Sigurne is likely to be unimpressed, but she will accept it—if I do.” His eyes narrowed. “Your tenure is not, in your opinion, secure?”

  “That’s a bold question,” Jewel replied, striving to attain a patrician tone of voice.

  “It is, indeed. Your status may have changed; mine has not. If you recall, I was not perhaps the most politic of The Terafin’s many servants.”

  “How could I forget?” She shook her head. “But you would never have dared to ask The Terafin that question.”

  “No; she was who she was. You are who you are. My history with your Terafin was not—is not—my history with you. If you prefer, I will defer to the general rules that govern interaction with the head of a House.” He blew another large, lazy smoke ring.

  Jewel remembered, as it rose, just how much The Terafin had hated his pipe, and she laughed. She couldn’t help it. How many hours had she been trapped in a room with this arrogant, mercurial member of the Order of Knowledge? She had crawled through the dirt by his side for so long she couldn’t clean it from beneath her fingernails without an hour’s worth of soap, water, and Ellerson. How many meetings between The Terafin and Meralonne APhaniel had she been forced to attend, where she huddled as inconspicuously as possible out of the range of their wrath?

  “No, I think I’ll pass. I would appreciate it if you failed to mention that decision to any member of my House Council.” She glanced at Avandar. “And my domicis, but I suppose it’s too late for that.”

  The corners of the mage’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Does that mean you will answer the impertinent question, Terafin?”

  She swept one arm in a wide circle that encompassed one tree of fire, one tree of diamond, two of gold, and one of silver. “What, by the way, are the tall trees called?”

  “The tall trees?”

  “The natural ones. The ones that grow in the Common.”

  Meralonne glanced at Celleriant, whose expression was so neutral it had to be forced. “I am not entirely certain that you deserve entry to this forest. But I find myself hungry, and would be obliged if you offered refreshments while we are here.”

  She hesitated, her demeanor changing. “I’m not sure I can.”

  “Oh?”

  “We should go back to the Common. If the demon—”

  “Ah. No. Your ploy was, if unexpected, both wise and successful. Had Darranatos been more certain of your vulnerability, he would have taken the time to cut a large swathe through the patriciate of this fair city before he abandoned the Common in pursuit. He was not. And, to be fair, ATerafin—”

  Avandar glared.

  “—Terafin. It is not an intentional slight, Viandaran. I have had years in which the polite form of address was the one I just misused. You have my word that if we were in more grave circumstances, I would—”

  “More grave?” Jewel’s voice rose in pitch. It was a trait that she had all but abandoned in her dealings with men—and women—of power.

  One silver brow rose with the smoke, although it didn’t fly free. “You are not dead. If I recall those creatures correctly, you will now have a few moments of peace and privacy. And,” he added, as he began to walk away, “you are excused an afternoon of tremendous tedium in the company of preening nobility.”

  “I have to—”

  “You could not defend yourself, Jewel. Go back to the Common, and what guarantee have you that Darranatos, or his kind, will not return?”

  “I’m seer-born. I’ll have warning.”

  “Ah, yes. You’ll note that I did not say he would kill you.”

  Chapter Three

  7th of Fabril, 428 A.A.

  The Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  THE SERVANTS WERE NOT HAPPY to see Jewel. They were, however, ATerafin, and their shock and concern did not show. It would, however, travel faster than fire through the back halls and the servants’ quarters; she was certain most of the manse would know that she was not in the Common by the time she reached the West Wing.

  Lord Celleriant did not choose to accompany her, and she knew why. He was injured. He tended his injuries in isolation; he could not abide even the mention of the healerie. The Winter King likewise remained in the forest. But Avandar and Meralonne did not.

  She found the walk to the West Wing almost disturbing in its silence; only the sounds of their feet accompanied them. On a normal day, Snow would have walked by her side, and since Night and Shadow had also been present, there would have been the usual snarling, hissing, and misplaced paws; the walk would have taken longer. She shook herself. When had the disruptive and annoying behavior of unruly children become normal?

  But she glanced over her shoulder, looking for a glimpse of the cats, aware, as she did, that Amarais would never have done the same. At sixteen, Jewel had been certain that The Terafin hadn’t had emotions. Now, she knew that she must have. She had given everything to the House, in the end, even her life; no one who was devoid of emotion or humanity could have done what she
did.

  It was only a matter of hiding it. Of protecting it. Of keeping it so private, people could assume that its absence meant strength. And why, she thought bitterly, was that how strength was defined? Why was it wrong to show some part of what you felt if you felt it anyway?

  It is a display of will, Jewel, the Winter King replied. She hadn’t meant to radiate the silent question so loudly. The desire for expression is strong; it is, in part, the desire to communicate. It is fundamental; it is true.

  So is lying.

  She felt the momentary warmth of his silent chuckle. Yes. The desire for approval is also fundamental. The canny and the wise understand this; they can bend it to their use, as if it were any other more corporeal tool. But think: if you display yourself and your truths so easily, you hand those tools to your enemies—or your allies; there is frequently very little that separates them.

  She thought of her den. It annoyed the Winter King.

  Strength means many things. Your Terafin was strong enough that she could—and did—choose what to reveal. And when. You will learn to do likewise.

  She failed to answer. They were approaching the West Wing. Chosen stood outside the entrance, but only two; there would be four on the interior, no doubt roused by the servants and warned of her unexpected arrival. It was not, however, the Chosen who were her chief concern.

  Ellerson was waiting as the doors opened. “Terafin.” His tone was smooth, cool, and entirely uninflected; she had brought a guest. His brows, however, rose as he pointedly looked at her right sleeve. Her own gaze followed his as if dragged, and she winced. Blood had, indeed, seeped through the cloth.

  “There was some difficulty at the Common,” she told him, resisting the impulse to shove the arm behind her back.

  “I see. Shall I send word to the healerie, Terafin?”

  “No. The wound was slight, and it has long since ceased to bleed. We will take tea in the great room.”

  Meralonne lifted his chin.

  “Or very early lunch, if that is acceptable.”