Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “. . . Yes.”

  “Can you tell them?”

  “I will inform Ellerson; he may choose the best fashion in which to inform the den.” When Jewel fell silent, he added, “You will continue to live in the same building as the rest of your den. Teller is your right-kin. Finch is your only safe conduit into the Merchant Authority, and she has been a member of that office for long enough that there is little that will escape either her attention or her comprehension. Arann is one of your Chosen.

  “I consider it highly unlikely that you will somehow be cast into the outer darkness of isolation.” He turned and left the hall as Jewel headed toward the bedroom.

  * * *

  At the end of the half hour, there were, as she’d expected, four Chosen stationed on the inside of the inner doors of The Terafin’s rooms. There were four stationed on the outside, as well. None of these eight were Arann; one of them was Torvan. Avandar returned and was immediately granted access to The Terafin, that being Jewel; he was the only person in the manse who would be given such a pass. Not even the right-kin could expect to walk through the guards without stating, in some part, his business.

  There were, of course, servants assigned to The Terafin’s personal chambers; none of those servants were the ones with which she was most familiar. The servants who guided, cleaned, and—after all these years—still coddled the denizens of the West Wing would of course remain on duty there, as would Ellerson.

  She could think that now without a pang of loss. She could be grateful that he was there for her den when she herself couldn’t be—not that she had ever been able to do what Ellerson did with such natural ease.

  Jewel.

  She glanced up at the Winter King. The height of the ceilings and the width of the doors—almost every one doubled—suited him. The rest of the surroundings did not. But the Chosen hadn’t blinked when he’d walked through the doors; they paid him as much attention as they would have paid any member of her House that they considered trustworthy.

  They should not consider any members of your House trustworthy, the Winter King said, amused. But these are, for the most part, lesser times. Even I would have found it difficult to remain suspicious of your friends.

  “Yes, but you would have found it hard because you consider them helpless. Or harmless.”

  I do not consider them harmless within the context of your life. They hold too much of it. However, they are all but oathsworn; they will not raise hand against you. Those who I required in such close quarters on a continual basis were all oathsworn, when I ruled my lands.

  “Taking an oath would make them more trustworthy?” Jewel, thinking of her den—of Duster, in particular—snorted.

  In my time, yes. Such oaths were made in the presence of the Priests of Bredan, and to break them was death.

  “I can think of a lot of people who’d swear oaths that would lead to death if it allowed them to fulfill their goals.”

  The Winter King nodded. It is why the Priests were used. They would not accept an oath that had no meaning for the man—or woman—who swore it. The oath would not be consecrated. Any who came to the oathhalls with intent to betray were turned away in the final moment. They died, he added, but not because of the failure to keep their oath.

  Jewel was profoundly grateful not to be living at a time when the Winter King ruled.

  He snorted.

  * * *

  Her personal rooms were not, as she suspected they would be, barren: there were two closets, both small rooms in their own right, one armoire that appeared to be there, judging by the craftsmanship, for display, a small desk—the larger one was in a different room—and two cabinets with long, beveled windows in their doors. The windows shone orange to her eyes; in fact, almost everything in the room did. The bed, the small bedstands that bracketed the bed to the left and right, the rug. She thought the latter was overdoing it.

  She was aware, however, that she would never have had that thought if Amarais were still Terafin and closeted in these very fine rooms. If it was good enough for her, she told herself grimly, it’s good enough for me. But the thought, though vehement, lacked conviction. She had the creeping sense of certainty that she, born Jewel Markess, wasn’t worthy of this much effort; the magi, after all, did not work for free.

  Well, not most of them at any rate, and Meralonne was contrary enough she’d be unlikely to get simple carpet enchantments out of him.

  The closets, as she suspected they would be, were half full. No one had expected that she would refuse to take up residence in these rooms. She wondered if it were Gabriel or Barston who had seen to the contents of these closets; she suspected that Ellerson would have left the dresses in her own rooms until he knew for certain she was leaving.

  The first closet contained dresses, in what were presumably her size, in various shades of blue. The cloths used also differed; some were silk, some raw silk (which she disliked; it was scratchy), some were a very fine wool. In the sister closet were dresses in colors other than House blues. They were also made from very fine cloth, and they differed in depth of neckline, height of collar, and length of sleeve. Not many immediately suggested the very full skirts that made running possible.

  In this closet there were also shoes and boots. A lot of them. They ranged in color from black to white, with shades of almost everything in between. She closed the door and headed toward the standing dresser, where she was most likely to find something simple, like a nightshirt.

  She did. She also found an army’s worth of brushes and combs, more proof that the room had been repopulated with items meant to be useful to whomever was charged with maintaining her public appearance. She changed, although it took longer than it should have because the dress was a complicated affair. All dresses were, these days.

  And then: bed.

  Avandar came into the room with the stand into which a magestone was laid. The room didn’t need it; there were magestones in the corners of the ceilings, and along the tops of the walls at regularly spaced intervals; they were similar in illumination to those that sat in blown-glass lampholders in the public galleries. Most private rooms, on the other hand, didn’t have them; the West Wing didn’t.

  Avandar set the stone holder down on the bedstand to the left of the bed anyway. He also dragged the chair beneath the small desk to the bedside, where he sat. The room was silent. Shadow often slept with her, and even when he wasn’t speaking—which was rare—he made noise. He couldn’t breathe silently, and he growled in his sleep.

  But when he was present, she woke before nightmare drove her screaming from her dreams.

  Tonight, she slid between the covers and stared at the canopy. She didn’t particularly like canopies; she didn’t like the curtains that could, at necessity, be drawn around the entire bed, either. She didn’t care for this room, those carpets, the fireplace to her right, or the empty walls above it. She yanked the covers up under her chin.

  She was tired, and knew it. Her legs and back ached, because she’d clenched every muscle in them while holding so desperately on to Snow in flight. It seemed like that had happened yesterday or the day before. It hadn’t. And tomorrow would come, regardless of sleep. She took deep, even breaths and closed her eyes.

  Some people reliably fell asleep this way; Jewel, one of nature’s worriers, didn’t. In the darkness, with no other emergencies to demand her attention, she could think. In the dark, when it felt like she hadn’t slept for days, thoughts were always informed by fear. Rymark. The meeting tomorrow—tomorrow!—in the Hall of The Ten. The meeting after that—if she managed to survive it—with the Exalted, the Kings, the magi, and Duvari. So much could go wrong there. The first time she’d met the Kings, the most important thing she had to do was keep her mouth shut. Since she had also been of a social status which demanded full and absolute obeisance, it hadn’t been too hard; if she’d spoken, she’d be talking to the floor. She’d practically be biting it.

  Now? She was expected to speak with t
he full authority of House Terafin. She was expected to speak to men—and women—who believed her power could not be, as Sigurne so plainly stated, countenanced. She could only see one outcome, and she was too exhausted not to go there.

  Jewel, two voices said at once.

  She exhaled. Sorry, she said to her domicis and the resident stag. She thought about the uselessness of counting sheep—a favorite bit of advice given to those who had trouble sleeping, and one that had, as far as Jewel was concerned, never worked for anyone who wouldn’t have fallen straight asleep anyway—and from there, she segued into the Terafin grounds. The gardens.

  Her tree, with its exposed heart of fire.

  She heard the sound of metallic leaves, like multiple wind chimes, blending and overlapping; she heard the wind through their movements and wondered if birds ever flew in that endless, ancient place. Sun shone at command or plea; night fell. Was there water? A brook, or a river, beyond the confines of trees that stretched so tall their heights could only be glimpsed at a distance? She could almost hear its gurgling rush as she closed her eyes and listened. She had not explored the forest. She had only seldom entered it, and then, at need.

  What waited there, when she could explore it at leisure, if she dared? Peace? Privacy?

  Yes, the Winter King said. Both. But remember, Jewel: graveyards are also peaceful when the mourners depart. There is no silence where you dwell, because you bring noise with you.

  Where are the cats? she asked him quietly.

  The Winter King said, You will know. It wasn’t particularly comforting. Come, Terafin. You will be a Queen of men.

  I don’t want that, she told him. The only people I want to obey me are the ones I can’t stand. Haerrad. Rymark. I don’t need to tell everyone else what to do. I don’t want it.

  I know.

  Did you?

  Yes—but to me, all men and all women were like your Haerrad or your Rymark. All children would become them. If I did not rule them, if I was not willing to devour or destroy them, they would destroy me. Come Jewel. It is time.

  She opened her eyes.

  * * *

  In her dream—and she must be dreaming—light streamed through the tall windows. There were plants that crept over trellises of bamboo, shedding petals artfully against the bare, wooden floor. She heard birdsong, she felt breeze.

  Dreams had their own logic. This was her room; she recognized it although she had conversely never seen it before. It felt like, looked like, home. The Winter King stood by the window, tines gleaming; the windows were glassless. She slid out of bed, and looked down at her arms; they were bare. She wore a summer shift that would have been considered dangerously immodest at any point in her life.

  Turning her wrist over, she paused. “Avandar’s not here,” she told the Winter King.

  No.

  Neither was his mark. She pushed hair out of her eyes, stood, inhaled. When she exhaled, she exhaled the whole of the wretched day: demons and Councillors, Rymark, Haerrad, Gabriel’s loss, Sigurne’s oblique threat. All of it.

  Jewel.

  Yes. She walked toward where the Winter King knelt, and she slid, without effort, onto his back. He rose.

  * * *

  They traveled through the forest. Trees opened into sunlight and small patches of wild grass, and as the Winter King ran, Jewel saw, at last, the white foam of moving water; they had come to a river, not a brook. The water was clean, here; the riverbed appeared to be sand and stone. She had lived on the banks of the river in the holdings for only a short time, but this river reminded her, perversely, of that one. There was even a bridge.

  Will you cross it, Jewel?

  I’m not driving.

  You are, he said, and he knelt. You cannot cross this bridge while you are mounted.

  You can’t cross it? She slid off his back, following the logic and the demand of dream, her feet touching rounded rock. They were, she realized for the first time, as bare as her arms. There was very little bank beneath the bridge; the water was high.

  “I can,” he said, and she turned.

  Where the Winter King had stood, a man stood in his place—a man with the same dark eyes. He was not a young man, but not yet old; his lips were full, but his face seemed long and fine-boned. It reminded her of Celleriant’s face, although this man was mortal. She had seen him once before, and she remembered it.

  He smiled; lines deepened in the corners of both lips and eyes. His smile was not a kind one, although it held no malice now.

  “Winter King?” she asked, lifting a hand to touch the line of his jaw—something she would never have dared had she not been dreaming.

  He allowed it, his smile deepening. He was a foot taller, if only that.

  “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

  “These are not the lands of the Winter Queen,” he told her quietly, gazing now at his hands, at the mounds of his palms, as if seeing them for the first time and finding them strange.

  “But you’re a stag in the normal world, as well.”

  “Yes.” He held out an arm in a gesture that was familiar; after a moment, she took it. “Be prepared, Jewel.”

  “For what?”

  “For anything. Do you not sense an intruder, here?”

  She frowned, following as he led her toward the height of the bridge. “You don’t cast a shadow,” she pointed out, as if this were natural.

  “No more do you, here; you have no love of shadow. Be ready,” he said again.

  She looked ahead to the far bank—and it was far, now; the bridge had elongated the moment they set foot on its solid planks. No dream she remembered clearly had ever been like this. She glanced up at the sky to see a lone black bird gliding in circles in the air overhead. As she watched, it plunged, its dark claws extended.

  She frowned, watching it. Forbidding it to strike. Its talons skirted strands of her hair as it screeched, its voice at once discordant and oddly beautiful. It landed on the opposite end of the bridge, the end which the Winter King and Jewel were now approaching. She glanced at the Winter King’s face; all warmth, all surprise, had drained from his expression; he was as cold as his title—the only name for him she knew.

  “Intruder is a rather harsh word,” the black bird said. Jewel had thought it a crow, but it was far too large for that, and in shape it looked more like a giant eagle; a bird of prey. “I prefer the word visitor.”

  “A visitor,” the Winter King replied, “is invited.”

  “Not so, not so,” the bird replied. “Oft visitors come without warning, and they are still welcomed.”

  “Or they are sent fleeing into the night.”

  “You don’t have that ability, not here. No one does.” His eyes were a very odd color; Jewel couldn’t place it. Some part of her knew that color at this distance should have been impossible to discern, but she tried anyway, as if the information were important.

  “No?” The Winter King said.

  The bird failed to answer. He was watching Jewel as she walked. “You are not what I expected,” he said at last. “Too scrawny, for one, and far too young. I should like someone harsher, tougher.”

  “Stringier?”

  “Stringier.”

  “Then you are a very odd carnivore.”

  “Oh?” He began to preen his feathers, although he didn’t look away.

  She stopped walking. The Winter King’s steps shadowed hers. “Will you allow me to deal with the intruder?” His voice was soft.

  “No. Not yet.” She waited until the bird had finished with his feathers. When he looked up, she said, “You’re the Warden of Dreams, aren’t you?”

  The bird cackled. “I? Would the Warden of Dreams be trapped in such a diminished form as this? I am merely his sentinel.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Am I? Tell me, little human, how do you know that?”

  “I just know.”

  “Interesting.” The bird suddenly lifted both wings; they shot out, extended and extendin
g as if they would encompass the entire horizon.

  She stayed her ground, but gripped the Winter King’s arm far more tightly. Do not, she told him, take one step forward.

  He is a danger, Terafin, and he is here.

  No, he’s not. This is as far as we can safely travel.

  I can see the path.

  Yes. But the path you see doesn’t belong to me.

  It does not belong to him, either.

  Can you claim it, Winter King?

  He was silent. Angry, she thought. But she? She wasn’t. Not yet.

  “You are not what I expected,” the Warden of Dreams said again. Where a giant black eagle had stood, there now stood something that was almost a man—pale, slender, his wings spread wide, flight feathers trailing shadow.

  “Why?”

  “I recognize these lands. It has been long since I have seen them, but I recognize them. Look,” he added, one arm rising.

  She did. She looked up. The skies had darkened—but it was a dark that was not night, not shadow, not cloud; it held a depth of color not seen in a natural sky: amethyst. From its folds, snow fell.

  Except that it wasn’t snow.

  The Winter King frowned.

  “They’re butterflies,” Jewel said softly.

  “No,” The Winter King said. “They are the tears of mortal dreamers, given freedom.”

  Chapter Seven

  THEY LOOKED LIKE BUTTERFLIES to Jewel; she didn’t argue. She felt . . . at home, here. The strangeness of the Warden, of his skies, of the delicate white butterflies that seemed to crest air in a movement that was almost, but not quite falling, were distant. No, not distant; they simply felt natural; they had no power to surprise or shock.

  But they had the power to move her; as she watched their delicate, crowded flight, she felt something tighten in her throat. Snow, she’d thought them. They drifted in the currents of wind; they struggled against them—perhaps they even reveled. They had no power to deny strong winds, no matter how hard they might struggle, but when the winds shifted or changed, they had control of their wings. She could see, at this distance, how the winds shifted by the movement of butterflies.