Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “No. Because my father is on the plane, and was at my birth. They are not wrong in their advice; I am a danger, and a threat. Our goals, in a broad sense, overlap, as do our gifts and some of our skills. But there are choices I will make—and have made in the past—that you would never countenance in pursuit of those goals. There are battles and wars that I have seen—and participated in—that you have yet to witness, and if we are very, very lucky, might never occur at all. I have your gift, and you mine, but that is not all that separates us. There is no one, nothing, that I have not considered sacrificing in order to ensure the survival of Man.

  “And that will not change, Terafin. Grant your permission, or no, I will do what I must.”

  “You already know that I’ve granted you that permission.”

  Evayne said nothing.

  “You have to know, if you’ve seen my lands in the future, unless you haven’t been able to walk them. Why are you even here to ask at all?”

  “Because permission, now, must be granted.”

  “And you couldn’t have asked as a younger Evayne? You faced a god when you were ten years younger than I am now.”

  “I do not choose the age at which I appear, Jewel. But had I been younger, had I dared to touch that book as I did today, it would have taken months to recover—if I could recover at all. The robes are not proof against injury, and my power at that age was so new I might have lit a fire in my own defense, no more.”

  Is this how we change the future? Jewel thought, watching Evayne in silence. Is this a game that I want to play, given what’s at stake?

  “Terafin,” Avandar said. “You must come to a decision. If time does not pass in a recognizable way in the hidden realm, it passes—quickly—in this one; the Kings will need to know that you have once again resumed your duties; The Ten will likewise need to be informed.”

  “Understood.” She hadn’t taken her eyes off Evayne’s shuttered expression. “I want you to explain something to me before I grant what you ask.”

  “There are matters of which I am forbidden speech,” Evayne replied, “although perhaps that will matter less in the scant years remaining.”

  “You’ve seen this book before.”

  The seer nodded.

  “Where?”

  Evayne turned toward the Winter King. “With your permission, Tor Amanion?”

  The Winter King inclined his head as he turned to face Jewel. Jewel, who rode him, who listened to his advice even when it was frequently unwelcome.

  “In the Tor Amanion,” Evayne said, after a pause. “In the Sanctum of the Sen.”

  * * *

  “Give her the book,” Avandar said. No one else had yet spoken a word, not even the cats. “Give the book into her keeping, Terafin.”

  Jewel’s grip on the heavy volume tightened.

  “I will guarantee that that book was no part of the library of the former Terafin—any one of them. No more are the other books now placed with such haphazard care upon this table, and should Sigurne Mellifas happen upon them, you will place the whole of your House in grave danger.”

  Jewel shook her head instinctively in denial. “I think we may need them.”

  “And the book you now hold?”

  “I don’t know, Avandar.”

  “She’ll keep it,” Angel said, braving words beneath these unnatural, open skies. “I know that tone of voice. Tor Amanion is an Annagarian city?”

  “I think,” Jewel replied, “that Tor Amanion must have been one of the cities that once existed where the desert now stands. It doesn’t exist now. I don’t know what the Sanctum of the Sen is—or was.” She couldn’t, at this point, guess. But she could guess that the Winter King had once ruled that city. He had never offered her the name he had used when he had been a ruler of men, and even having heard it, she could not bring herself to use it—because in order to be the Winter King, he would have had to walk away from everything he had managed to build.

  I did not build that city, he told her, his voice soft. I did not found it. But I ruled it, in my time, and yes, Terafin, I left it for the Winter Queen. For the Wild Hunt. For the Winter.

  What she heard in his voice then, she had never heard before, and she almost took a step back at the force of it, although the words were so soft. “Do you recognize the book?”

  No. Caution plays little part in my history, he added, with just a glimmer of humor. If it is safe with anyone, it is safe with Evayne—but safety has never been her concern. She is, in her fashion, worthy of admiration.

  I know what you consider worthy of admiration.

  Yes.

  “Yes,” she said, gazing at Evayne. “You have my permission. While you work to prevent the Lord of the Hells from transforming the world into the hells, you can come and go at need.”

  Shadow hissed; Jewel placed one palm between his eyes.

  Before Evayne moved, Celleriant raised voice. Jewel had almost forgotten he was present, and given his stature, that was hard to do. “Seer.”

  Evayne nodded, as if she’d expected the interruption, or had been waiting for it.

  “What of the Summer Court?”

  Evayne bowed her head. “There is no Summer Court.”

  Celleriant drew one sharp breath; his hands were fists, his knuckles paler than his fair skin. “I am . . . aware of that. But—”

  “Ariane cannot convene that Court now. There is no path that leads to it, and there will be none until—unless—she is given the last of the Summer trees.”

  “There is one?”

  “There is,” Evayne replied.

  Celleriant closed his Winter eyes.

  “But Lord Celleriant, there is only one. Against need, against all hope, it has been gathered; it sleeps at the behest of the bard-born until the appointed moment.”

  “And who appoints that moment,” he said sharply, opening those eyes again, “If not the Summer Queen?”

  Evayne made no reply. “My gratitude, Terafin, for permission to traverse your lands. May I give you no cause to regret it.”

  Jewel said nothing; she knew that there were events in life which caused sorrow and regret for all concerned—friend or foe. And she knew, watching Evayne’s completely composed expression, knew it in a way that she knew breath or sleep or hunger, that had the salvation of the world rested on the shoulders of Jewel Markess ATerafin, The Terafin, it would crumble into tortured ruin.

  She could not ever be or do what this woman had.

  I will hate her for it, Jewel thought. But she thought it without vehemence.

  “Evayne.”

  Evayne said, “You do not understand the significance of the ring you wear.”

  Jewel glanced at the Terafin signet. And then, drawn by something in Evayne’s voice, she lifted the other hand; on it, she wore the signet of House Handernesse.

  “Yes, that ring. It is not that it is on your hand, or even that it reached the hand of Amarais before you; it was the ring Ararath wore on the final night of his life—but even that signifies little. You found it,” she continued, when Jewel failed to speak.

  “He was wearing this ring when he died?” she finally managed.

  “As I said, it signifies little.”

  She felt her hands take the shape of fists, which was inconvenient because she almost dropped the book she was holding. She set it on the table. When she looked up again, Evayne a’Nolan was gone.

  * * *

  Getting out of the library should have been difficult, because there was no obvious far wall in which the regular doors were embedded. There was, at the moment, a stretch of open floor, with a table, four chairs and a fountain in the distance. As it was, it took ten minutes, five of those occupied by Jewel’s attempt not to say any of what she was now thinking. Her hands were shaking in exactly the wrong way; it had been half a life since she’d last seen Rath, but at this moment, he was the only thing on her mind.

  And he couldn’t be. He couldn’t remain that way. But—Evayne knew how, and whe
re, he had died. Jewel was as certain of it as she’d been certain of anything in her life. Does it matter? She told herself, jaws clenching around pointless words. He’s dead. How he died, where he died—does it really matter?

  The answer was no. Of course not.

  But it was also yes, and the yes was more visceral. She was aware on most days that people made little sense, and today, she was going to be one of them, although she struggled to be fair. How much did she care about the death of a stranger?

  “Jewel,” Avandar said quietly. She raised her head; Avandar never called her by her name in front of other people—and the Chosen were here.

  He attempted to gain your attention by referring to your correct title, the Winter King told her. And Viandaran is only willing to pursue correct form so often before he chooses the practical, instead.

  “Apologies, Avandar,” she said, stiffly, because that was how she could speak at the moment. “I was distracted.”

  “It is past time to return to the manse and the right-kin’s office.”

  She nodded, although her hands were still clenched. She almost asked him how—how to leave the new library, how to return to the manse—but the Chosen were here. Instead, she began to walk, casting one glance at the table as she moved around it. She heard birdsong. In the library. She wondered if these deep, purple skies shed rain—that would be a disaster, given the lack of a roof.

  But . . . she liked the light, and after the initial shock of seeing the trees growing out of wooden slat flooring, she liked the shelving. She liked the sound of the fountain; it reminded her of the healerie, in the old days, when she had had the time to visit Alowan.

  She walked past them, through the wide gaps between shelves, and paused to retrieve a fallen leaf. When she rose, she continued to walk. Angel was once again on her right; Avandar on her left. The cats were snarling at each other in the rear, which meant the Chosen were, for the moment, free of harassment. When they cleared the shelving, there was no wall—but a standing arch, made of delicate filigreed black iron, waited some yards ahead. It was not a doorframe; it didn’t contain doors. Vines were wrapped around its posts, and small, white blossoms adorned them.

  “This is the exit,” she said. She walked toward it, lifted a hand to touch the flowers, as if uncertain they were real; they were. Through the arch itself, she could see the familiar halls of the manse proper. The lighting there was dimmer; it seemed unnatural in comparison.

  Letting her shoulders slide down her back as she readjusted her posture, she took a step through the arch.

  * * *

  “I hope Levec and Adam found their way out,” Angel said, as he appeared, once again, to her right.

  Jewel’s eyes widened.

  “I believe that the transformation had not yet occurred,” Avandar replied, from her left. “Had it, I am certain Levec would have returned—in angry haste—to your room.”

  From this side of the hall, the doors looked like normal doors. The Chosen joined them a few seconds later, the cats almost literally on their feet. The Chosen stationed on the normal side of the doors saluted Torvan.

  “As you were,” Torvan replied. “They’re the same winged cats—just larger.”

  As if to drive this point home, Night stepped heavily on Snow’s tail. Jewel did not tell either of the two to shut up or play nicely, because the reaction of the Chosen had been—for the Chosen—extreme. The residents of the House had had a few months to get used to the cats in their previous incarnation—and they’d done it because the cats never shut up and always insulted each other where at all possible. These cats had lower voices, longer, more prominent fangs, and longer claws; they were taller by at least a head, and probably weighed significantly more.

  But they sounded the same if you listened to their words, and frankly, when they were being pissy with each other, the only way to avoid hearing them was to plug your ears and run.

  * * *

  Lord Celleriant and the Winter King chose to remain in the library when Jewel was forced—by her awareness of the demands of a House that had probably held its collective breath for at least two days—to leave it.

  The halls of the manse were exactly as she remembered them; given the mess that was the bedroom, this wasn’t as comforting as it should have been. Nothing in the halls, and nothing in the public gallery seemed unnatural, though, and the window into the Courtyard showed an exterior world that felt stolid and real. The hangings and paintings had not magically been made over, and the servants all looked familiar—or better.

  Word of her presence had obviously been carried from the doors that led to her personal chambers to the rest of the manse at large; she could almost touch the relief she saw in the various servants, it was so palpable. Even the altered size and the shape of the cats did nothing to dampen it.

  * * *

  The right-kin’s office was not, as she’d half-hoped it would be, empty. There were guests in the various chairs in the external room, and Barston, as always, behind his desk. He rose when the doors opened and he saw who stood in their frame. He also bowed. It wasn’t necessary, although given her current station, it couldn’t be considered simpering or obsequious.

  “Terafin.”

  “My apologies, Barston. I imagine the right-kin has much of import to discuss.”

  “Indeed. If you will follow, I am certain he will see you now.” The last three words were louder; they had to be. Snow and Night had reached the point of shouting. It drew the attention of everyone else in the room; Barston had had decades with which to perfect the art of ignoring the unworthy and failed, in any other way, to notice them.

  He led the way past the seated visitors, knocked on the very closed doors, and opened them without waiting for a reply. There were two House Guards bracketing the door.

  Jewel entered the room, which was not unoccupied. Teller, she’d expected. She had not expected Sigurne Mellifas or Meralonne APhaniel, although the latter, at least, should have come as no surprise; she’d practically given him permission to live on the grounds without interference.

  Sigurne offered Jewel a bow.

  Meralonne bowed as well. The fact that no pipe graced the mage’s hand was a clear indication that the guildmaster was not in the best of tempers. Jewel signed, quickly and briefly.

  Teller’s response was a nod. None of his frustration reached his expression. Neither did the profound relief his gesture had conveyed. Sleeping for three days—and bleeding profusely on the edge of death while doing so—might happen all the time in the Terafin manse, given the neutral cast of his face.

  He did not bow. He inclined his head, and even that was a gesture offered familiar equals. It made a point—but Jewel wasn’t certain to whom. She turned to the cats and said, each syllable clearly annunciated, “Now is not the time.”

  They fell silent.

  Winged cats, over the past two months, had become rather commonplace in the manse. Winged cats that were now half again as heavy, and more obviously fanged and clawed, were not. Sigurne lifted one brow.

  Jewel entered the room and moved quickly toward Teller, passing between the visitors to do so. Avandar followed her; Angel took up position by the door, a position that became crowded as the Chosen entered.

  Gabriel’s office had always been a large one. Today, she understood why.

  “Terafin,” Teller said.

  “I need to reschedule the meeting of The Ten,” she told him, without apology or preamble.

  He nodded. “The Kalakar and The Morriset have made themselves available for a Council of The Ten at your earliest convenience; they require only notification of the time.”

  Two of nine. Jewel kept her grimace to herself and nodded.

  Exhaling, she turned to Sigurne. “Matteos is not in attendance?”

  “Matteos is in attendance in my Tower.” Sigurne smiled. It was a small, wintry smile of a type that didn’t generally adorn her face. “Meralonne, however, is to be in attendance while I am on the Terafin
grounds, unless an emergency of a magical nature demands his presence.” A nod to his position as the Terafin House Mage. “Rumors of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”

  “Not greatly,” Jewel replied. She felt Avandar’s disapproval.

  I was absent from a full Council of The Ten; I was absent from a command performance with the Exalted. I understand that you feel acknowledgment of any danger or threat weakens me—but not even Amarais could have missed either of those meetings without cause.

  “You were asleep.” It was not a question.

  “I was. I am awake now. The waking was of my volition; I will not sleep again in a like fashion.”

  “The Houses of Healing will be interested in this.”

  “They will, indeed. I have already had some contact with Levec.”

  Sigurne winced. “You have my profound sympathies. A man less likely to be a healer could not be found if one searched for decades.” She glanced at the cats, who had been almost preternaturally still and silent. “They are much changed.”

  “They are. It wasn’t my choice,” she added, in a softer voice.

  “Do you have control of their appearance?”

  She wanted to say no, but did not. Nor did Sigurne repeat the question when an answer failed to materialize. “How bad is it?” Jewel asked, instead.

  Sigurne lifted a white brow, and then glanced at Meralonne. “Yes,” she told him, in a more irritable—and therefore more familiar—tone of voice. “You may smoke, if that is acceptable to the right-kin and The Terafin.

  “The Exalted are extremely concerned. Because they are concerned, the Kings are likewise concerned.”

  “What has happened to increase their concern?” she asked. She wasn’t certain she would receive an answer now; she was certain one would be forthcoming when she traveled to Avantari to meet with the Exalted.

  “You will no doubt be informed soon. Am I permitted to ask what occurred?”

  Shadow growled. Jewel turned and said, “If you cannot be civil, you will wait outside. Outside,” she added quickly, “in the hall. You are not to terrorize any guest who is not currently—and obviously—attempting to kill me. Is that clear?”