Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  She watched, hands by her sides; they were looser now than they’d been since she had entered the closet that was not a closet. She raised chin, drew breath, exhaled; breath made a veil of mist through which the cat and the first assailant clashed. There was no blood; there was sound and fury; the wind drove cat and man apart, but it failed to dash the cat against the nearest wall.

  Ah, no, she thought, there was blood; it was scant—a scratch across a perfect, Winter cheek. She caught a glimpse of it as he turned, dropping spear to draw sword. It was—of course it was—pale, perfect blue, a thing of light and motion. She expected shield, and it followed, instantly adorning the arm bent to bear it. That shield took the full force of Snow’s extended claws, and the blow sent the Arianni back.

  Jewel grimaced. She knew where back was in this fight: toward her. The Arianni Lord had positioned himself perfectly, and the force of Snow’s almost aerial blows pushed him exactly where he wanted to go. Had his opponent been Shadow—who was now embroiled in his own fight farther down the hall—such a tactic would have been pointless. But Snow and Night were not the tacticians Shadow was; Jewel stood her ground as the Arianni Lord spun in air, sword raised. It came down in a flashing sweep that looked, to her eyes, like handheld lightning.

  A hand’s span from her neck, the blade slammed into a second, similar sword.

  Celleriant had arrived.

  * * *

  Jewel felt no triumph at all.

  “Mordanant,” Celleriant said, as the echoes of steel striking steel faded. They did not put their swords up; they strained, blade against blade. All of the Arianni looked alike to Jewel—cold and perfect and Other. She could not see beyond that similarity to a family resemblance, although she knew they were brothers.

  “Will you defend her here?” Mordanant demanded. “If she dies, you are free.”

  “If she dies while I stand,” Celleriant replied, “I have failed.”

  Mordanant’s eyes widened. “Impossible,” he said, the last syllable almost inaudible. “It is impossible.”

  Celleriant remained unmoved by the disbelief, the shock, the pain, in Mordanant’s voice. Jewel did not, but she had a decade of practice at hiding pain in public.

  “Why do you think she waits?” Celleriant asked. “She has not moved; she has not ordered her guards forward. She knew that I would be here before your sword fell.”

  Mordanant was rigid. “How did she force this upon you?”

  He shook his head. “She could not, as you well know. There is only one who can.”

  “Then why? Why, brother?”

  Celleriant, arms locked to prevent the downward fall of his brother’s sword, shook his head. “Does it matter?”

  Mordanant did not reply.

  “She is mortal. She has lived half her life; the handful of years left her—”

  Mordanant’s gaze slid from Celleriant’s face to Jewel’s. She stood, chin lifted, watching some point beyond his back. Snow, struggling free of the wind’s grasp, padded deliberately toward Mordanant’s back. “No, Snow. Not yet.” The Arianni Lord’s pale brows rose.

  “Do you think I fear cats?”

  “Snow. Come to me now.” Growling, the cat did as she ordered—but it was a struggle. His fangs appeared to occupy most of his face. He moved to stand between her and Avandar, bristling. She did not answer Mordanant’s question.

  “He came to kill you,” Snow told her. She dropped a hand on the top of his head.

  “Believe that I’m aware of that.”

  “Then why do I have to stand here?”

  “Because he is Lord Celleriant’s brother.”

  “I would have killed mine.”

  “Enough, Snow.”

  Mordanant was staring at her. To the cat, he said, “You serve her?”

  Snow’s wings rose in his version of an extremely antagonistic shrug.

  “You serve the mortal? You do not serve Viandaran?”

  Incredulous, Snow’s head swiveled to the side beneath Jewel’s palm. “No,” he replied. “He’s too ugly.”

  Only then did Mordanant lower his sword. Celleriant’s fell with it, although he did not relax. To Jewel, Mordanant said, “Release him.”

  “I wouldn’t even know how,” she replied. It was truth, but it was not all of the truth.

  “If you hold him in any regard, if you value any service he has rendered to you, release him.”

  “Mordanant,” Celleriant said softly.

  His brother turned to face him. “We have come this way for this purpose—and one other.”

  “Order your men to retreat,” Jewel told him. “I will call the cats back.”

  Snow hissed.

  Mordanant ignored her.

  “Who sent you onto the Winter roads, Mordanant?”

  Mordanant’s sword faded from view. “The Winter Queen,” he said softly.

  “She did not send you to kill this mortal and relieve me of my burden.”

  His brother lowered chin; it was brief. “There is danger.”

  “And it is a danger from which you have ridden?”

  “I? No. If there is difficulty, it will not fall upon me.”

  Silence.

  Jewel.

  She nodded.

  Something is wrong here.

  She resisted the urge to employ sarcasm. The wind was cold, here, and the chill had settled into her so thoroughly she thought she might never feel warm again.

  “What endangers my Lord?” Celleriant’s sword had not vanished, and he raised it as if it were punctuation.

  Mordanant flinched. “Only once in our long history did the Arianni swear such vows to a mortal. Have you forgotten?”

  “I am not as they were.”

  “No,” Mordanant said, voice so low Jewel almost missed the word. “You are not.”

  “I chose, brother. They did not; they were given orders, and they swore the oaths they swore—but their service was never truly given to a mortal. It was my choice. Not hers; it was given to her to accept—or reject—what I offered.”

  “And what mortal would reject you?”

  “What mortal indeed?” Celleriant’s smile was sharp and cold. Jewel’s hands curved in numb fists at the sight of it. “And yet you have asked her to release me from a vow she only barely understands.”

  “She understood it well enough to call you, brother.”

  “That is not understanding; it is instinct. I am not,” he said again, “as they were.”

  “No. But it is coming.”

  Celleriant froze.

  “They are waking, Celleriant. They are waking, and they will visit endless anger upon this pathetic, mortal city. Upon,” he added, “the Lord you now serve. Will you stand against them? You will perish.”

  Celleriant threw back his head as he laughed. It was a wild, mirthless laughter, almost the antithesis of joy; his expression as it left him was fevered, too-bright. “And for this, you wish me to be released from my oath?

  “Where will I go, brother? Back to a Court that is hampered by lack of Summer? Back to the slumbering lands when the world—at last—begins to wake? Back to a Queen who might never again lead the host?”

  Mordanant stepped forward, his anger quick and sudden; Celleriant did not move.

  “Walk a moment in my Lord’s gardens, and you will hear the voices of the ancients raised at last in their endless whispers.”

  “Celleriant—you are the youngest of our number; I am among the oldest remaining. I tell you now that you cannot stand against them. You will know the briefest of glory and your eternity will end. If you will end thus, return to us; even hampered as she is, she is the White Lady, and her anger is ancient and endless. We stand, and will stand, against those who have betrayed her, and if we fall, we fall in glory. We will meet them; do not do so by the orders of—the whim of—a mortal who does not, and can never, understand.” He raised a hand toward his brother, but turned, once again, to Jewel. His expression was almost enough to make her take a step bac
k. “I say again, release him.”

  Celleriant shook his head. “She will not give you what you desire unless it is clear that I also desire it. It is not your request she will honor, but mine.”

  “Then ask her, brother. We have been sent to hunt their heralds; to find and destroy their servants before those servants set foot upon the path that leads to where they slumber.”

  “The heralds are abroad?”

  “They are.”

  “They will not find that path easily,” Avandar said, speaking for the first time. “Not in this place.”

  “They will find it,” Mordanant whispered.

  “How do you know this?”

  “The Winter Queen entertained a guest. Her guest has seen what must follow if they are not apprehended. They will find what they seek.”

  Jewel surprised herself; she spoke. “Was her guest Evayne?”

  “Evayne a’Neamis,” he replied.

  “I don’t understand. Do you speak of the Sleepers?”

  The three men turned to face her; she might have uttered the most foul of curses to far less effect.

  Celleriant said, “Yes, Lord. But we speak softly, if at all. Do not name them here. Do not name them at all if it is within your power.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No,” Mordanant replied. “You do not. Viandaran?”

  Avandar said nothing for a long moment. Into his silence, Jewel continued. “They’re meant to sleep until—until Moorelas rides again.”

  “Given that he was mortal, and given that he is long dead, that is unlikely.” Mordanant glanced at Celleriant. “What tales do mortals now tell?”

  “They tell few indeed that I have heard.”

  Avandar said, “the oldest of their legends—most forgotten—tell the tale of their betrayal of Moorelas in the Shining City. Four princes rode by his side, but only one fulfilled the oaths made to the wielder of the godslayer. For their betrayal, they were entombed, alive but unmoving, until the day Moorelas returns, when they will redeem themselves, at last, in the mortal’s endless quest to bring death to the Lord of the Hells.”

  Mordanant’s brows rose as his silver eyes rounded. “That is the story they tell?”

  “That is the story that was once told. Fragments of it remain in the sayings and superstitions of the Empire, no more.”

  Jewel said, softly, “‘When the Sleepers wake’ heralds the end of time. The end of the world. It means ‘never.’”

  “Never is come upon you,” Mordanant replied. “Speak, now, to Illaraphaniel. He is the only hope you have.”

  “He is in her service,” Celleriant said.

  “Not in the way you are. I would have felt it a hundred leagues away.” He frowned. “Brother, among those who tracked, you were second to none. Our Lady has need of you.”

  “Did the Winter Queen ask this of you, Mordanant?”

  Mordanant did not reply. Answer enough, Jewel knew. And she knew that if Mordanant had said yes, Celleriant would have asked for his freedom. Knew it. But Mordanant did not lie.

  In the distance, Jewel heard the long, resonant note of a horn’s call.

  “Come with us,” Mordanant said, speaking both softly and without hope.

  Celleriant smiled; it was pained. “Survive, brother. Survive and we will meet again in the Summer Court.”

  “There is no—”

  But Jewel said, “There will be a Summer Court if we survive what is to follow.”

  “How can you—”

  “She is seer-born,” Celleriant replied, the words strangely hushed. “The White Lady was not the only one to entertain Evayne as guest. Mortality does not guarantee that she speaks truth; she is mortal, and as any, is full capable of choosing words without recourse to fact.”

  Mordanant did not reply. His expression had shifted as he regarded Jewel. She couldn’t read it.

  Celleriant, however, could. “Do you still counsel me to abandon her, brother?”

  “You do not serve her because you view her as our hope.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters to me,” was the soft reply. “Because there is now a thorn in the side of our hope, if you believe her words to be true.”

  “She is not full capable of a lie, although she has learned to use silence in its stead. Regardless, she cannot now lie to me.” He turned to her, and fell to one knee. “Lord,” he said. It was a posture she disliked; she suspected he knew it. “When you speak of the Summer Court, what do you envisage?”

  “Ariane,” Jewel replied. “In the heart of a forest that is also a city. It’s . . . not strong. It’s certain.”

  “Can you not look?” Mordanant almost demanded. There was a desperation in the words that underlay the sudden eagerness.

  “No,” she said, understanding the question. “I do not have a seer’s crystal.”

  “You have not walked the Oracle’s path. You have not survived her test.” It was not a question. “Celleriant, come away. Hunt with us. There is no guarantee that she will survive the testing; most of the mortals did not.”

  Celleriant smiled. “She will survive. Do you forget, brother? She stood upon the hidden path and held it, in her ignorance, against the Queen’s host. Elliaranatte grow in the lee of her mortal manse, and they speak.”

  Mordanant’s eyes widened. Of all the things Celleriant had said, this was the only thing that seemed, to Jewel’s eye, to be significant to him.

  “My Lord,” Celleriant continued, “will survive.”

  The distant horn sounded again. Mordanant hesitated for a long moment, and then nodded. A smile graced his face as he looked at his brother; it vanished as he looked down, at Jewel.

  Before he could speak, she said, “Do not embarrass your brother. He does not require my protection.”

  Celleriant laughed, and this laugh was shorn of edge. It was almost—for one of the Arianni—rueful. He bowed to his brother. “Go,” he said softly. “But if you can—if it is possible after this long night—return and I will show you the heart of my Lord’s domain.” He turned to Jewel. “With your permission and your leave.”

  “I am loath to grant that leave to a Lord who has sworn to kill me,” she replied, voice cool. “But I might be moved to allow much to such a man in return for a favor.”

  “What favor, mortal?” Mordanant’s eyes narrowed; his face was all of Winter.

  “We came this way seeking my kin.”

  “Yours?”

  She nodded.

  “Lady, if you seek mortals on this night, you seek in vain.”

  “What is special about this night?”

  “Those who can hunt are abroad,” he replied. “The wilds are waking, and they present a challenge we have not seen in some time. How were your kin separated from your party?”

  “They walked through a door in my mansion.”

  “A door?”

  “A closet door.”

  He frowned. “No one lives in this place, certainly no mortals. What road did you travel to reach it?”

  “The same one. A closet door.”

  “Little mortal,” he said softly, “if you do not open the ways, you must become someone who can sense their existence. You have claimed lands, and if my brother chose to offer you his service, he believes them to be yours. But if the ways are opening without your permission and without your knowledge, your grasp is tenuous.

  “I have not seen stray mortals; only you, yourself.”

  “And if you do?”

  He smiled. It was exquisitely unpleasant.

  Shadow, however, growled. “If we are not allowed to play with them, we will kill you all before you do.”

  “You will have to find me. Remember: I came to your Lord; she did not come to me.”

  Mordanant turned and leaped. He did not land. The air carried the whole of his weight, tugging at his hair. It spun him around to face Celleriant. He said nothing for a long moment, and into that silence trudged two cats—one black, one gray. It was N
ight who took a pointless swipe at him on the way past. He looked down at the cat in every possible way, and then he vanished into the darkness and the cold.

  “Why didn’t you eat him?” Night demanded of Snow.

  “She wouldn’t let me.”

  “Oh?” Shadow looked up at Jewel. “Why not?”

  “He’s Celleriant’s brother. I wouldn’t let you kill each other, either.”

  Shadow hissed. “There are others,” he told her, his voice dropping.

  “Yes. But I want you here. You can play with them on your own time.”

  “And when is that? Go there. Stand here. Don’t play.”

  Jewel almost laughed. “Shadow, is it Winter everywhere?”

  He tilted his head. “It is Winter almost nowhere,” he replied. “They carry it with them. But it will not last.”

  Celleriant rose. To Shadow, without preamble, he said, “They are waking.”

  Shadow hissed. Ignoring Celleriant—which is what he generally did—he shouldered Snow aside. Avandar adroitly sidestepped most of Shadow’s gray bulk. “Terafin?”

  Jewel exhaled, staring down the long hall as if, by will alone, she could pierce all of the darknesses that occupied it. “No,” she finally said. “We’re not done yet.”

  Jewel, Avandar said.

  She raised a hand in shaky den-sign.

  Avandar, of course, hadn’t lifted hand or raised voice. Jewel. The voice he did use was softer. If it is not winter, it is cold, and you are—in all ways—too exposed. Return to the manse. Attire yourself for the weather and allow your Chosen to do the same.

  I can’t. I can’t leave without them.

  Will you find them? Will you find them if we remain?

  The hall stretched on forever. Don’t. “Don’t. Don’t ask that here.” But he had. He had, and as she formed the loose and shaking fists that the cold allowed her, she knew what the answer was. But she was Jewel; she denied it until Shadow stepped—gently, for the cat—on her foot.

  “They are not here,” he said, in a soft voice. “It is not through this door that you will find them.”