Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “Will he?” she whispered. “Will the Winter King?”

  Shadow growled. His eyes were gold, their light the only warm light as far as the eye could see.

  “You don’t need them,” Snow said, tail flicking in the still air. “We’re better. You have us.”

  “She wants them,” Night said, shouldering the white cat out of the way. He looked up—or across—to meet her gaze.

  “But why? She has us.”

  “She’s stupid. But we knew that.”

  She couldn’t even tell them to stop. Shadow leaned into her side; she was compressed a moment between his bulk and Snow’s. The Chosen were silent. Avandar was silent. The air was dry and cold. They stood that way for five minutes, until Jewel closed her eyes.

  Shadow inhaled. She felt it. He exhaled a roar that was loud enough to shake ground. “Go,” he said. “Go and find them.”

  “Why us?”

  He said, in a voice free of whine, “She is shaping her world. All things affect its shape: all. Find them.”

  “What if they’re dead?”

  “Alive would be better.” Shadow bumped her again, and Jewel opened her eyes; he was staring at her face. “Alive would be better,” he repeated. “But dead would be better than lost.” He turned to Celleriant. “I will protect her,” he said. “But these roads are not my roads, and I carry no Winter with me.”

  Celleriant said nothing for a long moment. “If the roads are closed, I cannot travel at need to her side.”

  “Summer and Winter are at the heart of your Queen,” Shadow replied, voice grave and low. “The mortals are at the heart of mine. While you serve her, you must understand this.”

  Jewel watched him, afraid to speak. Afraid of what it would reveal of her heart and her fear. The cats and the Arianni were part of this empty, terrible wilderness. Carver and Ellerson were not.

  “Would you have me leave your side in this search?” Celleriant finally asked.

  “If you can find them, if you can bring them back—” she faltered. She was afraid of hope, here. Afraid of the cost of it.

  He knelt. “I will go with your cats and your only true mount. But call me, Lady, and I will return. Do not touch the hidden paths if I am not by your side. I ask it; I cannot command you.”

  Jewel nodded. “I—I will try.”

  “Come,” Shadow told her, in a tone of voice better suited to her domicis. “It is time to go home and be warm. You must tell the others. I will go with you,” he added, as if his presence would help.

  As if it would make the task of telling the den that Carver and Ellerson were missing any easier. She swallowed, dropped a hand to his head, and then nodded.

  Chapter Fifteen

  9th of Fabril, 428 A.A.

  Order of Knowledge, Averalaan Aramarelas

  SIGURNE STOOD behind her desk, facing the world that slept beyond her Tower windows. In the absence of The Terafin, the world now held its breath—although the Exalted did not do so in silence. Nor, it must be admitted, did the Kings, although they were far more gracious than the Lord of the Compact. Had she not known how grave the situation was, she would have inferred it from Duvari’s carriage and attitude; he had come to her. He had not done so with any notable humility, but Sigurne was old enough to expect no miracles.

  Tell me, Guildmaster, that you trust The Terafin.

  “I trust her.” She had expected argument; Duvari accepted no counsel from the Order. All of the argument he offered was silence.

  “You have seen Avantari.”

  “I have seen it, as you well know.”

  “You have seen Avantari, you understand that the changes made in its structure could not have been accomplished in less than a decade at the hands of any but the maker-born.”

  Sigurne privately felt that he underestimated the labor involved. She nodded, but offered him this grace; she spoke. “I am also aware that it was accomplished in less than a day.”

  “She did not set foot in the palace.”

  “No. I was at her side at the time. I heard every word she spoke, Lord of the Compact, and none of those words were an order to rearrange the structure of Avantari.”

  “At the Kings’ request, you will arrive before The Terafin does.” He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a single, long tube. Sigurne had seen its like only a handful of times. She accepted it without comment or expression.

  “No writ of exemption is required when you serve at the command of the Kings.”

  “And I am to serve in what capacity?”

  “At the Kings’ Command, should the need arise, you are to render The Terafin immobile. If she cannot be rendered harmless without injury or death, you will kill her.”

  “At the Kings’ Command, Lord of the Compact. Not at yours.” But her hands gripped the tube tightly. There had been much discussion in the Hall of Wise Counsel; none, so far, had led to this. “The Kings have yet to give such a command.”

  “Read their message,” he replied, voice cool.

  She broke the tube’s seal. Duvari was many things. Sigurne had no doubt at all that he was an accomplished liar, but he had never condescended to do so in her presence. He was suspicious, yes; he routinely made clear that everyone in any position of authority or power was a threat. He did not view the polity as anyone reasonable would—but that was not his duty.

  She was therefore unsurprised when she read what was penned. The Kings had not yet reached a decision, but they had compromised in one thing: they required her obedient service—as First Circle mage—should Jewel ATerafin’s existence finally be deemed too much of a danger.

  “Very well. I will, of course, make myself available at the Kings’ pleasure.”

  She was surprised when he acknowledged her weary tone by an abrupt shift in topic. “Where is Meralonne APhaniel?”

  “Lord of the Compact, I have been as forthcoming as I can; it has been a very long day. I am aware that you are well aware of his current disposition; he has accepted the offer of employ as the Terafin House Mage.”

  “Exclusively.”

  “Given that, where do you think he is to be found?”

  “I have been to the Terafin manse. He is not there.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He is not present. He is not to be found upon the grounds; the Master Gardener could not locate him, although he did make the attempt at my request.”

  Sigurne exhaled. “He has not returned to his Tower rooms.”

  “He has not. It was the second place I visited.” Duvari surprised her, then. He took a seat. He took a seat before the long, polished table in the rooms in which Sigurne habitually entertained visitors of import who presented a clear and obvious danger. “Are you aware of . . . structural changes within the Terafin manse upon the Isle?”

  She was not, and suspected Duvari knew it. She considered a declaration of honest ignorance, and decided against it, although it was difficult. He had tied the changes to one of her own, and ignorance in that case would be politically unwise.

  She had not, in truth, slept easily since the day of The Terafin’s funeral. She had spent far more time than was her wont in the company of the god-born—Exalted and Kings, both. When the affairs of the Order were calm, she considered it part of her duty. Since the appearance of the Kialli lord during the victory parade, she considered it detrimental in the extreme. The Kings required none of her expertise and none of her advice; she had offered them three First Circle magi who might attend their various Courts in her stead, and they had all been politely declined.

  But she understood two things: Duvari had all but demanded that Jewel Markess ATerafin be removed. Solran Marten, the Senniel bardmaster made clear that he had not been as subtle in the privacy of the Kings’ chambers. Sigurne had not asked her how she had come by the knowledge; it was best not to know.

  “Are they relevant to my current work, Duvari?” she finally asked.

  “I would have you answer that question.”

  “Ve
ry well. I consider it inconsequential in comparison to the danger we now face.”

  “A demon, Sigurne.”

  “You do not understand what you saw,” she replied softly. “The demons we have seen in the city within the last year are insignificant in comparison.”

  “You hope to find him.”

  “I hope to find his summoner, if that is possible.” She lied, of course. She understood what she had seen. She knew that he had not been summoned by anything less than the Lord of the Hells himself; no other would have survived it. What concerned her was the exact timing of his arrival at the heart of the Common. In that fact, she could see the hand of one of her own. And if not that . . . she exhaled, and met Duvari’s steady gaze. “Every moment I spend in your company, or in the company of my Kings, is a moment lost to me—and the trail, so very slender to begin with, grows cold and stale.

  “I will attend the Kings in the Hall of Wise Counsel on the morrow.”

  One did not dismiss Duvari without a great deal of effort if he did not wish to be moved. Were he in the presence of the Kings, it would be much simpler; the Kings would not allow him to overstep his bounds because it implied a strong lack of courtesy on their part. Absent the Kings, Duvari could not as easily be contained. “I ask you again, Sigurne: Where is Meralonne APhaniel?”

  “I am not his keeper, Lord of the Compact.”

  Duvari rose. “You do not know.”

  “I am not,” she agreed, “aware of his exact disposition, no.”

  “Guildmaster.” Duvari bowed; it was not the gesture she was expecting, and some hint of a cool smile adorned his lips as he rose. “Perhaps the time has come that such ignorance now presents a danger to us.”

  “If I am certain of nothing else, I am certain of this: Meralonne APhaniel had no part to play in the appearance of the demon in the Common. Nor had he any part to play in the architectural transformation of Avantari.”

  “And I have mentioned neither, Guildmaster.”

  She stiffened, drawing herself to her full height almost instinctively.

  Duvari’s eyes narrowed, as if her posture answered a question he’d not yet asked. “On the morrow, then.”

  She nodded, and escorted him out of the room. She resisted the urge to escort him off the premises, in large part because the walk to the doors and back was long and involved a not inconsiderable number of stairs. She did, however, make certain he left.

  Only once she was certain did she retire to her own Tower once again. Duvari did not let information slip; it was not his way. Nor did he trade information in any obvious way; he absorbed it, filtered it through his constant and enduring suspicion, inferring—from any gesture, any word, any pause—what best suited his purposes.

  He therefore offered information in a like fashion. That he was suspicious of Meralonne was not a surprise; Duvari was suspicious of any man—or woman—of power in the Empire who was not one of the Twin Kings. Even the Princes were not immune until their fathers passed on. But he had come seeking Meralonne when he was almost certain Meralonne was not present in the Tower.

  It offered either criticism or warning—and given Duvari, one could hardly avoid the former. The latter, however, was telling.

  Oh, it was cold in this room. She paced the floor, glancing at the grate in which the embers of a fire burned low. Decades of conservative use of magic stayed her hand; she had cast only one spell, and waited its outcome now. In the long years since she had taken the helm of the Order, she had used it only a handful of times. The time was coming, she thought, when it would cease to have any effect at all.

  Perhaps tonight was that night.

  Not yet, she thought. Not now. She had not lied to Duvari; the presence of the Kialli lord in the Common was her greatest concern. She had not been entirely truthful, however; if she was not aware of the minutiae of the changes that occurred in the Terafin manse, she understood that it presaged a shift of power that no one could have predicted. It compelled Meralonne, fascinated him; had she had any hope of keeping him away from Terafin, she would have forbidden his acceptance of the offered contract.

  She would have failed, and knew it.

  But that failure, she could accept. Walking over to the Tower’s windows, she stared into the deepening darkness of night sky, seeing the clarity of stars, of moons. It had been an hour. Two. Meralonne had failed to answer her summons—but delay was not unusual; if he condescended to obey, he did so in a way that did not, in his own eyes, either demean him or elevate her.

  At the end of a third hour, she surrendered. It was now late enough that the sleep she required for the audience on the morrow would be sacrificed if she continued to pace. Exhaling, she left her office, moving with economy and a surprising speed toward her bedchamber. Of the rooms in the Tower it was the smallest; Sigurne had always been practical, and very little of her day was given to sleep. It contained one bed and one chair, a small bedside table, and a dresser upon which an oval mirror sat. The mirror had gathered dust, but the dust did not diminish its use: when pressed, she could communicate through its silvered surface.

  It was not her mirror of choice, given its location.

  She opened the door, a complicated affair that involved two keys and a subtle unwinding of protective spells. Although she seldom faced danger while asleep, she was at her most vulnerable in that state, and the odd ambitious mage had taken it upon himself to speed her passage into the Halls of Mandaros in a way that would not immediately cause suspicion.

  The door opened, and even had the frame not suddenly shifted color in her vision, she would have understood the danger: Meralonne APhaniel had taken up residence in her room’s single chair. He appeared to be stuffing the bowl of his pipe.

  * * *

  Relief warred with annoyance, and as neither immediately won, she was silent.

  He lifted his as yet unlit pipe. “Sigurne, do come in.”

  “This is not the room in which I normally entertain guests.”

  “Ah.”

  “And certainly not guests who insist on smoking.”

  “It seemed late enough that you would be found here.”

  “How long have you been waiting?”

  “Not more than an hour.”

  He looked, sounded, and moved as if he were still the very frustrating individual she had always known, and after a moment, she did enter her room; the door closed at her back, but not by her hand. “Do not use magic upon this door,” she told him tersely.

  “I am, obviously, conversant with the way the door operates, or I would not be here.”

  “I have some questions about that,” she replied, “but they will have to wait.”

  “Oh?”

  “If you desired my death, Meralonne, I would have been dead decades past. There is, therefore, no point in exercising that kind of caution where you are concerned. I would ask that you preserve the illusion that I have that choice, at least where other members of the Order are concerned.”

  “You don’t want Matteos to worry.”

  “No, I don’t. He is not as young as he once was, but his pride is ferocious, and he has never been much impressed with your various eccentricities.” She passed him and sat on the edge of the bed, which was high enough off the ground she considered standing instead.

  “I did start a fire,” he pointed out. He had; with the door closed, the room was warm.

  The warmth enveloped her, and she lifted a hand. “Yes, you can smoke if you must—but, Meralonne, I am not a child. I do not need to be coddled or lulled into a momentary and entirely false security.”

  “Ah. Were you ever that child, Sigurne?”

  “No, but we were a harsher people.”

  “You summoned me.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, exhaling, “I wanted to ascertain for myself whether or not I still could. I have long privileged pragmatism as a way of navigating the world, but I feel as if the pragmatic is at last unraveling, a
nd everything I have struggled to build will crumble with it.

  “Duvari came tonight.”

  “For?”

  “You.”

  His gaze turned to the pipe he now lifted, and he frowned for a long, long moment. Sigurne had never liked the pipe, and although Meralonne had experimented with a variety of leaf over the decades, he had never found one that could change her mind. Yet watching him now, she was afraid—truly, viscerally afraid—that he would set that pipe aside and never return to it.

  As if he could read the fear, he smiled; his lips touched the pipe’s stem, and his fingers delivered fire to the leaf the bowl contained. “Yes,” he said, exhaling familiar rings. “It is almost time, Sigurne.”

  Folding her hands in her lap to keep them still and steady, she met his gaze. “I remember the first time I saw you.” It was not what she’d intended, but she had no easy way to address the words he had just spoken. “I did not know your name. I did not know that I would survive you; nothing else did.” She smiled as she spoke; every word was true, and it was true in a way that time had not changed. “I thought you so beautiful then: you were like the northern winds. I thought you were death.

  “I remember that you arrived first, and at your back in the growing distance, the magi, straggling, hesitant, casting their protective shields and barriers. It is what I do now—but I thought, watching them, that they seemed so very frail, so very timid, in comparison.

  “And I remember your sword, APhaniel, and your shield. I remember the way you leaped into the winds—and the way they carried you. You were, then, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

  “In the North, beauty and deadliness are oft the same.”

  “Beauty does not imply safety, comfort, or peace, no. But at that time, nothing in my life did. I thought I would die.”

  “You were prepared to die. Perhaps if you had cried or pleaded, you would have.” His smile was slender, and watching it, she was aware that her youth and his were separated by so many years, and so many experiences, she barely touched the surface of his life.

  “You did not kill me.”

  “No, and where I would not kill, the others would not.” His smile deepened into a more familiar, vexing expression. “But I, too, remember. They are coming, Sigurne. Darranatos was the first, but in the end, not the most significant.” He lifted his head, and wind played in his hair, and it was a cold, cold wind.