Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  “The nature of the magic makes it suspect. The possible age of the volume. Books such as these were created for the use of the powerful; they were seldom created to be repositories of knowledge for future generations. What words you might find therein were not meant merely to enlighten, although any number of harmless words might be added after the fact.

  “There were two known incidents of diaries being thus enchanted. They were meant to exert influence, and, Terafin, they did. If the reader was not careful, the life lived in those pages, the handwriting read, might grow to become as visceral as the reader’s own memories; the reader might forget the events of his own life, and become embroiled, instead, in the life of the scribe—as if the reader were actually living them.

  “It was seldom that such volumes were given to mortals.”

  “Mortals being easily rendered powerless in other ways?”

  “Indeed.” Avandar fell silent.

  “They were not easily created. Among other things,” Andrei continued, not taking his eyes off the book’s unremarkable spine, “they required the hides of a variety of creatures to be effective. The hides were cured, dried, flattened, and bound into the book as pages—while their donors still lived. It was a requirement of the magics involved. Enchantments can, as you are aware, be laid upon the inanimate. They can less trivially be laid upon the living. But when they are laid upon the living, they are at their most potent when there is cooperation between the being and the enchanter.

  “Where there is no cooperation, the enchantments are of a different nature. But even then, they are more potent where there is life. Thus, books such as this.”

  “Avandar—can you see what, about this book, made Andrei so certain it’s—whatever he thinks it is?”

  “I would not, to my chagrin, have noticed were it not for his attention; I would not have thought to notice. Guildmaster Mellifas might notice, if she brought the whole of her attention to bear.”

  “Meralonne?”

  “Yes. I think he would. Shall I fetch him?”

  Jewel closed her eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said softly. “He is in the heart of my forest, near the tree of fire.”

  “You can see him?”

  She couldn’t. But she didn’t doubt the peculiar sense of certainty. Nor did she doubt, as she concentrated on the mercurial House Mage, that he would answer a summons that no one else—not even she—could hear.

  * * *

  Teller signed. Jewel hesitated, and then signed in response. She turned to the Chosen to ask them to leave with the right-kin. They agreed, but made clear that they would be back—with reinforcements. “We do not need reinforcements,” she told them. “Patris Araven?”

  “I will accompany the right-kin; if he does not wish to be in his own rooms for the duration of this procedure, I do not feel it is my place to insist upon remaining. Terafin?”

  “I’m staying. Allow me to see you back to the great room.”

  * * *

  Torvan and Arrendas arrived with Gordon and Marave. She considered demoting them both. “Avandar and Andrei will be in the room; Avandar will not allow Hectore’s servant to do anything that will be dangerous in any way to either me or my House. Teller and Hectore will be in the great room; I would like you to remain with them.”

  “Are you going to be in the great room, Terafin?” Torvan said, stepping forward as if to draw the brunt of her growing ire down upon only his own head.

  “I will not.”

  “Then we will not remain in the great room. If you wish to demote us, we will, of course, obey as House Guards—but we are your Chosen. What you risk, we will risk.”

  “I am not at risk, Torvan!”

  “Then we will likewise not be at risk. We are going to be there, or you are not.”

  Jewel could not remember Amarais ever dealing with this level of insubordination in her reign—from anyone.

  “Avandar will be there.”

  “Avandar is not Chosen.”

  She turned to Arrendas. Arrendas was, unfortunately, standing at attention. It was deliberate, of course. On most days, Jewel hated the cats. She now reconsidered this. The cats, she could leave behind. As she opened her mouth to attempt to give orders that could not be ignored, the doors opened.

  Meralonne APhaniel stood in their frame. His hair was unfettered; it fell across his shoulders and down his back, but strands were caught in a cross-breeze that no one else in this hall felt.

  “Terafin,” he said. He dropped to one knee, and that drove the ability to argue out of her grasp. When she failed to reply, he lifted his head. “You summoned me.”

  He did not offer her sword or fealty; she knew he would offer neither while he lived. But the depth of the respect he now publicly showed was very, very discomforting. “I did. A book has been discovered in Teller’s room, and the man who discovered it—in a routine security sweep—did not, and does not, feel it could be safely moved.”

  “And Viandaran?”

  “He is in the right-kin’s personal rooms. He feels that you will have more knowledge of the esoteric enchantments than he does. If you feel that removal of the enchantment—or the book itself—will cause material damage to the rest of the room, give us warning and I will have the rest of the right-kin’s possessions relocated.”

  The mage rose, frowning. “Very well. I admit a certain curiosity.” He reached into his robes, and Jewel lifted a hand.

  “I do not think,” she told him, “that you will require your pipe.”

  * * *

  When Meralonne entered Teller’s rooms, he preceded the Chosen. Jewel, however, was sandwiched between them. She had surrendered to Torvan and Arrendas because she did not wish to continue the argument in the presence of the House Mage. She did not therefore see Meralonne’s reaction to Andrei—if he even had one.

  “Viandaran?” he asked.

  “I am uncertain.”

  “Very well. I will have you stand back.”

  When Andrei failed to move, Meralonne coughed once. Loudly. The Araven servant swiveled to meet the mage’s gaze. He held it for a long moment before inclining his head. He did not, however, retreat to the far wall; he stepped back until he was perhaps a yard away from the space now occupied by the mage.

  Meralonne, without ceremony, reached out and plucked the book from the shelf. Andrei’s eyes rounded; the momentary outrage in his expression was almost comical.

  Jewel felt the hair on her neck begin to stand on end as Meralonne turned to face them, the book in his hands. He did not open it; instead, he closed his eyes. Before he could ask, Jewel told him when the book had entered Teller’s collection, and who its source was. He did not appear to be listening.

  Nor did he appear to be moving or casting, but the air grew thick and charged; it implied thunder and storm, contained on all sides by walls, floors, and ceilings. His eyes snapped open; they were bright, silver lightning.

  “Where did this book come from?” he demanded. Since Jewel had already answered this question, she grimaced. He glanced at her from what appeared to be a great remove. “I heard you mention that preposterous oaf. He did not find this book on his own.”

  “I am to pay a visit to him on the morrow,” Andrei said. “Which The Terafin also mentioned.”

  Jewel, Avandar said, leave. Take your Chosen, and retire to the great room.

  Jewel shook her head.

  “How much has this volume been handled?”

  “Very little. It’s written in a language Teller can’t easily read.” Jewel, glancing at the cover of the book, felt compelled to add, “Neither can I. It looks like Old Weston, to me—but some of the letter forms seem wrong.”

  “It is not Old Weston. It is the language from which Old Weston evolved. But it is not, if I am correct, only or even entirely in that tongue. The spine and the front cover, however, are. This book was meant for mortals.”

  “Avandar said—”

  “Viandaran is one of the few who is
up to the task of handling it,” Meralonne replied.

  “You’ve seen this book before.”

  He smiled. It was not pleasant.

  “Can you neutralize it?”

  “That, of course, is the question. I would suggest we retire to your library. If for no other reason than that the book will be—in my considered opinion—safe there.”

  Teller was not going to like it. “What about the other two?”

  Meralonne frowned. “The others? Oh. Those. One is meant as an anchor; it serves as a beacon to those who might attempt to enter this room through entirely magical means. It is a relatively powerful and innocuous spell. Those of the magi who are not capable of traversing great distances in an instant can use some of the power in the beacon to bring them here.”

  Jewel did not consider this to be inconsequential.

  “The other is a listening device. What is spoken here, if the book is not properly contained, will be heard by those who choose to listen. I do not believe it captures all words; it is not powerful enough for that. Neither of these are materially deadly; they can both be used to cause mischief. In your manse as it is currently constituted, I consider them both to be lesser nuisances. They may have uses, now that you are aware of their existence, and for that reason, I counsel against their destruction.” He smiled. “You were correct, Terafin. I do not find myself missing my pipe at all.”

  * * *

  Jewel chose to leave Hectore and Teller in the great room. She gave Andrei the choice of either following or remaining behind, and he chose—to her surprise—to remain behind. “Hectore is feeling maudlin,” he said, by way of explanation. “And he will give away half his House on impulse in this mood.”

  “I am not certain it is in the interests of my House to have you there to prevent it.” She smiled. Andrei did not. He had retreated into a familiar expression: that of long-suffering servant. “Thank you for the services you have rendered Terafin this afternoon. If you are willing to do so, I would have you search the other rooms.” She paused. “Did you say there was an entrance into the servants’ halls that you found suspicious?”

  “I did. If Member APhaniel is willing to inspect it—”

  “Member APhaniel is not,” the mage replied, sounding both irritable and bored.

  “Member APhaniel will inspect it before we retire to my library,” Jewel said smoothly. She turned to Haval.

  He nodded before she could ask. “I will, of course, be present for that inspection.”

  “And the book?”

  “If you permit it, Terafin, I am curious.”

  * * *

  When Meralonne entered the chamber in which the servants’ entrance lay hidden, he stiffened. “Viandaran.” He held out the book. Avandar frowned at its worn, faded cover before he accepted it. “Where is the Araven servant?”

  “He is with his master,” Jewel said.

  “How did he ascertain that there was difficulty with this particular door?”

  “I am uncertain, Meralonne. I can’t tell you how he knew the book in Avandar’s hands would be a problem either—I’m not a mage.”

  “Viandaran, do you detect any magical difficulty with this door?”

  Avandar was silent for long enough Jewel thought he wouldn’t answer. But he did. “No. You see what Andrei saw.”

  “I see, indeed, what he saw. It is possible Sigurne Mellifas would see it as well, were she alerted to the danger and told exactly where to look.”

  “Then it is not unlikely that Andrei might be likewise competent.”

  “It is, in my opinion, entirely unlikely. I know who Sigurne’s master was.” Meralonne turned to Jewel, who waited. “You asked me, Terafin, to watch the hidden ways. I understand, now, how you lost two to the opening of the ways.”

  She froze. She forgot to breathe. A hundred words slammed against her teeth as she struggled to master them.

  “The servants who enter your Wing through this door will emerge into the familiar rooms they tend. If they attempt to leave the same way, however, they will not reach the back halls.”

  She asked the only question that mattered. “If I walk through that door now, will it open to the same lands that swallowed two members of my House?”

  “Hope makes mortals foolish,” was his soft reply. “You already know that it will not.”

  Hope made mortals bleed. Jewel said, after a pause, “Can you dispel whatever magic lays across this door?”

  “Yes. You would not, however, care for the results, and I am beholden to you for some little while yet. I will therefore not make the attempt. The way is not fixed. If you board this door from the outside—with apologies to your Household Staff—the danger will pass.”

  But Jewel was staring at the mage. She had known him for half her life, but only seldom found him beautiful. Meralonne had taught her much about beauty, all of the lessons unintentional on his part. He was beautiful when he fought. He was beautiful when he drew sword and danced upon currents of air that he could summon with a whisper and release with a benediction. Beauty was death.

  He was death, now. He was tall, proud, and very, very cold. He held no sword. He faced no foe. There were no demons to draw his attention away from the occupants of this tiny, mundane room.

  “Yes,” he said softly, as he met and held her gaze. “You understand.”

  “I—I don’t.”

  “I cannot close the ways, Terafin; they are the dreams of sleepers far older and far more powerful than the mortal handful you hold.”

  “I don’t hold them now.”

  He smiled. “Is that what you believe? I do not always understand your kind, Terafin. I am conversant with the art of prevarication; I have no qualms whatsoever about a well-placed lie. Indeed, it can alleviate drudgery and boredom. But I do not lie to myself. It is pointless.”

  “I don’t,” she repeated, with more force, “hold them now.” She started to speak, but Haval gestured in broad, quick den-sign; the movements were fluid and emphatic. Although she hated to see him speak in the private language of the den, she respected his right to do so in this one case. She did not speak of Hannerle.

  “I will not argue; it is pointless. Mortal belief flies in the face of fact and logic, as it so often has. You do not hold these dreamers; nor can you. But if you are foolish, if you are very, very unwise, you will wake them in your ignorance. They are close to waking now.” He smiled. “I have never been particularly concerned with the Warden of Dreams before this day, and perhaps I have done them an injustice. This was clever, Terafin. It was cleverly wrought, and I did not imagine any one of the firstborn would show such effrontery.

  “If the Warden of Dreams worked at the behest of the god you will not name, this one act would not be to his liking. Very much the opposite.”

  “Meralonne,” she whispered, “where does this door lead?”

  “I cannot say without opening it.”

  Do not allow it, Jewel. If he makes the attempt, I will be forced to counter it, and we will destroy much of your manse in the process. I cannot guarantee that any of you will survive it.

  He would not destroy the manse.

  No, Jewel, not yet. But he is burning, now. Call him back, Terafin. Let him play with the book he has found. Let him smoke his pipe and let him once again assume the comfortable seeming of mortality. It will not be long before it is beyond him.

  “What is your command, Lady?”

  “Tell me where these doors open.”

  “They open into the ancient wilderness,” was his soft reply. “You stand, now, on part of it; you have made it substantially your own and you do not fear it. You should, but mortals seldom have the time to grow wise.”

  “Do you know where my den-kin are?”

  “No, Terafin. I do not. They might be found in the vast winter plains, or at the heights of serpent’s reach; they might find themselves in the depths of the vast, sleeping oceans. There is no place but one that cannot be accessed by doors such as these—but such open
ings are not deliberate; they are the random thoughts of those who sleep. They make no conscious decisions.”

  “Where is that one place?” she asked, although she thought she knew.

  “The Winter Court, Terafin. Or the Summer. They cannot go to where she waits.”

  “How can they dream?”

  “In truth, I do not know; I suspect it is mischief on the part of the Warden; he is firstborn. My kin do not sleep and do not dream.”

  “These—”

  “This is not a sleep they chose, and they are not mortals, to be conveniently fettered; even in sleep, they have long been considered a threat. But not this way. I do not know if these doors exist because they are searching for a way out of their captivity—but if they are, and they find it here, you will not survive.”

  “How do I prevent it?”

  “I do not believe you can. You might petition the Warden of Dreams—if you know how to summon him. But I am not certain he could undo the damage he has done here. If a man stabs another, he might extract his knife; he might pay wergeld for the damage done. Unless he is healer-born, he cannot in any way reverse that damage. I believe that the Warden might find such reversal problematic; they were not aware of him, before. They will be aware of him—even in their sleep—now.

  “He will not face them unless the whole of his kingdom hangs in the balance. The whole of your kingdom will signify little to the firstborn.”

  “Then I will repeat my earliest request, APhaniel. I will ask that you find these entrances into the hidden ways; if you cannot safely seal them, I ask that you mark them as the danger they are. I wish to lose no one else until the appointed hour.”

  “And at that hour, Terafin, you will cede them all?”

  She met his gaze without flinching. Without blinking. “Not without a fight.” Without thought, she raised her wrist and pulled the cuffs of stiff sleeves up to expose what lay around it: three strands of pale, unbroken hair. “I will find her,” she said. “I will find their Winter Queen, and I will ask one boon of her when I do.”

  “She is not under obligation to grant it,” he replied; he did not laugh. He did not scoff.

  “Not yet. But she will be.”