Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  It was not that he was large or threatening, although with ease he could project size and danger; it was his origins. He was, in their eyes, a friendly barbarian: a man from Arrend, the country of Northern barbarians. Time had softened the edges of the accent with which he spoke Weston; time had given him the experience—and knowledge—with which he might better blend with Averalaan society. But in truth, he had no desire to blend in. He spent some time each weekend in the Temple of Cartanis, and he spent six days a week in this wicket; he spent six days a week eating lunch in the much roomier and much quieter environs that customers of the Port Authority could not access.

  He was therefore surprised when someone not wearing the teal of the Port Authority entered the lunch room and came directly over to where Terrick now sat, bread and its crumbs scattered over the table’s surface. He had water in a tin mug, and half of a round cheese, although the cheese was well-aged. The meat, cured and smoked, was spare, as it often was during the colder months. The rich could afford the various spells of preservation and enchantment that meant their food was less seasonal—but if the Port Authority kept a roof over his head, it did not propel him into their ranks.

  He did not recognize his visitor for a minute, although he rose instantly; the visitor was carrying a bundle—a blanket wrapped around something that was clearly not conventionally wrapped in such a fashion. The Port Authority guards might not have recognized this disguised burden; Terrick did. Instantly. But the young man carrying it did not unwrap it, did not draw it, and made no threatening moves. He simply gazed at Terrick, and then, past him, to the remainder of his lunch.

  Terrick laughed.

  He seldom laughed, but it was that single glance that made clear who his visitor was. “Angel.”

  Angel nodded. He had filled out over the past decade and a half; he no longer looked the boy. The awkward slenderness of youth was gone.

  So, too, the Weyrdon crown. Terrick had seen Angel with his hair down before, but only after cleaning; he did not leave the apartment—any apartment—with his hair down. But there was no identifying spire, now. Nothing at all to mark the boy as Rendish; even the Southerners wore their hair in the nondescript braid that Angel had chosen. At least he had not sheared his hair, the way many of the Essalieyanese did. Terrick dragged a chair over to the table; he sat, and indicated Angel should join him.

  He did not ask about the hair. It was far too personal a question.

  Angel said, “I can’t stay. I wasn’t sure whether or not I should bother you at work—but I wanted to give you warning.”

  “Warning, is it?” Terrick asked, as he ate. He offered Angel food—bread and cheese—as he had unexpectedly lost his appetite. He had been alarmed, the first time he had seen the Weyrdon styling on Garroc’s son—but he felt its loss as an unexpected blow. The chick had, at long last, left the nest.

  He saw no shadow of Garroc in his son’s face.

  If Angel was aware of how Terrick felt, he showed no sign; instead, he ate. He could reliably eat, Terrick was certain, in any circumstance. The well-stocked larder and kitchens of the very patrician Terafin manse had not cured him of this habit.

  “Warning,” Angel said. “I don’t know how much notice you have to give the Port Authority to leave without censure.”

  Terrick raised a brow. He glanced at the bundle Angel had set on the ground beside the chair. “What word have you brought, boy?”

  Angel was old enough now that he did not stiffen with resentment at the word. “It’s for you,” he said, chewing with haste and swallowing just as quickly, as if suddenly remembering his manners. “I think you’ll need it, where we’re going.”

  “We?”

  “Jewel needs to leave the city,” he replied, his voice heavy with gravity. “I’m going with her when she leaves. And, Terrick, I want you with me.”

  “Why? Is she daft enough to travel to Arrend?”

  “Not on purpose, no. But if I understand things—and I don’t—she won’t know where she’s going until she gets there.”

  “You’ll tell me more.”

  “I can’t. I’d tell you everything but you’d miss the end of lunch call. And dinner. And possibly breakfast.”

  “So you say you want me to go with you—but you can’t tell me where.”

  “Or when,” Angel replied, grinning slightly. “I know in the old days you had to be ready to move with almost no notice. This is like those days. The only normal guards she’ll have are us.”

  “Us, is it?”

  Angel nodded. “She means to hold this city against the—”

  Terrick held up one hand. “Let me see what you’ve brought me.”

  Angel laughed. His laughter was nothing like Garroc’s. But there was a look in his eye, an excitement, a focus that had meant, on his father’s face, that the waiting was done. It was time, at last, for action. Angel bent, the braid batting his cheek as he retrieved the bundle. He pushed what remained of Terrick’s lunch to one side—it was mostly crumbs, and the mice would clean them up—and set the blanketed object between them.

  “It’s not a gift,” he said, voice grave, laughter gone. “It’s a burden, Terrick. It’s a responsibility. I’ve told you what I want. Give me your answer.”

  “When?”

  Angel fell silent.

  Terrick’s hands did not tremble. They ached when the sea air was cold—a sign of encroaching age—but they never trembled. They were, therefore, steady as he carefully drew back folds of heavy cloth. The dyes were shades of blue that were rare enough only the patrician Houses of note used them for something as simple as blankets.

  But it was not the dye, not the blanket, that was significant. Angel’s hair was styled in a braid. He had undertaken the last of Garroc’s final mission, but he had sworn no oath to Weyrdon. Weyrdon had asked the boy to do what Garroc could not. He had permitted Angel to style himself a man of Weyrdon without demanding the substance.

  Now, Angel had released all hold on the claim.

  He served The Terafin. He served Jewel Markess.

  * * *

  Angel watched as the cloth fell away from the ax. He saw Terrick’s reflection—and only Terrick’s—across the blade’s unscarred flat, but the room in reflection seemed brighter, harsher; the light was like Winter light, in the first fall of snow.

  The older man stared at the ax for a long, transfixed moment. His hands were still; they touched nothing. But the edges of the blanket fell from them and over the edge of the table, like cloth meant for that purpose. Angel, watching his face, noted his loss of color.

  It had not been Angel’s reaction to the ax—but the ax was not meant for him. It was Terrick’s. It was Terrick’s, while he lived. He knew it with a certainty born of both desire and instinct. He wasn’t Jay—but he didn’t need to be, not here.

  Terrick clasped hands behind his back as he straightened. “Where did you get this ax?”

  “I took it from a wall in the Terafin manse.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Yes.”

  Terrick shook his head. “You are lying.”

  Angel was surprised. Had he truly been Rendish, he would have been both insulted and angry to be so. “I am not. If you will see the room, I will take you there. I have permission to house you in the manse until we are due to depart; it will save us all from having to travel by Terafin carriage to the blacksmith to terrify him into opening your door.” He hesitated. “It looks, to my eye, like a very, very fine ax. It doesn’t look like more. You think you recognize it?”

  “The blade, yes.”

  “How?”

  Terrick was silent for long enough Angel wasn’t certain he would answer. “Did Garroc teach you nothing of Arrend?”

  “The language, and some few of its customs,” Angel replied.

  “But none of its stories.”

  “Some of the stories—but my mother preferred less martial tales.”

  “In the North, it is the women who tell tales of war to o
ur sons,” Terrick replied, sliding into Rendish as he spoke. “Women do not weep in Arrend.”

  “You think this ax is from those stories? Terrick, an ax is an ax.”

  “I am grateful on some days that your father met his end in battle,” Terrick replied, through slightly gritted teeth. “Else I might be tempted to strangle him myself. There were three weapons that were granted the three sons of Arrend. Weyrdon bears one; he does not carry it if he does not ride to battle.”

  “You said men are always prepared for battle.”

  “All men are prepared to fight.” He ran his hands through his hair, which Angel found shocking. He had never seen Terrick so discomfited. “Why did you bring this to me?”

  “I needed a sword,” Angel replied.

  Terrick couldn’t connect the reply to the question that had spawned it. He waited for the rest of the information that would make sense of the words.

  “I needed a sword,” Angel said again. “I can’t wield an ax, not without cutting off my feet. I could use it to split wood—no, I’m joking, I’m joking.” He exhaled. “The House Mage believes all of the weapons in the room that contained the ax are significant in some way. I asked The Terafin if I could borrow a weapon or two, and she gave permission.”

  “I will accept your Terafin’s offer,” Terrick said abruptly.

  Angel forgot what he was about to say. “You will? You’ll leave the smithy?”

  “Yes. If you return to the Port Authority at the close of the day, you may vouch for me when I arrive at the manse; I assume you did not otherwise prepare a letter of introduction for my use.”

  “. . . No.”

  “Meet me here, then. We’ll go back to the smithy and I will inform the smith that I will be absent to conduct family affairs in Arrend. I will also inform the Port Authority officials.”

  “Terrick—”

  “No, boy. I wish to see the room in which you found this ax. It is, as you imply, impossible that this ax be the ax I know it to be. When I see where you found it, I will have the answer to the only question now on my mind.”

  13th of Fabril, 428 A.A. Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  “He’s older,” Jewel said. She was the only person in the room who seemed inclined to speak at all; the Chosen, of course, would remain silent. She glanced up from the page and saw that Avandar was staring at her, his expression carefully neutral. His inner voice was silent.

  She looked at Meralonne; what Avandar hid, the mage did not. His expression was one of active loathing. She had seen him argue, shout, wheedle, and laugh. She had never seen raw hatred on his face before. “APhaniel,” she said, gentling her voice almost automatically.

  “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, that is a representation of Adam, and yes, he is older. He is not, by mortal reckoning, much older.”

  “You think this book was meant for Adam?”

  “I think you do him no kindness if you make that assumption.”

  “Is it active, Meralonne? Is it, as you suspect, scribed in part on a page whose donor still lives?”

  “It is.”

  “You know who the donor is.”

  “I do.”

  “And you will not tell me.”

  He turned, full, to face her, the book apparently forgotten. She had the instinctive urge to take a step back; it was overmastered by a second, stronger instinct: here, now, in front of this angry man, she must stand her ground as if he were the Winter Queen herself, at the head of her gathered host.

  Here, now, she could. She did not even blink as his sword came into his hand; instead she moved to stand between the mage and the table; the blue glow of the blade’s edge glimmered across the surface of her skirts. The Chosen drew swords; she lifted one hand in their direction although she didn’t take her eyes off Meralonne.

  “A long time ago,” she said, when he did not immediately attempt to run her through, “the gods walked this world. They lived among us.”

  He said nothing.

  “Above us,” she amended. “They did not live as Lords over your kin.”

  “No. Not even the gods would have dared.”

  “But the gods left, Meralonne. The gods left. They aren’t here, but they fear the Sleepers—who are. The Sleepers cannot harm the gods.”

  He said nothing, but his sword fell. It did not vanish.

  “I understand what we have to fear. I understand that. But I don’t understand why they sleep. I understand that the gods left us, but I’ve never understood why. We couldn’t force them to leave. Even when the Cities of Man were at the height of their power, we could not kill the gods.”

  Jewel, be cautious.

  He can’t kill me here, she replied—and the minute the words were thoughts, she knew they were true. She wondered if he would try.

  “They wished to preserve you,” he replied. Winter voice, anger. “They warred for the entirety of their existence, shattering and remaking the landscape. There were very few enclaves in which your kind could grow; you were pets. You were favored, intelligent pets.

  “But you were made in a way that the wise did not understand, and some part of your frail, animal forms contain eternity.”

  The air was cold. The wind curled through the fall of his hair. He was beautiful. “If mankind had a god that they could call a parent—and the gods were not their parents in any mortal sense of the word—he was nameless. Faceless. He was called Mystery by many; his counsels were opaque, his advice, barbed. Yet he was respected by the gods; he did not seek to encroach upon what was theirs.

  “In the world before yours, that was rare. He owned no land; if his touch was felt at all beneath the ceaseless skies, it was subtle. He was like your gardeners; he created beauty but owned none of it. Or so we thought. I would have killed him,” he added, voice low. “If I had known, I would have killed him.”

  “Meralonne—”

  “But I did not know.”

  “And now?”

  “If I could travel as my former apprentice does, if I could bespeak time and move at whim through its currents, I would kill him. I would salt the earth upon which he once stood. I would offer my life as curse and seal for his doom.”

  She said, without thinking, “He is not gone.”

  “No. Of the gods, he is one of two who did not willingly sign the binding Covenant. They are both present, Terafin. The author of our misfortune and the god we were sent to kill.”

  “The book—it’s the god’s flesh.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Can you see that?”

  “No,” she whispered. “It was a guess. Destroying the book won’t destroy him.”

  “No. But I am now certain it is part of his plan. He meant the book to travel to you. He meant Adam to be here.”

  “If the book is meant for Adam—”

  “I did not say that, Terafin. You can read it; I cannot. I do not believe the writing is legible to Viandaran, either. But I offer the god no aid, and where I can, I will thwart him. Had I realized the source of this book, I would never have brought it here.”

  “To where I can protect and safeguard it.”

  “Yes.”

  She had danced around the question and the suspicion so many times, once more seemed prudent. But the wind reached from his hair to hers, teasing out strands from the nets and pins that bound it. She could have sent it away; she didn’t.

  She glanced at Gordon and Marave; they were tense, but they waited. They knew he could strike her down before they could interfere—but in this case, their knowledge was wrong.

  “Why,” she asked, her hands by her sides, her chin lifted so that she might meet—and hold—his gaze, “are you not sleeping with them, Meralonne? Why do you labor here as a member of the Order of Knowledge?”

  Jewel.

  She didn’t answer. Neither did Meralonne.

  The Chosen were rigid, but they were surprised. Avandar was not, but he wouldn’t be. Nor, she thought, would Celleriant, were he present. The
cats knew. She was certain, at this point, that the gods knew; they had recognized Meralonne; they had called him by the name that only the immortals used. “Does Sigurne know?”

  He inhaled once, deeply; when he exhaled, the sword was gone. The wind, however, was not; it flapped the pages at her back. “Yes, Terafin.”

  “Has she always known?”

  “No. Not when she first came to the Order as a reluctant apprentice, and not for years after. But she is Sigurne Mellifas, and her first master—the master of her choice, if such choices exist in captivity—was not mortal. He, like she, was a captive of the Ice Mage: a Kialli lord. He told her much about the world in the days of his youth; about the gods in their glory, and the firstborn. About the Kialli, and the nature of their choice.

  “He spoke about the war between the gods. He told her the names of gods who perished in those ancient conflicts; she remembers all of them. He did not speak to her of her own kind, except where it was necessary to tell the larger tale. But to speak of the fall of Allasakar is to speak of things mortal: He therefore spoke of the man you call Moorelas. He spoke of the blade fashioned by gods and mortal Artisans, and of its purpose.

  “He told her much, much more than the gods themselves might, if they deigned to be questioned.”

  “But he served Allasakar,” Jewel replied. She used the god’s name, as Meralonne had done.

  “Yes. You do not understand the complicated measure of their service; you do not understand the narrow, narrow line between love and hate, adoration and obsession. You do not understand the Kialli. Let me say only this: if a mortal child of sixteen could harm Allasakar because of the knowledge of one bound demon, the god no longer deserved dominion over the Hells; he deserved destruction.”

  “Did he speak of the Sleepers?”

  “Yes. But not as you know them. He spoke of the firstborn. He spoke of Ariane, the White Lady, one of the only children born to the gods who could hold the roads against Allasakar. But he did not speak of the cause of their enmity; it was great, Terafin, and no concession on the part of the Lord of the Hells will ever quench it while he lives.