Battle: The House War: Book Five

by Michelle West

  Garroc had not, at that time, found a Lord he was willing to offer such a binding oath. And when he had, Terrick had been angry. Angry and, yes, a little afraid. He was sworn to Garroc; what would become of Terrick when Garroc was absorbed into Weyrdon’s service?

  He remembered Garroc’s oath of allegiance; he remembered Garroc’s hour of cursing the first time he had attempted to tend his own hair, to style it in the Weyrdon crown. Garroc had been fastidious about braiding—unbound hair was a hazard in combat—but the Weyrdon hair? He vented his considerable spleen at the pretension of it. At the stupidity of it. But he accepted it as a necessity if he wished to make his allegiance known. And he did, in the end.

  But he had taken his hair down to leave Weyrdon and begin a fruitless quest in the Southern Empire of which Arrend was only theoretically a part. He had walked away from public honor and public oaths. He had walked away from everyone.

  Only Terrick had followed, but he could not follow Garroc into Kalakar; he could not follow Garroc into the Southern skirmishes, although he tried. Nor could he, in the end, follow Garroc into exile in the Free Towns.

  And it was exile. Garroc found a woman, married her, and began to farm. The great quest that had caused his public disgrace—and the private disgrace of failure—was abandoned. He could not return to Weyrdon as a failure.

  Garroc died a failure in the Free Towns at the Empire’s borders. And his only child, Angel, arrived in Averalaan, wearing the Weyrdon crown on his head, and on his sleeve, an anger and resentment against Weyrdon that was second only to Terrick’s. Terrick had feared the consequences of the presumption of styling himself of Weyrdon. But Weyrdon had—against all hope—accepted Angel’s hair as a profound gesture of respect for Garroc. For Garroc and his quest.

  Years, Terrick had waited. Years, he’d worked behind the wicket of the Port Authority, growing older and more gray as the time passed. Garroc’s death had not released him; it had not ended his service.

  As The Terafin frowned and lifted the hand Terrick had just seen her cut, his eyes rounded, his breath—momentarily—stopped, as if the motion of breath was too profane for what he now witnessed. He had seen her draw the edge of the sword across her palm; he had noted the tightening of her jaw, the compression of her lips. She did not appear to be a woman accustomed to shedding blood, either her own or others.

  But the hand she lifted now had not been cut. Nor had blood pooled in its multiple lines. Angel lifted his, his eyes narrowing as he confronted an equally unblemished palm. Terrick exhaled. His hand dropped to the haft of an ax that had been given into his keeping. He could not think of it as his. Not yet. But it felt solid as he gripped it; solid, heavy, natural.

  The Terafin’s domicis approached on a path that Terrick had clearly heard he did not walk. His presence caught The Terafin’s attention.

  “Terafin.”

  “We’re fine, Avandar.”

  “The sword?”

  “Yes, well.”

  “Was there difficulty?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The domicis was clearly not enamored of the answer. But he did not stride up the steps of the shrine, and he did not demand a full explanation. Then, again, he glanced at Terrick before he fell silent; clearly, he was not accustomed to strangers so close to this shrine.

  The Terafin descended the stairs as Angel joined Terrick; she glanced once over her shoulder at the altar, as if searching for someone. Then she shook her head, straightened her shoulders, and faced Terrick gravely. “Angel says you’ve come to see the heart of my personal quarters.”

  “I wasn’t aware that your personal quarters were an armory.”

  “It’s probably not common knowledge,” she replied, a slight smile changing the shape of her lips. “Although given the speed at which news travels, it wouldn’t surprise me much if it were. I should warn you that my personal quarters are not architecturally consistent with the rest of the Terafin manse.”

  Terrick frowned and raised a brow in Angel’s direction. Angel’s answering smile contained a slight edge buried beneath genuine amusement. It offered warning, of a type. Angel did not feel that Terrick was in danger of losing anything but dignity.

  It was Garroc’s smile.

  * * *

  The Chosen were, in Terrick’s opinion, excellent guards. They were more formal and more hierarchical than Weyrdon’s closest retainers, but that was to be expected of Southern guards. He therefore expected—and received—no acknowledgment. But each of the Chosen present had noted Terrick’s ax, and the subtle shift in their expression and their position told him much. They did not openly offer insult; they did not demand that he set the weapon down.

  The Terafin did not; what she did not do, they would not. She was not their equal in height, and she did not yet have the presence of her predecessor, but she walked with purpose, and spoke with certainty as she led the way to her personal quarters. Terrick was uncertain what to expect when the doors opened and she entered them; what he did not expect was the way she suddenly vanished.

  “It’s safe,” Angel said, in Rendish. “While she’s here, it’s safe.” Without another word, Angel followed his Lord. Terrick grimaced. He had grown accustomed to the way the Southerners flaunted their magic on street corners and in expensive buildings, but he had the native Rendish distrust of enchantment. It did not stop him from following.

  No, what stopped Terrick was the color of the open sky above their heads. He heard wind, felt breeze. There were no clouds; there were trees—and the trees seemed rooted in floor that was pale golden planking that extended in all directions as far as the eye could see, as if it were the plains of the Free Towns.

  The trees, he saw, served as posts and shelving.

  He was utterly still, his hand loose upon the haft of the ax, his jaw tight.

  “This—this is where she lives?” he asked, in Rendish.

  “No. This is the Terafin library. She has a suite of rooms that’s almost normal in comparison.”

  “And the armory?”

  “This way.” Angel turned to The Terafin. “Will you accompany us?”

  The Terafin glanced at Terrick. After a pause, she nodded, her expression thoughtful. She joined Angel; two of the Chosen led the way.

  There were no obvious outbuildings in this vast, vast room; there were gates. Gates and arches that stood without benefit of adjoining fences. They seemed decorative until the moment that the Chosen entered one and vanished. Terrick grimaced, and he was surprised to hear The Terafin’s chuckle.

  “I couldn’t stand it either, when things first changed.”

  “It was not always like this?”

  “No, sadly. But you get used to it.”

  Terrick highly doubted that this was true, but kept this to himself. When Angel walked beneath the wrought-iron arch, The Terafin surprised Terrick; she offered the Rendish man an arm. Such a gesture could be construed as a severe social criticism, but her expression—and the fact she’d waited until Angel couldn’t see or comment—made clear it was not. He mirrored the gesture, and she placed her hand on the crook of his arm.

  And so he entered the room Angel referred to as the armory.

  * * *

  Unlike the library, there was ceiling in this room. There were solid walls to either side of the doors. The doors themselves appeared to be made of thick wood; the arch into which they were set was stone. The floors were stone. The massive table that commandeered the room’s center was also stone. There were no chairs.

  There was one window in the far wall, tall as a man, and wide enough to step through. There appeared to be no glass and no shutters to prevent this. Beyond those windows the skies were a paler shade of the amethyst that opened above the library. But the library’s skies were empty and still; the skies beyond these windows were not.

  Terrick could see what he assumed were birds gliding on thermals in the distance.

  He could also see what no amount of poor vision could make birds. He
lowered his arm and made his way to the window, where he placed both hands on its bottom edge. There, he looked down, and down again. He had entered the Terafin manse. He had walked in its galleries. He had stored his possessions in one of its rooms.

  This was no part of that manse. No part of the world that contained the Port Authority, the Merchant Authority, or the Common. He released the windowsill, turning to gaze at the walls upon which a variety of weapons were mounted.

  “Angel—” He froze, the rest of the words lost to a great and terrible roar. It was like thunder, given voice and a giant’s throat, and as he wheeled once again for the window, he saw the flying creatures in the air suddenly dive, as if for cover.

  Angel sprinted to the window; the Chosen closed ranks around The Terafin, who had the sense she was born with, and remained where she was. But her domicis came, wearily, to see what Terrick now watched, transfixed: A frostwyrm.

  A giant of the wastes. Its wings were the size of ancient trees in length, its neck their equal; its body was the size of the greatest of the seafaring merchant ships, but flesh, organic, and glittering in the pale sky.

  Even at this distance, the creature was majestic. Terrifying. It raised its head, opened its jaws, and roared again, and the very ground trembled beneath Terrick’s feet.

  And he knew, then. He knew. The ax Angel had, in ignorance, given into his keeping was one of the lost blades. It had to be. It was here, and so, too, one of the creatures it had been meant to slay.

  His hand shook as it gripped the ax’s haft; his knuckles were white.

  It had been created to fight that creature and its kind—but what fool would attempt such a kill? Yes, the edge of the ax might wound it, might pierce its hide—but a tailor’s pins and needles might pierce mortal flesh to far greater effect.

  He turned to Angel, whose hand had not touched his sword; the boy was staring, as if at a painting. The roar that so alarmed Terrick might have been silent.

  “Jay,” he said, forgetting for a moment that Terrick was an outsider, a foreigner, and that the woman was The Terafin. He would have words with Angel later.

  “Please tell me that’s not a dragon,” she said.

  “It’s a white dragon.”

  “Avandar—”

  “Yes,” her domicis said. He, like Angel, watched the dragon. Unlike Angel, his expression contained no awe, no wonder. It was set, grim, weary. “It is, as you suspect, a dragon. Can you see it from there?”

  “I’m not sure I want to see it.”

  “It will not, in my opinion, be your only opportunity; it may well be your only safe one.”

  The Terafin came toward the window; her Chosen came with her. But she stopped before she reached them and shook her head, lifting her hand to her throat. “No,” she said quietly. “I think it best to remain out of sight.”

  Her domicis frowned. “I will, with your permission, kill one of your cats upon his return.”

  “I doubt you can,” she replied. “And if you insist on trying, wait until we’re out of the manse.” She turned to Terrick. “My apologies,” she said. “But I do not feel it wise to remain in this room at this time.”

  “Are we at risk?”

  “No. But I don’t think he’s noticed us yet, and I’d like it to remain that way.” To Avandar she added, “tell me what you know about dragons.”

  “Very little.”

  “Are they immortal?”

  “Yes. But they are not—entirely—invulnerable.”

  “Are they more dangerous or less dangerous than the wakened Sleepers?”

  “The one in the air? Much less, in my opinion. Not all Arianni are created equal; no more are dragonkind. There is one who is equal to the Sleepers in the destruction he can unleash, should he so choose, but he is not asleep beneath the streets of your city, and he has not—yet—emerged from the hidden lands.”

  The Chosen retreated.

  Angel joined his Lord; he lifted his hand and his fingers danced a moment. Her reply was shorter and swifter, but she spoke no words.

  For the first time, Terrick thought he understood why Angel had chosen this particular Lord. She had heard—and felt—the dragon’s roar, and she had not even blinked. She called it by its Southern name, and not its Rendish variant; she understood what it was. She understood what it meant.

  But it was not, he saw, her concern. She was not in awe of it; she was not afraid.

  “Terrick?” Angel said, and Terrick, chagrined, shook himself. “The ax?”

  The older man smiled. It was a winter smile. “I understand, at last, what Garroc sacrificed his life to achieve: You, Angel.” His smile was the wolf’s smile; there was no kindness in it. “And I understand and forgive Weyrdon for the choice he made.

  “But this ax was not, I think, meant for me. It was meant for you.”

  Angel shook his head. “The sword is mine. I can wield it without cutting off my leg. I could use the ax to split firewood—and where we’re going, that would probably be useful.” He laughed at the expression on Terrick’s face, but sobered quickly. “My father left Weyrdon. He left you. He offered no explanation—to you—for either act.

  “You waited. You’ve waited for all of my life—for longer, if I think about it. You’ve kept yourself in fighting shape. You’ve endured the demanding idiots who plague the Port Authority. When I saw the ax, I thought of you. Only of you.

  “I won’t remain in the Terafin manse for much longer. When Jay leaves, I’m going with her. But I’ll take my sword. The ax is yours. If you feel its too much for you, go home. Take it to Arrend. Deliver it to the man you feel would be worthy of its edge.

  “I did. I didn’t know what the blade signified when I pulled it off the wall, but I think it was crossed with this sword for a reason.”

  Terrick turned to The Terafin. “When you leave,” he said, “do you have room in your party for one more? I am accustomed to winter camping and life on the road. Or I was before I was swallowed by the Port Authority.”

  “Do you understand where I must go?” she asked softly.

  He glanced out the open air windows.

  “Yes. There, or places much like it. I don’t know what we’ll encounter, if we encounter anything at all. I don’t know what we’ll face. We may be forced to forage for food, something I’ve done only in the streets of a very mortal city.”

  “I’ve done it in the North, and in the Northern snows. I doubt that a valley, even one that contains such a creature as that, will be more of a challenge.”

  She lifted her hands and her fingers danced again.

  Angel said, clearly, “With my life.”

  “Then, yes, Terrick. Yes, if you are willing to take the risk and wield ax in my defense, I have room in my party, as you call it, for one more. I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

  Epilogue

  25th of Fabril, 428 A.A.

  Terafin Manse, Averalaan Aramarelas

  THE MAN CAME DOWN the well-tended road on which carriages usually traveled. He walked. On his shoulder he carried a bag that had seen better years, and over it, a cloak that the road had paled with dust. His hair was likewise lank with dust, his boots caked. What he needed, at this moment, was a bath. A bath, a meal, a good night’s sleep.

  He highly doubted that his needs were of import.

  He had received harried instructions: he was to come immediately to the Terafin manse upon his arrival in Averalaan. He had not; he had made one short stop at Senniel College to introduce his companion upon the road to the bardmaster. Disentangling himself from the bardmaster’s questions had taken more time than ideal. Nor was Solran likely to be best pleased when he immediately took to the road again, and for that reason, he had neglected to inform her.

  The sea air was cool at this time of night; the salt it carried reminded him of the small scrapes and cuts that the road almost inevitably produced. He could, if he listened with care, hear voices upon the sea breeze; he did not. Instead, he spent some time listening to the
distinctive rustle of leaves.

  He was bard-born; he knew that that rustle contained voices. Not so many voices as the city itself, when day was in full swing—but voices as deliberate, and far older. He found it disturbing.

  She will be waiting for you. She will be waiting, and wasting time she does not have. Deliver this one item into her keeping.

  He had not asked what it was. Evayne was, by nature, mysterious. She walked roads that cut across the ages, age receding and returning to her visage like an unpredictable tide. When she had met him on the road from Annagar, he had been surprised.

  She was not young. In her prime—for he had never seen her close to dotage—she was a force that made the voice of the wild wind seem tame in comparison; she had come at the height of her power. She seldom arrived at such an age, and when she did there was almost always death or violence.

  But not this time. This time, there was a simple box. Kallandras recognized it instantly: it had traveled, hidden and guarded, from the ancient stores of the Tor Arkosa, risen from its bed of earth, in the keeping of the Serra Diora en’Leonne. “You wish me to take this to The Terafin?”

  “Yes. The current Terafin is a woman with whom you are familiar; you traveled by her side for some leagues in the Dominion.”

  Jewel Markess ATerafin.

  “I would not task you with this; nor would I have any other bear this burden—but the ways are closed to me now. I did not realize—” she shook her head. “There are some things that cannot transcend time. While I carry this, I can only move forward. It is an anchor that I cannot afford; in the Northern Wastes, the enemy gathers. And at this time, I cannot enter lands which are all but lost; I thought to move forward, or back—but it is forbidden.”

  He did not ask by who; long experience had taught him there were no answers to such questions.

  “While she bears this burden, Kallandras, guard her with your life. Preserve it, no matter the cost of the preservation.”