Skirmish: A House War Novel Page 6

  Heavy, Finch gestured.

  Yes. “It’s gold.”

  “The others are silver and diamond?”

  “Yes.”

  The leaves now drifted down the table, as if hands were wind; they settled for a moment and then passed on. No one, however, touched the hair that curled there in a very slender bracelet.

  When the leaves returned to her, she bracketed them with the palms she placed flat on the table. “I don’t know where to start. But those will give you some idea of just how strange the journey was.”

  “Did you save the Princess?” Carver asked.

  Jewel did not pretend to misunderstand. It was a vision of a lone woman that had driven her to the South—but she had expected, however reluctantly, to travel with the armies under the three Commanders. “I don’t know. The Princess—and that is not what she’s called in the Dominion—is with the army. One of the armies. Given what those armies now face, I think salvation is going to be in short supply.”

  They were silent for a long moment, waiting.

  “I didn’t mean to leave Averalaan the way I did.”

  “No kidding,” Jester said. His arms were folded across his chest, and he balanced his chair on its hind legs. She half expected him to extend his own legs and cross them on the table—but he glanced at Ellerson before he did, and kept them where they were. The dining room was not the kitchen. “Is it always going to come down to demons?”

  “No. There are gods and other people in the mix as well.” Her smile was a brief, bitter twist of lips. “It probably won’t make much difference to people like us, though. The mages will argue about their classifications, if any of them survive.”

  “Other people?”

  “My long-haired friend.” She hesitated again. “He was in the kitchen last night. His name’s Celleriant, although his own people call him Lord Celleriant.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “…No.”

  “Is he den, or isn’t he?”

  That was, of course, the question, wasn’t it? “He serves me.”

  Jester gestured, den-sign.

  “No. And he won’t learn to speak it, either. I’m surprised he condescends to speak Weston.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “…No.” She grimaced. “And yes. I don’t like him. But…he’s one of mine.”

  Teller said, “He killed the demon that killed The Terafin.”

  Finch, at the same time, said, “He reminds me of Meralonne APhaniel.”

  “Meralonne?”

  “On the night the demons came to Terafin. The night the stranger died in the foyer.”

  Jewel stared at Finch for a long, thoughtful moment. “Sigurne trusts Meralonne,” she finally said.

  It was Angel who said, “We trust you. If you want him, that’s all that needs to be said. You’ve never been wrong before.”

  Against her will, Jewel said, “I didn’t choose Celleriant.”

  “Then how—”

  “When we escaped from the demons in the Common, we ended up on a hidden, ancient road.” She swallowed. “And we met the Wild Hunt there.”

  She could not bring herself to speak of everything she had seen while walking that road, but she spoke of the forest of trees, from which she’d taken the leaves. She spoke of the Winter King in his castle of glass and ice, and she spoke of the Winter Queen at the head of her host, riding the endless and hidden roads, searching for her King, that she might depose him at last. She spoke of the Winter King—her Winter King—the great, white stag who could find his footing in any terrain, even the air itself.

  “He was a man, once.”

  “When?”

  “When the gods walked, I think. Long before the founding of the Empire. And before the Blood Barons. The Winter Queen gave him to me. She was riding him,” Jewel added, her voice falling. “She ordered Celleriant to serve me as well. It was punishment for his failure.” She stopped the sentence, but not in time.

  “His failure to do what?” Angel asked sharply.

  Avandar raised a brow; his lips settled into a sardonic half smile.

  “His failure to kill me.”

  The silence deepened Avandar’s amusement. It predictably did nothing to endear Celleriant to the rest of the den. “He won’t try it again,” she said, when no one dared to put the question into words. “He was ordered—by the Winter Queen—to serve me. He’ll serve. He doesn’t have to like it.”

  “Do the rest of us?” Angel demanded.

  “Not more than he does.”

  She spoke of the Festival of the Moon in the Tor Leonne, of the Voyani Matriarchs, and of the masks. This was harder because if the story itself retained the same dreamlike quality of description, the events had occurred in what was theoretically the real world—if that had the same meaning, now. But she hesitated on the edge of the Sea of Sorrows. After the silence had grown awkward—beyond awkward, really—she took a deep breath and continued.

  She spoke of the desert crossing; she spoke of the wagons that had taken flight, like small ships in the air. She spoke, at length, about the storm in the desert, about its end, explaining more fully how Adam had almost died, where almost meant could not be saved without a healer who could call him back from the bridge to the beyond, where Mandaros waited to offer judgment. Although the circumstances of that near death had not been entirely clear to the den when they had first met Adam, the reason he still lived was.

  The den, in turn, explained in more detail Adam’s role in The Terafin’s continued—and tenuous—survival. It was a very muted breakfast, with more words than food passing lips.

  When Jewel spoke of the rise of the City in the desert, she was once again in a land of dreams; the den couldn’t grasp it. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe her—they did, and would; it was that they couldn’t conceive of it. No more would Jewel have been able to do the same if she hadn’t witnessed it herself.

  But when she again fell silent, Teller nudged her—with den-sign, almost flailing to get her attention—and she continued with the trek out of the desert, at the side of the Serra Diora. She couldn’t help but describe the Serra; she was a woman whose beauty could leave poets tongue-tied and at the same time desperately in search of words, as if by words they might capture and hold, in eternity, the flowering of a beauty that could not otherwise defy time.

  She had found Ariel there, missing fingers, silent and terrified. After a long hesitation, she mentioned the demon who had brought—and abandoned her—to Jewel’s care. “She’s not a demon,” she added quietly, into the various textures of den silence. “She’s a child whose family died. I think it happened during the Festival of the Moon. She’s not—she’s not den, not exactly. She’s too young to make that choice. But I couldn’t just leave her there.”

  They accepted it without argument. Celleriant, no. Avandar had taken time. But Ariel was a child, and at that, an orphan—and that meant something here. Jewel was grateful

  She spoke of Yollana of the Havalla Voyani and the passage into the Terrean of Mancorvo, and there she once again stalled. She did not speak of Avandar; nor did she speak of the ghosts who lingered in anger in the forests of the Terrean; nor did she speak, in the end, of the dead who waited, silent and accusing, for Avandar Gallais. But she found words to describe the Torrean of Clemente, its Tor’agar, Alessandro. She found words for the battle that occurred in one of the villages, when the waters rose and the demons revealed themselves among the ranks of the Southern clansmen. Yet even here, she faltered.

  They knew, and they allowed it. There was just too much, there. Too much. Kallandras and Celleriant. Mareo kai di’Lamberto. The wild water. But no. It was more than that: it was Avandar. Warlord.

  She turned to glance at the man she could not, for a moment, think of as domicis; his eyes were dark, his expression remote. Teller followed her gaze, and she shifted it, glancing at her arm, her sleeve, the brand hidden.

  “We survived. We escorted the Serra Diora—with her
sword—to the side of Valedan kai di’Leonne, the man she chose as her husband. And then—Morretz came.” She flinched, fought for words and found them; they were rough. “Morretz found us, and we came home. We came home late.”

  She closed her eyes and opened them again, quickly. The expression on Amarais’ dying face was carved into the darkness beneath her closed lids, a waking nightmare, an endless accusation. She swallowed. “The Terafin called me home. And I’m here. Haerrad is injured—it wouldn’t break my heart if he died. Rymark has claimed—in front of the Twin Kings—the legitimacy of rule.”

  “They can’t believe—”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s never mattered. Legitimacy of rule, in the absence of The Terafin, is defined entirely by the ability to take, and hold, the House Council. She could have anointed him in public with her own blood and it wouldn’t matter. Haerrad won’t accept him. Neither will Elonne or Marrick.

  “There was a demon in the manse,” she added soflty.

  “There were at least two; one killed Alowan. It was hiding in his cat.”

  Jewel closed her eyes and opened them again, for the same reason. The den watched her, silent now. Avandar and Ellerson stood by the doors against the walls, their faces absent any expression. She barely glanced at Ellerson, and hated herself for it. He had been here for her den when she hadn’t. He didn’t deserve her anger or her pain, and she couldn’t quite stop it. But she could stop herself from acting on it, and that would have to do.

  She was ready when the knock at the outer doors interrupted her silence; she’d expected it. Ellerson left immediately, and in his absence, she glanced around the well-lit table, its perfect, polished surface nothing at all like the kitchen’s. People’s feet were not on the tabletop either; years of habit and some well-drilled lessons had made that almost unthinkable.

  She knew what they wanted. She knew.

  But The Terafin was dead. It had been less than a day.

  She knew, Avandar said, as she clenched her teeth against the intrusion of his silent voice. It was another thing she did not want, and he was well aware of it. She called you home because she knew. She held her post, Jewel; she held it for as long as she was capable of doing so—with the aid of your den. But she held it for a reason.

  Ellerson returned. He bowed, briefly, toward the table. “Jewel, Finch, Teller. Your presence has been requested by Gabriel ATerafin. The House Council is meeting within the half hour.”

  The Council Hall was packed. Jester and Angel accompanied them, as adjutants; it was allowed, but today, they were likely to be consigned to the galleries above. Avandar, as domicis, was allowed to stand behind Jewel’s chair, and today, she felt his dour presence as a solid comfort; he was normal. Nothing else was.

  Sigurne Mellifas stood by the door, her face unusually pale, her eyes ringed in dark circles. She looked older than she had the last time Jewel had seen her, although perhaps that was a kindness of memory. Older, she looked harsher. The almost grandmotherly frailty with which she usually cloaked her power had been discarded; she reminded Jewel of no one so much as Yollana, Matriarch of the Havalla Voyani. It was a strangely comforting thought.

  Every member of the House Council who entered those doors was required to stand a moment in front of Sigurne. Only Jewel could see the light that the mage wove in the air between them. Every member of the House Council was also required to accept a very plain, gold band from the hands of the mage. Jewel had seen their like only once before; she knew what purpose they served. They exposed the demonic, if it was hidden safely within human flesh.

  Jewel took hers without comment and slid it over her finger. When it failed to melt, she said, “Member Mellifas. Guildmaster.”

  “ATerafin.” The reply was cautious and remote.

  “The ring is not necessary. I can see.”

  “The rings were made fifteen—perhaps sixteen—years ago. They serve a purpose.”

  “Yes. But it is not a purpose that this meeting requires. I am here.” When Sigurne failed to move, Jewel said, in a much lower tone of voice, “Ours cannot be the only House thus infiltrated; the rings might serve a better purpose offered to any other House Council.” She liked this woman; she always had. But as she stepped over the threshold into the Council Hall, she accepted that her affection changed nothing. She lifted her voice. The acoustics in the hall were very fine. “The House Council meeting is a matter of both urgency and privacy. There is much to be discussed here that is not the business of those who are not Terafin and not appointed to the House Council.

  “We appreciate your concern,” she added, her voice loud enough to fill a hall that was becoming silent as people left off their smaller conversations to listen. “And we value it highly. It is seldom that the Guildmaster of the Order oversees such tasks. But I have returned from the armies in the South, and I can serve the same function as your spells and your rings. I am ATerafin,” she added. “This is my home.”

  Sigurne studied Jewel’s face for a long, long moment, and then she nodded. She gathered the rings that Jewel had so pointedly—and publicly—dismissed. “ATerafin.”

  “Guildmaster.”

  Sigurne left. Jewel hoped that she retreated to a quiet, warm room that had both tea and a bed. Given Sigurne, and given Sigurne’s almost legendary hatred of demons, she highly doubted that was in the guildmaster’s immediate future.

  There was no blood on the floor. Jewel crossed it, looked at the marble beneath her feet; there was no sign at all that the woman who had ruled this House for decades had died here less than a day ago. The table had been repaired—in haste, and probably with magic—and the sundered chairs had been replaced; were it not for the chair that sat empty at the table’s head, this might have been a normal day, a normal meeting.

  But the chair did sit empty. Jewel glanced at it, hoping against hope that The Terafin would stride through those doors to occupy it once again. She was probably the only member of the House Council who watched the empty chair with that desire. It drew all eyes. Haerrad, injured, was nonetheless seated, and if there was one blessing today, it was the fact that the whole of his ire was focused on Rymark ATerafin. Elonne watched Rymark as well; hells, they all did. Rymark had produced a document—signed by The Terafin, and witnessed by the right-kin—that proclaimed Rymark ATerafin heir. They expected him to produce it again, at this meeting.

  But for a man who held such a document in his keeping, he looked as grim and angry as Haerrad. Jewel frowned.

  When the House Council had taken their seats, and the adjutants—the full complement—had been, as Jewel suspected they would, removed to the galleries, Gabriel ATerafin rose. He was not, technically, right-kin, because there was no Terafin—but no one sought to silence him as he opened the meeting.

  “We are here, today, to discuss two issues.” Save for only his voice, the room was silent. “The first, the matter of The Terafin’s funeral.”

  Cautious words returned. He let them. Jewel was silent, but Finch and Teller were not, although half of their muted conversation was in den-sign. She watched. They were not—quite—at home in this hall. Had The Terafin been at the head of the table, Jewel would have been. She had spent half her life as a member of this Council, and if the first four years had been rough—and they had—she had grown accustomed to the smooth, polite talk that served as barbed argument across this large table.

  She had no words to offer. The single, public act of defiance that had marked her return to the Hall had momentarily robbed her of voice. She wanted to go to the Terafin shrine now, with The Terafin’s corpse; she wanted to lay it upon the altar and wait. She wanted to pay her final respects in the privacy of that remote shrine—and she was certain it would never happen.

  “Three days,” Haerrad said. “If the funeral begins on the second of Henden—”

  “It is not enough time,” Elonne countered, voice cool. “She was The Terafin, not the head of a lesser House. The Kings will, no doubt, be in attendance, and with the
m, the Astari. We may inform them that the funeral is three days hence, but we will be invited to reconsider that date.”

  “The Kings are not Terafin,” Haerrad snapped.

  “No. But if we hold the funeral in three days, they will not be here to pay their respects—and every other member of note in any of The Ten will mark their absence.”

  Jewel almost found herself agreeing with Haerrad, and that was never a good sign; she chose silence. Teller, however, did not. He concurred with Elonne. And so it went, until Gabriel raised a hand.

  “The Terafin deserves the respect of the Kings.” His voice was quiet. It was also resonant.