Skirmish: A House War Novel (32 page)

“What on earth does she intend to do?” he demanded, not noticeably having moved back so much as a step. He was taller than Sigurne—but then again, on most days so was Jewel—but not as tall as Torvan or Arann. What he lacked in height, he made up for in presence—the particular, arrogant presence of the magi.

“Matteos,” Sigurne said quietly.

“Oh, no,” Matteos replied, with an almost feral grin which looked entirely out of place on his staid face. “I’m afraid I’m in agreement with Member Ossus in this particular case. Jewel ATerafin is special; I won’t argue that. But the tree is unique, and the tree has proven to be a danger. Sigurne, you have no idea what she intends. I’m willing to bet she doesn’t either.”

“Matteos—”

“And whatever she does, she is tampering with a magic that none of the wise understand. I think it highly advisable to continue with the task of removing the tree, since we are short on time.”

“If we were not short on time?”

“I would seek the guidance of the Exalted—and, more specifically, their parents. The safer alternative would be to continue with our task here, for which, I might point out, we have received permission in record time.”

Sigurne nodded. “It would be the safer alternative given the complete lack of time available. ATerafin?”

Jewel shook her head. She’d meant to nod. The Terafin’s funeral was two and a half days away, and the gardeners had already tripled their ranks—which infuriated the Captains of the House Guard because it caused security headaches and Duvari was breathing down their necks—in an attempt to make it ready. Matteos was right, but no meeting with the Exalted could be demanded on such short notice.

“ATerafin,” Sigurne said, her voice a delicate blend of age, wisdom, and steel, “I will trust your instincts here. Does what you intend pose a danger to us?”

It doesn’t work that way
, Jewel wanted to say.

No, Jewel
, the Winter King told her.
But it should
.

“I can’t promise that,” she finally said. “But I think there’s a reason I kept these leaves—all of them. And I think this tree is somehow it.”

“Very well. Member Ossus.” Sigurne’s voice was distinctly chillier. “You will have your mages stand down; I will not ask again.” When her Oma had used that tone of voice, people bared their throats.

Gavin Ossus wasn’t one of those people, but he did stand his men down. “Very well, Guildmaster. With your permission I will remain to observe.”

“It is not mine to grant. ATerafin?”

Jewel wanted to tell him to go away. Instead, she said, “I leave that decision in your hands, Guildmaster. Your understanding of the magi is far deeper than my own will ever be.”

“Very well, Member Ossus. Stay and observe. Matteos?”

Matteos failed to hear her. His hands loosely twined behind his back, he watched as the magi abandoned their positions around the circumference of what was purportedly the bulk of the tree’s roots—it was a much larger area than the trunk that Jewel approached. She noted, as she did, that if the magi left their work, they did not leave their protections; each of the mages was surrounded by pale lights, mostly orange in color, but not all.

Jewel
, the Winter King said. He emerged into the darkening evening, his coat a winter silver—a color it had never been in Jewel’s memory. Sigurne drew one sharp breath, but she was the only person who made any sound. All others, even the voluble Member Gavin Ossus, were silent in his presence.

You know, you could try subtlety once in a while
.

It was not one of my more renowned traits.
He approached her as she stood, leaves in hand; the Henden face of the bright moon was high and strong. The pale moon was almost invisible.
Do you understand what you intend?

No.
But even as she said it, she thought she might.
Is it foolish?
she asked, as he knelt on his forelegs, indicating by posture alone that he intended her to mount
.

No, ATerafin, although in time you may consider it otherwise.
His eyes were sapphire and shining as he watched her move.
I remember you.

It was a very strange thing to say.

Is it? Do you not remember Viandaran at specific moments? Do you not remember the sight of Lord Celleriant and the mortal bard ascending the skies to bring battle to the heart of the storm in the desert night?

She remembered both very well.
I’m not any of them
, she told him uneasily.

No, nor will you ever be, if you are very fortunate. No more will you be Winter
King, ATerafin. But if you feel that all memorable moments are those that might scar the world, you are young, yet.

She climbed up his back.

I remember the first time I saw you, Jewel.

She said nothing as he rose.
Why is your fur white?

Is it?

White or silver. In this light it’s hard to tell.

She felt his smile like a deep warm place in a landscape that was otherwise ice and snow.
I remember that you stood in the middle of the ancient road, surrounded on all sides by the mystery of the Stone Deepings—a mortal woman, in a place where mortals are forbidden by nature to walk.

I served the Winter Queen, Jewel ATerafin. I have served her without fail since the Hunt in which she claimed my life that Summer might at last arrive. She is the whole of her world, and where she walks, she is kin to the gods. Yet you stood your ground against her, in ignorance of her long history. You should have died.

I didn’t.

No. That is what makes the memory so strong. For a moment, where you stood, I could see the worn cobbles of mundane streets; I could smell baking and ale and sweat. I could hear shouting and laughter and weeping. I remembered them, then, in a way I had not for a very long time, even in nightmare.

And why is that important now?
The uneasiness Jewel felt grew deeper as the Winter King turned toward a tree that was mere yards away. He began to walk, each step stately and deliberate, as if she were at the head of a solemn parade or funeral march. She didn’t like it. At all.

I did not recognize you
, he continued, as if entirely unaware of the effect this conversation was having.

You’d never seen me before,
she replied.
Look, let’s just—let’s just get where we’re going.

You? No. But your kin? Your ancestors?

I doubt you saw any of them, either. They were all here, and they all died—

If it pleases you, remain ignorant a little while longer. But there will come a time, if I am not mistaken, when we will travel the hidden paths together, you and I, and it will be at your behest. It will be because of you that we
can
travel them at all.

I can’t travel those roads again
, Jewel replied.
I can’t leave the House. Not now. Maybe not ever.

He said nothing, and for some reason, his silence didn’t make her more
comfortable. She wanted to turn around. She wanted to slide off the warmth of his back and retreat to Sigurne, who was both mage and infinitely wiser than Jewel. She wasn’t certain if the visceral desire was childish or not, because fear was often the foundation for caution, and caution was considered adult.

She remained on the Winter King’s back. As he walked, slowly and deliberately choosing his steps, she felt the force of his memories, and they blended with her own, because she remembered what she had held on to when she had faced the Winter Queen: home. Home in the streets of the twenty-fifth holding.

Why there? Half of her life had been spent in House Terafin, and if she succeeded in the months to come, the rest of her life would also be spent here. Why the twenty-fifth? Oh. The street. The road. The texture of the cobbles; nothing glorious or ancient or magical about those stones—or the weeds that grew up in their cracks. Nothing magical about the den she had built there, either. But the den was here, now. Everything they’d built then, they’d continued to build on. This was as much her home as the streets of the twenty-fifth had been. Take these grounds, this garden: she knew it. She could walk it blindfolded. She knew which path would take her to the shrines of the Triumvirate, and which path would take her to the House shrine; she knew which paths would lead to the pavilions at which important visitors were entertained. She knew how to enrage the poor gardeners—it had been an accident—and how to mollify them slightly.

Were there farmers here? No. But she knew the undercooks and most of the servants; she knew the undersecretaries; she knew the merchants, whether they worked on land or at sea. She knew the Chosen, and even cast a glance back at Torvan. It wasn’t as far back as she’d expected, because he was keeping pace—at a reasonable distance—with the Winter King.

Tell me, Jewel, why did you take those leaves from the Winter forests?

I don’t know.
The truth, that they were part of a fairy tale she happened to be in and she wanted some proof that it was real, wouldn’t have answered his question.

And the red leaf?

I didn’t take this one. It clung to me.

He was silent.
Viandaran is here.

He was. He offered her a hand and helped her down in silence. But
when she was close to him, he said, “ATerafin, understand what it is that you do.”

Gods. “Tell me,” she replied, voice low. “What am I doing?”

He shook his head, and of all the damn things
bowed
to her.

“Stop it,” she told him sharply. “Stop it now.” Her arm throbbed, and she knew why: the mark he had placed on her inner wrist was burning. “Avandar, stand up.”

He stood. His eyes were dark and distant; they were appraising in a way that was almost entirely unfamiliar. She didn’t like it
at all
, and there had been enough that she hadn’t liked already this evening. She glanced at the silver Winter King, and he, too, bowed to ground, as if he meant to carry her again.

“Sen Jewel.”

“What? What did you just call me?”

Avandar shook his head. “It is an old title, nothing more; an archaic one. I mean no disrespect by it.” He joined her, and his eyes were shining. She couldn’t even tell if it was because of the effects of magic. Avandar had never seemed young, to her. But he’d always seemed human. Now?

Now, he reminded her of Celleriant.

As if he could hear the word—and given their bond, he probably had—he hesitated. And then he said softly, “With your permission, ATerafin, I would rouse Lord Celleriant.”

“But you said—”

“Yes. But I feel that he would consider the lack of rest worth what he might witness. It will be but a moment, and I will not leave your side.”

“Avandar—”

He lifted his hands—both hands—in a sudden, sharp reach for the night sky. White light trailed down his palms and arms like liquid, as he spoke words that were entirely inaudible.

The Winter King rose. A breeze moved his fur; it was warm for the cold of the Henden night. He lifted his head, his blue eyes shining in almost the same way that Avandar’s were. Jewel had always thought his eyes brown; she was certain they were. Just not tonight.

“ATerafin.” Sigurne Mellifas came to stand by her side; it was getting crowded, because so did Torvan and the Chosen. She wanted to send some of them away; she couldn’t.

To Sigurne she said, “If you wanted to see Lord Celleriant, watch the skies.”

“The skies?”

Jewel nodded. “He’s coming, I think. I recognize the feel of the wind.”

The oldest of the magi present looked to the sky, her gaze joining Avandar’s and the Winter King’s. Torvan’s gaze was firmly rooted to both ground and Jewel, and she felt comforted by it. He glanced at her, as if sensing her unease.

“Jewel?” The single word was soft.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing you can save me from,” she whispered.

He glanced at the leaves in her hands. So did she. They were trembling because she was. But she shook her head again. “It’s the cold,” she murmured.

Arann lifted one hand and signed. She nodded, and he moved away from the Chosen to stand by her side; to stand closer to her than even Avandar dared. He signed again, and this time she signed back, because signing was simpler, and because the words were ones she rarely let herself speak.
I’m scared.

Where’s danger?

She held out the shaking leaves, and he looked at them; he didn’t touch. But she thought he could. He could, of all the people here. The thought was comforting. “You were there with me,” she told him, as if for a moment everyone else had become backdrop. “You were in the twenty-fifth. You were in the thirty-fifth. You were there.”

“You saved Lefty.”

“For a little while.” They could talk about Lefty, now—but not always without pain. Tonight, the pain was distant.

He touched one of the leaves, the silver one. “It feels like a leaf,” he said, with obvious surprise.

“I know. It didn’t. I mean, before tonight.”

“It felt like silver?”

“Like very fine silver.”

“The others?”

“The same.” Cobblestones seemed to flicker, for a moment, between his heavy boots—boots that were far finer than any he’d worn when they’d lived in the holding.

“What are you going to do?”

She laughed. “I don’t know.”

“But you have to do it?”

“Yeah.”

His hand fell to the hilt of his sword; he didn’t draw it. But he turned his back toward her, and he faced the world outside of their small space. The wind grew stronger, and Jewel finally lifted her face and watched as Lord Celleriant descended from the night sky, dimming stars a moment by his passage. He landed slowly, as if the wind was reluctant to release him. But he landed near the Winter King and Avandar, and he nodded to Avandar.

He glanced at Jewel, and his expression froze for a second in the typical mask of immortal arrogance and distance; the mask cracked as his eyes widened, gray becoming silver. He saw what she carried. He turned to Avandar so sharply the simple motion felt like either an accusation or an attack.