Battle: The House War: Book Five (100 page)

“She was well. No, she was better than well; she was very cautiously happy, I think. She has grown bold, for a Serra, and Valedan delights in it. Her first public act was to acknowledge her brother and her disgraced father’s wives.”

“And the Serra Teresa?”

“She is also in the city.”

Jewel’s eyes widened. “In Averalaan?”

“Yes. I have introduced her to Solran Marten; she is to become a Senniel student.”

Jewel’s smile was unfettered. “I’d love to see her. She’s well?”

“She is still recovering, but she is physically whole.” He let the smile fade. “I wish I could have come just to bear happy tidings.”

The Terafin exhaled. “So do I. What unhappy tidings do you bring?”

“On the road to Averalaan, we were met by Evayne. She was not best-pleased that I was not to be found in the city; she felt that my arrival was tardy, and time was short.”

Jewel stiffened. For a moment, the weight of her title informed the whole of her bearing. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“So she said. She asked me to convey an item of import to you.” He removed the pack from his shoulder and untied its strings. He was aware of the intensity of her stare. Jewel had never been still or quiet; she moved, often restlessly; she pushed hair out of her eyes whenever a conversation troubled her—often when the hair was not in those eyes. But when she held herself in like this, she silently demanded motion and movement from those around her.

The only motion he could offer, he did: he drew the box from the faded, travel-worn bag. It was as it had been: small enough to be a modest jewelry box for a person of middling means. It was not terribly fine; wood had been engraved with runes and symbols, but none of these were obviously portentous.

She stared at it as he held it out to her. “What—what’s in it?”

“I did not ask. You may have noticed that Evayne does not often answer questions. Certainly not questions which are easily answered.”

She looked at him in mild confusion.

“You could open it,” he replied, his voice and smile teasing.

It drew a smile from her. He guessed that she had done very little smiling since she had taken the Terafin Seat.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. I was told that it was a matter of utmost urgency that I deliver this into your hands; I felt it necessary to settle the Serra Teresa before I came. I do not think she would thank me for bringing her to the head of one of the most powerful Houses in the Empire with no pause for a bath and fresh clothing.”

“I don’t think she would have cared.”

“Not when she realized The Terafin and Jewel Markess were one and the same, no. But Averalaan will be strange enough, difficult enough, in the months to come.” He glanced again at the fountain. Jewel had not removed the box from his hands.

She closed her eyes. To her domicis, she said, “Avandar, go to the kitchens, and to the West Wing. Tell Adam, Angel, and Terrick that they are to make preparations to travel.” To Kallandras she whispered, “Hold the box for a moment.”

Kallandras heard raw fear in her voice. Not in her words; she had enough mastery to mask it there. She made her way back to the table, to a book that lay open upon it. Lifting her hands above the page, she signed; it was not in a language Kallandras recognized.

“APhaniel.”

Meralonne’s pipe had gone out. He did not light it. “I will keep watch, Terafin.”

She took the box from Kallandras’ hands and drew it toward her chest; she did not attempt to remove the lid. “They’re coming,” she whispered.

The wind’s voice rose in a howl, but it held no anger and no fear. Kallandras felt it; it was strong enough he could have danced—or fought—in its folds. The ring on his finger was cool. He glanced at Meralonne, saw the slender edge of a smile on the mage’s face.

Into the library, from between the trees that served as shelves—flew two large creatures: predatory cats, in size and color. One was white, one black; were it not for their wings, they might have looked natural and dangerous.

Their wings, Kallandras thought, and their voices. They attempted to land on the same spot ten feet from where The Terafin stood, collided, rolled; their voices devolved into a series of hisses and growls that often contained no words.

The Terafin looked . . . resigned. The presence of flying, talking predators did not seem to invoke any of the wonder the bard himself felt. “Snow. Night.
We have guests
.”

They paused in their not-so-playful attempt to shred each other’s fur. The white cat’s ears twitched. “Oh? Who?”

“This is Kallandras. He is a master bard of Senniel College. Meralonne, you know.”

The white cat hissed. “Can we eat
them
?”

“I would very much like to see you try,” Meralonne replied. The pipe vanished from his hand in an instant.

Jewel looked at Kallandras. “They’re always like this. I’d be grateful if you found it unoffensive.”

“There are no known rules of etiquette for dealing with talking, winged cats. Were I not trained in Senniel, I might find myself at a loss for words.”

Night hissed, stopped, hissed and then tilted his head. He padded across the floor toward Kallandras. Kallandras inclined his head. Night butted his side with the top of his head, and Kallandras obligingly reached down to scratch behind the great cat’s ears. He had not lied; he considered them a wonder.

“Do not indulge them, brother,” a new voice said, and Kallandras lifted his chin—but only his chin; he continued to scratch the cat’s head. The cat, however, growled.

“Lord Celleriant.”

“Kallandras of Senniel. Well met.” His smile was sharp and bright and painfully familiar. But he turned and bowed to Jewel as the white stag Kallandras had last seen in the Dominion of Annagar walked into view. He looked a changed creature; his fur was matted in places, and blood crested the hair on his front hooves. Blood adorned the tines of his antlers.

He approached Jewel, head lowered.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice so low only Kallandras could catch it. It, and all the regret it now held. “Meralonne believes that Carver is trapped in lands that only the Sleepers know.”

The white stag lifted its head, eyes rounding. It was clear he could speak to Jewel, but his voice, no bard could catch. “You remember Kallandras.”

Kallandras met the white stag’s steady gaze; he bowed. The stag nodded.

“Tomorrow morning we will travel to
Avantari
. Most of us will go by carriage. We will not return the same way. I need to speak with the Oracle.” She exhaled. “I will ask to take her test.”

The stag was very still.

“I don’t
like
her,” Snow said. “Why do
we
have to go?”

“Because it will be very, very boring in the Terafin manse if I’m not here, and I have some sympathy for the Household Staff: they don’t deserve to listen to you all complain about boredom while they’re working their—while they’re working so hard.”

Celleriant’s smile had frozen on his face at the mention of the Sleepers. “Lord,” he said, “if what Illaraphaniel fears is true, you cannot go to your Carver.”

“No,” she replied. “I can. You can’t. But I am to travel to the heart of the Oracle’s domain, and for that journey, I want you with me. If—” She shook her head. “Kallandras will be joining us.”

He had not said as much, although Evayne’s orders were quite clear.

“What do you hold?” Celleriant asked.

Jewel gazed at the box. In answer, she lifted the lid in one shaking hand.

Light flooded the room, paling the contours of her jaw, her lips, her cheekbones. Meralonne and Celleriant froze in that instant; they were rigid, breathless, silent. They could not see the contents of the box; only Jewel could.

But vision in this case was clearly superfluous.

Meralonne whispered a word. Two. He did not speak Weston, nor Torra, nor Rendish, but Kallandras was bard-born. He understood. “This is what we searched for along the borders of Averda,” Kallandras said softly.

Meralonne did not—could not—speak. Kallandras understood why; at the moment a word left his lips, he would be laid bare to the bard’s talent, and he would not risk it.

“Why?” Jewel asked, staring. “Why me?”

“The trees exist in their season,” Kallandras replied. “They are wed to it, bound to it. Evayne can carry coin and weapon across the divide of years—but she cannot carry this tree outside of its season. She has tried. She meant to keep and protect it, but she cannot tread time’s path while she holds it safe.

“She attempted to carry it to the Hidden Court—but the way was barred; she could find no entrance, and no purchase upon the path that must lead to its heart. You have, at your side, a Lord of that court. Celleriant?”

Celleriant slowly came back to life. “No,” he said. “I cannot return. Nor can Illaraphaniel.”

“Evayne felt that The Terafin could,” Kallandras said. “And you are tasked with the safety of what that box contains. If its existence is known—”

Jewel lifted a hand. She placed the lid firmly over the box. “I could keep it safe in the manse against all intruders,” she said. “But only while I remained here. And I
can’t
.”

Celleriant, however, said: “You can carry it to the Hidden Court.”

“If you can’t go—if Meralonne can’t—”

“I serve you, and Illaraphaniel—”

“Cannot return unless he is summoned, and he will never be summoned,” the mage said, finally finding his voice.

“Your brother, Celleriant. Your hunters. Call them—”

“You do not understand, Lord. They ride, now. They search. They cannot return to her side unless—and until—there is Summer. The doors to the Hidden Court open but once until the turn of the seasons; they have chosen to ride. But you bear part of the White Lady upon your person. You at least might force entry—but only because of her gift.”

Jewel frowned. “If it was as simple as three bloody strands of hair, why wouldn’t she just make sure they
all
had them?”

Lord Celleriant stiffened. He served Jewel—which Kallandras found almost shocking. Such service had clearly not lessened the regard in which he held the Winter Queen. “It is not, as you imply, so simple.”

Kallandras said, quietly, “Of what does Lord Celleriant speak?”

Jewel lifted her wrist. To Kallandras’ eye, the wrist was bare, covered in part by the fabric of sleeve, no more. “Three strands of the Winter Queen’s hair.”

Meralonne was silent for a long moment. “Evayne and the White Lady share a parent: the father. She knew, Terafin. You hold some small part of her power around your wrist; until you die, it will not be parted from you. It cannot be transferred; it is hers. But it is also yours. Lord Celleriant is correct; while you carry what you carry, there is some small chance you will find a way into the courts that are lost to those who do not remain in their smallness by her side.

“I would travel with you, now.”

Jewel shook her head. “You know why I need you here.”

“The needs of your House are irrelevant.”

“No, Meralonne, they’re not. I need you here. If you’re afraid of what happens to the box—you can keep it with you.” She held it out.

“Do not play games—”

“I’m not. I’ll take it with me if you remain; I’ll leave it here if you follow. Those are the only choices you have.”

“Illaraphaniel,” Celleriant said.

Meralonne drew his sword. Jewel stared at him as if he were a particularly stupid merchant. “If you mean to threaten me—don’t. Just don’t. If you mean to threaten anyone else in this room because you know you can’t kill me,
really, really
reconsider. I understand what’s at stake for both of us.”

“You will go to the Hidden Court first.”

“I will not—I have no idea
where
the Hidden Court is. It’s called hidden for a reason. I will go to the Oracle.”

“Illaraphaniel,” Celleriant said again.

Meralonne ignored him. “Do you understand what happens if that box is lost or its contents destroyed?”

“Yes. There will be no Summer Court and no Summer Queen—and if there is no Summer Queen there is almost nothing that can take and hold the field against
Allasakar
. I
understand
what’s at stake. But it is not the only thing at stake for
me
. I want you here.”

“Illaraphaniel.”

Meralonne turned his head as Celleriant at last drew his sword. “Ask the master bard what he hears in her voice. Ask. She will not be moved. If you threaten her, she will accept it; if you seek to threaten those in her care, she will not. She will not kill you, if that is even within her power, but the battle will reverberate throughout the hidden world; it will pierce the dreams of the Sleepers.

“I will accompany her. She will ride the Winter King. If she needs to eat and sleep, the cats do not. Your presence in the world that waits will not go unnoticed; you risk everything if you are forced to reveal yourself before it is time.”

“And your presence?”

“I am the youngest Prince of the Court, and I was never your equal. But I will fight you here, if that is what you demand. She is seer-born. She is
certain
. Consider what that means. You have seen the Winter Queen’s gift. You understand its significance. Respect the Winter Queen’s choice.”