Skirmish: A House War Novel (26 page)

She laughed; it was wobbly. “I’ve got Torran blood. I can complain when the water isn’t even frozen. Avandar?”

“He’s here. Almost here. There’s a bunch of ash where there used to be wood, but he avoided torching the height of the tree.”

“Is he pissed off?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m going to ask the Winter King to take us somewhere safe. Like the Winter Court.”

Angel laughed. It was shaky. “Thanks for coming back in one piece.”

“More or less one piece?”

“That, too.”

The Winter King ran above snow that was painfully bright. His hooves disturbed none of it, but the wind did—and the wind was a blistering howl. Ice stung Jewel’s cheeks. She was certain it would have done the same to her hands, but she couldn’t feel her hands anymore.

I need to talk to Sigurne
, she told the great stag.

She is waiting. She is as unhappy in her way as the Warlord is, but she is markedly more patient.
A moment’s silence, and then he added,
She is powerful, Jewel. Were she not old, she would be a danger in the future.

She’ll never be a danger to me.

How can you be so certain?

We want the same things for the people around us. For the City,
she amended.
For the Kings. For the House. We probably want different things for ourselves. I trust her.

Unwise.

Yes. But if I were wise, I wouldn’t be riding you now, and Celleriant would be riding in the host of the Arianni. We are what we are.

In silence, the Winter King continued to run, and Jewel marked the moment when the snow gave way to the side of a tree, and the ground approached as quickly as if she were actually falling. She closed her eyes. She also held her breath, but that was less voluntary.

But the ground failed to hit her, and the Winter King failed to drop her, besides which, Angel’s arms were on the outside of her body, hemming her in. The wind died and in the stillness that seemed like sudden—deafening—silence, she heard the quiet voice of the Guildmaster of the Order of Knowledge.

“ATerafin?”

She opened her eyes. “Angel,” she said, under her breath, “Help me down. I don’t want to fall on my face in front of the guildmaster.”

He had his own trouble. The Winter King knelt obligingly. Angel’s legs were shaking as he dismounted. So were his arms. But they would never be shaky enough to deny Jewel the help she’d asked for in such a hurried whisper.

“Thank you,” she whispered. And then, because it was Angel, “I needed to know what you saw, Angel; I couldn’t see it myself.”

He nodded, no more, because Sigurne was approaching.

Jewel managed something like a crude bow.

“This is not the time to stand on ceremony, ATerafin.”

“Good. I don’t think I can, for much longer. Stand, that is.” Jewel’s legs collapsed beneath her. “But as long as we’re avoiding formality, can you please call me Jay? Or Jewel?” She hated the latter, but Sigurne was old enough that she was allowed a little formality.

“Jewel, then,” Sigurne said. “You are injured.”

It wasn’t a question; Jewel lifted her hands and opened them. Her palms were bleeding.

“How?”

“I—I picked up a sword.”

“By its blade?” Matteos Corvel asked sharply. He was Sigurne’s personal version of Angel. He was never far from her side—when she allowed it.

“Hush, Matteos. These are not the wounds one receives from mishandling a blade.” Sigurne caught Jewel’s hands in her own and examined them with care. She then frowned. “What is that on your lap, Jewel?”

Jewel looked down. Snared in the panels of her loose skirt was a single, red leaf. It glittered. “Don’t touch it,” Jewel told the mage. “It’s a leaf.”

“Is it now a danger?”

“I don’t know. It’s not attached to the tree anymore.” Jewel took the leaf and shoved it hastily into her pocket.

“The tree,” Sigurne said, looking up. Her eyes widened slightly, and her mouth opened, but not to offer words.

“What’s happening?” Jewel’s question was sharper than she’d intended.

“I believe your Celleriant is now ending the danger—to us.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Matteos, I believe it best that we retreat some little distance. Help me, please. Angel?”

Angel nodded, and pulled Jewel to her feet. She allowed this in part because it meant she could trust him to take care of things like direction and walking; she looked up. She looked up and her mouth opened on the same silence as Sigurne’s had, but it stayed that way for longer.

Celleriant’s sword was lightning; his shield must be thunder—he was the storm’s heart. His expression couldn’t be seen, but Jewel could feel it, even at this distance: rage, fury, and exaltation. Was he injured? He must be. But injured or no, he was as primal, as elemental, as unleashed fire, as desert storm. She had always thought him beautiful in a cold, sculpted way; that sculpture now moved, breathed, and fought.

The tree screamed.

It screamed in a rage not less than Celleriant’s own; it looked at nothing but Celleriant. Neither did Jewel. She was aware of Angel’s arms; aware of when she almost tripped over an exposed root; aware of when she stopped walking at all—but she couldn’t take her eyes off Celleriant. He rose as if winged, and he plunged the same way birds of prey might, his sword before him.

Straight down without hesitation he flew, and only then did he disappear. But she watched; light exploded from the height of the tree in a single, brief flash.

“Jewel.”

Celleriant did not emerge.

“It is over, for now.”

Shaking her head, she turned to meet Sigurne Mellifas’ gaze.

“Celleriant—”

“He will return. Do you not know this?”

“No.”

“Ah. Let me see your hands.”

Jewel lifted them automatically.

“Was it Celleriant’s sword that you lifted?”

“Yes.” Jewel frowned. “How did you know?”

“I did not, or I wouldn’t have asked—but yes, I guessed.”

“How?”

“I am a master of Lore, Jewel. It is—or perhaps was—the most relaxing part of my profession. His sword is old, and it is not meant for the hands of mortals.”

Jewel frowned. “But Meralonne APhaniel uses a sword very like it.”

“Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “And mortals can’t make them?”

“…they can. You are perceptive, as expected; you see what I hoped not to say. But our weapons and his weapons will never be the same.”

“Because we die.”

“Because we are mortal and death is inevitable—the immortals can die, although not merely by existing for long enough.”

Jewel shook her head and looked around the ruins of what had been immaculate landscape minutes or hours before. Someone, she thought, cringing, was going to pay for this.

Avandar appeared some ten yards away. He was noticeably less crisp and clean than he had been while speaking with Devon. Devon was, in fact, by his side, carrying two large daggers that looked as if they’d make good, decorative letter openers in the back offices of the Exalted’s cathedrals on the Isle. Seeing them, Jewel frowned; it was a day for frowning.

“Sigurne, the consecrated daggers—they hurt the tree.”

“They are effective against what was once known as Winter magic. Winter magic was used to great effect by the Lord of the Hells and his followers, but he was not the only one to use it, at least not according to ancient tales. It is thought that summoned demons have a form made of Winter magic and the demands of existence upon this plane; it is the reason the daggers have been of use against them.”

“And if they arrived here without being summoned first?”

“It has never happened. But they are not creatures of this world; there is always a cost for arrival, and a price to be paid to remain.”

“Why was it called Winter magic?” Celleriant’s dream was of Winter, endless and soul-destroying. He served the Winter Queen.

“Jewel, I don’t know. I know that the ancients could, in theory, use either branch—Winter or Summer—as appropriate. The demons, however, cannot use the latter now, and the Summer injures them greatly. The daggers are imbued as part of a ceremony that has long been handed down by the gods to their god-born children.”

“Did any mortals ever use Winter magic?”

“Not to my knowledge—but to call it knowledge is a disservice; what we have are fragmented tales and ancient lays, no more. We sift them and attempt to understand the truth that underlies them, if any truth does. But our truth is not, perhaps, the truth that the gods faced when they walked this world in the flesh.” She looked up once again to what remained of the tree’s height. “There is one you could ask. Do not, however, be greatly surprised or annoyed if he fails to give you answers you find immediately relevant or useful.”

Jewel shook her head. “I see you’ve met Celleriant before.”

“Lord Celleriant? No. But I have had some passing acquaintance with things ancient in my time. This,” she added, surveying the wreckage of the path, “is going to be distinctly unpleasant.”

The vines had not shrunk; the stones that lined the path had not magically fallen back into place. Whole chunks of cold, hardened dirt added unwelcome texture to the flower beds.

Avandar reached Jewel’s side, reached for her arm, and stopped short of actually grabbing it. The mark on her inner wrist, however, stung. “ATerafin,” he said, using his most correct annunciation.

She stopped herself from cringing and turned to Devon. “ATerafin.”

He looked grim, and spared her a glance, no more. “Sigurne.”

“Yes.”

“This is a disaster.”

“It is,” was her measured reply. “But how much more of a disaster would it have been had we discovered the nature of the tree’s enchantment at the funeral itself? We must consider ourselves lucky.” She glanced at his blades. “I will petition the Exalted without delay; they were to be present for the interment, and with luck, they might be persuaded to arrive early. I will withdraw for the moment, but I will not be far from the manse.”

“You will remain in residence until the funeral is over?”

“I am hardly in residence now, ATerafin.” She raised a silver brow. “I will not remain on the grounds indefinitely. But I believe, given my advanced
age, I might accept an appropriate invitation to remain as a guest for at least the three days of the funeral rites. It would spare me the unnecessary rigors of travel.”

“I will speak with the regent immediately.”

“That will not be necessary,” was the firm reply. To Jewel’s surprise, Sigurne pinned her with a look that fell just short of demand. It was entirely familiar, but not on Sigurne Mellifas’ face; the ghost of Jewel’s Oma seemed to have taken possession of the otherwise kindly older woman.

“We have room,” she heard herself say. “In our wing. I could ask Avandar—or Ellerson—to prepare one of the rooms we don’t use. Will Matteos be staying with you?”

“That will hardly be necessary,” Sigurne began.

Matteos, however, said, “Yes, absolutely.”

“Umm, you have to understand,” Jewel continued, forcing more words out now that the unexpected ones had landed her with an extremely significant guest, “that we don’t have many guests, ever. Our wing—it’s not exactly
formal
. We have a cook who comes in during the day, but we mostly—”

Sigurne lifted a hand. “I was not raised in the very formal confines of the Empire. I am sure the change will do me some good.”

Matteos looked highly dubious.

“Does your Lord Celleriant also room with the den?”

“Yes and no. He doesn’t require much sleep, and he doesn’t really like socializing. Oh, and there’s also a little girl in residence. She doesn’t speak Weston, and she’s very,
very
shy. I’m sure Gabriel would be ecstatic to arrange more appropriate—and more private—circumstances for your stay, Member Mellifas, and I—”

“Is anyone else in your wing?”

“Yes,” was Jewel’s defeated reply. “You’ll meet them.” She glanced at the sun’s position. “You might also meet our dressmaker. I’ll apologize for his mood in advance. Is there anything you need to fetch from the Order?”

“Yes. I will head there immediately, speak with the Exalted, and return. Thank you.”

True to her word, she left them, Matteos by her side.

Devon glanced at Jewel after sheathing the daggers that they both knew were now as useless as they looked. “That was unwise,” he said curtly.

“Did I have much choice?”

“There is always choice, ATerafin. Have you considered how other members of the House Council will view your choice of guests at
this
time?”

“That wasn’t my first concern.”

“No, and that is entirely understandable. But it
is
a concern nonetheless. You have entertained no guests of significance for any notable period of time; Sigurne’s presence will change that. It may well change the way you are viewed, and not in a fashion you desire.”

“What should I have said?”

“Nothing. She would have accepted Gabriel’s offer of housing, and Gabriel’s offer would be both necessary and entirely neutral.”

“She meant to stay with me.”

“Yes,” he said, gazing thoughtfully at the ruins of the grounds. “Did you not consider that odd?”

“Not odder than a tree that turns into a Winter landscape and attempts to destroy one of my—” she stopped. “No, not at the time.”

“And now?”

“Yes, of course. I assumed she wanted to speak with Celleriant at her leisure.”

“Jewel—she will be our ally. She may well be yours. But she is not your liege, not a member of your den. You will have her in your personal space for at least five days, and during that time, you will be observed much more closely.”

“I don’t doubt it. I’m sorry. I have a weakness for autocratic old women. I was mostly raised by one, and I still have a couple of the scars. I knew we needed her,” she added.

Devon relented as gracefully as she suspected he could, given his mood. “The Kings need her here, yes.”

“The House needs—”

He ignored her attempted correction. “But your future in the House is not the future of the Empire. They are related; the Empire, however, will survive without you.” He took a step away, and then looked back. “I intended to give you time to consider my offer.”