Skirmish: A House War Novel (29 page)

“In
Henden
?” The Master Gardener all but shrieked. He rose, however, and dusted off his knees.

Gabriel winced. “Even in Henden.” He didn’t ask the extent of the damage; he surveyed it instead. The Master Gardener’s words would have failed to convey the scope. “Have you done a rough inventory?” Gabriel asked, as he began to walk to the ruins of what had once been the centerpiece tree. Alraed, done with groveling, walked by his side. Everyone else—guards, Chosen, Jewel and her companions—became either invisible or unnecessary.

Which lasted until they suddenly stopped walking. Torvan and Arrendas drew swords.

Avandar, what is it—what’s wrong?

I believe,
he replied, in the type of dry usually reserved for drought,
the Winter King is waiting for you
.

Jewel pushed herself to the front of the loose formation, which worked until she reached Torvan’s outstretched arm. “ATerafin,” he said, with no warmth whatsoever.

“Chosen,” she countered, with heat. He turned then, to look over his shoulder. One brow rose, and words hovered behind his mouth; he failed to speak them. He didn’t fail to make room for her.

Avandar had—of course—been correct. The Winter King stood his ground at the base of the tree, his head lowered, his tines glittering as if they were ice. Or steel. “Regent.”

Gabriel turned to her. “I recognize this beast. I have not seen it since—”

“Yes.”

“Is it yours?”

“He, and no. But he serves me in a fashion. Let me speak with him. You’re not,” she added, glaring at the exposed blades of too many House Guards, “in any danger—but if he’s standing there in the open like that, you might be if you continue to walk.”

Gabriel nodded and turned to the Master Gardener; what he said was too quiet for Jewel’s ears to pick up. Not that it mattered; the Garden was Gabriel’s problem for the moment. The Winter King, on the other hand, was hers.

“What, exactly,” she said, as she walked to where he stood his ground, “are you doing?” Before he could answer, she added, “In case the House hierarchy is too foreign to you, the man in the fine cut of clothing is the regent. He is, at the moment, the man who commands all of my House. The man beside him is the Master Gardener, and the men in armor are House Guards. Except for those two,” she added, waving at Arrendas and Torvan. “They’re the Captains of the Chosen.”

Her hands fell to her hips in a posture that her Oma would have recognized. “Well?”

If, as your tone implies, these are men of import to you, it is not safe for them to walk here.

“Why not? Sigurne said the danger was past—”

Your Sigurne is a sage, but she is a sage of a lesser time. The immediate danger
is past, and I judge you capable of eluding it should you advance. Viandaran is not in danger. But I cannot be as certain of the others.

Jewel pushed her hair out of her eyes.

“ATerafin?” Gabriel came to stand to one side of her; the Winter King allowed it. In a much, much quieter voice, the weary regent added, “we can hear every word you say, Jewel; we cannot, however, hear a response. I feel it best that you keep this in mind.”

“Meaning I look insane?”

“Or inebriated, yes.”

“Sorry.” She meant it. “He can speak—but he speaks to me. I hear his words.”

“If you can speak in a like fashion to the stag, it would be best for you.”

He is correct
, the Winter King told her, his voice grave.

Fine. What is it that you’re afraid of? No, let me try that again. What do you think might happen?

Lord Celleriant escaped the dreaming.

Yes?

These mortals might not.

But…but he said—

He was safe. He is. But I fear that the mortals will be far more easily entrapped. They do not believe in the old paths, Jewel. They do not lend credence to the Firstborn, if they remember them at all. They lack even the comfort of lore and hearth wisdom to guide them.

Are you saying that our visitors might somehow be entrapped in the dreaming the way Celleriant was?

Not the exact way, no. It is subtle—at the moment, it is subtle. Mortal dreams are not immortal dreams; they lack the substance and the sharper edges; they lack the viscerality and the brilliance. But mortals have never been entirely safe from the Warden of Dream. Dreams sustain him,
he added quietly.

She had a very bad feeling about this.
Dreams sustain him.

Yes.

Even mortal dreams.

Yes.

Turning to Gabriel she said, in the faintest of voices, “Gabriel, how long has the sleeping sickness plagued the city?”

“Perhaps a month.”

A month. She closed her eyes and prayed, briefly, to Kalliaris, the goddess
she returned to time and again when she faced trouble. Kalliaris, at least, had the grace to remain at a distance.

“Jewel, why do you ask?”

She looked up at the smoldering ruins of the tree; it seemed to her eye to be a hollow, standing trunk. The roots on the ground remained as twisting vines, but they were dry and motionless; their thorns could still sting if one was careless, but at least they weren’t moving. “I think what happened with this tree, and with The Terafin before her death, are related to the sleeping sickness.”

The regent was silent for a long, long moment. “And the stag?”

“He will allow you to pass if you insist.” She said this with more emphasis than she’d intended, most of which was meant for the Winter King. He lowered his tines in agreement, although his eyes narrowed.

“Does he fear that we will be subject to the sleeping sickness if we pass beyond him?”

“I think that’s exactly what he fears.”

“And if we uproot the tree?”

She gaped at him. “Gabriel—we have two and a half days. Uprooting the tree—”

“It can be done, if we petition both the Kings and the magi; the petition must travel immediately, however.”

To the Winter King, she said,
Would that be safe?

It would be safer, yes. But I fear that the time for safety is passing, Jewel.

Gabriel, given the answer, left quickly, taking Torvan and Arrendas with him. He left the House Guards with the Master Gardener—and with orders that none should pass beyond the boundary set by the Winter King. If they had some issues with taking orders or advice from an animal, they were utterly silent in Gabriel’s presence.

They were, Jewel thought, with distinct unease, utterly silent in hers—but it was a weighty silence. It wasn’t suspicious—not yet—but it wasn’t normal.

No, normal was reserved for the gardeners. The Master Gardener stayed a moment, and because Jewel was feeling pressured, she uncharitably assumed it was for fear of the damage the Winter King might do. Given the state of the grounds, it was a pointless concern; given the mood of the Master Gardener, she didn’t feel the need to actually say this. Instead, she headed back to the West Wing, taking Avandar and Angel with her.

She heard a cry at her back and wincing, she turned. The Winter King had vanished.
Next time
, she said grimly,
could you walk
away
from the witnesses before you do that?

If it proves necessary, I will.

It’s necessary.

No, it is not. In fact the opposite is true, in this particular case. You have never commanded men, Jewel; I have. Your regent was correct: they watched you speak to an animal.

You’re hardly a—

Yes. I am not. But this is the form I have now, and it is the only form left me. I have merely made clear that your sanity was not in question—unless they wish to question their own. They understand, now, that I am not merely a dumb beast.

They’ll be afraid of you.

Yes.

They’ll be afraid of
me
.

Yes. But in the end, that will not be a disadvantage to you; it will merely cause you discomfort.

Sigurne and Matteos Corvel appeared at the doors of the West Wing with little ceremony and a lot of House Guards. The guards were there as both guides and an honor detail, and they took at least the latter seriously. Jewel couldn’t imagine armored men roaming the halls of the Order of Knowledge at Sigurne’s beck and call, but Sigurne was clearly accustomed to their presence. Matteos carried a large satchel, at odds with his robes. Jewel raised a brow.

“The servants offered to carry our belongings,” Sigurne replied, correctly divining Jewel’s concern. “But Matteos would not hear of it.”

“The regent extends his welcome—”

“He has already done so in person,” was the mage’s grave reply. “He was on hand before we had passed through the foyer; one would almost suspect he had been waiting for us.”

“I actually doubt that—but he probably had a runner in place to notify him if you showed up.”

Sigurne smiled. It was a pointed smile, and Jewel made haste to get out of the doorway; she narrowly avoided colliding with Ellerson. Or, to be more accurate, he narrowly—and gracefully—avoided her misstep. “Guildmaster Mellifas,” he said, tendering her a stiff and utterly perfect bow, “your rooms are ready. If you would come this way?”

“Of course. Gentlemen, I thank you for your escort. Unless you feel your presence is required within the wing itself, I would be grateful if you would tender both my respect and news of my safe arrival to the regent.”

One of the men saluted. Jewel didn’t see it, but she heard it; it was a familiar sound, these days. Sigurne then entered the hall and the doors rolled shut behind her. Only then did her demeanor soften. “Jewel, if you aren’t too busy, I would be gratified by your company.”

Jewel nodded, and as Ellerson led one of her most significant visitors ever to the rooms he had personally prepared, she joined the magi. Matteos was looking less disapproving than he usually did, which wasn’t saying much.

“Accept my apologies for our late arrival,” Sigurne now said. “We were detained by an urgent request for magical aid—and an accompanying writ of exemption. It appears that my magi are to work in your garden.”

“If Kalliaris is going to smile at all this month, they’ll have already started.”

“That bad, dear?”

“Worse.” Jewel ran her hands through her hair. “The Winter King—”

“The Winter King?”

“Oh, sorry—he’s the stag I rode up the side of the tree.”

Sigurne’s hair was silver and white, and a brow that color rose. “Winter King,” she whispered to herself. Her robes shifted as her posture did; she pulled several small stones out of somewhere. “I apologize if you’ve any dislike of magic, but I thought these might be wise.”

“Silence stones?”

“They’re a little more complex than that, but in essence, yes. I don’t see your domicis,” she added, making the statement a question.

Jewel stopped herself from shrugging—but only barely. “He’s busy at the moment. Since Ellerson’s returned, he’s decided to leave the running of the daily business of the wing to Ellerson.”

“And Ellerson doesn’t mind?”

“Truthfully? I think he prefers it. He used to be—he still is—the most fastidious of men, and I think he secretly—”

Ellerson cleared his throat, and Jewel had the grace to redden.

“They’re both from the guildhall,” she said, in exactly the tone of voice reserved for groveling apologies.

“Indeed, ATerafin,” Ellerson added. “Guildmaster, these will be your rooms. Member Corvel’s rooms are adjacent. If you prefer, accommodations
can be altered so that you are within the same set of rooms, while still preserving some privacy.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sigurne replied. “However, I do have a favor to ask.”

“The stones?”

“Indeed.”

Ellerson looked down at the cupped palms of her hands. “If you are willing to leave this task with me, I will place them around the wing. ATerafin?”

Jewel nodded, granting permission.

“Will you see to their activation?”

“I already have.”

Ellerson’s left brow rose.

“They are within the confines of acceptable legal magic, Ellerson. I give you my personal word that they will not record any conversation held by the den; they are merely here to dampen and possibly to alert those who live within the wing. If your master would feel more comfortable, you may seek Gabriel ATerafin’s permission first.”

“I am certain that will not be necessary,” was Ellerson’s smooth reply. He bowed, his hands now full of stones that weren’t all that small to begin with. “Guildmaster.”

Jewel watched with interest as Sigurne entered her rooms. They were larger than Jewel’s, but not as large as some of the rooms used for visiting dignitaries elsewhere in the manse. “Can I help with anything?”

“No. As you can see, the magi are not outfitted in a fashion the patriciate would otherwise expect of men and women of power; we wear our robes. I have robes designed for state funerals, and one extra robe for emergencies; I have no jewelry that is not part of my uniform, and no particular need to use combs and clips in my hair.”

Matteos began to unpack his unwieldy bag. As Sigurne had said, she had two robes; one was remarkably fine, even in this waning light.

“Will you have lamps or—”

“Magelight is best. I have, of course, brought my own.” The mage smiled, glancing around the room. “This is much finer than many of the rooms I’ve stayed in as a member of the Order. I assure you that I am content.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Jewel replied under her breath.

“Good.”

“Will you take tea?”

“I would love tea. I’ve heard that the domicis—”

“I’ll ask Ellerson.” Jewel turned to leave and Sigurne lifted a hand; it was finely veined but entirely steady, remarkably so in a woman of her age. “Is Lord Celleriant in the wing?”

Jewel hesitated. “Yes.”

“He is recovering.”

“Yes—and I don’t think he’s happy about it either.”

Sigurne smiled almost fondly, as if Jewel’s tone had evoked a very pleasant memory. “It makes me nostalgic, Jewel. Very well. I will not ask if he is accepting visitors, but I
will
ask you to make clear that I am, and at his leisure, should he be so inclined to grace an old woman with his presence.”