Skirmish: A House War Novel (84 page)

He was bleeding. The only dark spot on his body looked all of black against the contrasting light, and it was centered in his upper left chest, just beneath the arms that were crossed in poor mimicry of repose. This close to his face, she saw the lines age, sun, and wind had worn there; she saw the brief rictus of pain transform an expression that defined inscrutable, and she understood that this was not happening
now
. She was seeing the past.

But his eyes opened, long lashes framing them as he grimaced. “Jewel.”

She reached out; her hand stopped an inch from his, and hovered there. Snow’s claws on marble were the only noise she heard.

“He looks
dead
.”

“I am dead,” the Terafin Spirit replied. “But even in death, there is an end. Jewel, the House—”

“I know.”

“I cannot hold these grounds for long against what has come; I cannot hold them against what will follow. I have tried,” he added softly, his voice thin and weak. “But the road is open now; it calls me.”

To where?
She didn’t ask. “You killed yourself on this altar.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, ATerafin. But I died upon it as the price for the stewardship I have kept these long years.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t follow your example.”

A wry—pained—smile twisted his lips. He reached out for her hand and paused the same inch away that she had. “Can you hear them?”

She nodded. “I—I don’t understand what they’re saying.”

“No. No more do I; I sense only their abiding anger. I speak to calm it; I do not know what they hear of me when I speak; they hear me, of that I’m certain.” He hesitated, and the hesitation made Jewel more uncomfortable than the blackness across his chest. “They might hear you more strongly; you are both alive and
of
the hidden ways in a way that I have never been, save by bargaining and by guile.” He reached out again, and this time Jewel moved the half inch to meet him.

His hand was cold. “You have not yet declared your candidacy to the House Council.”

“No. But I declared it before the Chosen, and in some ways, that’s the larger step.”

He coughed, smiled. “You are not one of nature’s liars, ATerafin.”

“I’m not, no. But I’m not lying; I’m not even trying.” She looked up at the lights that rimmed the ceiling, brass holders gleaming. “I can’t see the pavilions.”

“Nor the rain, no. But when you leave the shrine, you will be in the center of the storm. If you are not cautious, it will devour you; if you are too cautious, it will destroy you. You have not yet declared your intentions to the House Council,” he repeated. “But as you surmise, that declaration in this place is decorative.

“Take the House, ATerafin; take it now. You will understand much, much more when you do.” His smile was less pained, less stretched; peace touched it. “I have waited, Jewel. I have waited, and now, you are here. I am sorry that I could not protect Amarais.”

“You couldn’t protect any of them,” she heard herself say, aware that she’d been angry at his failure regardless until this moment.

“No. But I did not love them all. Like anyone who is steward and guardian, compromise is necessary. But in her, very little was required. She knew. I told her, as I was able. I gave her that much of a choice.”

Jewel snorted. “That was no choice.”

“No.” His smiled dimmed. “Not for Amarais; for another, it would have been. But she fought her fate until the end; she bought you time, and it was necessary time. Had she died three weeks earlier—”

Jewel lifted her hand. “Don’t. Don’t say it. I know what you want.”

But he shook his head. “It is not what
I
want that is relevant now. What do you want, Jewel?” He smiled again, but this time the pain etched itself into the corners of his lips. It wouldn’t leave until he did, and she did not want him to go. “Such a simple question; we ask it of our children time and again. What do you want? Children answer within the context of their knowledge and experience, and their answers are true but ephemeral. Your answer cannot be trivial; it cannot be as simple as ‘water’ or ‘bread’ or even ‘wealth’ or ‘power.’ ”

“Power is an answer that defines the lives—and the deaths—of many,” she replied, thinking of Haerrad. Of Rymark.

“It is,” was his soft reply. “But it is not an answer you can tender, and not an answer that the land will accept. I ask again, what does Jewel ATerafin want? What will devour the whole of your life, your heart, and your will to bring into being?”

She had already answered the question. She had answered it the day she had come to save Celleriant, walking the edge of the dreaming to where he was impaled, suspended in air, the means by which he might save himself momentarily rendered useless. She had answered it a second time when she had come bearing three leaves—leaves that shouldn’t have existed at all, given what she knew of gold, silver, and diamond. Those trees grew, not at her command, but with her permission.

But the trees of the Common were different. They grew for two reasons. The first, the old land, long fallow, upon which she walked, and the second: she loved them. Not the way she loved Finch or Teller; not the way she loved Angel or Arann; not even the more complicated way she loved Carver and Jester, men she was just as likely to throw crockery at as not. No, the trees were the walls and the bowers of her first home, and those walls and bowers stretched unseen all the way to the Isle.

The South had begun lessons she’d never dreamed existed—not for her, not for an orphan. But the learning of those lessons could only be done here, because this was
home
. Home, where Angel now rode the back of the Winter King, Sigurne before him, her hands pale and shaking because she could not quite bring herself to trust her mount; home, where Teller and
Finch now sought to comfort the House Council and its various entourages as the rain began to fall with vengeance; home, where Arann—Arann!—now took command of the House Guard as if he were a captain, and not the least senior of the Terafin Chosen. Jester, she could not see clearly in her mind’s eye—but her imagination surprised her, there: Jester was helping the guests from their increasingly unstable seating; the earth had shifted, and shifted again, and the carefully planned arrangement of benches was in disarray.

He held himself aloof on most days, choosing to divert any interest with a joke or a smile; he stood with them, but he never quite let himself be caught up in anything but an emergency. So: he knew this was an emergency.

Carver had left the grounds; he was technically an adjunct to the Council, through Finch, but Council be damned; he raced across the edges of ruined stone toward doors that were barred by armored guards, and he managed to get in, racing down the halls and disappearing through the small paneled doors that only the servants used.

She knew that Daine was in the infirmary; he had taken control, just as Arann had, although that was less surprising. The House did not—in theory—know Daine was healer-born; in practice, Jewel very much doubted it was a secret from many; he had been known to the healers in the Houses of Healing as a student, and word was bound to travel, greased by gold or guilt or veiled threat. At Daine’s side, drawn and tense, Alowan’s former assistants; two very overworked women. The two who had died on the day of Alowan’s assassination had yet to be replaced, as if the act of replacement diminished the loss.

Perhaps it did, or would, but Jewel knew after today—if there was one—that would change. It would have to change. Daine had come to her in pain and anger, himself a victim of unscrupulous men: men who bore the name ATerafin. But he had stayed with her, backed by Alowan’s support against the ire and fury of Levec. She knew why Alowan wanted him: he had not expected to survive a second House War.

Anger wouldn’t help her here, but it came anyway; that was the problem with helpless fury. A gentler, kinder man couldn’t be found in the streets of this entire damn city, and why had he died? For power. Someone’s power—a power that he himself had never desired, although he could have been both titled and wealthy with just a nod. But in the intervening time, he had trained Daine, and inasmuch as he could have a successor,
Daine was ready. Nervous, she thought—he was young—but ready.

She could not see Duvari, and was grateful for his absence; she could not see the Kings or the Exalted. But as she turned her gaze toward the manse, she froze because she could see Adam of the Arkosa Voyani. His eyes were dark, round, and unblinking; he was watching her, his hand in Ariel’s, hers missing fingers. By her side, bristling but silent, was Shadow. Shadow was also, sadly, staring right at her, in an if-looks-could-kill kind of way.

“Jewel,” Adam said, mouth half open.

“You can see me.” And hear her, which, given the wail of the storm should have been equally impossible.

He swallowed and nodded. “Shadow can—”

“Of
course
I can see her,
stupid
boy.” Shadow stepped on his foot. Adam, however, failed to notice until he applied weight.

“Jewel—what are you—”

“Stay there. Stay with Ariel and Shadow; if I fail, protect them both.”

Shadow hissed in astonished fury; it was the first thing that had happened since she’d arrived at the shrine that made her want to laugh.

“What will you do?”

“Tell the world,” she replied, “that this is
my
home.”

Snow sidled up to her. She knew he was doing the cat equivalent of sticking his tongue out—at Shadow—but at least had the sense to do it behind her back. Or her skirts. He nudged her gently, or what she assumed was meant to be gently, and she nodded, glancing once at the man who lay upon a sacrificial altar. He’d turned his face to look at her; his eyes were glowing softly. He did not move or rise; she wondered if he could now.

No, not now, not yet. Bespeak them, ATerafin, and tell them what they must hear and understand.

She tried to smile back at him, but couldn’t quite manage the simple expression. Dropping her hands to her skirts, she bunched them in her fists—which made Snow hiss in shock—before she walked back down the stairs, whose marble, gleaming in the shrine’s light, lay unbroken beneath her feet. She hesitated and then dropped her skirts and bent over her feet, where she unlaced the small, uncomfortable shoes that bound them. These she tossed to the side.

Snow said nothing; Ellerson or Haval would have had fits. But Snow
hadn’t made shoes for her; just the dress, and when the skirts and the train fell properly, who could see her feet?

Barefoot, she stepped away from the shrine and onto the stone path that led to it. When she did, she heard the voices of water, earth, and air so clearly they were physical, tangible. They clamored not for attention, but for dominance, like men on Council attempting to drown out the words of their rivals by raising their voices. Except in the case of the wild, when voices were raised, seawalls fell, stone broke; men drowned, or were crushed.

Men like, very like, Jewel.

Jewel bent to touch the ground, and then stopped, straightening both spine and shoulders and lifting her own voice as she joined the fracas—very much as if it
were
the House Council on a tear. She couldn’t understand what the elements were saying, but then again, most of what her enemies on the Council said made no damn sense either, when it came right down to it; the difference was that the Councillors
should.
What sense did one expect from wind or water? What sense from earth?

What sense would they expect, in their turn, from Jewel Markess ATerafin, if they could hear her voice at all?

And they’d hear it. They’d hear every damn word. She
knew
it, as she stood, forcing her arms into a fall by her sides, her hands tense—and straight—as boards. What words were appropriate when dealing with forces that by their very nature rose above the limits of language? What words could she offer that would make them understand?

Jewel Markess ATerafin had never been a diplomat and, with Kalliaris’ smile, never would be. The first words that left her lips were:

“How
dare
you?” And they hung in the sky like a long, slow, flash of building lightning.

For a moment, there was silence. The water froze; the earth stilled; even the wind’s voice dipped and vanished. Only Jewel’s words carried. They should have contained awe, reverence, or some acknowledgment that the forces of nature were in all ways above or beyond her; she might find a roof to shelter beneath, but against this storm, a roof made of sky would be just as useful as a roof of beams and tile. Earth, water, air—she accepted them as necessary, as inevitable, as forces over which she had little control and little say. But they belonged in the wild. They belonged in a storm of magic and gods and things ancient and almost unknowable.

They sure as Hells didn’t belong
here
. Here was
hers
. Here was the home she’d built. Was it perfect? Gods, no. And no matter how hard she worked it would never
be
perfect, but then again, neither would she. Everything she loved was here. Everything she valued, everything she trusted, everything she hoped—one day—to be worthy of: all here.

And the voices of the wild would destroy it without even
noticing
the damage they did. If she let them. Anger grew, or perhaps it was merely revealed as the danger of the wild swept the veneer of calm from her grasp. When she spoke again, she spoke two words:

“Be
silent
!”

And the silence which her first words had momentarily invoked extended, like ripples across a pond into which a stone has been thrown. She was that stone.

They turned their attention toward her, as if pulled, and she held her hands out, not in supplication, but in denial. They spoke, but their voices were muted now; rain slowed to a drizzle and the wind that pushed it was little stronger than a breeze. She didn’t look to see what had become of the towering wall on the terrace; nor did she look to see what damage had been taken in the slow rise of earth. Her Oma’s voice was almost as strong as the voices of the elements:
It can’t be undone, can it? Worry about what you’ll do now. There’ll be plenty of time for tears and recrimination later.