Skirmish: A House War Novel (86 page)

“Strange. I won’t have seizures,” she added. “But—strange. Like I weigh nothing, or like the world does. Weigh nothing, I mean.” She closed her eyes. “I can see the City, Sigurne. With my eyes closed. I can see the Common. I can see the streets of the twenty-fifth holding. I can see people heading into Taverson’s—his door needs oiling. People are trying to get out of the rain.”

“Open your eyes,” Sigurne commanded her. “Open them. Stop looking at the City. Look at
nothing
but your Angel.”

“I—”

“
Now
.” To the Winter King, the mage said, “She must be taken indoors.”

The stag did not move.

“No, I don’t know if it will help—but it can’t hurt. I must attend the magi and take their reports—if they even survived to make them. I do not know what occurred to presage these events, but I can guess. Angel.”

Angel nodded.

“She must go—to the healerie if you judge it safe, and to her wing, if you do not. Do not let her speak of the City or the holdings—do not let her speak of anything
at all
if you value her life.”

He looked bewildered. “Sigurne—why? What did she do?”

Sigurne’s smile was brief, more of an expression of sorrow or pity than Jewel deserved. “I do not, and cannot, say. But others will, I fear.”

“But she saved us—”

“Yes. And it is my belief that every man, woman, and child on the grounds—if only there—heard each word Jewel spoke as clearly as you and I could. I would not be surprised if her voice was heard over half the Isle. Something has changed, and it is neither a small change nor one that will be welcome to those who now rule. Take her, and go. Avoid Duvari if you can; if you cannot, speak for her. He will not allow it easily—it is essential that you do so, regardless.” She bowed wearily to both of them. “We are in your debt, I think—but debt does not rest easy on the shoulders of the powerful, and it may be that when we next speak, I will be in no position to give you advice of any kind.

“Therefore, remember: what she has done here, and what she claims to have done, will be heard—but it will be heard by the Exalted, by the Sacred, and by the Kings. It will be examined to the last syllable by the Lord of the Compact; were he not now embroiled in his search for the kin, he would be here now—and I am not certain that it would end well, if it ended at all.”

“Look, Viandaran,” Celleriant whispered, lifting his face toward the bowers of trees that lined the road. His gray eyes were almost round, and wonder softened the edges of his face. Although he moved with the supple grace that characterized all of his actions, he stepped lightly here, as if afraid too heavy a tread would shatter the landscape.

Avandar glanced skyward in silence. The trees that marked the Common—and that now graced the Terafin grounds—lined a path too narrow to be road to anything but foot traffic. That road, Celleriant had found in the heart of
Avantari’s
famous, private gardens; he had done so without pause or hesitation. What he could clearly see, Avandar could only see with effort and long experience, and for the moment, he was content to follow the Arianni’s lead. They both knew where this path would bring them; the trees marked it, if nothing else did.

“You are quiet,” Celleriant said, after a few moments had passed.

Avandar nodded.

“You understand what you have seen. It begins here.”

“It began,” Avandar replied, “long ago. But it is possible it will end here.”

“And you do not relish an ending?”

“I?” the man once known as the Warlord smiled.

The Winter King carried Jewel. Angel chose not to mount; instead, he walked by her side. For this reason, the Winter King’s gait was slow and stately.

“If Duvari appears,” Angel said quietly, “take her and go.”

The Winter King inclined his head. Angel wondered—briefly—what his voice must sound like; he had never heard it. Jay had, and did. Jay had also heard the voices of the water, the earth, and the air; she heard the voices of ancient forests, and when she called them, they answered. She wore a dress that not even the Queens could wear, and yet somehow it now suited her.

When they reached the height of the terrace, Angel could see the
House Guards in the manse’s interior; they stood four abreast, weapons drawn. He hesitated at the doors; the Winter King, however, approached them. He touched them with his tines and they flew open; Angel cringed. On a day like this one had been, he would have chosen a vastly more subtle approach.

But on this particular day, while the House Guards fell into a familiar, defensive stance, Arann appeared. He took one look at Jay, his eyes changing shape before he lifted an arm. “Let them pass.” If there was worry or doubt on his face, there was none whatsoever in his voice; the guards obeyed. Arann gestured in brief den-sign.
Where
?

Angel glanced at Jay, and gestured,
home
.

Arann nodded.
Escort
?

No.

But Arann hesitated here, and in the end, shook his head. Turning to one of the older men by the wall, he said, “I’ll escort the Councillor to her quarters; take over for me until I return.”

The man saluted, a sharp, metallic gesture that was the whole of his reply. It was enough.

“You’re expecting trouble?” Angel asked, when they were far enough down the hall that acoustics wouldn’t trap and convey the words to any of the guards.

Arann’s brows rose. “You can say that after today?” He shook his head. “There are at least four dead. One of the dead is Lord Sarcen; it was not cleanly done. There are two dead House Guards, and one dead member of the Order of Knowledge—but Matteos Corvel implied that there would be more among that number by the time cursory investigation was complete. The terrace
was
destroyed, and apparently, rebuilt
in a day
; Duvari had the House Guards and the Chosen reroute the Kings, and then had their entire progress halted completely. How could anyone sane
not
expect more trouble?”

Snow, almost forgotten until this moment—and that should have told Angel something—snickered.

“Is she all right?” Arann asked.

“Why don’t you ask—” Angel glanced at Jay; her eyes were closed. She was listing to the left, but he wasn’t concerned; the Winter King held her, and he would not let her fall. “I don’t know.”

“I heard that,” she said. Her eyes, however, remained closed. “And most of Arann’s list—which was impressive. The magi—did anyone say how they’d died?”

“No.”

“Anyone ask?”

“No, I’m sorry—the House Guards have their hands full at the moment. Duvari won’t allow anyone—anyone at all—to leave the grounds; he has every exit and entrance covered by his
Astari
. Gabriel has his hands full; if Duvari weren’t known for his blatant disregard of both power and social standing, it would be very, very bad for Terafin.”

The rain stopped.

It stopped abruptly, as if a giant umbrella had suddenly been erected; the umbrella was also invisible, by which Finch knew the magi had once again taken the situation in hand. The House Council had had some debate about the expense of the magi and their protection from seasonal rain; she knew that the rain should never have fallen at all. By her side, Jarven was very, very grave.

“That was your Jewel?” he asked, giving voice to the concern of the Councillors who now remained: Teller, Elonne, Marrick, Haerrad. Rymark was not to be seen, which was usually a blessing; Finch somehow doubted it would be that, today.

Since Jarven wasn’t technically a member of the House Council, and since he was also known by every
other
member of said Council, she would have been much happier had he retreated into silence; absent that, his usual dissembling would have also been acceptable. But he was sharp-eyed now, his expression so focused this might—might—have been the biggest trade deal the House had ever been offered.

She wanted Lucille, badly.

Lucille, however, was not here. “Yes.” Finch took a deep breath, glancing as she did at Teller’s hands; they were utterly still. “Yes, it was.”

“Impressive,” he said, in exactly the wrong tone of voice. She wanted to tell him, then, that Jewel was not—would
never
be—his enemy. She would never be his rival. But she had known Jarven for years; she knew the look on his face. He would not be moved by her words—or even by Lucille’s—until he had seen, and judged, for himself.

“She was bold,” he said, lips curving in a smile that suited the harsh brightness of his eyes. “She has not, to my knowledge, declared her candidacy for the House Seat.”

That sent a ripple through the rest of the Council, a ripple that even the rains hadn’t.

“She didn’t declare it there,” Finch replied, forcing her voice to be as steady as his.

“Finch,” he said, looking down—for he’d straightened to his full height almost unconsciously, something he seldom did, “she has done far, far more than that. Did you not hear what she said?”

“I heard it.”

He turned to the House Council, eavesdropping, all, with the care of long practice. “Did you not hear what she said?”

There was no definitive answer, although murmurs could be heard, replete with muted syllables that blended into a kind of gray noise.

“Do you not understand to whom—to
what
—she spoke?”

“Jarven—” Finch caught his arm; he allowed this. “This is a House Council affair, and you are not a member of that Council. Please.”

At that, he lifted one platinum brow. “Finch—” he paused as a young man careened around a tree, skidding on damp grass. The young man wore the House tabard. He bowed, and if his entrance was unorthodox for a servant of his class, his bow was perfect.

“My apologies,” he said. “But the regent has sent for the Council; he requires the authority of their presence.”

“Where?” Haerrad demanded.

“In the public gallery. Many of our guests are now there—as are the Kings and the Exalted.”

Silence. Jarven, arm still in Finch’s grasp, nodded to the young man with all the authority of a Councillor—authority which she had just reminded everyone present he didn’t actually possess. Regardless, the young man bowed again; he did not take the nod as a dismissal. “I am to escort you there,” he told them gravely. “My apologies for my presumption; the request was made by the Lord of the Compact. Gabriel asks me to tell you all that he is also present in the public galleries.”

The Council fell silent, considering the future. But they followed the young man, drawing their guards and their adjutants with them as they went.

Jewel made it to the West Wing. Its doors were open, and almost before the Winter King nudged them wide, Ellerson appeared between them. He glanced at Jewel’s hair—it was the first thing he did—and then stepped neatly out of the way to allow the Winter King to enter.

The Winter King, however, did not. He allowed Angel to help Jewel dismount, and turned.

Take what rest you can, ATerafin. If you mean to continue today’s task, it will be scant.

She nodded, although by the time the words had penetrated the foggy images and half-remembered words that now passed for her thoughts, he was gone; the halls had failed to contain him. Angel, however, was not. Arann saw them through the door, and turned to leave; she called him back. Her voice cracked.

He looked so much like one of the Chosen she could almost forget he was Arann—and she was tired enough that she hated it. “Torvan?” she asked.

“Torvan and Arrendas have their hands full; the Chosen—those of us who remained by the shrine—are dealing with the House Guard and Duvari. The Magisterium has not yet been summoned.”

“Gabriel must be having fits—”

“Gabriel is waiting—for you—in the public gallery. Word was sent that you’d reached the manor.” He grimaced, his face folding into a much more familiar expression. “I’m sorry, Jay.”

Not half as sorry as I am
, she thought. But thinking it, she wasn’t certain she could make herself believe it; she let it go. “Go back to the House Guard. I’ll clean up here—I’ll
let
myself be cleaned up,” she amended, “and I’ll meet the regent in the gallery. Did he say—”

“No. That was all he said—and it was a small wonder he’d time to get even that much out.”

Ellerson followed Jewel to her room, almost tripping over Snow. She fixed the cat with a pointed glare, and he hissed. Ellerson was not a man prone to stumbles in even the most crowded of halls; nor was he a man prone to complaints or accusations. Jewel, on the other hand, was both. Snow’s belly dropped a foot or two and hovered a few inches above the floor, as if he were a contrite dog.

The thought made her smile although the smile had edges. It was all she had time for; she was deposited in a chair, Ellerson took the combs and pins from her hands, and started to work. He didn’t choose the more elaborate styling he’d spent more than an hour on this morning; he was as aware as she was—perhaps more, given he was Ellerson—of just how little time she had.

But while he worked, the door opened a crack. Adam peered in. She caught his expression in one side of the mirror; his eyes closed and his shoulders sagged.

“I’m fine—” she said, rising.

Ellerson very gently—and completely inexorably—pushed her back into the chair.

He waited.

“Yes,” Ellerson told him, although Adam hadn’t actually said anything. “Go to the kitchen; get water, bread, or anything else that looks both edible and easily eaten without undue mess.”

He returned with water and a tray some very few minutes later, as if he’d already prepared the food and was simply waiting for her return. Instead of water, he’d brought something that looked like hot milk. It was—but it was sweeter; she thought there was honey in it, by taste. It made her smile. It reminded her of her Oma.

“Matriarch,” he said in quiet Torra.

She didn’t argue. She hadn’t the strength for it. Instead, she offered a resigned nod.

“The rains have stopped; the earth no longer moves beneath our feet. But there is something—”

“Something?”

He hesitated. “Something feels—wrong.”