Free Battle: The House War: Book Five by Michelle West Page B

with his attendants, was also present, although the Berrilya House Council had yet to take their seats. The Kings, in a position of prominence, had not yet taken their thrones—chair was too petty a word to describe them—when the wind grew stronger.
    It was a wind she shouldn’t have felt; the branches it moved were far too high. Her skin tightened; the hair at the back of her neck—what very little of it had escaped Ellerson’s merciless attempts to confine it—rose. So did Jewel.
    Gabriel looked to her instantly; Night rose and whispered something to Snow. Jewel heard it, but didn’t recognize the word. She understood its significance.
    “Avandar!”
    He was behind the tall back of her chair.
    “Terafin.”
    To the left of House Terafin sat The Morriset; to her right, the deliberately bald Korisamis. Above, on the widest of the platforms, the rest of The Ten. She scanned the growing crowd, searching for Devon, for some sign of Devon; when she failed to find him, she searched, instead, for the magi. The guildmaster was distinctive enough that she, at least, was easily spotted.
    “Terafin.” Gabriel’s voice was low, urgent.
    Jewel said, “We need to get everyone off this platform. We don’t have much time.” To Night she said, “Find Sigurne Mellifas. Tell her.”
    “Tell her
what
?”
    “Watch for fire.” She stepped away from her chair and turned to House Morriset. “Morriset,” she said, her voice even and steady, “we must vacate these stands.” Without waiting for his assent, she turned to The Korisamis. He was a man to whom protocol was as natural as breathing; for that reason, she had always felt ill at ease in his presence. Today, it didn’t matter.
    “Korisamis, my pardon—but it is imperative that we leave the stand at once.”
    “May I ask why, Terafin?”
    It was the question she dreaded. “I will explain later—any explanation now will be costly.” Again, she moved, this time forward, to where the edge of this platform almost touched the back of the seats on the platform below. “Kalakar. Berrilya.”
    They turned instantly at the sound of her voice, as if they were still on the battlefield; they recognized the tone. The Kalakar’s brows rose. “Terafin.”
    “The platforms must be cleared, now. The Kings and the Exalted must stand back.”
    The wind grew stronger as she spoke. Snow came to his feet, his fur rising. The Kalakar frowned as she turned to The Berrilya; he nodded smoothly and without hesitation. Their counselors had heard Jewel speak, but waited, stiffly, on the commands of their own leaders, which followed seconds later.
    “I will carry word to the Kings’ Swords,” The Berrilya said. He hesitated briefly before he leaped. Jewel was almost—almost—shocked; The Berrilya was so proper and so exact in all forms of patrician behavior the thought that he would take the most direct route to ground had never even crossed her mind.
    As if she could hear the thought, The Kalakar smiled. It was both broad and grim, a slash of an expression. “We recognize the feel of this wind.” Her tone matched her smile. “It appears to have followed us home.” She turned. “Korama, alert the Kalakar guards. I will make certain that word travels in haste to the army.”
    The army. Jewel closed her eyes and exhaled. The army that was, in theory, to perform a full dress parade through the center of the Common. She turned to see that The Morriset had already passed word to the platform above; people, some clearly displeased, were abandoning their chairs and heading toward the stairs that bound either side of the almost concentric flats.
    The wind grew stronger and wilder—but the wind itself wasn’t the threat; she was certain of it.
    Certain enough that when the floor cracked a yard beneath her feet, she shouldn’t have been surprised. Slats of wood splintered, as something burst through, knocking the now empty chairs in a wide, wide circle.
    * * *
    Snow leaped up, wings