Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  "For—for who?" She edged away, hit the bark of a tree that unexpectedly barred passage into the Common that she had traversed freely for years.

  He stepped forward, coming upon her quickly, moving with all of his speed, all grace. Her eyes widened, becoming white circles around dilated pupils; the fear made her wild, and it was wildness that he craved. She threw up her hands in denial, seeking to wedge them between her body and his chest. Too late. He was upon her; his shadow ran up the sides of her face, her throat, the back of her neck; he caught her as she flailed, trapping the sound of her scream in her throat; letting enough escape for his ears, for his ears alone.

  It had been millennia.

  It would be millennia again.

  How odd, that the one girl he found suitable was also, in her fashion, the one he found most tempting. The temptation itself was an unexpected sweetness, a small element of risk. For he needed her, and he needed her alive. And sane. He walked the edge, carrying her as she flailed. Knowing that he could not give her the consummation of her fear, of her dread, of her certainty.

  He lowered his head; his face, wreathed in the shadow that healers alone could find so corrosive no matter what its intent, rested a moment in the crook of her neck. His lips touched her ears, and into the shadows, into the sounds of her terror, into the crackling sharpness of the fantasies of death that he now let run like the Wild Hunt through her thoughts, he said, "For who? My Lord, dear child; the only Lord that any of the kin have willingly chosen to serve. Allasakar."

  And although the word sank and took roots immediately, although her fear gave the name as great a weight as her imagination allowed, the speaking of it freed him.

  Impulse.

  Control.

  "I—apologize," he said, with some effort. "We are both creatures of our nature." His smile was a glimmer in the darkness of his shadow; it started and stopped almost at the same instant. She could not see it.

  He did not release her, but only because he could not; the spell was near completion, and this particular casting of it required physical contact. He was not, after all, a lord who chose ostentation in any of his endeavors.

  He cast a glamour upon her, something to take away the fear that she radiated; in the Shining City, there was no faster way to be noticed. No better way to call the kin, be they greater or lesser, to feed. She was not ready for that—nor would she ever be.

  The kin that had been called to these plains for the first time in millennia found the absence of Those Who Have Chosen a far more bitter thing than any, even Isladar, had suspected.

  And Isladar, of the kin, was the wisest.

  He came to the stone tower that had been built upon its own foundation. Steps, of a piece, were sheared up the tower's side; they were small enough for human feet, and they would serve until such a time as human feet no longer found it necessary to traverse them. The tower of the Lord had no such steps; his audiences were few indeed, and he chose to hold them in the basin at the foot of this, his Shining City. The kinlords, each and every one, were capable of rising to the height of his doors without the need to touch anything as rough as hewn stone; it was a subtle test, another proof that only the powerful reigned in the Hells.

  In the Hells.

  But in this rocky, barren place, the skies were clear; the snow, when it fell, fell in a clean, white storm of ice from the heights; the rivers that ran carried with them pebbles, stones, sand—and the air was silent, the lands were empty for as far as the eye could see.

  The kin could see far indeed.

  There were no demesnes here, although there were Lords; there were no souls. Mandaros did not control the only gate to this realm, and the kin were free to gaze upon the souls of those who had not yet made their Choice; who had not yet traveled the length and breadth of their many, many lives. And the souls of the undecided were both an offense and a dangerous curiosity.

  He looked at the rigid form of the woman beside him, seeing beyond the fragile network of skin and vein and flesh. She was pale, pale gray; if darkness lingered, it lingered so far away from the heart that he knew she was a lifetime or two away from her last journey to the Hall of Mandaros. And while Mandaros reigned, while the Kings reigned, while the world turned and changed in ways that were less conducive to the fear and the hatred, trie loss and the bitter, bitter anger that consumed the spirit, such a soul as this would never be theirs. Or be his.

  Ah, but the Lord had his plans, and the Lord could see far beyond the span of a single human life.

  The kinlord's lips lifted in a subtle smile. Because he knew, as did the Lord, that the span of a single human life—less—was all that they had, if they were to succeed. What Allasakar had done, the Oathmaker could do again in a matter of decades.

  If the Oathmaker and the Lord stood across a field of battle, both at the peak of their powers, there was no contest. But they would not stand at the peak of their powers; or at least the Lord would not. Not now. To exist in this world at all he had had to sever the connection between the hells and the mortal plane before he was fully prepared. He was, as the kin, required to form a body out of the substance of the plain itself—and to build a body to house the power of a god was no simple task, no easy feat. Once, it might have been.

  Before the sundering.

  But the lands of man fought and pulled against the immortal; to create the avatar itself was a task not to be hurried—when one had the luxury, and the knowledge. They knew now. They had not known then. Thus even with the plans of the Lord of the Hells. Crippled or no, he was strong. And crippled or no, he wore the mantle; he was the Lord of them all.

  The Lord they had chosen to follow.

  She stirred, as she stood beside him, drawing his attention.

  "Welcome," he said, his voice once again soft, "to the Shining City."

  She did not blink, did not react.

  He cast again, cast swiftly, bound her tightly without ever lifting a hand.

  "Askeyia a'Narin," he said, "fear is not your friend here. You will not feel it."

  And because it was something she desperately desired, she obeyed the command in his words.

  Such a human weakness.

  The City had been carved out of the rock of a mountain that seemed to exist for only that purpose; its face, where its face could be seen was sheer and sharp, as if the rock itself had been shorn and pulled new from the ground.

  It was the first thing she noticed, that the rock was new, that the city was rock. That there was, from this vantage, no life at all, no greenery, no color, no bird on wing in the open sky.

  Allasakar. She could not speak the name; it had been forbidden to all but the boldest of children for so long that she could not clearly remember the first time she had heard it.

  The last time was still too clear.

  As if to deny it, she turned her face to the window and the world it framed. Nothing moved; if not for the wind through the open frame, it might have been a painter's vision of isolation. But the wind was cold and sharp; it stung the skin and dried the eyes. More, it could not accomplish. Askeyia a'Narin was, after all, a healer-born. She adjusted to cold, and its damage, with the same conscious effort it took to draw breath—which was to say, none at all.

  She could not banish the fear.

  Lord Isladar came, frequently, his displeasure a crease at the corners of black eyes, or a tightening of the lips. She was afraid of him; she could not hide the fear, and the more she tried—and she did try—the more it called him. He would come, stand by her, a statue that spoke a word, or two, or three. Then, satisfied, he would nod and speak soothing words, of a kind that were forgotten the moment he uttered them.

  She would speak just so, she knew, to an injured child. Or an animal, half-mad with pain.

  A dusk, heralding the northern, frozen night, had come; after it, after a night so long that she dared not close her eyes, the dawn had followed.

  And the dawn, in this thin, dry air, was glorious.

  The sun
rose, framed by the stone sill; hands that barely felt like her own gripped its edge; breath stopped a moment. For the first time since she'd arrived in this terrible place, she did two things.

  She accepted that this was no dream, no capricious nightmare. And she prayed.

  There was, in this room, a bed; it was wide enough for two, she thought. Like the city that spread in silence far beneath the open window, the bed was gray and colorless—and as she approached it, as the sun's rays crested the window's sill, she realized that it was of a piece with the wall.

  The headboard that grew out of the wall itself was tall and plain, except for a single small detail, a symbol that she did not recognize, but felt oddly comforted by, in its center. A circle, made, she thought, of chain, with a flower at its center. But the flower was unlike any flower she had seen; its petals were wild, unmatching. The first was a thing that seemed to flicker and burn, a leaf of flame, the second, a lily's petal, the third a long, flat leaf—she thought it cornlike. There was a fourth petal, but it had been pulled from the flower, as if by wind.

  She reached out to touch the symbol.

  "I would not, were I you."

  Her hand stopped a hair's breadth from the stone; she did not look up, but his shadow fell across the bed. Swallowing, she pulled that hand away and buried it in the folds of her skirt.

  "I have brought food."

  Silently, she turned; he set it down. And then he stared at her for a long moment, displeased. "Askeyia a'Narin," he said softly, "why do you dispel my magicks?"

  She shook her head numbly, her hair tumbling into her eyes and away at the force of the movement. "I—I don't—I'm not—"

  He shook his head. "The room," he said softly, "is warded; from without, no one should sense your presence. But this is the Shining Court." He frowned a moment, and then added, "Askeyia, you have no friends in this Court."

  She nodded.

  "Neither do I. I am Kialli. The Kialli do not know friendship in any way that you would understand it. It is a mortal flaw—an impulse that draws the weak together and binds them fast. We are, none of us, weak; we seek power, and the power that we seek overlaps in all things.

  "You are a part of my plan, of my Lord's plan; my enemies may well seek you. If you do not stop this, those who seek will find." He did not touch her; did not move at all.

  "I—I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know what you want me to—to stop."

  "I have cast this spell ten times. You—" and then he froze, his frown of a piece with the wall, gray and hard, but only half as cold as his narrowed eyes. "I see," he said softly. "This is most unfortunate."

  What? she wanted to shout. What is most unfortunate? What am I doing? But she was afraid of the answer, and she said nothing, and this time he left at once, speaking no words at all, and making no gestures above her upturned face.

  The tower was of the stone itself. The mattress, heavy rolls of cotton under broadsheet, was not, and the light warmed it. She sat. She sat in the silence of this terrible room, seeing the dawn give way to day.

  It fascinated him, this unconscious rejection of his shadow. As if it were just another minor flaw, some petty injury like the scraping of skin or the breaking of a nail, his shadow, his hard-won Kialli cloak, was cast aside. He was certain a greater spell would hold her, just as a greater injury would call her attention; he could afford neither for the mere trifle of masking her fear; not when so much lay ahead that required true power.

  He stood beyond her door, listening to the rhythms of her mortal body. Hearing the breath, the passage of air into lung, the flow of blood in vessel and vein. Hearing, beneath that, other workings. He had stayed outside this door for the passage of a day and a half, gleaning the information that he required to cast this final spell. It was unlike any spell that the kinlord had cast before it; a subtle spell—a spell that the healer herself might have used.

  And because of its nature, the cost was high. The shadow struggled everywhere against his command as he drew it in; fought him as if it were sentient, as if it realized the perversion of its truest purpose.

  Two battles, then. The casting of the spell. And the keeping of it. By sheer force of will, he could hold the spell in place, and it was necessary; it was her life.

  He chose that moment when the night was strongest, and the moon dim. He touched the door, paused, and then spoke; his sigil burned a moment in air before his hand passed through it. Let another Lord speak his name in this place, and the door would grant no passage unless they could defeat the sigil itself.

  She was awake. Which was unfortunate.

  The window framed her; the wind chilled.

  "Askeyia," he said. "Come."

  But she knew, he thought—or some part of her did. She stood as if she were part of the mountain peak, frozen, immobile.

  "Askeyia," he said again, ill-pleased, "if you fight me, this will be… difficult. Fight or no, you will fulfill your role. Come." He held out a hand but he knew, as he did so, that the gesture was futile. She could not give him what he demanded; not willingly. It was not in her nature.

  And that was, again, unfortunate.

  He could not wait; his plan required her presence, and it required his power, and the two would slip farther apart as the night waned. Without another word he crossed the room, taking a step, less than a step, so great was the shadow he cast.

  She screamed, he silenced her.

  Then, in the darkness of tower and pale moonlight, he surrounded her with the effort of days, submerging her. He forced her to drink, to breathe. And as he felt the shadows slide down her throat, as he felt them take root in her heart and her lungs and the vessels that carried her talent-born blood, he closed his eyes.

  For she was not—quite—ready for the evening's work, but he had her body now, and he brought it, quickly, to its time.

  The screams could be heard across the breadth of the Shining City. The kin, lesser and greater, froze a moment and then shivered in this familiar wind. The fields of the Hells were behind them, yes—but they were carried within as well. They had chosen their place so long ago the lesser kin could not remember the choosing. The greater kin did, but even they, like their lesser cousins, were drawn by the sounds of terror, of pain.

  Through the empty streets they came, leaving the mockery of buildings, of manors, of dwellings that had ceased to have meaning for them. They came as if called, as if commanded, as if drawn by a spell they could not ignore.

  And they came to ring the tower in which the Lord of the Hells reigned. There, in bitter silence, they accepted the crumbs from his table, for they knew that the mortal trapped within would never be thrown to them.

  It was a rape, yes, but of more than the physical body; the demands of the Lord reached farther than the magicks of his most subtle servant could have guessed. In the darkness of tower and stone and shadow, her life was the beacon that drew him, and it had taken all of Isladar's craft to preserve her mind and her life.

  He did not hide from her the fact of her violation; could not—although had it been in his power, he would have.

  Had she been other than healer-born, he might have been able to force her to see the Lord as the kin saw him, and against the face of such majesty, of such power, she would have willingly offered what had instead been taken.

  And had she been of weaker blood, the act itself would not have had to be repeated, over and over, until the course of the evening itself had stripped her of the use of her power. But he knew the moment that those defenses flagged, and when they did, he knelt as the choked and raw noises she made died into a lull, the weakest form of applause that a soul could utter.

  "My Lord," he said, speaking clearly enough to make his voice heard, but no more than that, "it is done." Waiting was as natural for the kin as drawing breath was for a mortal—and it was infinitely more necessary if one waited upon the Lord. Impatience was rewarded, in its fashion.

  "Bring her back to me," the Lord replied, "when you are finished."<
br />
  Isladar nodded, still waiting, and at last the Lord bade him rise. To rise, otherwise, was also rewarded. Isladar had stood by the side of his Lord since the Hells first opened before them; he was the only one of the Kialli who had occupied the Lord's space so closely to remain within it. The others had perished in the charnel wind, their screams loud enough, for an instant, to quiet the whole of the Hells. The will of the Lord.

  He took the healer-born girl, lifting her tightly curled body in the span of two slender arms. He did not shift her; if he had had the power, he would not have touched her at all. Perhaps it was best this way. Without power, there was no shadow to linger in her eyes, across her skin, in all the wounds and openings.

  She did not come at night, and night would have been merciful. The darkness, with moonlight's weaker silver, would have hidden much: bruises, scrapes, tears and rents in cloth and the surface skin beneath it. It might have hidden the odd angle of the leg that had not yet been set. More merciful still, it might have blinded her to the terrible emptiness of the young girl's expression—or better, to the young girl's familiar face.

  But the sun was high and the sky as clear as the skies in the Northern Wastes almost always were. She could see everything; every detail. Nothing at all was spared her.

  I am Evayne a'Nolan and Evayne a'Neaamis—but I swear to you, Father, that I will be a 'Neaamis no longer if— Her hands hurt; she glanced down and saw that they were bleeding. Her own nails had pierced skin in the moment it had taken her to draw breath and think. She was, by her own reckoning, fifty Imperial years of age; her hair was a white-streaked darkness, her skin, weathered as even the rocks were weathered by the passage of time and the scouring of sand, be it carried by wind or water.

  The path of the otherwhen took her where no one desired to go, not even she; of late, it led her from death to death, and she was tired. For more than thirty years, she had walked it at the whim of immortal father and Time, and if it had been a hated path in her youth, it was now just a path, a part of her life.

  But her life itself was dedicated to war, and in the service of that war, she was a lone soldier; she paused a moment to fight here and there at the sides of those who were allies, but she did not linger, no matter how much she might desire it. And perhaps, just perhaps, she had come to see the wisdom of that forced choice.