Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  Why? Diora asked, and asked again. She's our wife. Why is she leaving ?

  Because, Serra Teresa told her gently, Ser Laonis saved her life, and we could not afford the price of it. Diora, she will be happy where she is going.

  I wouldn't be. I wouldn't be happy to leave.

  Na 'dio.

  Serra Teresa and Ser Sendari had suffered loss before; those losses had scarred and hardened them, inuring their hearts to such a leave-taking, if not their pride.

  But the first loss was always the hardest; always the worst. They stood by, the father and the aunt, watching. Diora was old enough to learn, and the Dominion of Annagar demanded that she learn well, for if the first loss was the hardest, it was also just that: the first loss. There would be others, always; loss and loss and loss. And death.

  But Serra Teresa underestimated how quickly the young child could learn. .

  Neither she nor Sendari ever saw Diora cry again.

  But Serra Teresa kept her word to her own dead, and to a strange bard, and if Diora did not cry, she sang, she spoke, she whispered; if she did not plead, she cajoled with a lilt, a smile, a little laugh that sounded like the tinkling spill of cool water against marble.

  They played the samisen and the harp, and although Diora di'Marano never sang again at a Festival, they both watched those foreigners who dared to come after the winds of war had passed, searching for a familiar face.

  Wind, Serra Teresa would say, sing. A dare, a risk, a heartfelt gratitude—all of this, in these two quiet words.

  But she would have cause to remember, in the years to come, that the voice of the wind was the wind; only in the hands of a golden-haired foreigner could its terrible course be turned, blind, toward mercy.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Sword of Knowledge was aptly named; a double-edged, dangerous weapon in a world where weapons were an absolute necessity, it cut—it always cut—two ways. Yet on this single night of his life, the moon just off full, the air still hot and dusty with summer's strength, Sendari di'Marano knew that it was not the desire for knowledge which drove the Widan. It was, as in the rest of the Dominion of Annagar, a struggle for power, for supremacy. Different weapons, of course; weapons arcane and personal. But no matter how disguised the struggle was, no matter how misunderstood by clansmen who measured their strength by the size of their lands, their horses, and the swords that they carried, the struggle was there. The Widan were wise in the ways of many things, but they were men.

  And the Lord demanded, of men, his due.

  "So," the man seated before him said softly. "You have been invited three times to take the test of the Sword." Sendari par di'Marano bowed as he acknowledged the truth—and the veiled edge of accusation—in the voice of the man known, among Widan, as the Sword's Edge. His hair was a black-streaked white, his beard as long and fine as any such vanity possessed by another Widan, and his hands were remarkably pale, unblemished by the stain of labor or the touch of sun. He dressed finely, in Southern silks, and he sat upon a stone throne that was as old as this building itself—a monument to the struggle of man for knowledge and power.

  Yet it was not his presumption that was first noticed— although the Widan had no ruler, no leader, no undisputed head—rather, it was his eyes that caught and held the attention, for they were a shade that traveled between the color of pale sky and light-touched steel, and they missed nothing.

  "And only on the third have you chosen the course."

  "So it would seem."

  The shadows stirred; there was a magic here that was thick and heavy and completely impervious to the spells of understanding that Sendari knew. But he knew enough to sense the wards and sigil that bore the signature of Cortano di'Alexes.

  The worth of a man in the Dominion was measured by the power he held, by the relative power. Cortano di'Alexes was worth any ten of the Widan; perhaps any twenty. It was hard to say, because he chose—as they all did—to veil their power in the world that did not walk the Sword's edge. The clansmen were suspicious enough to be dangerous if they gathered in their angry enclaves.

  "Then I will not ask you why you chose to make this journey; it is enough that you have. You embark upon a journey that will kill you or free you. Turn back, turn even to glance, and you will lose the road for this turning.

  "But you will not lose your life."

  "I will not," Sendari replied gravely, "lose my life in any case. I am Widan."

  "The winds will judge, or the Lord." Cortano's smile was soft. Unpleasant. "Do not," he repeated softly, "look back."

  And then, as if to enforce this rule, the Widan came with a swath of silk and carefully bound his eyes, turning and winding the midnight blue across Sendari's brow until no light at all reached him. Quiet, he waited until they were finished; he had seen the beginnings of this ceremony many, many times. He had never once seen its end.

  Tonight, that would change. He followed the Widan until he heard the grating of stone against stone—a creaking, ponderous sound that spoke of weight and years both. A musty, dank wind rose about him, disturbing the hem of his robe.

  "Now, Sendari, you walk the Sword's edge," Widan Mikalis said. "You must blunt or sharpen its blade by your own choice." Had Mikalis' voice ever come from such a remove? Sendari thought not, but he was not surprised; vision played a part in every conversation between men. Robes rustled. He faced the unknown, blind.

  And a smile touched his lips. If it was bitter, what matter? He stepped into darkness, and with no man to lead him, who was there to witness the tale his face told?

  The blindfold itself was symbolic—to one wise in the ways of power, it made no difference. Spells to heighten other senses had given Ser Sendari par di'Marano the lay of the land through which he had passed. He traveled, confined on all sides by worn rock, the particular scent of aged water becoming stronger with each step he took. At his back the Widan Initiates followed; at his front, no guide but the tunnel itself. And the tunnel was distinctive enough that he knew, without question, that he could find this place again without the aid of those who knew it well.

  What he could not find again was the mystery—yes, it was definitely there—of this first traveling. Tonight, he would take the test, and it would kill him or elevate him.

  It was not uncommon to misstep while blindfolded— for no hands were offered him in guidance or fellowship—but it was not considered a good omen. Therefore, Sendari chose to use some small portion of his power to proceed with grace and certainty. He wondered, briefly, how much that vanity would cost him.

  The blindfold was removed, unknotted from behind, and taken from his face with an ease that spoke of practice. The darkness beneath closed lids gave way to shadows half-warm with light; magelight. And a light that bore no signature that he could discern. He knew the marks of the Widan well.

  "Yes," the Widan at his back said softly, as reverently as one of the Wise could speak, "this is an ancient place. It was chosen by the founder for that reason."

  History.

  Curiosity caught him a moment; none interfered. There was in this curiosity something that hallowed a man; that made him, that drove him to greatness. A man sighed; the sigh was caught and echoed by the cavernous ceiling above these narrowly spaced, natural walls. He thought he recognized, again, the voice of Mikalis di'Arretta.

  "A test," that man said. "Of the Widan's heart. It burns in you, Sendari."

  But Sendari was no longer listening. The rock beneath his hand was not cool, but it was not warm; it seemed to tingle with an internal force of its own. There was, in the unnatural light here, a hint of otherness, something tantalizing. It reminded him of something that he was certain he had seen before, although he could not immediately recall what.

  "Widan-Designate," another voice at his back said quietly, and with some amusement, "now is not the time. Pass the test, and the ways will be open to you; you may study them at your leisure." The momentary warmth faded quickly.

  "
This is the foot of the path. If you will face the test of the Sword, continue; if you will not, return. You will have no other opportunity to change your mind."

  He did not recognize the voice immediately, and when it came to him, it came as a part of a collection of facts. Marcaro di'Ravenne, a man whose study drew him, time and again, to the Northern plains. A man who, therefore, Sendari had little measure of. Was he a threat?

  The Widan-Designate chuckled. Of course he was. They all were.

  The Widan themselves were not a brotherhood or a fellowship; they were a circle steeped in the mysteries of knowledge that had come, fragmented and obscure, from a time before the Dominion of Annagar had made its mark across the continent.

  We are men of knowledge, Sendari thought, as his eyes grew accustomed to the scant light in the hall before him. We are not men of superstitious ceremony.

  And if that were true, if ceremony held no significance, there would be no blindfold, no tunnel, no test.

  "Choose."

  Had he not chosen yet?

  The road not traveled lay before him. He gazed at it, at the surface of rock that had been almost worn smooth with the passage of time. Thinking, because he could not help but think, of her. Alora.

  In a darkness devoid of sun or moon or star, time ceased to hold him; if it passed above, either quickly or slowly, it mattered little. Here, in the darkness that Widan light lessened by slow degree, he was suspended above—or beneath—the world in which he lived.

  And she was there, a memory that was so strong he thought he had but to turn to give her flesh and form.

  And to turn was to forsake the test.

  This strong, after four years and a bitter final betrayal. He reached out, as if still blindfolded, and gripped the cold surface of worn rock with shaking hands. Let the Widan following at his back think him weak or doubtful. Let the men watching feel it even more strongly. It would work in his favor; all underestimation eventually had, and besides, he was no longer a child, flushed with the anger of another man's casual mockery of all that he could not do.

  Doubt did not shake him or sear him; anger did. At her, yes, and at himself. But was it not always this way, when one opened the heart too wide? She could not deprive him of power as she had once done; she was dead. Her time had passed. As if to mock him, a gust of hot wind blew across his face, coming from the palely lit darkness ahead. She was his road not taken, and if he would have given all to take it again, he did not turn aside.

  Night thoughts.

  Dark thoughts.

  Take the test, Sendari. Alesso's voice; the voice of sanity and reason. And if his voice were sanity and reason, the Widan were in a sorry state indeed. Were all supplicants so tried before they made their final choice?

  He waited for the summons, but the summons did not come.

  Instead, he saw her daughter. His daughter. Diora. There, in the shadows, her four-year-old face turned up to him in perfect trust, perfect confidence. Moon-night had passed, and what had been open was hidden—but it was very much alive. Thus was his heart hollowed and hallowed with care.

  I will not fail you, he told this apparition. And then he grimaced; what thought was this, at such a time? How could one not fail a daughter, in the end? In the darkness of this moment before death, he was almost brutal in his honesty. Because, in the darkness, he could be.

  Diora was chattel, and as such, a thing beyond his control. That he loved her was not at question, but was also irrelevant. For he had watched the daughters of more powerful men given to—or taken by—other powerful men, and he knew that a father's whim and determination afforded little comfort. Give her to a husband, and she was his. But keep her… keep her, and she became like Teresa.

  "Choose," the voice said again.

  Sendari par di'Marano took a step forward, releasing the cavern's jutting face. He followed it with another, and then another, each step becoming more certain. He had come this way, for this reason alone: to take the test.

  Because to take the test was to betray her, and her memory, and if he could do that—if he could do that, perhaps he could finally leave her behind. He was so very tired of the peculiar pain, unseen and omnipresent, that had driven him so hard for the last four years.

  As he stepped into shadow, light flared, a wild, brilliant light that Sendari was certain bore the trace signature of the Widan Cortano di'Alexes. He cursed; the curse was taken by the cavern's too-perfect acoustics and magnified.

  No more than a curse escaped him, for as the light came, blinding a moment in its clarity, he saw where the tunnel had taken him, and he was, in spite of himself, awed. The tunnel itself had fallen away completely; there was no more confining wall, no steadying rock to either side. Instead, there was an expanse of space that would dwarf the valley plains—something that went on into darkness both on the left and right. His eyes could not penetrate the distance, and he did not try for long. He used the brilliant magelight as his guide.

  The roof of this cavern was almost beyond sight, and the floor; there was rock, and somewhere below it, a winding bed of water made itself heard in a rush that sounded very like the howling of the desert wind.

  The banks of the river were rock, as hard and cool as the walls of the tunnel he had followed—but between them was a gap of darkness so long that light could not illuminate it.

  Across the divide, a lone man stood.

  Cortano.

  Sendari par di'Marano bowed.

  The cavern caught the words of the Sword's Edge, sharpening them, if that were possible.

  "Three times," the man said softly, "we asked. The first, I asked personally."

  Sendari nodded.

  "But you saw fit to refuse, Widan-Designate. The Lord's law governs even here: To refuse a man of power has its price. I am your test, and I am your opponent."

  Sendari waited, cool as the stone that surrounded him. Many of the Widan-Designates never passed the test of the Sword—but many did. In a straight contest between a Widan of experience, and a Widan with less, there would be no contest; no test at all. He did not let fear unman him or unnerve him. Fear for himself, fear of his own death— these had never been the force which drove him.

  "Very good," Cortano said softly, after a few minutes of silence had passed. "There is steel in you, Widan-Designate; and I believe the steel is a fine one. I am your test, but if you survive it, I will be your temper." He turned, his robes dark in the light, his left arm outstretched and pointing. "There, Sendari. Look."

  The Widan-Designate followed the line the man's arm made; it ended in a bridge, a natural outcropping of rock that seemed to have grown from either side of the chasm to meet in its center, seamless and whole. There were no rails to this bridge, and indeed, as Sendari studied it, he saw that it was widest at the foot of either side, narrowest at its curved midpoint. Not a comforting structure, although one certain not to break with the mere weight of a man, not to creak and rot with the passage of time.

  "Your task is simple. Only cross the bridge, and you will be declared Widan."

  "In what time?"

  Cortano's smile could be seen across that gulf that separated them. "I will wait, Sendari. You will either cross it or perish in your own time."

  "How generous."

  "A man in my position can afford to be," Cortano replied.

  There and then, Sendari vowed to become at least Cortano's equal in the wielding of the art. He did not give voice to the momentary anger; it would only expose the weakness of his reaction. Instead he walked to the foot of the bridge, his steps slow and measured. There were tests to be performed here before he so much as stepped onto the rocky platform. Meticulous, focused now, he performed each in its turn.

  The bridge was as it appeared, no more and no less. No spell of seeming was laid upon it to make it appear whole; no spell of displacement; no disguise which might make of this bridge a thing of cloth or string—or air. It was, from his brief exploration, of a piece, although what might form and mold t
he rock in such a fashion, Sendari could not say.

  And what he did not know was always a source of both curiosity and irritation. Knowledge, to Sendari par di'Marano, was like drink to a man long grown accustomed to its taste and its comfort. He rose.

  Cortano, impassive now, waited, his arms by his sides.

  Sendari stepped onto the bridge.

  There was no light, no flare of fire, no obvious attack. But the bridge itself was treacherous enough; if it was of a piece, it was not a smooth piece, and his foot found purchase, heavily soled as it was, with difficulty. He took another step, removing the foot that anchored him to the tunnel side of the chasm. Found his balance, although the bridge was narrower than it had first seemed.

  He looked up, as he took his third step. Cortano smiled and gestured. The lights went out.

  No evening sky was as black as this darkness, although Sendari was certain that the darkness was natural. They were buried deep within the folds of the earth itself, and the earth hid—and held—its own. No Lord touched this place with the fiery light of the sun, nor Lady with the soft, silver glow of moon. This was a place beyond their concern and their dominion.

  The Widan's home.

  Sendari froze and then, with the darkness as cover, he crouched, finding the face of the rock with his fingers, as if truly blind. Instinct, perhaps, or some fear of falling older by far than the man himself, caused his hands to grip its worn edges, its hard folds. Had his first impulse been to call the light, to heighten the senses, he would have perished.

  For within the chasm itself, coming from his left and building in force, he could hear howling, the prowl of an angry wind. What had Cortano said?

  The winds will judge.

  He had just enough time to tighten his grip, to flatten himself into the contours of the bridge itself, before that judgment came, tearing at the flaps and folds of his robes, pulling his hair, twisting his beard up and into his sightless eyes. Sand, scouring, was carried in the heart of the wind—if the wind could be said to have a heart at all—he could feel it scrape across his skin. Thus were mountains worn to facelessness.