Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  Kiriel shrugged.

  Evayne sighed and began to walk down the slope toward the demiwall. There, along with the fishers, they would meet the main road that led into Averalaan.

  "Evayne!"

  The violet-eyed woman stopped and turned. "Yes?"

  "You dropped something." Light glinted off platinum as Kiriel rose, holding a ring—a slender, unadorned band—between her fingers.

  Although she knew what she would see, Evayne still raised a shaking hand to her face. There, in the morning light, three gemstones caught and bound rays of sun. Three: Emerald, Ruby, and Sapphire.

  Myrddion's rings had a destiny of their own; they chose their bearer. Evayne was their steward, the woman who had freed them to begin their long work; she had no say in where they went, or to whom. Nor did she always understand why.

  She lowered her hand and then looked up the slope to where Kiriel stood with the fifth of the five rings of Myrddion; the fifth, reputed in legend and bard-lore to be the most powerful. The shadow that Kiriel cast seemed long indeed; of the Five, it was Kiriel alone Evayne was not, and had never been, certain of. Even Kallandras, bard-born and death-trained, she had trusted from the moment he first made his choice: For no game, no whim, no power struggle, could drive him from his brothers to her side.

  Why did I not see this? she thought. Although she had seen very, very little of Kiriel in her life thus far, she had seen enough to know that Kiriel's hands were as unfettered as her throat, her ears, or her hair.

  "Evayne?"

  It was not her choice, in the end; it was Myrddion's. And she could question, she could guard, she could watch—but she could not hold a ring from its intended. "Keep it," she said, as neutrally as she could, although her left hand curled tightly around the three that remained under her stewardship. "It is yours."

  But Kiriel heard the fear and the doubt in the older woman's voice—the first fear and first doubt that she had yet heard there. It made her smile softly as she slid the ring effortlessly onto her left hand.

  Such an expression was not an unfamiliar sight for Evayne, but it chilled her nonetheless. "Come, Kiriel," she said, her face betraying nothing. "We have far to walk."

  They came at last to the bridge across which lay Averalaan Aramarelas, and there Evayne paused to pay the toll. The men who stood guard at the foot of that bridge wore the comforting familiarity of the crown over the crossed sword and rod, and she paid their toll cheerfully, which caused a slight raising of eyebrows; rich or poor, no one liked an obvious form of tax.

  But the journey had been one of silence, none of it companionable, and Evayne mistrusted the way that Kiriel's eyes darted to and fro across the human crowds as if searching for prey. She had seen such expressions before, and it never boded well. If she could reach her destination quickly, so much the better.

  The younger Evayne would have given Kiriel the benefit of the doubt; after all, Kiriel had never been in a large city before—not one teeming with human life in such a variety of guises. The dark-eyed gaze might have been a sign of avid curiosity; it might have been a gesture of apprehension; it might have been the reflex of a woman used to defending her life against all manner of attack.

  But it was none of these things. It was hunger. For what?

  She gave you her word. And the value of that word? Evayne cast a sidelong glance at Kiriel's profile. Were it not for the icy set of her jaw, the narrowing of her eyes, she might have been beautiful—but she was cold for it; she exuded the type of danger that only a fool would be willing to tempt.

  And in a city this size, Evayne thought ruefully, there were fools aplenty. She just prayed that none of them were thieves—for Kiriel's reflexes were easily a match for the most professional of cutpurses. And Kiriel's temper was not to be trifled with.

  "You're worried," Kiriel said.

  "You should be used to it," was the crisp reply.

  Kiriel's smile was as sharp as her sword. But it was not so malicious a smile as that first one by the bay had been. Shrugging, she began to follow Evayne across the bridge. She stopped once, at the peak, to gaze into the moving water below.

  "Have you seen the ocean before?"

  Shrug. And then, so softly that Evayne barely heard it, she said, "No. But she told me about it."

  "She?"

  There was no reply, and Evayne, who regretted little at this age, regretted that single spoken word.

  They came to the manse on foot, but only Evayne knew how unusual it was for visitors to arrive that way; Evayne knew who The Ten were. She glanced across at her dour companion and found that the isle's buildings, vast and beautiful though they were, were not enough to draw attention away from the sparse and thinning crowds.

  She knew that this city was not the city that Kiriel was used to. The daily affairs of the Essalieyanese would be almost incomprehensible to her. But she knew well that Kiriel would not betray her ignorance of the lives of the passersby by asking anything so simple and direct as a question. Not yet.

  "We come to the House in which you will find a place. Follow me," she told the younger girl. "But do not speak. The guards will lead us into the courtyard while they wait on The Kalakar's word."

  Of all The Ten, Kalakar was the most straightforward in its handling of security. The men at the gates were soldiers, not House Guards, and although some concession had been made for dress, the colors—silver-edged gray and a brilliant, dark blue—were those of the uniforms of the Crowns' defenders. It made Evayne smile softly. That concession, no doubt, had been the decision of the House Council, and not The Kalakar herself.

  But perhaps not; The Kalakar understood ceremony when ceremony was necessary for the good of the army.

  The men at the gates raised a hand in both greeting and command; Evayne stopped, and gently placed a hand upon Kiriel's shoulder to prevent the younger woman's unfamiliarity with Essalieyanese gestures from causing a minor incident. But Kiriel was still.

  Of course. The men were armed and armored; this, she understood.

  "State your name and business."

  "I am Evayne a'Nolan, and I have come, albeit belatedly, at the behest of The Kalakar."

  The man snapped out a curt order to a runner behind the gate. Before he could leave, Evayne raised a hand, the gesture almost an exact duplicate of the gate guard's. "She will not be completely familiar with my name. But give her this; by it, she will recognize me." Gold glinted in her cupped palm. Seeing its color, the guard stiffened in anger.

  Then, seeing more, he stilled. His gaze was sharply focused as he met her violet eyes. "Karlson!" He took what she offered, closing his callused fingers almost gingerly around it.

  "Sir!"

  "Take this to The Kalakar at once. You will find her in the drill hall."

  At that, Evayne did smile. "She hasn't changed much, has she?"

  "Not for me to say, ma'am." But the guard looked at her long and hard, as if coming to a decision of his own. "Primus Greyhame," he said. "I've heard about you."

  They were led into the courtyard, and from there, onto a wide, flat terrace that was beautifully adorned with trellises and summer blossoms. Leaves and petals provided privacy of a sort from common traffic.

  Kiriel touched them carefully and slowly, as if by doing so she might memorize their texture, their color, their scent. Evayne said nothing at all as the young woman explored; it was the first sign of natural curiosity that she had yet seen. But it did not escape her notice that her charge's right hand was always upon her sword hilt.

  "A'Nolan," someone said, and Evayne turned in time to catch the low bow of the young runner at the gate. Karlson? Yes, that was the name Greyhame had shouted. He was young, this man; but so many of them seemed to be too young these days. "The Kalakar will see you. Please follow."

  "My companion?"

  "She will see you. Refreshments will be brought for your companion if she wishes to remain upon the terrace."

  "Very well." She turned to Kiriel. "Wait here. Do nothing.
" There was no request in either statement.

  If Kiriel resented command, there was no sign of that anger across her pale features.

  When Evayne entered the drill hall, she was amazed at just how much noise a hall could contain. There was blade work being practiced here, and more; she could see the glint of field-plate as she cleared the narrow, ancient doors. Sweat hung in air already heavy with midday sun, but the sea breeze was sharp and cool as it passed through the many open windows, blending the scent of salt into the human mix.

  "Kalliaris' Curse!" A young man's voice, with enough frustration behind it to force it above the din. It was followed quickly enough by laughter.

  "She's got you again, Michale—and she's armed with a god-cursed ladle!" Another man's voice—older, surer, a mix of amusement and annoyance.

  "I'd say god-blessed," Evayne said wryly as she cleared the shoulders of the gathered spectators and glanced down into a slightly inclined basin. A quick glance told her all she needed to know; a young woman in an apron, with—yes—a ladle, sat firmly upon the chest of a young man twice her size. Her knee was pressed a little too heavily into his throat.

  "Kalakar?" The dark-haired, clean-shaven soldier—a Primus by his markings—stepped up to the rim of the basin.

  Following the direction of the man's gaze, Evayne shifted slightly. Standing on a narrow platform that was separated from the pit by height and nothing more was a lone woman in serviceable gray and blue, with a feather— a kestrel's feather—embroidered across her left breast in silver thread. She was not a young woman, although still Evayne's junior, and the furrows in her brow hid the scars across her forehead from view. Momentarily.

  "Primus, I thought you said these were the trained corps?"

  "I thought they were," was the rather grim reply.

  "Then Kalakar is in trouble; if Carla had chosen to attack in earnest, the bearers would be bringing him out of the pit. Continue."

  "Sir!" Fist struck chest.

  "I think," Evayne said softly to her guide, "that it is safe to interrupt now."

  "Then you don't know The Kalakar," the young man replied under his breath. But he straightened his shoulders in good humor and nudged his way gently toward the platform. For a young man, he was a sizable one—she really hadn't noticed it because his demeanor was not a large man's demeanor—and he cleared a good path for Evayne to follow.

  And so The Kalakar saw Evayne a'Nolan for only the second time. Their eyes met, blue-gray and violet, the pale shades of steel and gemstone. It was The Kalakar who bowed.

  "So. It is you."

  "It's been a long time."

  "For me, yes. But you've hardly aged a day."

  She'd aged a month, at first guess, but did not choose to speak it. Instead, she stared at this woman, seeing in her expression a bridge between the younger Verrus, the older Commander. There had been very little continuity in Evayne's life, and even now, with regret and resentment far behind her, she still looked for the signs of it.

  The scars across The Kalakar's forehead had faded as much as they ever would; those across thighs and forearms were well-hidden. A month ago, Evayne had scrubbed The Kalakar's blood from her own cheeks, her hands; the robes, of course, took care of themselves.

  "I've missed this," The Kalakar said, as she lifted the signet ring that the young runner had brought her as proof of Evayne's identity. "But I'm well enough known that it wasn't necessary to have a new one made."

  "You waited for me to return it." It wasn't a question.

  "Yes. That, and—as The Kalakar—they've given me a better ring." Grim humor, but humor nonetheless, transformed The Kalakar's face, brightening it and sharpening its details. By no stretch of the imagination was The Kalakar a classically beautiful woman; she was large-boned and square-jawed and her hair—what little there was of it—was fine and pale. But there was strength about her, and among the defenders, she was a legend for the loyalty that she expected from—and gave to—her men.

  Evayne knew, firsthand, the truth of those stories. Loyalty had not been a luxury to Ellora Decravet AKalakar upon the Annagarian fields; it was not a luxury now. It was bred into bone and blood.

  "I owe you my life." Blunt.

  "You would have been safe if you had abandoned the three companies."

  "I've heard it said," The Kalakar replied, grinning ferociously. "But I am safe. And I didn't leave them. They were mine."

  "And still are. If I'm not mistaken, the Primus looks familiar."

  "Just as damned pretty as the day we first signed him on, too." She grinned. "But not quite as earnest."

  They were silent as the young Sentrus was rescued from the kitchen help, dragged to his feet, and sent into a more traditional combat.

  "Why have you come now?"

  "Do you mean, why have I come at all, or is the timing significant?"

  "Both."

  "I will answer the second first. Yes. The timing is significant. There will be a call to an execution in the capital of Averalaan Aramarelas. Refuse to join it, no matter what tidings come that might otherwise cause you to support such an action."

  "I've reason to believe in your advice, Evayne of nowhere, and I will take it as I can. I suppose it would be a waste of words to ask you just what in the Hells is going to happen?" Before Evayne could finish drawing breath, The Kalakar continued. "As I thought.

  "What of the answer to the first question?"

  "I wish a boon."

  "Granted."

  "And you haven't heard it yet? You are trusting for a woman of your rank and station."

  "I'm a damned good judge of character. What is it, exactly, that you want?"

  "A moment of privacy. May I?" She lifted her hands.

  "Hold." The Kalakar turned and looked up to the near-empty galleries above, lifted her hands in a quick two-cut jab, and then nodded in satisfaction. "Yes."

  Evayne smiled and began to cast the net of silence within which she could speak in peace. Very few were the mages who could breach her spells now, and not one of them was upon Kalakar grounds. The Kalakar's mages were less subtly trained.

  "In the courtyard, upon the southern terrace, is a young woman. She is my height, and my weight, but she wields the blade so well she could take on the King's Challenge and win."

  A pale brow rose slightly. "You think highly of her."

  "I think highly of her ability."

  It was a difference that was not lost upon either woman. "Go on."

  "I wish you to take her on."

  "Pardon?"

  "I wish for her to become a part of the Kalakar army."

  "Kalakar doesn't have an army."

  "Very well; if you will preserve that myth, the Kalakar House Guards."

  "Why?"

  "Because you need her, and because she needs you."

  "Ah. We finally become cryptic."

  There was a measured pause before Evayne spoke again; when she did, she chose her words carefully and spoke them slowly as if each one were reluctantly yielded. "The kin are hunting for her."

  The woman who was, in private, Ellora AKalakar, missed a beat. The narrowing of her eyes was a chill shift of expression. "Who sent them?"

  Silence. Evayne's lips became a thin line as she turned away momentarily.

  "Why?"

  "That I honestly do not know. And I wish I could tell you; it would ease my mind."

  "Where is she from?"

  Evayne met the older woman's eyes, opened her mouth to speak, and then shut it again. In spite of herself, her admiration for a woman who was, perhaps, not the best of rulers, kept meaningless words at bay.

  "I see," The Kalakar said softly. "Do you trust the girl?"

  "Do I? Does it matter? You are The Kalakar, and it is under you that she will serve. She will meet your standard, and pass your test, or she will not."

  "Not true," The Kalakar replied. "You asked it as a boon—and for your aid in the massacre of the Averdan hollows, I have granted it. But you've told me en
ough, seer." Turning, she called down to the Primus in the pit. He looked up, surprised at the interruption. "I've matters to attend to, Gavren; the mettle of the men of the Blue Linnet will have to be settled tomorrow."

  She turned crisply back to the blue-robed woman who waited in amused silence. "This girl is on the visitor's terrace?"

  Evayne nodded almost ruefully. "And it appears," she said, her voice growing softer, "that you must greet her on your own."

  Because she had seen it once before—and that once at such a dark time that the memory was indelible—The Kalakar said nothing as the light of day and the play of shadows beneath the open ceilings seemed to swallow the older woman. Then, gripping the signet ring tightly in the palm of her hand, she smiled.

  She was not a woman who liked to be in debt; not a woman who balked at the chance to repay old debts and have done.

  To the air, she brought her forearm across her chest in salute both to the past and the future. And then, that taken care of, she strode quickly out to the courtyard; curiosity was her worst weakness.

  * * *

  If Evayne had been worried that The Kalakar might see the unprepossessing size of the girl and dismiss her as unsuitable for the soldier's trade, her fear was unfounded. Although in height and weight the dark-haired young woman seemed slight, she pivoted into a defensive stance that was so sure it spoke of either years of experience or an instinctive natural ability—or both. She wore armor, a fine-linked shirt with plated joints at knee, shoulder, and elbow. But the links were of black metal. Not painted, for paint would catch the light and this seemed to drink it in. Something was familiar about the workmanship—and it was something that Ellora did not like, although it was not obviously Annagarian or, worse, Allasakari in make; those she knew well enough to spot at a hundred yards.

  Slim, steady fingers rested upon the pommel of a sheathed sword. It was not bonded. The sword itself was both long and wide; it looked, sheathed, to have a Southern weight to it, but not a Southern curve. Ellora wanted to see it—although, Kalliaris willing, not from the wrong end.

  There was danger here; an old soldier's instinct sent a chill, wordless whisper down The Kalakar's left ear. She'd only ignored it once. Learned not to, damned quickly.