by sun sword
"More, if Baredan di'Navarre is to be believed."
She shrugged delicately. "More, then. Do you think fear of these armies is enough to have the Tyr'agnati proclaim him Tyr'agar?"
Silence.
"Carelo, you will answer me."
Grudgingly, Carelo shook his young head. He was, Amara thought, such a striking man. "No."
"No, then." She gestured; a seraf appeared at her side in an instant with a goblet and a fan. She took the fan herself and sent him on without speaking a word. "We know, from the reaction of Mareo di'Lamberto, that Mareo was not one of the Tyr'agnate who supports Alesso's bid. We know, because we are as surprised by Baredan di'Navarre's news as Lamberto was, that we are also not one of the clans upon whom Alesso's success rests. Think," she said, allowing frustration to texture her tone.
"You think," he said slowly, "that Mancorvo and Averda are to be among the spoils of the new Tyr's reign."
She almost clapped her hands, but stopped, closing them around the stem of her goblet instead. Young men could be so headstrong. "Yes."
"Why?"
"Because, my son, he must have felt confident of the support of two fourths of the Tyr'agnati—in no other way could he be proclaimed Tyr'agar; the four would war among themselves for that right." She paused. "Therefore, it is clear that Oerta and Sorgassa support him."
"But we can't stand for long against the armies of the Tyr'agar." Here, he showed a glimmer of the pragmatism that had become his father's strength. Young Alfredo, his brother, was just as likely to stand against impossible odds with honor as he was to act intelligently.
"Not if things remain as they are, no."
"Then let us enter our own negotiations with Marente, while time remains. Averda is the richest of the Terreans. Let him lose one of the three he holds instead."
"Possible." This time, there was respect in the word. "However, negotiations rely on two things. One: that we have something that he wants. Two: that he has something that we want. What do we have?"
"We have Averda."
"And will we give that to his rule? I think not," she said softly. "What else do we have?"
"Legitimacy."
"Yes. And it may be that in the months to come he will need it. If, indeed, he does not choose to field his army the moment the Festival of the Sun has ended.
"What does he have that we want?"
"Mancorvo."
"Promised, I believe, to someone else."
"Then nothing. We wish to rule our lands as we have, in peace."
"There will be no peace," she said again. "Because in order to negotiate, two parties must be at equal strength, or at equal disadvantage. Unless the situation changes, I would say that Alesso di'Marente does not feel the need to bargain. It is rumored that he holds the Radann, and they may very well be forced to bless his rulership at the Festival—which means he does not need legitimacy.
"We have Averda, and he wants it. It is as simple, for the moment, as that."
Carelo kai di'Callesta bowed his head, this time with genuine respect.
"Na'care," she said, knowing that he hated the name, but feeling fond enough to use it anyway. "You should spend more time with your lovely wife."
He straightened his shoulders, striving to look anything but the young Tyran. "We should begin to plan. Where is the Tyr' agnate to be found?"
"He is currently inspecting the defenses along the southern border."
"Without me?" Carelo bridled. Which was as Amara expected; the border defenses were, after all, his command.
"Carelo, he left you in charge here. What better way to show his trust could he have chosen?"
The son had the grace to redden, and when he rose and walked away, his mother cast her gaze out to the standing rocks in the sparse, empty space. She was disappointed.
Until she heard his voice again, at her back. "Serra Amara."
"Yes?"
"As we do not intend to negotiate with Marente, you expect that we will have to face them on the field."
"Astute."
"Then you neglected to tell me how exactly it is that the Tyr'agnate expects to be able to withstand the General's armies."
"Ah, Na'care, Na'care," she said, unmindful of who might hear the pride in her voice, "we will make a ruler of you yet."
She did not, of course, expect him to like the answer.
Radann Fredero kai el'Sol,
Please accept our apologies for our inability to attend the Festival of the Sun this year. The Radann in the Terrean of Averda have been instructed to perform the proper rituals, and while we fully understand that these rituals, so far from the Tor Leonne, are no replacement for your exalted services, we feel in this clime that we must make do with their lesser grace.
We would, of course, accept your invitation, but it has come to our attention that Mareo di'Lamberto has not, and it places us in a delicate situation. As you may be aware, the difficulties between Lamberto and Callesta have grown ever more bitter; as of late, we have lost a village, and during this season we cannot afford to lose another. As Lamberto will remain within his Terrean, we do not have our traditional guarantee that, for the Festival of the Sun, hostilities will cease, and we cannot leave our Terrean open to attack by stripping it of its most able leaders.
We hope that you will understand our difficulty and speak a word on our behalf to the Lord.
The loss of the Tyr'agar is a blow to Callesta, but the clan Leonne was small and perhaps not as strong in influence as it might have been; the Dominion lost much in the wars under the Tyr'agar's direction—Averda knows the truth of that better than any Terrean. We have no desire to rule the Dominion, nor would we accept the position were it to be offered to us. Yet we do not believe that any of the current Tyr'agnati would suit better; if there is to be a Tyr'agar, it is not from within the four that he is to be found.
The Radann have always given wise counsel, and it is our belief that in such times, their counsel will, of course, continue to be a wall against the wind. Should you desire it, we would be pleased to enter into deliberations with regard to the seat of the Tor Leonne.
—Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai di'Callesta
"Well?" Alesso di'Marente set the scroll aside.
"He's committed it to writing," the Widan Sendari said. He lifted a goblet and a seraf, a young boy with perhaps too much energy, filled it.
"Yes. And if it were written to me, I would accept it as an offer."
Sendari shrugged. "There is no doubt that Baredan di'Navarre traveled to Averda. Ramiro di'Callesta has never been a stupid man."
"No. Unfortunately."
"He does not choose to expose himself by presenting himself to you directly at the Festival of the Sun. We both know, in his position, that we would do the same."
Alesso frowned. "Yes."
Sendari set the goblet aside untouched, and began to stroke the fine, long line of his beard. "He is no Lamberto, to stand on points of honor."
"Do you think he would be satisfied to serve me?"
"If his other choice was annihilation, yes." Sendari's smile was dark. "Alesso, we gambled, and in this case, it failed. We will still own the Tor; even Ramiro di'Callesta acknowledges as much in the letter to the Radann. Yes, it would have been better to have killed him at the height of the Festival. But that was assassination, and this is combat. You made your name in the latter, and not the former."
"Oh?" was the moody reply. "Tell that to the clan Leonne." He reached out suddenly and grabbed Sendari's goblet; wine sloshed over the rim, staining the cushions beneath his crossed legs. "I am not a patient man, old friend. I see the need to act; I act. But in this—" He lifted the cup to his lips and upended it.
"Enough, Alesso. Enough. Yes, we should have ridden to war. And we can, if you judge the armies enough."
"They will not be enough." Alesso lifted the goblet with an angry wave. It was filled. Quickly. "Oh, we could win a war against two Terreans that will not stand together. But not without cost. Not agai
nst those two. And after the war, what? You know where Baredan has gone, old friend. You know what he was seeing." Fingers were as white as aged silver against the goblet stem. "The sun-scorched child of an ugly concubine. Legitimized and sent North to be forgotten."
"Yes. Ser Valedan."
They were silent a moment. "The Sun Sword," Alesso said grimly. "Our cause will be hurt if I cannot wield it. Cannot the Widan—"
"No. And you know it. A blade that can cut through the shadows that surround the kinlords will not be put off by our magics." His brow furrowed, for the problem was an old one, and oft-asked. "Perhaps if the Widan worked in concert—but I believe that we could not keep knowledge of that from the clansmen, and that will hurt you more."
"Then we've no choice."
Sendari said nothing. It was the prudent course. But he sat back uneasily against the sky-blue cushions, his throat too dry to drink.
"Tell Tyran Calevro to make the Tor Leonne ready for the public execution of the Northern hostages. Tell him to make their deaths quick but bloody; they must be a insult—worse—to the Northerners." He rose. "Then set a few of the Northern merchants free. Let them carry the tale."
"They will slaughter all of the hostages, Alesso."
"That is the plan," was the cool, dry reply.
"The Tyr'agnati will have no choice but to call for blood, and most certainly the Northerners—"
"The Northerners back away from war like beaten dogs whenever the opportunity presents itself." He paused. "But of course, when it is explained that the deaths were caused by a terrible political unrest—when we send the heads and the rings of those involved—they will bluster and ask for concessions. The hostages are not blood-kin, remember."
"They may back away from war," the Widan conceded, "but it is we, in the end, who ceded the lands in Averda to them. Weigh carefully. We cannot take the Dominion to war while we do not own it. Too much will be too unstable, and if the war is won by a General who is not Alesso di'Marente, we have lost the Dominion. Perhaps it might be better to forget about the boy and take the armies you control against Mancorvo and Averda."
"No, old friend," Alesso said, although he did not turn to face the Widan, "we will order the death of the Imperial hostages, and then we will wait. They will kill the boy, and I will wield the Sun Sword, I will hold the Tor. Only then will we call the war; for then we can take the cursed Shining Court out on a very short leash. But they had better," he added, throwing the goblet to the ground where the sweet wine was lapped up by the wooden planks, "be all that they say they are. And more."
Lady's last shadow.
Baredan di'Navarre stood in the darkness, waiting. It was cool in the valley, but not cold, and the sound of the insects sitting atop stalks of corn and wheat began to abate.
Sashallon, he thought, and it hurt. The horse that he rode for what was in all probability the most important ride of his life would be a stranger. As if the wind could hear his thoughts, it turned, bringing the scent of horses to him.
"General kai di'Navarre."
He recognized the voice in an instant, and bowed, although the bow was an act of generosity, not a dictate of custom.
The young girl, Eliana en'Callesta, returned his bow with an agile grace that made him feel truly old. At her side, with a glass lamp swinging in the brisk breeze, stood an older seraf with a neutral expression. His shadow fell across her feet. Eliana was not a woman who should stand in shadow.
Had he ever looked so perfect? Had he ever walked with such a complete confidence in his youth, in his own beauty? At that, he smiled ruefully. He had never been a beautiful man; not even his wives said otherwise. And there. She could bring a smile to his lips without speaking a word.
"Eliana," he said quietly. "Have you come to see an old man off?"
"Not an old one," she said. "But an honorable one. There are so few left in the Dominion." She spoke gravely, and the gravity made her, of all things, more beautiful. Holding the folds of her sari with her left hand, she reached down with her right and pulled out a long-stemmed flower. It was crimson, and beneath its closed bloom, there were thorns. "Serra Amara sends this to you," she told him softly.
"And I would not refuse a gift from Serra Amara the Gentle." He took the rose carefully, but in the dawn's poor light it was not easy to see what was stem and what thorn; the gift drew blood.
"A wise man indeed."
General Baredan di'Navarre smiled. "Tyr'agnate," he said, dropping carefully to one knee. And then, from a vantage much closer to ground than Baredan was comfortable with, he saw it: the sword of Callesta. Another man might have passed over it, for its sheath was not ornate. It was black, bound and knotted from top to bottom in linen and silk, with gold tip and gold mouth. What set it apart was the crimson mark in its center. The mark of Callesta.
"Do not," Ramiro di'Callesta said, "kneel before me. You are not beholden here, kai di'Navarre."
Baredan di'Navarre nodded grimly, but surprise still tightened his lips, silencing him. The sword. The sword of Callesta. He was certain it had not seen the Lord's light for at least a decade.
"Yes," Ramiro said, stepping to one side to allow his cerdan—no, his Tyran—to pass.
"Then I will ride," Baredan said, "with a lighter heart."
"And I," another voice said, "will wait with a heavier one." The Lord's light colored the sky; Serra Amara the Gentle wore a thin, thin silk against the line of her jaw as protection from the wearying sun. "General Baredan, we charge you with the safe return of our Tyr."
"With the—" He showed his surprise then, and Amara did not judge him weaker for the display; it was dawn, and in the moments when the Lady handed reign of her dominion to the Lord, it was hard to know where one's thoughts were best placed. "I am honored, Tyr'agnate di'Callesta."
The Tyr nodded briefly. "We will take an escort of a dozen." He turned to face the cerdan who waited with his wife. "The Terrean, in my absence, will be guarded and governed by my kai in my stead. His word is my word."
One of the Tyran stood apart, and bowed quite low. "Tyr'agnate." When he rose, Baredan thought he saw the likeness of the mother in his face. Ser Carelo kai di'Navarre.
The Tyr'agnate nodded as if satisfied, and continued. "Ser Alfredo di'Callesta will, however, be given command of the Western border patrols. It is time he assumed some of the responsibilities of Averda."
"Tyr'agnate," the kai said, bowing again, his face a perfectly composed mask.
"Come, Baredan. We ride with the sun's rise. The borders will almost certainly be watched."
He took no serafs with him because his mood was poor and he could ill afford to lose another; he had been forced to discard too many, and their experience and training was already missed. Even in the quiet splendor—the carefully cultivated appearance of tranquil, undisturbed wilderness—even in the presence of the lake of the Tor Leonne, his anger festered.
But the Festival of the Sun was to commence in less than ten days. Each pavilion, each viewing platform, each guest house and each hidden path, had to be tended, manicured, readied. This first year of the reign of Alesso di'Alesso, everything must be perfect.
He cursed the need for that perfection in silence, for at every stop he made, serafs and cerdan abounded, carrying bolts of fabric, hammers, nails; toiling with their wheelbarrows and their dirt, flowers, and spades; seeking, in each change, the blessing of the wives of Marano and Horaro, the women who, in the absence of a ruling clan, sought to better themselves by making the Festival of the Sun in their image.
Of course, when they saw Alesso di'Marente, they made haste to leave their labor, and of course, they made haste to bow, lengthening their stay and their work as they groveled. His power was not certain enough that he could afford to have any of them killed out of hand, although were he to do so, today would have been the day.
He cursed the Shining Court. Baredan di'Navarre was what he had been chosen to be: cunning, untrusting, untrappable—the Annagarian warrior. Just how cunning
, and how suspicious, even Alesso had not begun to guess, and they had been friends a long time. He admired the General, even as he planned to crush him, for there was enough of the warrior in Alesso di'Marente that he truly appreciated a worthy rival.
Unreliable allies, on the other hand, were not accorded the same respect.
Wage war against the Essalieyanese, and you will have at your disposal kinlords.
And these?
He had watched the Lords in action. In the heat of the high sun, he felt a momentary chill, and he lifted his face to the Lord's. Wind touched his forehead.
What did the kinlords do in their millennia in the hells? They fought for dominion. And that fight, that desire for power, Alesso par di'Marente understood.
He nodded grimly at three serafs as they knelt gravely before him, their hands slightly dirt-stained, their presentation poor. Of course, presentation when one was digging and building could not be perfect; he passed them by, pretending not to hear the sigh of relief the youngest gave.
Yes, the kinlords battled. But it was not for the glory of killing and dying that Alesso Di'Marente struggled. It was for this space of wilderness, this near-perfect retreat, this crown of the Dominion.
I will be the greatest Tyr'agar that the Dominion has ever known. Or I will be the last. At this moment, neither sat well.
He did not know what he was searching for—did not, in fact, realize that he had been searching at all—until he came across the distant sound of mournful samisen music. He stood within a small stand of perfectly landscaped trees, and as he turned, the wind brought the notes to life, carrying an unmistakable voice.
No serafs attended him, by his strict command; nor did the cerdan that he normally brought with him. He regretted his decision, for their absence made of his approach an insult, and he did not wish to insult the Flower of the Dominion. Yet he approached as if drawn, seeking the words that the distance blurred.
Beneath his vantage, the Pavilion of the Dawn—well past its best viewing hours—lay protected against the sun's harshness by a simple, gabled roof; the screens had not been drawn. Upon the serafs' platform were two men and a young girl; they sat at ease, legs bent beneath them, heads bowed. The wide, round hats of the Southern Annagarians were bound with bright ribbons; they wore them well.