by sun sword
He followed the path that the trees hid until he could see beyond the serafs, and there he stopped, for Serra Diora di'Marano was singing. Her lashes were a dark sweep of perfect curve against her fair skin; her hair, unpearled and unfettered, hung down her shoulders and back as if she were a young child. She wore midnight-blue and ivory, and gold caught the light at her neck in strands that bound it perfectly.
He could not name the song she sang, and he was not unlearned. But the song brought him a measure of peace that he had not felt since… since last he heard her sing. She brought back youth, and the brashness of it.
He was a man, under the Lord's sight; a warrior who had proved himself upon the fields of battle against the Lord's enemies. The Tor Leonne—the Tor—was his, and in a man's home, a man's domain, he could do as he pleased if he had the strength to defend that action. General Alesso di'Marente had that strength.
The serafs looked up as he approached. The oldest of them, gray-haired and slender, rose in the seraf half-crouch, moving forward a graceful step to kneel in the soft dirt before the pavilion. The youngest, the girl, rose as well, stepping into the pavilion's shadows.
General Alesso par di'Marente stopped a foot away from the seraf when it became clear that the seraf did not intend to move for the clansman. Alesso wore the rayless sun above the crescent sword—a military symbol, a symbol that only clansmen were allowed to bear.
Had he not thought it would displease her, he would have killed the seraf outright; he considered it, before bowing very correctly instead. "Tell your Serra that the General Alesso di'Marente wishes the privilege of her audience."
The seraf bowed at once, his gray hair blending with bent stalks of grass that, like the man, had passed their season of soft newness. Then he rose and retreated. But he did not retreat to where Serra Diora sat; he moved father back, disappearing from view into the cooler recess of the building.
Alesso had just time to curse quietly under his breath before the seraf returned to once again resume his position upon the seraf platform. "The Serra Teresa di'Marano grants the audience the General Alesso di'Marente requests."
Widan Sendari di'Marano was a troubled man. "Serra Teresa, you must be mistaken."
"You are the Widan, Ser Sendari. If you insist, and you walk the path of the Wise, who am I to demur?" She lifted her lavender fan and spread it wide, waving it through the air so delicately her hands seemed involved in an intricate dance. "Yet to my unlearned and untrained eye, I would say that Alesso di'Marente has shown his intent."
"Alesso is not a mere boy, to be overwhelmed by a woman's face or figure." He froze. "Or voice."
The air cooled. "Speak plainly, Widan Sendari di'Marano."
"You have not interfered?"
"Make the accusation, if you will make it; if you will not, leave it be." Her cheeks were colored slightly; they gave a pleasing blush to her appearance. But they also gave warning, and if the Widan did not take warning well, he took it.
"It is not like Alesso," he said roughly.
"It is exactly like Alesso," she replied. "You have interest and affection in the women that she chose for you, and in the woman that Fiona has chosen since. But you are not a poet, Sendari, and you will never be one; you have never had a young warrior's heart." Her eyes narrowed; the fan stilled, and she studied its perfect crescent, its jade ribbing. "Or did you have another plan for my niece? For I will concede that it is unlike Alesso to work against a plan he himself has devised."
"Indeed." He stared at her; she did not meet his gaze. "Speak," he said at last. "Speak plainly, at my request."
She lifted the carafe of sweet water and poured it for him. "I do not interfere in your affairs, Widan. But if I were so inclined, I would not beguile Alesso di'Marente or in any way draw him to my Na'dio. He has already killed two wives."
"One died in childbirth," Sendari replied, too sharply.
"Very well, then."
"What exactly did he say?"
"What did he say? He said very little. But he approached without seraf or cerdan."
The Widan darkened slightly. "And?"
"He chose to speak with my serafs, and they carried his message. But he meant it, I think, for Diora. He sat with us for two hours, and during that time, Diora sang and he watched her."
"Just that?"
"Yes. Only that." She paused, setting down the carafe and lifting the fan again, the effect one of grace and muted satisfaction. "He did not look at another thing under the Lord's sky."
The Widan rose heavily, as if age were settling more quickly than he had ever expected it would upon his shoulders. He did not know if Teresa knew it, although he suspected that she did.
Serra Diora Maria di'Marano had already been promised to the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi of the Terrean of Oerta in return for his pledged support of Alesso di'Marente at the Festival of the Sun. And she had been promised, with the very reluctant approval of her father, by Alesso di'Marente; for without his approval, Garrardi had vowed to withdraw not only his support, but his silence.
A dangerous game, that. But well-played.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
28th of Morel, 427 AA
Averalaan, Avantari
"This was the third attempt on Ser Valedan di'Leonne's life in less than three weeks!"
"We're well aware of that."
"How is it that, in three weeks, your security has been so poor that not once, not twice, but thrice, the boy's life has been endangered?"
Commander Sivari had a headache that would not go away. The portly, loud, and theatrically enraged Annagarian seated—if the up and down, back and forth motion could be dignified with the word—before him had been in his office for no less than three quarters of an hour, sweat-draped vermilion silks flouncing about as he gesticulated.
It was a pity, the commander thought idly, that weapon skill and endurance faded with age, but the ability to sit behind a desk and write out commands did not. The desk was a front line that he had grown to loathe over the years.
"… and we demand justice!"
Prattle. Frothing. Abuse.
"The Imperial Court accepted us as hostages—you've accepted the responsibility for our safety and our well-being. Are you listening?"
It was a pity. Most of the Annagarians that Sivari had met were a quiet and controlled bunch; people who preferred a silken, understated threat to a blather of incoherent babble. That type of Annagarian, he could deal with. Besides which, Ser Oscari was cerdan, not hostage; guard, not valuable noble.
"Don't just sit there, Valedan, speak up for yourself!" The large man pushed the younger one forward in his seat.
Unfortunately, the young man wasn't expecting the blow, and righted himself only by flattening his palms against the surface of Sivari's desk. Sivari's crowded desk.
"No. Don't touch them. I'll tend to them later." He tried to smile, but his face was too stiff from maintaining a studied, neutral expression through the older man's babble. "Ser Oscari, if you wouldn't mind?"
"Wouldn't mind what?"
"Wouldn't mind leaving us to speak."
"Leave? Why should I? No one's tried to kill the boy when an Annagarian's been around—or hadn't you noticed that?"
"That's not true, Oscari," the boy interjected, his voice a study in quiet deference. "Serra Alina was there the third time."
"Serra Alina is a woman. I am a clansman!" The older man shook his head and rolled his eyes. "You see?" he said, jabbing the air in front of the Commander. "This is what comes of sending a boy too young to the North! He forgets himself! He forgets our customs!"
"The customs of the Valley," Commander Sivari said quietly, "are not the customs of the rest of the Dominion." Besides which, he had thrice had occasion to speak with Serra Alina, and she had a temper which, while cool and polite and perfectly hidden beneath a composed and elegant exterior, exposed Oscari's for the bluster that it was.
Ser Oscari di'Vanera drew himself up to his
full height. "And just what," he said, "do you mean by that?"
Or perhaps it was just the merchants. "Ser Oscari," the Commander said, "I mean that you are cerdan, not Tor or Tyr. It is your job, and your right, to protect your clan. Of which," he added, his voice a trifle chillier, "Ser Valedan is not a member."
"We're all Annagarian here," the large man said, although the wind was out of his sails.
For the life of him, Sivari could not understand what Ser Fillipo di'Callesta—brother to the reigning Tyr'agnate—valued in the extremely annoying Oscari. But Oscari was of Fillipo's retinue. "Yes, you are all Annagarian. I do not dispute that. But you have been in my office for nearly an hour, and I have had no further details, no better description, from young Valedan here." He raised a hand as Oscari began to spout anew. "Ser Valedan. This is a matter not for the Kings' Swords, but the Kings' Diplomats. Please. Ser Oscari."
He began the mental countdown, starting at thirty and not at the customary three. When he reached the two-second mark, Oscari finished whatever it was he was saying and stomped out of the office, threatening Sivari with some ailment, and the wrath of the Tyr'agnate's brother, neither of which Sivari found particularly worrisome.
"Does the man never shut up?" he asked.
"No," was the quiet reply.
Commander Sivari smiled. "Ser Valedan di'Leonne, you must forgive my poor manners. I am not happy with the breach in our security."
The boy nodded seriously; it was hard for Sivari to remember that he was seventeen years of age. Oh, he was the right size for it, he certainly had the build and the face—but he lacked experience, and it showed.
"But, Ser Valedan, we find it unusual that in the first two incidents, the assassin was a conjured creature. Do you understand what this is?",
"A demon."
"We are aware that you are from the clan Leonne."
At this the boy nodded. Sivari was well aware that his mother—what was her name?—filled his head with nonsense about the Great Tyr, but the boy seemed to have survived such nonsense intact.
"We do not wish to start an incident with the Dominion."
"No, sir."
"Can you think of any clan that would benefit from your death, either directly or indirectly?"
"No, sir. But Alina says that if I die, the Tyr'agar would have to respond by killing all of you." His expression was quite pained. "I mean, all of the hostages in the Tor Leonne."
"Which, if it did not start a war, would certainly damage relations and trade between the Dominion and the Empire. Who would most gain by it?"
"I don't know."
"Valedan, that isn't a good enough answer. The first time, maybe. The second time, barely. But this is the third attempt. Two of the Kings' Swords were killed, and four injured. Do you understand? The time for ignorance has passed." The Lord of the Compact was riding the Kings' Commander, in language that had grown increasingly chill.
"Oh, indeed it has," someone said.
Commander Sivari looked up. Standing with his back against the closed door was Devon ATerafin, his dark hair silvered slightly with passing time, his face a set study of utter neutrality. Sivari knew better than to ask how he had come; Devon was uncanny in his ability to move… quietly. "What is it?"
"You won't like it."
"When you deliver the news, I never do. What is it?"
Devon turned to the young man who was seated in front of Commander Sivari's desk. He fell to one knee before him, bowing his head in the Southern style. "I bring you word," he said, as the dark-haired young man seemed to shrink back slightly, "from the Tor Leonne.
"The Tyr'agar is dead. The members of the clan Leonne who resided within the Tor are dead; not even the daughters or the wives were spared. Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne, you are the clan now." He paused, and then lifted his head. No Averalaan winter was as cold as the ATerafin's expression. "You are a fortunate young man," he said softly, the words more of a threat than a statement. "You will stay in the Arannan Halls. There is an armed guard, and two shadows, who will be at your side constantly from this moment on. You will accept the company of a mage of our choice, and you will accept the company of a bard that Senniel sees fit to appoint. You will follow the orders of those attendants and guards that we assign—while you remain in Averalaan Aramarelas— in all things. Is that clear?"
The young man paled. "My father—my father is dead?"
Sivari closed his eyes a moment. "ATerafin," he said, lifting a hand. "The boy has had his shock. The rest can wait."
"No, Commander Sivari, it can't." He walked over to where Valedan sat. "Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne, the merchants of Terafin have just arrived home from their journey to Raverra. They were detained in the Tor Leonne for seven days.
"During those seven days, the Imperial hostages were slaughtered in the public square. Not even a child survived." His jaw tightened, if that were possible. Ser Valedan di'Leonne stared up at him, his eyes a blackness of shock, of a man who has heard so much, so quickly, that he refused to understand any more of it. "If the enemies of your clan have not succeeded in their past assassination attempts, they will now be aided by most of The Ten.
"Come. I will escort you back to your quarters."
"Kalakar! Kalakar!"
A young man she didn't immediately recognize came tearing across the green. She frowned as he stopped, chest heaving. He was one of the servants, not the soldiers. The frown deepened. The servants were chosen for their ability to live up to the expectation of other noble Houses. Running, arms flapping, feet kicking up clods of loose dirt nearest the flower beds, this young man looked anything but able.
"I believe," The Kalakar said dryly to her companion "that's me he's shouting for."
"I believe," her companion said, smiling ruefully, "that you're right." He rose gracefully and set his glass upon the edge of the demiwall. "It was really far too quiet a day." Verrus Korama was as unlike Ellora as day to night; he was slender, almost sylvan; she was heavily boned and built. His temper was mercurial, yet superficial; hers was slow to wake, but when it did, it left its scars, both in her memory and in the memory of anyone who witnessed it. Where she was prone to execution, he was prone to mercy; where she was given to dry, earthy humor, he was almost too proper for a military man. He was the only one she knew who didn't drink.
And if she had to choose one man out of the entire regiment to save, it would be Korama.
"Whoa, there," The Kalakar said, as the boy stumbled to a halt. "Take a breath, and take a rest."
The fair-haired servant flushed. "Vernon Loris said you were to have this."
She frowned. Korama stood. Vernon did not use civilians as messengers where a military man would do. "Be quick, then." She held out a ringed hand, and the child— or so he seemed in height and manner—immediately placed a curled scroll into it. The weight gone, he collapsed to his knees, breathing a little too quickly. The grass was tall enough and dry enough to protect his clothing from dirt, which was just as well; the formidable woman in charge of the servants' laundry and uniforms bullied even The Kalakar on occasion. And the boy was wearing white and gold. Household, and at that, inner House.
"You didn't tell your staff where you could be found, did you?" Korama spoke quietly against the breeze.
As the answer was perfectly obvious, she didn't bother to give it. Instead, she looked at the seal, pressed into silvered wax, that lay across the center of the scroll. Terafin.
Kalakar and Terafin were not enemies, but they were not friends; they moved in circles that overlapped seldom, but when they did, the two Houses clashed as any of The Ten did. The fine hairs rose on the back of The Kalakar's neck; she felt the lightning's lattice in the air, and knew the storm was about to start in earnest.
The scroll was the bolt.
She broke the seal, and unfurled the vellum carefully, seeing the ink and the turn of the letters before she looked at the words they formed. The hand that had penned the message was none other than Amarais'.
&
nbsp; "Kalakar?"
It was such a short message. Three sentences.
She could not keep herself from crushing it. She knew why Vernon had chosen—wisely—to send a servant in the stead of a House Guard. "Boy," she said softly.
"Allan, Kalakar."
"Allan. Is a reply expected?"
"No, Kalakar."
"Good. Please leave us."
"Yes, Kalakar." He stood quickly, wiping his hands on the front of his pants. She watched him turn and leave, less frantic in his pace than when he'd arrived. It was easy to watch him. Her eyes did it automatically, too numb for a moment to move, to look at the business at hand.
"Ellora?"
"It's Madson," she told him, her face a mask.
"Madson? Madson's in Annagar, isn't he?"
She lifted the hand that held the crushed scroll. Lifted it, moving her arm as if it could not be bent at the elbow.
He took the burden from her.
"Cormaris' Crown," she heard him say. And then, silence.
"We cannot overlook this!"
"Vernon—"
"We don't even have his body—we have nothing left but this!" Verrus Vernon Loris AKalakar threw the remnants of the scroll onto the center of the table in the meeting hall. "Do you know—"
"Vernon." Korama raised a hand. "We all fought in the Southern wars. We know what they do with the dead."
"And the living. Do you know what kind of death he had?"
"It isn't necessary," Korama said.
But The Kalakar lifted a white face. "No," she said quietly. "I don't."
"I took the liberty of speaking with the Terafin merchant myself."
"That was a liberty, Verrus. Have you spoken to anyone else about this?"
"No, Kalakar."
"Good. You will not."
"Yes, Kalakar." Vernon's lips were a single white-gray line.
"But you will tell me," she added, so softly her words hardly carried.
"They cut off his legs at the knees and made him try to walk."