by sun sword
"I remember it well. I wrote it."
"Then you know that the Annagarians have forfeited their rights here. A death for a death."
"Has it not occurred to you, brother, that there was a reason beyond the sport of slaughter for these deaths? Has it not become clear to you that we have, among these hostages, the one man who can lay claim to the Tor Leonne?"
"And is the Tor our desire?"
"Reymalyn—"
"No. No, I tell you. This is not a day for politics. Ask them," he said, throwing his arm wide to take in the vastness of the city that lay beneath night's cover without, "Ask them what they desire. They will tell you what they know to be right."
"They will tell you," Queen Siodonay said suddenly, her voice trembling, "what you desire to hear. But it will not necessarily be the answer to our predicament." As she spoke, her voice grew stronger. "No, husband, hear me. It is my right.
"This is a dangerous time for the Empire. You and King Cormalyn have been, and will be, our best defense should defense be required. But you cannot be seen thus—quarreling like angry children."
Even King Cormalyn was shocked into silence.
Queen Marieyan nodded softly.
"The Ten offered hostages. The Ten have suffered the loss. The Ten will meet—as you know they will—to discuss the fate of the Annagarians now confined in the Arannan Halls.
"You are of the gods, and your parents make their demands known now; in this matter, your blood rules you both too dearly. You are what the Empire has always needed, almost all of the time. But this atrocity, my Lords—this atrocity is a matter of men, and for men. Let The Ten decide as they must."
"Well said, Queen Siodonay." King Cormalyn bowed.
"Reymalyn?"
"They are the injured parties," he said, but it was grudging.
"Yes," she replied softly. "Trust them to make their decisions. The dead ride them harder than they ride even you."
Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta bowed very low as he entered the presence of Ser Valedan di'Leonne. He was the only clansman to do so, and Ser Valedan stared at him uneasily as he exposed the back of his neck. If Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta was aware of this singular lack of grace, he did not show it at all. He was the last of the Annagarian hostages to be escorted into the open-air courtyard; the others—those sent by Garrardi and Lorenza—had come an hour past, and had gathered in the corner farthest from both the open arches and the Swords that waited beyond.
Ser Fillipo was the most important man in the courtyard. He had six cerdan and ten serafs; he had two wives present and three children. He was tall, he fought well, and he rode a horse as if two legs were unnatural. Averda, of all the five Terreans, had taken the treaty between the Dominion and the Empire very seriously. Ser Fillipo was the brother of the ruler of Averda, a par. Serra Alina had often called him the second son of a man who was lucky beyond the whim of fortune to have one of such caliber, let alone two.
He was, in too many things, all that Valedan was not. Already, the clansmen were coming from the corners of the courtyard in which they found refuge, as if Ser Fillipo's presence could bring order, reason, and safety. Especially safety.
"Ser Valedan," Serra Alina whispered.
Valedan glanced at her, and then realized that Ser Fillipo had no intention of rising until such permission was granted. He had seen this posture many times before, during the Festival seasons when the children of the concubines could wander the Tor Leonne freely, spying on the clansmen, and joining their children in sports, in song, and in other less approved of games.
"Rise," he said, and his voice was very quiet—but it was steady.
Ser Fillipo rose. If the position was natural in seeming, it was not in truth, and he shed it quickly. "Serra Alina."
"Ser Fillipo."
"Have you had news?"
"I? But I am merely a Serra. Surely the clansmen—"
"Enough. I was considered enough of a danger that I was detained. I have not had the time, nor do we have it now. Speak."
Her smile was edged as his tone; sharp and hard. "At your command, Ser Fillipo." She bowed; the bow fell short of perfect grace. "Mirialyn ACormaris has come twice. She believes—although she will not say for certain—that The Ten meet on the morrow to decide our fate." She paused, as if to gather breath, and the simmering anger left her features, emptying them in a rush. "I was able to obtain, from another source, a written copy of the report made to The Terafin."
He held out a hand, and she reached into the folds of her sari. There was no question of etiquette, no subtle struggle, as she handed him the papers.
Valedan saw Ser Fillipo pale.
His mother began to cry.
Ser Oscari began to shout.
Serra Helena began to wail.
It was too much. This courtyard, with its fountain, its quiet, open space, its familiar stone walls and unadorned floors had oft been his retreat. He drew breath, and even the air that filled his lungs felt stale and dirty.
"ENOUGH!"
Silence descended at his word.
Serra Alina was the first to drop, and she dropped into a fully executed crouch, knees against what would, in the South, have been smooth mats, not rough stone, forehead against her knees.
Women held no legal title in the Dominion, but they held a subtle power; Serra Alina was the most notable woman present. As she, the other Serras bowed down to the floor, their unadorned hair falling like scattered strands of shadow.
Ser Valedan di'Leonne turned his gaze to the men.
Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta met the young man's gaze, held it a moment, and then raised a brow. It was a flicker of expression that held—of all things—a certain amusement. And then, he spoke a single word. "Tyr'agar."
The silence became absolute.
"Tyr'agar?" Ser Oscari, sputtering as if he'd been caught mid-drink with a joke. "Ser Fillipo, surely you jest? Why the boy's—"
The overweight, overfamiliar man gaped a moment, and then, as Fillipo turned to face him, actually reddened. "Ser Fillipo," he mumbled. And then, turning, "Tyr'agar." The five cerdan who were Fillipo's escort found the stones as well, and hugged them almost—but not quite— as closely as the women.
Ser Mauro di'Garrardi, a young man of Valedan's age, shrugged a lithe shoulder. His was the acknowledged beauty of the foreign Annagarian court, and he knew it. He did not flaunt, but he did not hide; there was nothing false, in either direction, about Mauro.
He was new to the court. A fourth son, to be sure—but cousin to the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi. His older brother, the third son, had been recalled two years ago to the Dominion. Mauro had been sent in his stead. There were rumors, of course; when a man was as comely as Mauro, there would always be rumors. To his credit, Mauro di'Garrardi paid them no heed, either to affirm or deny.
"Take the title," Ser Mauro said, bending gracefully, but slowly, at the knee. "But remember that it is just that. Tyr'agar." He had four cerdan, one of whom accompanied him at all times in the course of a normal day. There were to be no more normal days. He gestured, and they joined him.
Ser Kyro di'Lorenza was the oldest man in the group. He brought a hand to a frosted beard and then dropped it again. Looked down at the white silk that pulled slightly across the pale back of his wife, the one woman who had come with him into this foreign exile, this other court. Helena. "I do not like it," he said, speaking for the first time. "But I will abide my word, Ser Fillipo."
"What word is this?" Valedan said, speaking softly where sharpness was called for.
"Have you read Serra Alina's report, Ser Valedan?"
"No."
"Then you will not understand the covenant. But both Ser Fillipo and I have agreed to… abide by the decision of the foreigners. We live at their whim, instead of dying like men at our own.
"These knees," he added gruffly, motioning with a frown to his son—his adult son, Ser Gregori, who should have known better, "are not what they used to be. They haven't bent much, thes
e past twelve years. Not much at all."
"And we don't have our swords," Ser Kyro added. "This oath, this acknowledgment—it means nothing without swords."
"No," Ser Fillipo said, turning his head to the side, that he might see Ser Kyro. "It means more. We are under the open sky, Kyro, and the Lord watches."
"The Lord watches warriors," was the truculent reply. But the old man nodded to himself, and then, knees against the stone, he smiled grimly and raised his face to look upon a man a third his age, if that. "Tyr'agar."
* * *
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Duarte."
Duarte AKalakar was just this side of being able to control the mutinous rage that had spread through the ranks of the Ospreys. The effort cost him, though; it always did. Fiara was calling for blood, and if he hadn't had use of the detention chambers, he was certain that Annagarian blood—even Annagarians gone native—would be thickening the waters of the bay. If only it were just Fiara. "What?" He looked up, and froze as he met the wide darkness of black eyes.
Kiriel.
He had two guards posted outside of his doors; he always did. Only one person got through those doors without being announced, and it certainly wasn't Kiriel.
He rose, slipping into a defensive posture as he took his place within the flat rings that had been etched—by his own power combined with that of Alexis—into the stone floor. "What," he asked carefully, "are my guards doing?"
"Guarding the door," she replied.
"And they saw fit to let you pass?"
"They didn't see me."
She was always like this, a mixture of the cunning and the blunt that never quite fit. He didn't relax, but only because he found it impossible to relax around her. "You told me that you weren't a mage."
"I'm not a mage." She swallowed. "The Kalakar said that our pasts were not at issue."
She didn't ask me, he thought, but he didn't say it. "Why did you feel it necessary to come to me unannounced?" The circle beneath his feet grew cool to his magical sight.
"Because I wasn't certain of your guards."
"Pardon?"
"I wasn't certain of your guards."
"I see." He took a deep breath, waited a moment, realized that she intended to keep him waiting, and frowned. "Continue."
"Some of the Ospreys are planning to stage a demonstration in the merchant common tonight." She met his eyes, and hers were unblinking, unnerving because they did not swerve or dip or change.
"Where did you hear this?"
"I can't tell you," she replied softly.
In everything, she was infuriating. "Kiriel, you've come here to essentially betray the confidence of the Ospreys who've planned this… excursion. You've come in person instead of leaving the traditional note beneath the door. You've interrupted me, by methods which you will not explain, and having done so, have given me news which I needed—and did not want—to hear. If you're trying to be ingratiating, you're failing miserably—and if you're trying to be helpful, you will give me the names of the ringleaders."
"No," Kiriel said quietly, "I won't. They bound me by my word."
"They… bound… you… by… your… word."
"Yes."
"Kiriel—"
"I can kill them, if you'd like."
She meant it. Even if he hadn't seen her face, he would have known it; he could hear it in her words, in the casual certainty that lay beneath the surface of her youthful voice. Exasperation turned to something else as he met her gaze.
"You don't want me to kill them."
The Ospreys were a team. A difficult team, yes; too difficult for the regulars to either train or control. They stood apart, keenly aware of the things in their temperaments that made them different. Unique. He'd found them. He'd put them together, giving to the Kings' Justice the one or two that served as example of behavior that even the Ospreys would not tolerate. He beat them into a unit that he could direct, control, manipulate.
And care for, truth be told, although it wasn't what he'd intended so many years ago, standing in front of The Kalakar's desk with intensity written all over his face. His first real battle.
They had no family, most of these men and women. With Alexis, he had given them a home, and they looked to each other. Half of them were survivors of the Southern wars, and they knew firsthand, full well, what the Annagarians were capable of. Those scars he could not mask, could not assuage; they lay against the heart like a brand that even blood could not quench. And blood had been spilled in the attempt.
Who was it? Who was it who planned to go against his express orders into the common to slaughter the Annagarians they could find there, huddled amidst the merchant masses? Fiara was safely behind a locked door, but she was not the only one capable of such an act. Hells, she wasn't even close.
But she also wasn't the type of person who could welcome Kiriel di'Ashaf. Not because Kiriel came from the South; no one in the company believed that. Oh, her color was right for it, and her height; her face had the right lines. But she was born to the blade, and no women were trained in Annagar. No women, that is, with hands as uncallused as Kiriel's and a back so unbent by labor. No, Kiriel was the mystery woman—and Fiara disliked mystery. Because if you kept your mysteries that closely guarded, it meant you didn't trust her—and if you didn't trust her, she didn't owe you anything.
Who? Who would include this misfit among the misfits? Who would try to make her feel at home, and test her mettle so thoroughly, at the same time? Test. Test…
"Duarte?"
"Learn," he said, as she interrupted the abrupt turn of his thoughts, "to use ranks, Kiriel. I am Primus Duarte. You are Sentrus Kiriel."
"Yes, Primus Duarte."
She was incapable of the sarcasm that any other such tone would have conveyed. "I'm sorry. I was musing. No, I do not wish you to kill them." He paused. "Kiriel, I wish to ask you a question. I wish you to answer it truthfully."
She nodded, her eyes guarded, always guarded.
"Why did you come to me with this information?"
"Because," she replied, her brow rippling the perfect lines of her skin as she frowned, "I am to serve you."
"Yes?"
"Your orders were clear. You did not wish us to take action for the crimes of the Southerners against this House."
"And you did not agree with my decision."
She frowned again. "No."
"Why? Answer honestly," he told her. As if she would do anything else.
"Because," she said hesitantly, "it makes us look weak."
"Weak?"
"They do this to your people, and you do nothing. They will know that you do nothing, and they will not fear to do it again."
"Understood." Well understood, he'd heard the argument so many times. "Which means you agree that something should be done."
"Yes."
"Then why did you come to me?"
"Because," she said, speaking even more slowly, "I serve you."
"That's all?"
She nodded.
"Look, Kiriel, you must have hoped to gain something."
She stared at him blankly.
"You came here to tell me this. You betray the confidence of people you've given your word to. You must have hoped to gain something. My confidence? My trust?"
"They are your people, Duarte. Yours. They betray you." Her eyes grew oddly wide, flickering as if Duarte was watching a struggle to draw a curtain beneath their surface. In the shadows, her face looked leaner, longer; a hint of the feral made him stiffen. "You must do something, or you will appear weak. If you are weak, you will no longer rule. Do you not understand this?
"If you wish it, I will kill them."
"No," he said. "I do not wish it. Leave here, and do not speak of this to anyone else."
She nodded, and saluted, fist across chest, cool eyes shuttered. He had a momentary vision of chilling clarity; he saw her, this one time, for what she was. And he thought that this slender, naive young woman would coolly and
calmly torture a small child to death if he but requested it. Would, and could.
"And while you're out, find Alexis and tell her I want to speak with her. Now."
Cook found her.
He wasn't a cook; in fact, he was probably the worst cook in the unit. He was taller than she was, and much wider, his hair was lighter, although dark enough by Northern standards, and he wore a beard that fringed his round jaw. Sun and wind had worn lines into the sides of his face, near his eyes and mouth; he smiled, and as age caught up with him, you could see the smile linger there pleasantly.
He even smiled at her.
"Mind if I sit?"
She shrugged, moody; he shrugged, good-natured, and sat beside her on the demiwall, huffing slightly as he pulled his legs up and over the ledge. The garden, what there was of it in an estate as small as this, spread out before them in a carefully manicured sea of colors. Here and there, when the sea breeze was brisk, the whole bent and blended as if it were alive.
Which, he thought ruefully, it was. She heard his sigh, and looked up sharply.
"Just thinking," he said as he stared, "that I can even be stupid without speaking."
Sullen, she turned her gaze back to the grounds.
"Kiriel."
She said nothing, but he knew she was listening; she had ears like no one he'd ever met.
"You've been here over two weeks now."
She gave him no help at all. But he didn't mind; he'd seen this many times before.
"We've all done things we're not proud of. We've all seen things we'd forget in a minute if we could. Never works that way. We aren't the easiest to like, but you aren't either."
That caught a smile, but the smile was a grim one, turning on edge into something a bit too chilly to be friendly. Not what he'd hoped for, but it'd do. For now.
"We don't know what you want from us. Most of us wanted the regiment—and the Ospreys. Most of us were chosen by Duarte."
"Primus Duarte."
He chuckled. "We don't stand on ceremony here. But sure, if it makes you easier, Primus Duarte."
"Why do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Laugh. What have I done to amuse you?"