by sun sword
She lifted her chin; her hair gleamed as if it were bronze helm, and not braid. "Yes," she said softly, "if we had no other choice, I would. Remember: Valedan di'Leonne has thrice been under threat of death—and the assassins sent were no mortal creatures." She walked to the doors, turned, and bowed. "I will carry this new word to the Crowns."
Jewel Markess ATerafin had only twice been called to the Hall of The Ten in her fifteen years of service to The Terafin. And at neither time was it for a full Council meeting, in which the Kings, the Queens, the Lord of the Compact, the bardmaster of Senniel, the representative of the Council of the Magi, and the Holy Triumvirate were also to be present. She remembered, quite clearly, the last time that she had seen most of these people assembled in one place, and she had no desire to ever be in such a position again.
Avandar had fussed—and he was not a man so inclined—to insure that her appearance at least was excruciatingly correct. That she allowed him to do so spoke volumes to anyone who knew her; she was nervous.
The Terafin sat beside her in the horse-drawn carriage, gazing out at the waters that surrounded the isle. The road to Averalaan Aramarelas was busy, and the carriage traffic quite slow, given the early hour of the day. Both women were tired, but wore the lack of sleep as artfully as they wore the clothing that had been chosen for them by men. To either side of the carriage were three of The Terafin's Chosen; an escort of six. The Terafin was allowed six guards and two advisers when a full meeting of the Kings' Council was called. Gabriel ATerafin was the second of the two advisers that she was allowed. The circles under his eyes were dark, long, and far too obvious. Although he normally carried himself like the ATerafin that he was, his hair had grayed in the last few days, and his face had taken on the gauntness of age. Jewel knew that he wanted the Kings to refuse the young boy's transparent attempt to save his own life, although she didn't know why. All of the Chosen did.
No one spoke the words aloud after The Terafin made her will known.
"Why take me?" Jewel had asked.
"Because," The Terafin replied, "I want you to look at Valedan di'Leonne. I want you to listen to him. I want you watch as carefully as a seer has ever watched anything in her life."
"You know that I can't just—"
"I know that answers come to you at the strangest times, without rhyme or reason. If you have an answer there. I want to know it." Her face was pale. "You mentioned war, Jewel. And I think I feel its rumble."
Duarte AKalakar rode in the procession of wagons, armed and armored although no sane man would have been either in sun as scathing as this. At his back rode Auralis, and behind Auralis, Alexis. She was in a foul mood, as was he; it was just as well that something—even someone as annoying as Auralis could be—separated them. He wasn't certain why The Kalakar had chosen Ospreys—any of them—as part of her escort; the Ospreys, sadly, were not noted for their ability to drill and present well.
What made things worse was that the mysterious Kiriel was in the carriage with The Kalakar and Verrus Korama. Verrus Vernon had been relegated to horseback. And he knew well why…
"Have you ridden before?" The Kalakar had asked.
"Yes."
"Good. You will ride on the left of the carriage with Cook and Sanderson."
She'd opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it. He should have known then. But no. Preoccupied with his ongoing argument with Alexis, he ordered a horse for her. It was a big, dress warhorse—something that looked like it could carry an armored man into battle without working up a sweat.
Admit it, he thought sourly. You chose Nightwind because the damned horse looks like it should have fangs. You knew she was uncomfortable. You wanted to drive it home. Teos, she makes you act like an overweening Sentrus.
It wasn't Kiriel who showed fear first.
And the fear that Nightwind showed the moment she touched his flank wasn't the hesitance or even the friskiness that horses are wont to show. It was primal, and worse, it was savage. Hooves with that much weight behind them weren't meant to strike ground that hard, that fast.
Neither were slender, underweight girls in too much armor.
What was the thing that he remembered most clearly from the entire incident? She didn't kill the horse.
Just that: She hadn't killed the horse.
"Kiriel," The Kalakar said, "did you know that this would happen?"
The girl was silent, although for the first time ever, Duarte saw her sweat. What was disturbing was that the sweat was probably not from the effort of escaping the hooves, head and teeth of the stallion—she'd had longer workouts, and harder ones, in the circle. No, he felt, although he did not say it because more than just Ospreys were present, that it was due to the effort of staying her hand.
"Kiriel," The Kalakar said, "did you know that this would happen?"
The girl shook her head, sheathing her sword as she turned to face the Commander.
"Did you suspect it?"
"Yes."
"Next time that you suspect something of this nature might occur, tell us. That's an order."
"Yes, Kalakar."
"Vernon?"
"Yes, Kalakar."
Vernon rode in Kiriel's stead. Kiriel sat in his.
"Why do you want me to go to this gathering of the court?"
Korama raised a brow and glanced at the profile of the Commander. She smiled grimly. "I was not responsible for choosing you, Kiriel. I gave Duarte the orders: Six Ospreys, no more, no less."
Kiriel nodded quietly. "But you knew that Duarte and Alexis have been arguing about the Annagarians. You knew also that the argument occurred after my visit to him."
She raised a brow, but did not reply.
"You know that he doesn't trust me."
"The Ospreys hang together."
"In more ways that one," Verrus Korama added, grimacing.
"Kiriel, if he didn't trust you, why would he choose to bring you?"
"Because he fears to have me out of his sight during this crisis." She glanced out of the window, her eyes flickering over the crowds that lined the streets as if it were Ascension. "The Ospreys are known for their lack of the diplomacy so many of you seem to value. They aren't political. They aren't well-dressed compared to the rest of the House Guards. But you asked for the Ospreys.
"Duarte feels that this is very, very important. You know him well. You know that he would choose to come himself. And if he came himself, he would choose the people he least trusts to accompany him."
"And not those that he most trusts?"
"No. Because he wants to see for himself that we do not go against his orders, and he is afraid that if we do, we will kill each other."
"I think," Korama said coolly, "that she has you there, Commander." He turned to face the young woman, his expression so neutral it felt inhuman.
"Sentrus Kiriel," The Kalakar said, "You are very observant for someone who seems to understand so little of our ways."
"I understand politics."
"Very well." She looked at Kiriel as if seeing her for the first time, and then smiled, as if what she saw there had never really been in question. "You are correct in all of your assumptions. But I am your commander. I want you present for my own reasons."
Kiriel nodded.
* * *
The Kalakar looked out the window of the carriage, watching the streets as those idle—and those dragged from their tasks by the idle—stopped to gawk at the growing procession. It was not, yet, the time for the Crowns' Challenge, so the streets, clear of the continuous run of farmers' wagons and portable stalls that the Challenge brought should have been no hardship to travel.
But there, the Ospreys' horses were already becoming skittish, hemmed in on all sides by this press of people; Vernon himself was having difficulty controlling Night-wind. She frowned. She would have words with Duarte about his choice of horse, but she would have them later.
Ah, there. She was mistaken. A flag was set up on the roadside; she recognized i
t as a banner of the Northern Watch. A tall, sun-bronzed giant of a man carried its pole with a good deal of pride, lifting it aloft that the horsemen might see it that much more closely. Obviously the Northern Watch had their champion for the Crowns' Challenge. She wondered who the free towns would send, and whether, this year, they politicked together or, as in some, against each other; wondered who the Annagarians might send—for although the Challenge overlapped with the Festival of the Sun, the Lord of the Sun granted his blessing to those who sought glory in warriors' endeavors in the Lord's name.
That brought her back to the problem at hand.
She wanted Kiriel present—against the advice of both Korama and Vernon—at the full Council of the Crowns because Kiriel di'Ashaf had arrived in the wake of Evayne a'Nolan, and been left to drift. Today, The Kalakar thought there might be an answer or two to her mystery. A woman—if that's what she was—like Evayne didn't do things by coincidence. Kiriel had something to do with the South. And The Kalakar wanted, against the rules she set for those who took her service, to know what it was.
Serra Alina did not fuss, although she was responsible in all ways for Ser Valedan's dress. He had no wife, and no concubines, and although he was now of an age to walk the road of the clansmen, there was no one to see him through the rituals now that his father had passed. He was a child Tyr, and those were exceedingly rare, for they did not tend to survive the rigors of their regency. Or so it was said by historians.
She prayed, silently of course, because the night was so far removed from the morning sky, that the old stories were wrong.
"Stand back, Ser Valedan. Let me look at you."
He did as she told him because there were no men to witness it. Or so she hoped. He was too Northern for the South, and if he was to save their lives, that would have to change. The frown that crossed her lips was more felt than seen, and it lingered in her memory and the memory of her image in the long looking glass. He had not walked the sword's road, and he had no serafs of his own because slavery was strictly forbidden within the Empire. But more than that, he was not comfortable with the concept of owning people; it made him uneasy. An accident of birth, she'd once heard him say.
"The sword hangs too low." It was Ser Kyro's sword. Kallandras had quietly come into the courtyard the evening just past, carrying it, although the weapons and armor of the hostages had been confiscated by the Imperials when word of the acts in the Tor Leonne had reached their ears. "Come here."
He came, and she tightened the belt a notch, and then a notch again. He was taller than Ser Kyro by an inch or two, but not nearly as wide around. And, if she were honest, not nearly so hawkish, so wolfish. But he was very handsome, and if judged by looks alone, the picture of an Annagarian kai in exile.
Exile. The service of a woman meant very little in the Dominion, unless you were the right woman. Serra Alina had never been so graced. The Empire was the home of her spirit, but there were shadows that the heart, no matter how long in the bright sun, did not forget.
The bells chimed, and she stepped back, turning and bowing in a single, polite motion as the representative of clan Callesta stepped into the room.
"Are you ready, Tyr'agar?" Ser Fillipo bowed low, and then rose, searching every inch of the young man standing before him as if his life depended on it. Because, of course, it did. And not his life alone, but the lives of his wife, his children. That could make a man desperate.
A different man.
"No."
"Good." Ser Fillipo nodded a dark head. "Bluster and bravado will avail us nothing; in this Northern court, they want truth and honesty, as if either could be given simply and easily, with no ties, no hint of deception. Will you speak to the Kings?"
"I have no other choice."
"Death."
The young man stared at the older man, and then nodded grimly. "Do I look the part?"
"You look the part of the clansman to perfection. It's a pity that there will be no one who can truly appreciate what this means in attendance." He knelt then, knelt low. The hostages were to remain behind; not even a cerdan was to accompany him. "Ah, here comes the Serra Marlena." His face was smooth and his tone betrayed nothing, but Valedan thought that Ser Fillipo would rather face the Crowns himself than spend another moment with his mother.
She proved herself well capable of taking Serra Alina's none-too-gentle advice, however; she greeted her son with the respect that she would have once shown his father—in fact, with the same respect, and the same fear, that she had given his father when his father rode to join the clansmen in their last charge along the Averdan borders so very long ago.
"Mother," he started to say, but Serra Alina's lips compressed into a tight line. "Serra Marlena."
"Valedan," she replied, as was her right. "I wish you strength."
He held out a hand, and she took it; her own was shaking. But she did not weep. "When will they come for you?"
"I don't know. Today, sometime." He took a deep breath and began to speak as formally as he could; the situation merited it. "Kallandras said that there will be a meeting of the important members of the Kings' Council, and not just The Ten. They will speak. They will most probably argue. They will summon me, and I will speak, and then they will have me escorted out."
"And then?"
"We will wait." He smiled gently. "If you fear for my safety, don't. I'll be under heavier guard today than I've been in my entire life. Nothing's going to get through the Kings' Swords."
Tyr Ramiro kai di'Callesta was tired and dust-stained and back-weary with hard riding. His horses were fine and endured much, but they had been driven to the edge of their limits by a man who had always known how far to push—just. His Tyran said nothing; they were men, and younger men at that for the most part, and they served him in silence when silence was called for. He was proud of his choice, and his wife's; these were the finest Callestans that any generation had produced. Any.
And they were his half brothers, all save one.
He had watched them grow in the harem's confine. He had listened to them shriek and fight and play, too old to join them, too young to escape. In some of the Terreans, it was not uncommon practice to kill the half brothers that were born to the deceased head of the clan when one took the mantle. Half brothers, even illegitimate as they were, still had the blood, and in the case of treachery and treacherous action, they could' take the clan if they were powerful enough to hold it.
Ser Karro looked up, as if discerning his brother's thoughts. Ramiro shook his head at this oldest of his Tyran, and Ser Karro returned to their brief repast. Knowledge between men shortened the use of speech.
"You don't eat," General Baredan di'Navarre said. The man moved like a cat stalking careless birds.
"Not now, no. Have you finished?"
Baredan smiled grimly. "Hard to eat, this close to the capital. You said the Northerners were friendly."
Ramiro frowned. "They were."
But the reception received on the open road these past lour days had been close to murderous; he was certain that, had he been traveling alone, or with only Baredan at his side, they would both be dead in a ditch or a farmer's field. The Northerners did not believe in posting their kills.
"You understand what they're saying?"
"Well enough, General." Better, in fact, than Baredan did. "Something has happened. Some skirmish at the Mancorvan border, perhaps. People were killed."
"Perhaps," Baredan agreed. "But we had no plans for such an attack, and word takes longer to travel than that."
"Tyr Ramiro!"
Both men turned on heel, responding to the call as if they were the Lord's command on the open field of war. "Mikko?" Ramiro said, command in the name.
"A person on the road."
"A single person?"
"Yes, Tyr."
"Let him pass."
Silence. Then, cautiously, "He does not seem interested in passing us, Tyr."
"Mikko, speak plainly. I assure you, Baredan d
i'Navarre will not approach Serra Amara the Gentle with word of your breach of correct etiquette."
The Tyran had the grace to blush. Of the oathguards, he was youngest, and still wore his honor like a too-bright, too-shiny medal. "The person is standing in the middle of the road ten yards from our camp, watching us."
Baredan and Ramiro exchanged a single glance, and then moved forward, passing the young oathguard as if his sword, his armor and his station afforded no better protection than the weapons which they drew as one.
They found the stranger on the road, just as Mikko said, and when Ramiro saw this gray-robed, solitary figure, he forgave Mikko much. For the hood of the robes hung low under the open sky. Only those with the wasting disease wore such a guise in Annagar, where they survived the purifying fires.
He started to speak, but the stranger raised a hand, and the hand was strong and slender—not the hand of the fallen. "Hold your weapon, Tyr Ramiro kai di'Callesta." A woman. She spoke in Torra, the language of Annagar, although it was oddly accented.
"I am not in the habit of taking orders from anyone save the Tyr'agar," he replied, although he put his sword up.
"Meaning," she said, her tone wry, "that you are not in the habit of taking orders from a woman. Well spoken, especially for a Tyr so far from his Terrean in these troubled times." She lifted both her hands then, and slowly lowered her hood. Her hair was the color of the Lady's blackest night, and her eyes the color of the pale flowers that grew above the Tor Leonne's waters. He thought her very beautiful, but very cold, like a perfect death. "I carry a message."
"From whom, and to whom?"
"To you, and your traveling companion, General Baredan di'Navarre."