by sun sword
"And how do you know of this, Kiriel?"
Kiriel did not answer.
"And how do you know of the conventions by which these creatures are called and named?"
Meralonne turned a moment, as if to speak in her defense, but he fell silent as he met her eyes.
"Please answer her question." A new voice. A voice that Kiriel did not recognize. But she knew the man; he had stood, between the Kings, in a rigid silence, and his eyes had never left her face. Danger.
Oh, it was clear that she had said too much.
"You will answer, please."
"I—I can't."
"You're lying."
She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders; her hand fell to the hilt of the sword that she had been allowed to keep. "Very well. I won't." She planted her legs firmly against ground. It was clear, to Kiriel, that the time to make that stand had come.
Clear to Alexis, Duarte, Auralis.
And clear to Cook. But only Cook was stupid enough to interfere—a second time—when she had already made it obvious what she thought of such interference. He did not make the mistake of touching her, and he did not make the mistake of drawing a weapon. But he moved to stand beside her, his arms crossed tight against his chest, as if he needed to hold his hands idle.
She glanced up at him—the difference in their heights would always be there—and her brow creased, as if the effort of speech was wearying. Frustrating.
"What do you want?" she demanded, breath passing between her clenched teeth as she glared at him.
"To face," he replied calmly, as if speaking to a cornered wild creature, "any danger you do. You're an Osprey, Kiriel. That means something in my books."
"In your books," Alexis said mockingly, as she came to join him. "You don't even read, let alone do numbers."
"Primus," The Kalakar said icily.
Duarte shrugged. "I did warn you," he said, saluting halfheartedly. "They're Ospreys for a reason, Kalakar."
"If they continue to embarrass my House with their display, they will be corpses for a reason."
"Well if that's the case," Auralis said, his smile a lazy accompaniment to his long drawl, "I'd hate to be excluded. Sanderson?"
Sanderson glanced at Duarte for permission. He was young, and he had been admitted into the company after the Southern wars had ended. Duarte liked him enough that he failed to give that permission.
"Kiriel," the Kalakar said. "This is not the time or the place for such a display. If the Ospreys will not stand down, they will be disciplined. But they are not under the King's eye here. You are. This is Essalieyan. You are in the heart of Averalaan Aramarelas. Not even the Kings have the right to execute by fiat those they deem dangerous. They do have the right to defend themselves. Do you understand?"
No. She wanted to shout now. Wanted to shout it as loudly as she dared; to fill the hall with the roar of a voice she knew would shock every man and woman—save perhaps the mage and the frail old woman—in the chamber. She wanted to pull her sword, and have an end to it, one way or the other.
This—this Empire—it was not hers. It made no sense. She knew human courts. She had spent time observing the Shining Court, and she knew, as only those who truly understand power could, that person for person, this court outranked any humans that she had seen there, save three.
Yes, humans were not of the kin, but they were cold and calculating when they chose to play their games of power against each other. They were ice and steel when they chose to watch the kin at play.
And they did not gather in such a group, for such an inquisition, without a victim. Not for long.
She had known that she was the victim when the mage had first cast his sight upon her. She had even accepted it, on some level. She was weary, but she was relieved, for here, finally, was something that made sense.
Evayne played her own game; Evayne played her hand. She did not understand the game itself, but to be a pawn was something that she understood, however bitterly. But even Evayne was not proof against this man, this last player. She thought him more dangerous than the mage, although she could not say why; he was darker.
At last. An enemy. A challenge. A fight.
Then they came, unraveling this one corner of the certainty that she had managed to weave so painstakingly around herself: Cook, who hovered about her as if he thought to protect her; Auralis, copper-haired and golden-skinned, the darkest of the Ospreys; the man she most understood—until now; Alexis, dark-haired and yet pale, oddly beautiful for her distance and her heated anger— perhaps the person she least understood.
Go away.
But she did not say the words, and if she had, they would not have listened; she felt certain of it.
Go home, she told herself, forcing her shoulders back. You've seen these lands. There is no place for you in them. Go home. Make your place, and hold it. These lands will not survive no matter what you decide.
Go home.
"Kiriel," the old woman said, and Kiriel looked up blindly. "How long has it been since you slept?"
"I don't need to sleep."
"Oh, my dear," the old woman said, and her eyes were full of a terrible pity. "But you do." She lifted a hand; light fell from it, dripping onto the ground like liquid water. Or liquid fire. Transfixed, Kiriel watched. She watched the light, fascinated by it.
Afraid of it.
Looking up, she saw the face of the King—King Cormalyn. And beneath his face, unquestioned, unquestionable, she saw that pale, luminous beauty that no longer existed anywhere in the Shining Court. King Reymalyn shone that brightly. The men and the woman that The Kalakar had called the Exalted were brighter still.
Isladar had taught her, years ago, to abjure the light, the light's compelling, compulsive beauty. And it had been easy, then.
What do they see in me ?
She wanted to ask them, but she knew the answer: Nothing. They did not have the blood.
The light that the old woman had dropped upon the floor had crept, unwatched, to form a circle around her feet, separating her from the Ospreys. She looked up; saw that the Ospreys had not noticed the light that surrounded her, rising like a finely beaded mist—or a blood-wraith.
Yet this woman, no luminescent beauty, was not a dark one either; she was gray and light, that perfect, knowable blend of color that Kiriel had grown accustomed to, in Ashaf. That she had grown—
Say it. To love.
That was the horror of it, that she could say it in the silence of her thoughts, no matter how much it made her writhe.
She knew what the light would do when it touched her; she thought that the woman might even suspect it. But she saw another woman's face briefly, and she held fast, remembering.
She did not even cry out when the light burned her skin, seeking her eyes and her parted lips.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sigurne had survived a great many things in her life, and most of them she kept in the past. She did not speak of the wars she had seen, although they were far too many; she did not speak of her life in a far away village, when magery had been a whispered curse, and its onset had almost destroyed her. She did not speak of her first master, although if pressed, she might politely say that he had passed away some time ago. In fact, Sigurne Mellifas rarely spoke at all of matters that were not issues in the here and now, although when she spoke, she could be quite decisive. And the members of the famed Order of Knowledge were certain, to their sorrow, that the grave that time dug slowly for her would be the repository of all those many years of accumulated knowledge, for she kept no diaries or journals of those early years.
Yet not a mage—or a member—of the Order itself would have ever said that she was incapable of sharing.
Sigurne knew pain when she saw it. Her brown eyes widened, clearing and darkening almost at once. "Mother's heart," she said. "What have they done to you?" She gestured, a movement of fingers and lips that ended in an abrupt stillness.
"Kiriel,
" she said softly. "My name is Sigurne Mellifas, and you would honor me by remembering it."
The younger woman froze; eyes that were golden by birth shone, catching the light too strongly. She looked, for that moment, like a wild, hunted creature—not a cornered one, nor a frenzied one, but like a creature at harbor who has seen that the hunter carries no weapon and cannot quite believe the lack.
"I am Kiriel di'Ashaf." She spoke quietly. "And I, too, would be honored."
"You must sleep," Sigurne said, walking toward Kiriel as if the girl was no danger—and no mystery—at all.
"Is that—is that what it was?"
"Yes. It was meant to have a—a different effect." She paused. "Have you slept since you arrived here?"
Kiriel shrugged, her dark hair dancing a moment in the light as if it had a life of its own. Or as if it sought to shake itself free from the last of the touch of her spell. "I don't need to sleep much," she said at last.
"But you do," Sigurne said, repeating the earlier words. She lifted her hands again, and reached out. Kiriel took a step back, a step away, but her movement was as slow and cautious as the older mage's.
"Who are you?" Kiriel whispered, as Sigurne drifted closer.
"Sigurne," the white-haired woman said. "And when you wake, I will be watching; none will pass the guard I set." Her hands met Kiriel's chest.
The girl froze a moment, and then her face clouded, its lines folding before they stiffened into a mask behind which she could hide. "I don't want to sleep," she said.
"I know," Sigurne replied, catching her in arms that seemed, to all who watched, too frail to bear such a burden. Awkwardly, she pulled the girl against her, while the Ospreys watched.
Who, after all, would consider Sigurne Mellifas enough of a threat that they would raise either hand or voice against her?
No one. Not even the Lord of the Compact.
"Member Mellifas," King Cormalyn said, "Will you sit with the girl?"
"I cannot carry her," was Sigurne's quiet reply. "But if you wish her to remain in Avantari, I believe it is best if I retire with her. She will sleep, I think, for many hours, and she will wake hungry." She gestured to Cook, and he rushed to obey the request that she did not put into words; he held out his arms and caught Kiriel.
"And that is it?" the King said softly, staring at the hushed court. "Twenty-seven men and women are dead at the hands of a creature that only she was fast enough to stop, and in the end, the answer we are to derive from her is either nothing or sleep?"
Sigurne made no reply.
"No, Majesty," The Kalakar said, her voice quite loud compared to Sigurne's. "Because the creature was not sent to kill the twenty-seven—although they are dead, unjustly, regardless—but to kill the Tyr'agar. Valedan kai di'Leonne.
"We have seen creatures of this kind before. Sixteen years ago, they almost destroyed us, and they came within an hour of shattering the city's spirit. I can still hear the screams when I close my eyes in the daylight."
"Enough," the Cormaris-born King said, flinching. "There is not a man or woman here who cannot."
"Very well. I believe you know the point I wish to make."
"Make it," the King replied.
"There is no Tyr'agar in the Dominion of Annagar. But if we do not interfere, there will be one in seven short days. The Festival of the Sun, Your Majesty. And that man is a man who has proved, at least twice now, that he is willing to use these creatures.
"We have faced this threat once before, and if it failed, it was partly because Kalliaris chose to smile." She drew breath, settling her shoulders into a more comfortable— and stiffer—position. "Only a fool or a desperate man depends on that Lady's smile. We don't even know if the man who will claim the Tor Leonne is human at all. Lord Cordufar was not."
"If a man will be declared ruler of the Tor Leonne, it will be in nine days, at Festival's close, and not seven, at its start," the King said neutrally.
The Kalakar nodded.
"And there is no guarantee that the kin who arrived here is working in the employ of the man who will be crowned. We know, certainly, that that man has much to gain from the death of our hostage—but perhaps the kin wish to consolidate power under a pawn, and that man is unaware of just how far their efforts extend. Remember, Kalakar, that Lord Cordufar was under the auspices of The Darias. I believe subsequent events proved clearly— to all of The Ten's satisfaction—that The Darias labored in ignorance of Cordufar's nature and mission."
She shrugged; it was clear that, as far as Annagar was concerned, she did not believe this to be the case. "I rode," she said neutrally, "to the Dominion's border when the father of our hostage declared war upon the Empire. It would not only not surprise me to see the clans use the Allasakari, it would surprise me if they didn't."
"Unfair," another voice said. Princess Mirialyn. "The clan Leonne would not, for weight of both history and blood, use the Allasakari. Nor, in my opinion, would the Radann. And they are not the only forces within the Dominion."
"The clan Leone is not a force at all; the Radann are puppets; they serve no true god." The Kalakar, as always when she felt her case strongly, made it bluntly.
"It seems to me," King Cormalyn said softly, "that you are advocating war."
The Kalakar lifted her chin. "No, Your Majesty. There will be war. We cannot prevent it. Averda and Mancorvo are already dedicated to that fight, and they are the Terreans which border us." She drew breath. "But I know the Annagarians. Valedan's a boy, and an untried one at that, but he's the bloodline. If Callesta and Lamberto will declare themselves for his clan, many of the clansmen will follow."
" 'Many.' "
She had the good grace to wince slightly. "Majesty," she said, "we believe that it is clan Marente—or possibly Ser Alesso di'Marente—that hopes to benefit from the slaughter of both the clan Leonne and the Imperial hostages. But he will do so without the benefit of the Sun Sword. And that will count against him in the war.
"If Valedan wins, we can be certain that it won't be because of Allasakari magic. If he rules, we know that his reign starts without the taint of that god. If we turn our backs, it is not just the Dominion that will suffer. The Empire will suffer as well. When the Allasakari ruled two centuries ago, the southern half of the Empire was raided and preyed upon by the Priests and their summoned cohort. The countryside still remembers, and while it remembers that the Twin Kings eventually rode to war to end that threat, they remember the time that it took, and the losses. Let us not repeat that history."
"And you would suggest?"
"I would suggest," she replied, as neutral in tone as the King, "that the decision to wage a war is a political one; the decision to join a war, equally political."
King Cormalyn's smile was a rare one. "We have already requested a meeting with the Averdan Try'agnate. But I believe that The Ten are not united in their views on this subject."
Ellora shook her head grimly. "They will be," she said, "after today."
"Very well. The Ten will be informed of the outcome of that meeting." His gaze narrowed. "But, Kalakar, we need the information that your young Sentrus has."
"Yes, Your Majesty," she said.
Duarte's expression was singularly stern, but he kept his silence.
"Meralonne. You've been avoiding me."
"I? Avoid Sigurne Mellifas?" Pipe smoke curled in the air beneath his chin like the tail of a ghostly cat. "If I wished to avoid you, Sigurne, I would hardly have agreed to meet you in this healerie."
"Matteos," she said dryly, "is most persuasive. It was Matteos who delivered the message?"
Meralonne winced.
"And it will be Dantallon," "she said, "who will provide you with a bed of your own in the healerie if you don't douse the tobacco in that pipe."
"I feel, as I grow older," Meralonne replied, running a crooked finger around the pipe's black rim, "that the entirety of the Empire conspires to rob me of the few little pleasures that remain to a man in his dotage."
But she had already turned in her seat, and her eyes were upon the quiet profile of a young woman in sleep's thrall. "Allasakar," Sigurne said, her voice a whisper.
Meralonne made no reply, although his confederate spoke a name that was not spoken in the Empire.
"It is said that the Lord of the Hells cannot father a god-born child," she continued. "It is impossible." She reached out, and her hand hovered above the pale girl's mouth, as if catching the air that she exhaled. "And yet the evidence is here, and mounting.
"Do you think the Kings would suffer such a child to live?"
"You heard King Cormalyn. A god-born child is not held responsible for the actions of his parent."
"Yes. But you know, as well as I that he might not have spoken so freely if it were not accepted wisdom that the Lord of the Hells cannot breed."
The platinum-haired mage shrugged and set about carefully emptying the bowl of his pipe. "It is accepted wisdom that the progeny will not come to term," he corrected.
"Meralonne. That woman. Evayne. Did you not once have a student by that name?"
"I always regret the fact that you spend so much of your time in silence," Meralonne replied softly. "Until you speak, Sigurne." He began to fill the bowl of his pipe. "Compared to you, my gentle lady, Dantallon is not to be feared."
She waited in companionable silence until he'd pressed the fresh leaves down and lit them with a spark and word.
"Did you understand what she said?"
"Pardon?"
"Did you understand what she meant when she referred to the mantle of the Lord?"
"Sigurne, is this another test?"
"Of your background? No, old friend. It is completely as it seems: A question. Hide behind your answer as you like; I often do."
"And today?"
"Today I will tell you that I understood what she meant by it. And the fact that she knows of it, and the fact that you thought to interrupt the King himself when he sought to offer this child reassurances—and that, Meralonne, I consider somewhat ill-advised—tells me more than I wanted to know."