Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  "And you a member of the Order of Knowledge," he said, his tone gently mocking.

  "And I, a member of the Magi, and the governing adviser to the magisterial guards. There are arts that have been forbidden, Meralonne, and no one has spoken against them with more force than I."

  "With more force? I can think of any number. With more heart, none."

  Were she a younger woman, she might have blushed. She did not, although she looked pleased at the offered compliment. Her face was lined with age and time; even her hair seemed fragile and delicate. Yet the steel was there, and Meralonne thought, as he watched her, that as long as that steel survived, she would.

  "Very well," he said, and he bowed almost gallantly. "Yes, Sigurne. I know what she spoke of. I will trouble you not to repeat that confession, and I will take the trouble not to repeat yours.

  "When the Lord took the throne of the Hells there were no humans—or so it is said. He could pass freely between that world and this, and until the Covenant of Man was made, he ruled two domains: a mortal domain, and an immortal one.

  "Upon this world, his followers were legion, and when the Covenant was made, they were offered a choice: To stay in this world, diminished and hidden, or to accompany the Lord of their choosing.

  "They chose Him, although there was little doubt that they would make such a choice—and little understanding of the choice so made. But the divide itself was not meant to be breached by those born of this world. And the kin," he added softly, "were born of the gods and the wildness of this world, whether they will it or no. He did not—and I believe does not—have the power to bring his followers, in flesh, to the Hells of his making. And his followers lack the immortal shard that humans call soul.

  "He refused to agree to the terms of the Covenant, and although he was weakened greatly by the fall of his City, he was not without power. The gods spoke, and at length, because of the Mother's intervention, they joined their powers and, thread by thread, they wove the mantle of which Kiriel di'Ashaf spoke.

  "Allasakar had no hand in its making," the silver-haired mage continued, staring past her, although his eyes seemed to be upon her upturned face. "And it is said that the mantle was a wondrous thing; a thing beyond compare. That the mortal eye was too impoverished to perceive its beauty.

  "It matters not. The mantle was given, by the gods, to their unloved brother, that he might take his followers— who were also ill-loved—with him, instead of leaving them to trouble the human world. When he donned the mantle—if donning is the correct word—the kin became as one with him. Which had the rather fortunate effect of making the kin subservient, whether they willed it or no, to his will, like parts of a body. Although they served him in this world because he defined power, they served willingly. The mantle's creation—and use—robbed them of that patina of dignity." His smile, a sudden flash of teeth too perfect for a man his age, was cold.

  "If it were merely donned," Sigurne said softly, "then it could be removed. The kin are creatures who know no quest but the search for power."

  "Indeed," he replied, still distant. "They are not the only ones. But the mantle is donned, and it may be removed or displaced. The gods created well, Sigurne. Even if the kin could indeed overpower and destroy their Lord, no one of the kin could bear the mantle's weight without paying the ultimate price. They could not wear that mantle to gain dominion over their own. For that matter, no mortal could, either. It was made for Allasakar, and it knows its master. Or so it is said."

  "Meralonne, I sometimes wonder just how deeply and how completely your knowledge runs." The words were cool. "I believe you have now said more than I knew."

  "Have I? How foolish of me." He exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the air between them. "Only a god can wear the mantle, Sigurne." He smiled. "Although I'm certain that the kin would be happy to support any mortal attempt to steal such a cloak as the Lord of the Hells wears. If there is more to know, I do not know it; nor can I be certain that this knowledge is indeed fact."

  She nodded almost absently. "I know how I learned of that mantle," Sigurne said quietly. "I won't ask how you did. You are of the Magi, Meralonne, and the past has scarred you.

  "This one—this girl—she seems so young to me, and yet so deadly." She turned to meet Meralonne's steel-gray eyes. "I will be honest."

  "Are you ever anything else?"

  "Meralonne, please.

  "If the Kings had ordered her death, I would have done what I had to do to aid them. And I do not think I would have been displeased.

  "But I saw something in her, and that something—it underlined the truth of the words King Cormalyn spoke in his ignorance of her parent. She is not all that he is, or rather, he is not all that she is.

  "These ones are always the dangerous ones," Sigurne continued, looking away again. "Because when we hope, we can be so blind and foolish."

  Meralonne nodded quietly. "In youth," he said, speaking as if from a great distance, "we believe, and the death of belief forces us to disavow all belief. But that disavowal, time softens, and if we do not believe, we hope. Belief is easier to kill, somehow, and its death easier to bear."

  Sigurne did not reply.

  "She had no right to promise that." Alexis was pale and spoke with a soft, soft voice. Always a bad sign. Duarte was pleasantly surprised to see that her dagger remained in its sheath; it often did not when she paced in anger across the worn fragments of what had no doubt been expensive carpet. "The Ospreys—Hells, the House Guards—don't have to speak of their past when they make their oath. The past is forgotten, Duarte. Or don't you remember your vows?"

  He knew that Alexis' temper was a reflection of the rest of the company's. He also knew that Cook had come close to unforgivable insubordination—as opposed to the customary forgivable type that the Ospreys were famous for—when Kiriel di'Ashaf had been summarily remanded into the care of the Kings' healer. He'd demanded to be left as a guard. That had been tricky.

  But most of the Ospreys didn't understand politics. Or strategy, if it didn't involve battle.

  "Duarte?"

  He shook himself. "I remember my vows."

  "You were conveniently silent."

  "We were in the Hall of Wise Counsel. The only Osprey who hadn't already humiliated House Kalakar was Sanderson. If I'd spoken another word, the Ospreys would have a new leader."

  Alexis snorted. "They barely follow the old one. The Kalakar wouldn't dare."

  Duarte exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath, and in some sense, he had. This had been easier twelve years ago. He wasn't sure why. Wasn't ready to examine his own motives or reactions either.

  Alexis had been demoted in rank; she was once again a mere Sentrus—funny how most of the Ospreys were— and didn't have farther to fall. Which was not the same as having little to lose. The Kalakar had seen fit to discipline the Ospreys for their disgraceful performance as honor guards. She had not chosen to dismiss them, and the difference was lost on no one. It had been a trying day. A long one.

  And it was the will of a malignant deity—which one, he wasn't certain, but he'd find out—that Alexis had decided to make it longer. He folded his arms against his chest, and tried not to think about how very lovely she was when she was angry.

  Better to think about how deadly she was instead.

  "Alexis, I realize that it's irrelevant, but you don't even like the girl, and a reliable source said that you were trying to decide whether or not to ask my permission to kill her."

  "If I was going to wait to ask your permission," she replied a little tartly, "I couldn't dislike her that much." Her eyes narrowed until they looked like the dark edge of small blades. "And you're right. It's irrelevant." The smile hadn't quite vanished from the corners of her lips; Duarte allowed himself to relax. Slightly. "You know I don't like her much, and not just because she has no sense of humor."

  Sense of humor, Duarte thought, was not among Alexis' many virtues either. Discretion in situations of this nature was among hi
s.

  "None of us are very comfortable with her, and I don't think that's likely to change much. She's just too dangerous, Duarte. Auralis can't bring her down in either of the two ways he's used to, and he's trying. Hard." She shrugged, but the sharp smile returned briefly to her face; there weren't many men or women who could put Auralis in his place—without even being aware that that's what they were doing. "But she seems to be true to her word when she gives it. And she's an Osprey, like it or not, because you were too gutless to tell The Kalakar you didn't want her, period. She's tried to fit in." Alexis shrugged. "Doesn't matter; she's in. And we, as Kalakar House Guards—and Ospreys—are going to be true to our own."

  "The Kalakar is the Commander."

  "And The Kalakar will not force answers out of any of us." The or else hung unspoken in the air, as most of Alexis' genuine threats did. "Speaking of which, when can we go and collect her?"

  "Alexis, I suppose it would be too much to ask you to go bother Auralis?" One glance at her glacial stare was answer enough. "The healer felt that she'd be unconscious—as opposed to asleep—for the better part of a full day. Which means that if you show up before the third, you won't be welcome."

  "So what else is new?"

  "Alexis."

  Meralonne stood over the bed of the healerie's only other occupant. His mage-sight saw the fine mesh of light that lay against her body like a crystal lattice, and he knew better than to touch her, although he thought, if he pressed the point, he might survive unscathed. He had no desire to press that point.

  She was in her prime, this woman—not the timid, angry girl-child that he had first met, and not the woman who had grown from her, replacing hostility with confidence, and a precious but naive trust in his ability. But she was, he thought, a woman who might well be the age his apprentice would be, had she lived a life like any other.

  He could still hear her denial, her anger, and, yes— laced around and between the hostile words—her pain as if it were yesterday. Meralonne was not Evayne; the years, such as they were, did not soften his grudges.

  What can you tell me? he thought. Who are you, Evayne? For though he knew who she had been, that was a long time past. Experience always scarred and twisted a man, and this woman, his equal in power, had experienced much.

  As if she could hear his words, she woke at that moment; her eyes snapped open, widened as if in shock. And then she sat up, seeing him, and seeing something else besides. Before he could speak, she leaned forward unsteadily, grabbing a thin, pale hand. He was not sure if he would have allowed her to touch him, had he been aware enough to step back. But he hadn't been, and her hand was shaking and cool where it gripped his.

  "Go with them," she said, her bruised lips moving awkwardly around the words. "When they go to Averda, you must travel with them."

  "Must?" he questioned quietly.

  "Yes," she said, and she coughed, and he heard the rattle of her chest. Fire, he thought. Fire's air. He lifted a hand, waving it to catch someone's attention.

  "The healer, Evayne," he said quietly.

  "No, no healer. Meralonne—we failed."

  Dantallon appeared, like sun from the folds of cloud— or in this case, the mage thought, as the healer's accusing glare fell across him like a cudgel, like cloud across a clear sky. "Evayne," he said, his voice as stern as any angry Master's. "Lie back."

  "I can't," she replied, and both men heard the wildness in her voice, the exhaustion.

  "What were you doing, waking her?" Dantallon's tone was icy.

  "I did not wake her," was the mage's mild reply. "But if you know her, you know that she does as she does."

  "Not in my healerie."

  "Do you lay wagers, healer?"

  "No."

  "A pity. I—"

  "Meralonne." Her hands, again, tightly curled around his own. "We failed. Don't you understand? We failed."

  He understood, this time, that she meant those words to include him, and they had done very little in concert since she abandoned her training after their bitter, bitter argument.

  In fact, they had only done one thing as allies.

  On the last day of Henden, in the year 410. The dark days that year had been darker than the Blood Barons who inspired them could have imagined.

  She coughed again, but she did not release his hands.

  He returned her grip, shunting the healer aside, all pretense, all deference, forgotten. "What do you mean, Evayne? What do you mean, we failed?" He shook her, as if by doing so the information would fall more cleanly out of her swollen mouth.

  "I wanted to have proof before I spoke," she said. "But I couldn't be certain." Her voice held no hope at all. Her eyes held less. "And I wanted to believe that it meant something. His death. All the deaths."

  " What do you mean ? "

  "The Shining City," she said. And then she did something that he had not seen her do for twenty years. She wept. "The Shining City has risen."

  "Evayne—were that city to rise, we would know. You might remember that it resides beneath the streets of the old city."

  "I've seen it," she said.

  His face was the color of ash as he turned to the healer; the healer had frozen in place, unable to offer his customary indignation at Meralonne's rough handling of his patient, at Meralonne's arrogance and interference.

  "Where?" he asked. "Evayne!" Then he shook her again, angry at himself for asking the wrong question. "When?"

  "I don't know! I don't know," she said again.

  "Then how do you know it?"

  She reached into her robes, wincing in pain as she pulled out the crystal shard that she had won so many years ago. Thrusting it forward, she said, "Look yourself, look! It's there—it has to be there—"

  He lifted a hand and spoke three words before the healer could stop him.

  She sat upright, as if struck; she had been, although the hand was not visible.

  "Tell me," he said quietly.

  "I cannot tell you more," she answered, and violet steel shuttered the inside of her eyes. The glimpse of wildness was gone, and although the tears had not dried on her cheeks, he would not have believed she had cried them had he not witnessed their fall.

  "Dantallon," she whispered grimly, and then she lowered her face. "Askeyia will never return." Her brow creased, her lips twisted; she closed her eyes a moment as she heard the healer's sharp voice, his broken breath.

  "Evayne?" It was the only word that Dantallon spoke.

  She did not answer him. Instead, she turned again to the man who had been, and never would be again, her master. "Your word, Meralonne. Your word that you will go South."

  "I grant it," he replied, ignoring the nails that pressed so tightly into his hands they drew blood. "What do you believe the danger to be?"

  "The kin," she said faintly. "There will be deaths in the Dominion that will make the slaughter in Averalaan seem trivial by comparison."

  He met her eyes, then, silver to violet, steel to steel. There is more, he thought, and he knew, although knowledge and the seeking of it was his professed life, that he would have answers, and more, in the South, and that he would regret them.

  Evayne rose, coughing; Dantallon lifted a hand to stop her. The hand shook. "Askeyia?"

  "I'm sorry." She brushed past him, and then turned, her eyes red-rimmed. "This war will be won by heroes; it will make them; bards will sing their praises.

  "But if not for the sacrifice of the faceless and the unknown, the unsung and the forgotten, we could never have come this far; the darkness would be unbreachable.

  "I swear that when the time is done, and I can walk among you again—" such a hunger in the words; such a visceral desire, "I will make their names known."

  Turning, she took a step.

  And was gone.

  It did not surprise Meralonne; he had half-expected it, was indeed surprised that she had remained for as long as she had, obliquely answering questions.

  The obstruction that Evayne had f
ormed was gone to air and silence, and when he looked across at the healer, he could see the younger man's ashen face; the silent stiffening of half-round mouth seemed to whiten his lips.

  "Who was Askeyia?"

  "She was a student," the healer replied. "I came from Levee's House when I entered the Royal Service. But I returned to it when he found those with the talent, to help ease them into the life of a healer." He paused. "She went missing."

  "Missing?"

  "We thought—ransom. For the first two months." The healer shook his head. "As I no longer have a patient to protect, I should be going; I have things to attend to." He did not meet Meralonne's eyes.

  The mage understood and let him go, questions unasked. For the moment. He was not a man who believed in coincidence.

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  1st of Lattan, 427 AA

  Annagar, The Tor Leonne

  Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi was in a fine mood when the hooves of his well-shod horse crossed the threshold of the gates to the Tor Leonne proper. The streets that wound up to the plateau had emptied of gawking merchants and common clansmen as Sword's Blood showed his leisurely paces; even the serafs knew the quality of his mount when they saw it, and they made haste not to cross his path.

  Sword's Blood had cost a great deal, and many a lesser man had balked at the price, preferring, no doubt, to spend it on serafs, fields, and the collection of diminutive women that were so common in lesser harems. Not so Eduardo; he was a man whose life consisted of riding and swordplay, and he owned no less than the best. He brought no wife with him to the Tor, and at the last moment an unfortunate outburst on the part of the one sister whose common sense and elegance he was not embarrassed by meant that he came, unattended by the more graceful sex, to the Festival of the Sun.

  Which was well enough. He did not intend to leave so empty-handed.

  Oh, it had been three years. Three years since he had first seen the Serra Diora di'Marano. Young then, at thirteen years, she was beautiful beyond compare now—and he had been the first clansman of note to appreciate just how much that beauty would grow over time. Other women had been offered to him; the daughters of greater men. But Serra Diora had about her that perfect combination of silence, grace, and quiet wit that was so elusive.