Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  "Request?"

  The word was so neutral that the younger man did not realize he could get caught by it, in it.

  "The General went to the kai el'Sol this morning," Alberto said. "And had the kai el'Sol disturbed before he had finished the morning contemplations."

  "I… see."

  "The kai el'Sol was not happy. He was even less so when he discovered the trivial nature of the General's visit; he was wise enough, however, to vent his anger after the General left him." The younger man shrugged, the gesture more of a nervous twitch than an expression of nonchalance. "But he had not yet fulfilled the General's request when I left my watch and sent word to you." Alberto's voice made clear what he thought of the wisdom of that.

  "I see." The Widan was quiet a moment as he considered the courses this conversation could take, and what they would reveal. Even to Alberto. He wavered, not wanting to crack the facade of perfect cooperation behind which he and Alesso often struggled, but wanting very much to know what he already suspected. As was often the case, the desire to know won, although the contest, which did not reach the lines of his face or the posture of his body at all, was fierce.

  "I would not have had the kai el'Sol disturbed for the sake of triviality," Sendari said softly. "Although his sword has been blunted, it still girds him; I prefer to treat the kai el'Sol with caution." This was truth; and it was further truth that Alesso himself did not consider the Radann a threat—although Sendari was peripherally aware that the Shining Court did—so much as an unwieldy and uncooperative weapon, to be used until such legitimacy as the Festival of the Sun could still bring, was laid across his brow.

  "There were," Sendari said, lowering his voice and changing his posture in such a way that one watching carefully might still not have understood how he suggested, by the minutiae of gesture, confederacy. "Three matters that I considered to be unworthy of the attention of the Radann. We discussed these, and the General retreated to consider my position."

  "Oh," Alberto said, as if Sendari's words were heavy with meaning and significance. "The matter that he disturbed the kai el'Sol for would bring honor to your family."

  "Ah," the Widan replied, lifting a hand in a call for silence. "I believe I understand. And I do not believe that it is a matter I can, with humility, discuss further." His smile was stiff, but it was there. "The kai el'Sol has not yet acceded to this request?"

  "No, Widan, but I believe it inevitable. If the kai makes a stand, it will not be over something of this nature."

  "I concur." The Widan paused, lifting his hand silently. A seraf came at once, as if bidden; he marveled, at times, that they could be so sensitive to the slightest movements of the men they served, even though he was aware that their lives depended on it. "Wine," he said softly, before the seraf could speak. The dark liquid—for it was the season for the deepest of the wines—was slightly chilled; the act of a Widan's power, or more likely, a Widan-Designate. Sendari breathed in the scent of the wine, and held it a moment in his lungs.

  The he exhaled.

  "You did not call me here to discuss the temper of the kai el'Sol."

  "No, Widan."

  "Good." Sendari's smile was humorless. "Tell me."

  "The Council of the Five was called."

  "The Hand of God?"

  "Yes, Widan."

  "And?"

  "The Radann have either discovered, and neutralized, the foci that we had placed in the Chamber of the Five, or—or one of the Widan was with them, and cast the spell of private speech."

  It was clear, from the look on Alberto's face, that he thought the latter the more likely possibility of the two, and that he found it troubling. Sendari was inclined to trust the younger man's judgment in such matters, although he asked for justification of that opinion as a matter of course. "Why do you say this?"

  "Because I heard them speaking—although they may have been outside of the periphery of the chamber when they began to do so—and then I heard nothing. Absolutely nothing. No breath, no rustle of cloth, no slapping of the table, no clink of cup. Nothing."

  "There was no hint of what they might have been discussing?"

  "No, Widan. I pressed the power. I am—fatigued." He looked wan now; pale, as if the mission to disclose his secret had been his only source of color. "I did not press too hard."

  "Could you have breached the barrier?"

  Alberto frowned, and when he spoke, he spoke slowly. He was, of all things, a modest man, and he was uncomfortable speaking about his power. It was why so many of the Widan had passed him over—they confused weak demeanor with inability. "I—I believe so. But I did not wish to alert the Radann. Perhaps they chose to be cautious in this discussion, where they have not been in any of their other private sessions. I did not wish to fuel their suspicions by announcing my presence."

  Sendari frowned and then nodded. "Very well. Did you get a sense of the power that we may be facing?"

  "Not a good one, no. It is… easier to listen than it is to shield."

  "I am aware of that, Alberto."

  The younger man flushed. Sendari immediately regretted the words, and the irritation they conveyed. Alberto was difficult enough to put at ease. "Yes, Widan. Whoever cast that spell ceased before the Radann were finished; I caught half-sentences that stopped abruptly. Then there was noise. Movement."

  "I see. The servitors?"

  Alberto shook his head. "I haven't had a chance to speak with them, or to have them spoken with. I called you immediately. I thought—I thought you would want to know."

  "And I do," Sendari said, smoothing all strain from the words. "You did well. I will begin my own investigation along the sharpest edge of the Sword. If the mage who cast that spell was Widan, and among the Widan here, we may be in some… difficulty. If he was not, well." The Widan smiled grimly. "The Widan have dealt with rogue magery before."

  He set down his cup, aware that it was now empty, although he did not remember the slow savoring of a very fine wine that should accompany such an emptiness. "Alerting us to the fact before the Festival may well save us from overlooking an enemy that cannot be safely overlooked."

  Every word was true; every word was meant.

  He watched as a momentary color returned to Alberto di'Ecclenses' face, thinking that he and Teresa were not so different. That truth was only another mask, even if it was the best fit, the closest to skin and all that lay beneath. He saw the younger man's pride as if from a great distance; he rose with grace, nodded, and left the Inner Chamber, making his way into sunlight, heat—the world of the Tor Leonne. There were people; clansmen of note surrounded by the cerdan, Tyran or Toran who served them. There were serafs carrying water, fruits, and fans with beautiful ease. The clans—both those that ruled the Tor and those that visited it—allowed only their best to publicly display their brands upon these grounds. There was color; flags and banners, their sharp clap in the breeze a reminder that the Lord's dominion held the winds.

  And the winds were howling; he could hear them; they grew louder with each step he took. He could not silence their voices; could not submerge, forever, his response to their mocking words.

  The walk across the Tor Leonne was long and ugly; each sight was an intrusion upon the privacy that necessity demanded he make. The mood was upon his face; he saw its reflection in the hurried movements of serafs and cerdan as they averted their gaze or turned, too quickly, to the tasks that suddenly seemed to absorb the whole of their attention. Sunlight slid off the surface of gold, the darkness of rubies. He announced his presence, and his title, without speaking a word; indeed, without the desire for such an announcement.

  But he could not stop, could not school his face; there were names upon his lips, and if he spoke them at all, their syllables would reverberate across the waters of the Tor. And one of those names, spoken thus, would destroy him. How long had it been? How long, since his anger had been so clear, so complete?

  Not since he had been a young man.

  Not
since the day she had died, in the arms of the sister that he could not—quite—hate, but could never forgive.

  He followed the path around the building, noticing only that it was thin and long. Later, perhaps, he would appreciate the sight of the Tor Leonne at summer's height. Perhaps not. The blend of sky and tree and flower flowed past him as if they were shadows cast by the Lord's face; they had no color of their own, no smell, no texture in which the eyes might delight.

  There.

  Pulling his robes around him, he stopped and bowed, perfunctorily, before the closed screens that bore his mark and his name. And then, without speaking a word to the seraf—or the wife—who waited, he entered into the heart of the illusion of privacy that was his home.

  Radann Peder par el'Sol waited in silence on the mats of General Alesso di'Marente's waiting platform. His knees were beneath him, his hands, palm down, upon his lap. He wore a sword; the Radann were, by the Lord's law, allowed the grace of a weapon anywhere in the Tor Leonne, and not even the Tyr'agar himself would have insulted the Lord's service, or the Lord's Chosen, by breaking that edict. This side of the Festival of the Sun, the General chose to do likewise. The servitors waited outside, in the heat of the afternoon sun. They, too, bore arms, but they bore them as guards and escorts; they were allowed into the presence of the General only if they chose to set those arms aside—or if the Radann they accompanied so ordered.

  Radann Peder par el'Sol did not desire the company of servitors; no man was better aware of how easily their loyalty could be bought or broken. He left them, and they were content to remain, in the open air. Wise men avoided the counsel of the powerful when the question of power itself had become so unsettled.

  The General rarely kept Peder waiting, although it was his wont to annoy the kai el'Sol, much to Peder's private amusement. Fredero was not an easy man to like, as his arrogance was mingled with that least enjoyable of traits: self-righteousness. Although each of the Radann had taken the oaths which bound them to the Lord, birth and blood could not easily be forced into a seamless whole, and Fredero kai el'Sol proved himself, time and again, to be Lambertan. In all but loyalty.

  If not for the interference of Samadar, Peder was almost certain that Fredero would have destroyed himself, and quite possibly the Radann, by confronting the assassins of the Leonne clan directly. Almost certain.

  Never underestimate your opponents.

  Years, Peder had labored within the confines of the Church, honing the skills necessary to be seen as—to be—a leader. He could wield a sword with an ease and skill that was almost unearthly, could ride and handle beasts better than the raiding clansmen, could speak deftly without that cloying hint of subservience that often marred the speech of diplomats. He considered himself as able a judge of character as all but Samadar.

  And he, like any noble-born,' loathed the evidence of mistaken judgment.

  The seraf returned to the room that was serene in its simplicity, joined Peder on the mats a moment, and bowed her perfect forehead into their smooth, jade-green surface, her hair an artful cascade across downturned shoulders. Then she rose, silent, and with a gesture bid Peder follow. He did, thinking that Alesso had a perfect eye for grace and beauty—that he did not need a wife to choose these things for him.

  The screens were pulled wide as he approached the largest room in the grand structure which had served the Tyr'agar's informal needs since the founding of the Tor. It was empty, or almost empty; Alesso used the Tyran, although they served him in an unofficial capacity—as volunteers, Peder thought, with a certain cynical amusement—until the Festival rites. There were cushions here, and a deep recess in the floor which, although empty, could be filled with water at an hour's notice. The support beams were decorated with the colors of the Lord, but even these seemed too small for the room.

  Or the man.

  He stopped at the mats, knelt in a purely perfunctory way, and then left the seraf to her duties, as he turned to his.

  "General Alesso," he said.

  "Radann." The General's smile was slightly sharp. "I expected word earlier."

  "Indeed," Peder said, taking the edge off his shrug with the faintest of apologetic smiles. "But the Hand of the Lord was to meet today, and while the matter was raised, it was one of many to be discussed and resolved. The kai el'Sol said you spoke of the matter as a 'thing of minor consequence'; he felt that the meeting of the Five could continue to its natural conclusion before word was sent."

  "And he did not choose to carry that word himself?" Before the Radann could frame a reply, Alesso smiled. "Good, I tire of the man. Come, Peder. You are fortunate to find me here; I have business which will shortly demand my attention, but for the moment, I will take the peace that is offered. Join me."

  The Radann acceded gracefully to the General's request.

  "A question, Alesso."

  "Ask it."

  "Why the Serra Diora di'Marano? It is not the first time that she has been in so public a view, and it will remind the clans of that previous occasion, under a different lord."

  "Bold, Peder." But the General's tone conveyed no displeasure. He waved, and two serafs appeared from the sides of the room, walking in perfect unison to the screens—the large screens—that shielded this room from the world. "The kai el'Sol did not object to the choice?"

  "He objected only to the manner of its presentation, as you must have expected." The Radann watched as sunlight haloed the room's west-facing wall, open now to catch a glimpse of the Tor Leonne's quiet surroundings.

  "He is used to a power that he will never again enjoy," Alesso said, lifting a hand to catch the goblet that appeared in the hands of an older seraf.

  "And will the Radann, under your rule, never be of consequence in the Dominion again?"

  "The Radann," the General replied smoothly, "as we agreed, will not be under my rule. They will be yours; you will be kai el'Sol. Whether you lead them wisely to power or foolishly to insignificance will be your decision."

  Peder said nothing; the General expected no reply. They drank the water the serafs brought in silence. Then the younger man smiled.

  "Alesso," he said, "I notice that you did not answer the question."

  "How refreshingly observant."

  "Sarcasm is unnecessary. If you do not wish to answer the question, I will abide by the decision. However, I have a request to make."

  "Make it."

  "That you refrain from further debasing the authority of the kai el'Sol. After the Festival you will be free to do as we have discussed. I do not need to remind you," he added, in a tone of voice that made it clear he was about to, "that we cannot afford to have the kai el'Sol pitted against us for this Festival. That two of the Tyr'agnati have refused the call to the Tor Leonne is bad; that the Sun Sword itself cannot be drawn is worse. Do not add a kai that speaks against the man who will wear the crown to that list."

  "It is five days from the Festival."

  "It is three days to the Festival; five to Festival's Height." Peder knew that Alesso knew the difference; knew as well that to the General the only moment of consequence was the moment in which the dedication of a new Tyr could take place: Festival's Height, the day during which the Lord's grip over his earthly dominion was strongest.

  "As we've discussed, a month from the Festival under these circumstances would not be enough to obtain the Lord's favor and ascertain his earthly choice. This kai's death is not an option if you wish the legitimacy of his— of my—office." Peder smiled coolly. "After the Festival, it no longer matters."

  "I see." Alesso di'Marente emptied his cup; his jaw was slightly clenched. A bad sign.

  Peder braced himself for the cool tone that conveyed the greatest anger. This once, he braced in vain.

  "Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza came to me yesterday or the day before. He'd heard her," the General continued, his eyes unblinking, "singing. He said he would see no other, be they even Lorenzan, take the title of Lady of the Festival.

  "Tyr'a
gnate Eduardo di'Garrardi was present. He seemed pleased by the choice, and concurred. I do not know the girl well, although she is the favored daughter of my oldest friend. But if she can cast such a spell over the two men whose support I most need…" he shrugged. "It costs me little enough to honor their choice, and it pleases them both." He smiled, and the smile added a subtle menace to the lines of his expression. "Now. Tell me. The meeting."

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  There were always secrets.

  Between father and son, husband and wife, brothers, sisters—there were secrets and they were kept for their own precious reasons. Hatred was a secret. Power, if it was subtle, and especially if it was wielded by a woman. Anger was a secret, although sometimes in keeping it one broke other vows. Vows. Love.

  Memory.

  Do you see that, Na'dio?

  Yes. Yes, she said, gazing intently at the light that the spider web caught and reflected. Wondering at the fineness of the woven thing, the splendor of the delicate trap.

  No. Closer. There.

  She'd looked, following the slender fingers of her aunt's perfect hands. A small fly was caught, and as it struggled, the weave stuck and clung, and the web began to shake, a foreshadowing of the death that was to follow.

  Can we save it?

  Why! If the fly is freed, it will be caught and crushed by the serafs; better that its death serves some purpose.

  But it's not a clean death, Diora had said.

  The Serra Teresa was silent a moment, and it was the silence of a teacher who thinks a lesson is about to be learned. No death is a clean death, Diora. But if you will, you may try.

  Dior watched the web a moment, and then left her aunt. When she returned, she bore a small, sharp dagger.

  And she came late. During her search, the spider had been drawn to its victim by struggles that the web made futile, and the fly was already Cocooned in something far less forgiving than the single strand that had caught it. Diora watched the spider solemnly; watched it feed.