Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  Weill

  It's too late.

  Yes. But if you'd like, you may destroy them both. The fly will feel no pain, and the spider will perish for destroying something that you have decided is worthy of saving.

  She'd raised her youthful hand, her shaking hand, as if the dagger's edge could crush the web and its occupants and the drama that unfolded there as they watched. And then she lowered her hand.

  It is not so easy as that, Serra Teresa said. Because the web is beautiful, and because the spider has no other life, no other means of living.

  And the lesson?

  What lesson?

  Serra Diora di'Marano stood at the foot of the steps that led to the Sun Sword. The sun's height had cleared the skylight, but the Sword still glittered. It would, she knew, in the darkest of nights; the only thing that guttered its fire was either of the sheaths that lay before it. At her back, the Marano Toran stood. They were two, and they wore the full dress uniform of Adano's personal guard. Serra Teresa had given them leave to follow the Serra Diora—and because they had been assigned to Serra Teresa by the clan's kai, the Toran had no choice but to obey. Yet they did not seem to mind following the commands, gently worded and implacable, of a woman.

  "Serra," one of the Toran said, and she turned, folding into a deep bow as she met the gaze of Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi. It was a chance meeting of eyes; she lowered her face and let fall the veils about her cheeks, but not before he had seen—could see—her naked face, the adornment of blush rising in either cheek.

  He smiled; his face, exposed, was far easier to read than hers had been. "Serra," he said, as her Toran moved to stand between them.

  "Please, Tyr'agnate," she said, again lowering her face, "forgive me. I did not realize how the sands had run."

  The pleasure in his smile was unfeigned; she recognized him, and although he expected it, he was flattered at the acknowledgment. "And I," he replied, "did not realize that the clansman who kept me waiting was neither unwelcome, nor a man. You have given no offense, indeed, the opposite. Are you interested in history?"

  "I am the daughter of a Widan," she said, and then she folded her hands before her and said nothing, as if the reply itself were too bold, too inappropriate.

  "You are the daughter of Widan Sendari par di'Marano. I know you, Serra. I have seen you many times, each at a distance greater than I care for."

  She took a step back as he took a step forward; her Toran did not follow. Instead of shifting position they changed their posture; two right hands moved, simultaneously, to the hilts of sheathed swords. The gesture made their meaning as clear as the Lord's law allowed; it was forbidden to draw swords in this chamber. This room, as her father's study in so many of his dwellings, had no screens; it had two doors, fine and old, and was made of wood and stone and magic.

  Diora did not think she could live in a world where doors and walls such as these were more common than screens and light and air. They seemed so heavy, life had to be escorted in; it would never find purchase without a guardian.

  "Ah," the Tyr'agnate said,, "forgive me. I mean no insult to the Serra."

  The Toran did not speak; it was not their place. Nor did they move.

  "I heard," he said, "that you sang in the presence of the Tyr'agnate Jerrani kai di'Lorenza. I would be honored, Serra Diora, if you would consent to sing for me."

  "The honor," she replied, in her perfect voice, "would be mine."

  "If it pleases you, I will speak with your father."

  She bowed her head again, a slow nod, a graceful, flawless movement. Then she gathered her silks about her, and the Tyr'agnate was forced to move out of her way. To let her go.

  Night.

  Stars, clear and clean, a slowly spreading white fan across the ebony sky. The Festival of the Sun could seem, on a night like this, the custom of a foreign country, distant and unreal. Lamps were lit across the breadth of the Tor Leonne, although their light was meager. Only during the two Festivals was the expense of oil and wood and tallow justifiable—and justified.

  That light would not have been welcomed.

  Alesso di'Marente stood beneath the shadows of trees. No lamplight attended him, and no seraf; he was alone, by his choice. The only man with whom to share this night was immersed in the studies of the sword-sworn.

  Or, Alesso thought, in his anger. And that anger brought him back to the daughter: Serra Diora di'Marano.

  He was not a man to throw his life into the hands of a woman, any woman, and he had viewed with a dim contempt any man who did. Even the logical and rational Sendari—Sendari had almost been destroyed by Alora en'Marano, whose life was mercifully ended, by the will of the Lord, in time for the man to become Widan, and thence, to become a force of power in the Dominion.

  The Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi's desire for Serra Diora had surprised him—and angered him greatly. He needed Garrardi's support, and to have that support depend on the disposition of one young woman, no matter how lovely or graceful, was beyond his understanding.

  Had been beyond his understanding.

  Better, he thought, that she had died with her husband. He knew it for truth. Sendari would have grieved and railed—and accepted the necessity, as he had always accepted it, as he would have accepted it that night, with power a death or two away, and the heir, his kai—no longer merely the eldest son of a younger brother—to the new clan in the safety of his brother's keeping.

  There would be no anger now, no coolness and distance between them. There would be no hostility from the Radann, veiled ever-so-politely as it might, or might not, be. There would be no pressure from Garrardi, no interest from Lorenza.

  And there would be no song, no perfect voice, the echoes of which haunted him beneath the Lady's Moon. There would be no desire, no certainty that Serra Diora di'Marano was meant to be the wife of the man who ruled the Dominion, and not merely a man who served it.

  She is just a woman, he thought. In the darkness, she is flesh like any other. But in the darkness, her wordless voice denied him the peace of that truth.

  He had climbed the summit, and he stood a few days journey from the plateau at its height. Yet this night felt like a Moon-night, and on such a night as this, the plans he had made for his life had changed radically; on such a night as this, the mere General had decided that the Dominion was not too great a prize for his birth and blood.

  If he could fell the Tyr'agar—and no one could deny him the accolades of that success—was the possession of something as slight as a woman to be denied him?

  His smile was grim.

  The cost. Old friend.

  General Alesso di'Marente faced the night, and the Lady, and she gave him no easy answer.

  It was at night that he found her.

  Radann Fredero kai el'Sol rarely sought the solace of the darkness, but in the darkness there was a quiet that felt almost like privacy. And besides, the woman still slept, racked with chill and fever, in his private chambers. There was no dishonor to the Lord in his actions; he knew it for truth. But it felt wrong, and while he was adept enough to hide that discomfort, a man could not hide from himself.

  He was certain, from the moment that he crossed the threshold to his elaborate rooms, that he was being watched; how, he could not say; nor did it particularly concern him. He was a wise man. He knew that, until the longest day, his life was secure. After that, there were no guarantees, except those that a man with a sword and a will to battle might make for himself.

  Lady, he thought, as the clear night air filled his chest.I am not your servant, but I would fight and die for your right to your dominion. My Lord is Lord of the Sun, of the Light. And He knows, as You, that the Lord of the Night was enemy to us all. The Radann were misled once; they will never again follow that road.

  He seldom spoke to the Lady; he was not a man with a great patience for night thoughts. But she had sent her servant to him, with word of a treachery that he could not openly confront. To confront it openly would
be the death of the Radann, before the Radann had their opportunity to act. Still, he was not a man to whom the inactivity of expedience came easily.

  He listened for the sound of a breath that was not his own; listened for movements that were not the brush of leaf against leaf, grass against grass, water lapping against the Tyr's personal platform at the lake's edge. Nothing came back to him except for the sense that he was watched; would be watched.

  Let them watch, he thought, with a cold smile. Turning, he strode with purpose toward the edifice that had been built for one purpose and one alone: to carry the Sun Sword. The building was small, but perfect; it was made of stone and fine, hard wood, and the Widan that had survived the battle against the minions of the Lord of the Night had cast about it the enchantments of protection and preservation. The Tyr'agar had been pleased—or so history told them—to see that the only other resting place for the Sword was worthy of it.

  But in those days, when the first Leonne cleansed the lands, he had seldom set the Sword aside.

  Lamps burned to either side of the heavy doors, and they did not gutter except as a precursor to the death of a careless servitor. Their light cheered him briefly, as did the thought that the General's spies—for he was certain that they belonged to no other—would report his movement. Let Alesso read it as the slap in the face that it was.

  The Radann did not follow, easily, the man who could not survive the test of the Lord. And that test was simplicity defined: draw the Sword.

  He had seen it kill two men in his time; one Radann par, and one Radann kai. Pride in the Lord's favor was necessary. Hubris was fatal. And Fredero kai el'Sol did not suffer from that peculiar form of hubris that said: I am equal to the Lord's Chosen clan.

  There was no key; Fredero kai el'Sol reached out and pulled the doors wide, flexing his muscles as he pitted them against their heaviness. They came slowly, but all of their resistance was weight; they did not creak or groan.

  There were no servitors in the Inner Chamber; none were needed. No thief had tried to steal the Sun Sword since its creation, and had they, the Sword itself would intervene. Or so the doctrines said. This accepted fact, he had never seen proved.

  He offered his obeisance; as kai it was simple and short. And then he crossed the threshold, and with both peace and strength, closed the doors behind him. Let them listen now. Or let them try.

  The Chamber of the Sword was also illuminated by fire, although night peered in from above. Fredero paused at the door, lifted a thin stick of sandalwood incense from the neatly kept pile, and lit it upon the fire of the closest lamp. Then he placed it carefully within the brazier and left it smoking sweetly there. It would mark his time.

  "Kai el'Sol."

  He froze at the voice. Not in fear, but in surprise. It was a woman's voice, here. Turning slowly, he let the lamp at his back cast a shadow; it was a long one.

  Wrapped in a plain, dark cloak, a slender figure stood at the foot of the stairs. Above her, burning faintly beneath the night sky, the Sun Sword sat, waiting. She bowed, and the movement revealed the silks of the sari beneath the drab cloak; they were an emerald green, edged in gold leaf, and they shimmered like dark liquid.

  Her face was shadowed by the edge of a hood; her hands were hidden in the folds of the cloak. She was not tall, but the cloth hid her dimensions. She might have been delicate, or large, young or old, bent or straight.

  He saw that she carried no weapon.

  It surprised him, although he could not say why.

  "I am the kai el'Sol," he said sternly. "And I have chosen this hour for my contemplation."

  She bowed her head, waiting.

  "Do you serve the Lady?"

  She made no reply, and after a moment, he realized that that was her answer. This was impertinence.

  And impertinence was the least of the sins that he had discovered this day. "I perform my contemplations in isolation. But if you wish to continue to view the Sun Sword, you may do so; only tell me the hour of your departure, and I will return then."

  "I cannot stay," she said, "for much longer. I will be missed." And she lifted her hands slowly. The folds of the cloak fell away from them; he saw that they were fine and thin and pale; not a seraf's hands, nor a common clanswoman.

  Pulling the hood from her face, she met his eyes, unblinking.

  And he could not think it bold, although it was.

  "Serra Diora," he said, and he bowed. He knew her well; it was under his auspices that she had been given to Ser Mara kai di'Leonne. The kai Leonne. The dead.

  "Radann kai el'Sol. It has been many weeks."

  "And they have been long, Serra." He left the sandalwood burning sweetly at his back, and approached her; there were no cerdan, no Tyran, to stop him. Not even a seraf attended her. "Have you come to contemplate the Sun Sword?"

  "I see it," she told him softly, raising her delicate, perfect face, "every day. I watch, and I wait. One day, it will be lifted. One day, it will be drawn."

  "I await that day, Serra. And I, too, watch. But I have not seen you."

  "I come," she told him, "when the sun is at its height."

  "And I, when the Lady's night reigns everywhere. Everywhere but here."

  They were silent.

  What do you know? he thought, for seeing her, he could see the Lady's darkness beneath her eyes, and in the depths of them. He did not ask. Moments passed, and he found that he could contemplate the Sword's fire without interruption, for she did not speak, and even her breath was delicate enough that it could barely be heard.

  But she herself…

  "Kai el'Sol," she said, when he turned to her and realized that he had turned to her. "I have come to you, here, for help."

  "And what might I do to aid you, Serra Diora?"

  "It is not the wish of my father that I be granted the privilege of becoming the Lord's Consort for the Festival."

  "And you wish me to convince him?"

  "No." She lowered her gaze. "I wish you to convince the General Alesso di'Marente that I am not the appropriate choice. He is my father's oldest friend, and I believe that there is conflict between them. I do not wish to be the source of that conflict."

  The kai el'Sol said nothing, but the anger of the morning returned. As if she could see it clearly, she took a step back and turned away. "Serra," he said, more abruptly than he would have liked, "it is not you that angers me." He swallowed, unwilling to unman himself; unwilling to tell her that the choice, in the end, was his only in theory. "Most men would be proud—are proud— to have their daughters chosen as the Lord's Consort. Why do you think your father objects?"

  She was silent a long time, and when she spoke at last, her voice was soft, although the kai el'Sol thought he heard, for a moment, a thin, thin edge there. "Because I have already been married," she replied. "Because the clansmen know who I am, and who I was, and he seeks to protect me from their curiosity." Her voice caught. "I am newly returned to Marano, and I am returned under circumstance of war; he thinks that there are those who will judge me harshly and treat me less well than—than Ser Illara once did."

  It was said.

  "Serra," he said, "there is not a man there who will dare to treat you poorly. As the Lady of the Festival, you will be the Lord's Consort. You will occupy the highest seat of the Festival's many occasions, and while you will indeed be, in all ways, in the public view, you will be above it. For those three days, you are the Lord's Chosen. If you speak, we will hear you—for the Lord's Consort is no mere Serra; she is the Lady, come to visit the realm of the Lord's dominion at his behest."

  She did not speak, but brought her hands together as if in prayer. "Kai el'Sol," she said, and her voice cracked. "We both know that that is true only in theory. I will be at most a Serra, at least a woman. I will be treated as a curiosity, and if I attempt to remove myself from that curiosity, I will not even have my cerdan to call upon. There will be no modesty for me, and no power. What will they say? Will they whisper his name? Will the
y offer condolences for my loss, while they smile at what it means? Will they take it upon themselves to come close—to come far closer than any honorable clansmen would otherwise dare—while I can sit and call upon no honorable defender?" She bowed her head again, but not before he saw the crimson flush across her cheeks, the reddening around the rims of her eyes. He thought there might be tears, but she was a sword's blade; unyielding.

  "I would do the honorable thing," she told him, the words stilted, "if that is your desire."

  "And yours?"

  "It is not mine."

  "And what is your desire, Serra Diora?"

  "That I be allowed to honor the memory of my dead until the Festival of the Moon. That is the custom. But Ser Illara kai di'Leonne—yes, I will say his name—he cannot be spoken of for fear of the political consequences. So I must behave with haste and dishonor to serve the political ambitions of men that I never vowed, before the Lord, to serve and honor. I must be pretty and delicate and happy and perfect; I must accord his passing no mourning, and no loss."

  He looked at her, at the anger that was just barely contained, and he realized that she was young. It had been so easy to forget it, during her short marriage to the kai Leonne, because she had been perfectly composed, perfectly graceful, and perfectly adept at subtly easing the tension of those who surrounded her husband.

  He cursed General Alesso.

  Because he knew that the Serra Diora was right. At heart, he was glad that she showed herself to be, after all things, not the daughter of a traitor but the widow of a great man. But having revealed just this to him, he must disappoint her; worse, he must give her to the Festival, as a political sacrifice to Alesso di'Marente—a man who served the enemies of the Lord.

  To do otherwise risked the Radann, and he could not, now that he knew the truth of the General's allies, commit such a rash act. The Dominion was his responsibility.

  "Serra," he said, although he could not, quite, meet her eyes, "you have proved, more than proved, that you are indeed worthy of the choice that we have made. The Lord could find no more fitting Consort in the Tor Leonne— and I think, very few so honorable.