by sun sword
"Your curiosity has been satisfied, Isladar. You have the answer to the question that Kovakar was sent to pose. You now know how much humiliation we are willing to suffer—and how much we fear to engage you." His smile was thin. "If you wish, you will have the answer to the question that you are about to pose. And I give you my word that you will not appreciate it." He paused. "There are those who will throw the whole of a struggle for the sake of pride. I am such a man. As is the General. Sendari, oddly enough, is not.
"Are you, Kialli kinlord?"
Isladar's smile was out of place, for his eyes were chill and narrow. "No," he replied, "as you well know."
"Then dissolve your protections, Isladar. You require our aid; there will be no three like us in the whole of the Dominion in this generation, and were there, you would not have the time to search; Etridian's ill-planned intervention has seen to that.
"The Empire is moving. Your ancient enemies have taken to roads that are older than our memory. You need the Dominion's weight against the Empire to be assured the swift victory you desire.
"You are kinlord, and you are not without your power—but your power and mine have never been matched and tested." He did not speak or move, but the light trapped him in its orange cocoon, glittering with sparks of white and blue that lit the length of his pale beard.
"If we do not have a swift victory, we will have one nonetheless."
"And you are so certain?"
"You have seen the Lord of the Shining City."
"Yes." Cortano's voice wavered for just a second, and then his expression hardened. "And I have heard the Northern Lays—past and present."
Isladar gestured; the shadow-spun fire that kept the General and the kin apart was banked in that instant.
"It is never wise," he said softly, "to point out the weakness of your enemy and then let him live."
"Is wisdom weakness?" Cortano shrugged, unruffled.
But Sendari saw that the shields he wore intensified as both the kinlord and the Sword's Edge turned once again to a battle that was still not decided.
Both Alesso and the creature had taken the moment's respite to catch their breath and horde their energy. They met like small giants; he was surprised that the wide, slender planks under the gored and bloodied mats did not collapse beneath their weight. Watching, he forgot to breathe as claw struck flesh, and sword struck claw, and as the blood flew, as it thickened and mottled Alesso's skin, Sendari thought, if not for the weapon, he would not have been able to distinguish between the two.
He was wrong; Alesso's sword style was a signature that no man in the Dominion had come close to forging.
In the end, in an almost florid series of strokes, Alesso di'Marente severed Kovakar's head from his spine and sent it rolling down the mats.
He was no fool; he did not pause to relish the moment. When the kin were dead, they left no corpse, no corporeal remnant. But each of the three witnesses marked the end of the battle in that beheading.
Bleeding and victorious, Alesso di'Marente carefully wiped his sword's blade. The only blood on it was his, but blood was corrosive regardless. He had no illusions; he was injured, and the loss of blood unsteadied him. The armor was beyond repair—or at least beyond the repair of the moment, and the sun's rays were glittering across the face of the waters of the Tor.
He bowed to the lake and the Lord, and then rose, touching his chest. The sash was almost ruined, but he could feel its warmth, ebbing as the minutes passed, beneath his sticky palm. What the Wanderers had crafted, they had crafted well; he would pay much to know where Baredan had found the sash, and what it had cost. The Voyani parted from their history for no mere coin.
Turning, he started to sheathe his swords, but the Lord's glory was still upon him. In a silence that was warm and not icy, he crossed the mats to where Isladar stood, waiting.
Without a word of warning, he brought the short sword up and across in a short, swift arc. Isladar's hand was already out, palm up, to catch the blade; he moved far too quickly to dodge. But dodging was not Alesso's intent.
He smiled as he heard the kinlord's grunt and saw the spill of nightshadow down the sword's edge. "A warning," he told the kinlord, for he knew that the kinlord had not expected to feel the edge of the sword at all.
Isladar smiled grimly and twisted his hand. A rain of light glanced off the ceiling as the blade shattered.
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the General bowed. "Give Lord Assarak my thanks. It has been a long time. I would offer them myself, but I must retire and prepare for the Festival of the Sun." He paused for just long enough to catch Cortano's eye. "Widan."
"General. Most impressive."
The Widan Sendari par di'Marano remained conspicuously silent until he received the unspoken order to retreat. But he was grateful—to whom, he did not care to say—that the sword that had been shattered was not the blade by which Alesso had made his name. Of the two weapons in his possession, Alesso had chosen to strike with the short sword. A practical man.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Light, pink and hazy, spread across the sky's lowest edge, the curtain of day dropping—or the curtain of night burning slowly away. The Serra Diora di'Marano sat upon the dais that faced the lake, her hands cupped around a ceremonial goblet; it was cool, a balm to new skin. The lines of night were hidden beneath white masque powder, and the posture of graceful attention was one that was almost more natural to her than breathing, but she knew that Alana, oldest of her father's wives, saw immediately that something was wrong.
Although it was dawn, she thanked the Lady that the men who ruled were not as dangerously perceptive as the women who served them. Holding the goblet, she waited until enough of the sun had crested the horizon. Then, raising it in a flash of silver and precious stone, she spoke the Lord's blessing. The Radann kai el'Sol could not see the expression on her face, for he stood beside her, lifting the goblet's twin.
Below, at the very edge of the lake, the men who had survived the first test of the Lord lifted their swords in a silence that was almost eerie. Long shards of light were cast groundward as they held their salute. Only when the Radann kai el'Sol lowered his goblet did they lower their weapons and bow.
"We will meet within the hour upon the plateau. Let all clansmen who seek to continue the Lord's test meet us there."
They bowed, not to the Radann, but to the Lord's Consort. And none there held a bow so graceful—or so deep—as the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi.
"Well, Teresa, the world is full of foolish men indeed if the only ones who attend you are cerdan and seraf."
The cerdan looked up at the approaching visitor, and straightened themselves out to their full height and full bearing. Burnished medallions hung at their chests, and their swords gleamed like their too-bright youth in the early part of the day. The Serra liked youth, not for its obvious physical beauty—although it had that—but for its painful idealism, its charming naivete. She rarely had the chance to indulge in her choice of cerdan, but at this particular Festival Sendari must be well attended, and his wife, even more so; the senior cerdan were spoken for.
And the junior cerdan were proud to bear up under the attention of a Tyr.
Serra Teresa did not need to look up from the fringe of her fan to know who spoke; she had a gift for voices, and once she'd heard one, she was unlikely to forget it. And this man had more, beside the timbre of a deep voice, to recommend him: height, bearing, a gift of charm and a faded ability to fight and to ride with the best of the clansmen. He was not known for the quality of his mercy, but his foibles, when he chose to exercise them, ran toward affection and loyalty.
"Tyr'agnate," she said properly, bowing her head in a perfect show of respect.
" 'Tyr'agnate is it?" Jarrani kai di'Lorenza laughed. "It's an odd Festival. I don't think I've ever seen you so… alone."
"Alone?" At this, she did look up.
"Well, for one you're usually
surrounded by Northerners." He coughed. "If you'll forgive my lack of tact."
"I shall choose," she said sweetly, "not to notice it."
"That's the problem with women. You've no idea whether or not you've actually behaved well; they don't say a damned thing."
"I am sure," she replied, as sweet in tone as the waters of the Tor, "that if you truly wished such honesty, you would find yourself a wife."
He laughed at that, and ruefully. "Marano," he said, to the young cerdan who seemed to be in charge, "I assure you that I intend your Serra no disrespect; my own Tyran will vouch for my behavior."
They were not so shiny a group as the cerdan the Serra had been granted, but they were older and cannier. They were also, she thought, a trifle bored, but had the training not to show it.
"Ramdan," she said to her personal seraf. It was, of course, unnecessary; she could see his shadow shrink as he knelt to retrieve goblets and the appropriate decanter. "I apologize, Tyr'agnate; had I known that I would have the honor of your company, I would have attempted to secure a more appropriate pavilion to receive it."
"The only such pavilions are far from the fighting." He stood a moment, shading his eyes from the rays of the early morning's sun. "It's been a bloody morn."
"Yes," she said quietly, all archness gone from her voice. "I don't know why."
"Well," the Tyr'agnate said, drawing the word out into several syllables worth as he bent his knees and made a show of settling into the cushions that the seraf provided, "as I have no wife for you to offend—and none to turn to for guidance—might I ask you your opinion on a matter or two?"
"You may, of course, always ask. And if I am able, I will answer. But you are a Tyr'agnate—"
"And you are a woman who does not need to dissemble. If I wanted a child, I'd have searched for a child."
Her lifted fan hid the smile of momentary pleasure that spread across her lips, but it did not conceal her eyes. "You have Hectore," she said.
"Yes, well. Perhaps another today. On this one he's like a blade that's too sharp; he'd cut silk as soon as flesh, and probably with as much vigor. He's in a foul mood."
"Ah. A flaw in a man his age," Serra Teresa said serenely, "to take a loss so poorly."
"Was it that obvious?"
"Eduardo di'Garrardi is not exactly a graceful winner."
"No." Jarrani frowned. "But speaking of Eduardo, has the wind taken his sense and dashed it against the cliffs?"
She raised both brows in exaggerated—but quite real— surprise.
He laughed, pleased with himself, and she saw the child in him—that youth, so bright and shiny, which was so often completely extinguished in men half his age.
"I am not your wife," she said, a little tartly, "and I will remind you of that fact. Your Tyran are listening, and they will expect you to show a proper respect for your peers."
"They'll expect no such thing," he told her. "First, we're too boring for them; they've half an eye and half a brain on the testing. Second, if your brothers weren't such tiresome and clingy fools I would gladly remedy the first complaint in a moment."
She composed her face into perfect neutrality.
"Teresa, don't. You know how I feel about this."
"Adano is the kai of Marano."
"Yes, well." He took the water that Ramdan offered without glancing up. "But about Garrardi."
"If you are asking me why he exposes himself to the danger of the Lord's test, I cannot answer. He is of an age—and a rank—where such testing isn't necessary, and is in all probability not advisable. Short of winning, he will only damage his reputation among the clansmen."
"He's fighting like a demon."
"Jarrani."
"I'm not to profane either?"
"Not a bit." She sipped the waters and then turned her face toward the plateau as if seeking a cooling breeze. "I would have said he was being completely foolish—but I would also have ventured to advise you against allowing Hectore to enter the competition."
"Well, yes." She waited; she was one of the most famous Serras in the Dominion, and she could outwait the Lord and the Lady when she so chose. Eventually, he laughed.
"It was the kai's idea, but I didn't discourage it. We're short a Tyr or two—had he placed well, it would have drawn the attention of clansmen who are now seeking new masters. Neither of us expected Garrardi to seek the title.
"And you haven't answered my question."
"Very well, Tyr'agnate, but I answer the question to incur no favor and would appreciate the asking and the answering to remain a private act.
"Eduardo di'Garrardi has taken to the plateau in an attempt to prove himself worthy of the Flower of the Dominion."
He did not laugh, and he should have; he did not deride the younger man's wisdom. Instead he caught her hand. It was a risky action. "Teresa," he said, all affection and all joviality gone, as if they were masks too heavy, for this instant, not to fall. "This alliance—it is not to my liking."
She did not flinch or blush or pale. Jarrani was a man of power, but he was, in his fashion, a man of honor; the threat that he offered he did not offer to her, but through her, and this was wise.
"It is not," she said, extricating her fingers with care not to draw attention to the gesture, "to her liking either, and I believe he knows it." The fan's ivory spindles fell open in her lap as she smoothed them into the perfect crescent. "This is not a matter of alliance, Jarrani." Her voice was as cold as his, but infinitely more musical. "To Garrardi, Diora is a creature like Sword's Blood; she is not attached to Marano—or Marente—excepting only that he requires her father's permission before he makes his claim known. I am not my brother's wife, and I am not taken into all of his counsel, so I am, of course, guessing.
"And as I am guessing, Tyr'agnate—"
"Jarrani."
"—Tyr'agnate, I will say that I think neither my brother nor the man he serves is fond of the choice made, and you may be surprised by the Festival's end." Her fan rose, and delicate though it was, it was a wall.
"And the price for this advice?"
She did not answer.
"Teresa, I did not mean to offend."
"I know. And you did not offend, Tyr'agnate. Rather, you offered a reminder. No more."
He stared at her face, and the fan that punctuated it, in a silence of words considered and words rejected. Then he rose. "I would still pay almost any price for the privilege, Serra Teresa."
Her smile was soft and bitter, but he did not see it; he had already returned to his Tyran.
She was quiet as she watched his retreat. Thinking that he was a dangerous man, because he spoke the truth when he spoke, and because his affections and his loyalties were a part of that truth. And they were rare enough that it was easy—even for a woman of her experience—to forget that they were only a part.
* * *
Eduardo di'Garrardi killed two men before the sun's height brought the testing to a temporary end. They were not the first men he had killed, nor the first killed in combat, but even Diora was surprised at the ease with which they were dismissed. Here, with clansmen as witness, there were honors to be paid, forms to observe. The Tyr'agnate made a great show of neither; he was conspicuous in his arrogance. The men that he faced were enemies, not rivals; when vanquished, they lay like any enemy beneath the sun's hot face: devoid of life or purpose.
Each time he won a combat—whether it ended in death or no—he turned not to the Lord but to the Lord's Consort; each time he so turned, she tilted her head farther into the folds of the fan that had been the Serra Teresa's gift.
The Radann kai el'Sol was furious, but hid it as well as any born Lambertan might. When he sought her gaze at all, she smiled, but her smile was both tentative and easily missed. It was also rarely offered.
The General Alesso di'Marente chose to grace them with his presence just before the morning's testing was called to an end, and he had the privilege of watching Eduardo di'Garrardi's last battle. He said noth
ing as he watched the rise and fall of sword, but it was a graceless combat, so close to sun's height.
"Kai el'Sol."
"General. We missed your presence at the opening ceremony."
If there was criticism in the tone—and there was—the General chose to ignore it. He stood, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and watched the battle intently, eyes narrowed against the flash of sun off blade, the consequence of a sky bereft of cloud and storm.
The Lord renders one judgment.
"This is the last?"
"It is."
"And the result?"
"Five men, General. Five men will advance."
The General frowned. "Not six."
"The Tyr'agnate's second contest with the man who would have otherwise held the sixth place ended in his death."
"I see. And the Tyr'agnate?"
"The judgment is not mine to make."
"Kai el'Sol," was the almost amused reply, "is he among the six?"
"Yes."
"Impressive."
Grudging even this agreement, the kai el'Sol was silent for a moment. The moment ended as Eduardo di'Garrardi's opponent drove his blade point first into the sheath of the plateau itself: surrender. It was a near thing, but this closely watched, Eduardo had no choice; he held his hand. The man's kin came to him, quickly, as if that moment of control were a passing cloud in a brisk wind. They gathered and they retreated, giving the defeated combatant the opportunity to display both dignity and strength—such as it was—by walking off the field. But they did not sheathe the weapons they had drawn, and no witness could think it coincidence that the honor guard they formed was heaviest at the rear.
Alesso laughed. "I see that Garrardi has indeed distinguished himself."
The day waned slowly; the Lord's face was harsh and complete in its dominion of the sky. Food had been brought to the Serra, and water, but she touched neither. Alaya's seraf hands held a fan that caught air and used it; the hint of cool breeze wafted across downturned cheek, an echo of the rainy season.
Brave girl, to try to mime the winds.