Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown

by sun sword

  "They will fail."

  "Perhaps. If I had thought he would win, I would have—"

  "Entered yourself? Or entered me?"

  "You," was the ill-humored reply. "I saw you this morning, Alesso. Nothing Garrardi offered on the field could match it."

  Sendari par di'Marano spoke with such inflectionless certainty that he might have been speaking of the weather, or of the harvest the season in his lands might bring. There was no intent to flatter; it was not his way. And because of it, Alesso was flattered.

  "It is done," he told his oldest friend. "And we will abide by it. Decide what must be done to collar him if he chooses to rise above his station."

  Sendari turned as the Radann made their way to where Eduardo kai di'Garrardi stood. Their formal robes wafted in the day's first strong breeze; it was as if the Lord himself chose to draw breath only at that moment. "There is a problem," he said, in as carefully neutral a tone as he used when speaking with the Sword's Edge.

  It was the tone that Alesso least liked. "And that?"

  "He has gained power today by gaining stature in the eyes of the clans. If I know Eduardo di'Garrardi, it is now that he will attempt to claim the prize that he was offered for our alliance." Before Alesso could speak, Sendari raised a hand. "It is clever, Alesso, give him that. He will come from the field anointed with the blood of weaker men, and he will approach the Lord's Consort as Champion, as is his right. Deny him, and he will take his stand against you before the close of the ceremony."

  "Before," Alesso said coolly, "my rulership is confirmed by the Radann. I understand, old friend."

  "Alesso," Sendari said, understanding well what lay beneath the words, "she is just a woman."

  "You say that to me?"

  The anger was back in the Widan's eyes; a cold flash that settled into stillness and distance.

  "Do not offer me anger, Sendari. What will you say? That I cannot compare love for the daughter with love for the mother?" He caught the Widan's clenched fist. "Or will you say instead that what you had was love, and what I have is desire, that I am incapable of love?"

  "Clansmen," the Widan said coolly, "do not speak of love." But the anger left his face as he retrieved his hand. "As you well know, it's a woman's word, and a woman's binding."

  "Strong bonds, for all that."

  "In the end, you won."

  "Because in the end, she died." The sun was too hot, the day's glare too bright. "Very well, old friend," he said, his face grim and taut with the effort of this particular speech. "I will accept the Lord's judgment."

  A Serra in the Dominion was no stranger to violence, but the violence was rarely that of open combat. Another man's blood, spread like an accident of color or a celebration of death, was almost like a man's sex; best left for men to boast about or of.

  The Serra Diora was not to be so favored. This Festival was a man's festival, and this test, a man's test. That she sat in the position of honor was due to a man's choice; that she was finely adorned, perfectly outfitted, and completely visible, a man's decree. She could no more turn away from the Lord's Champion than she might have from her own husband when eyes that were not friendly watched; in public circumstance, the watcher decreed all by his presence. No matter that the privacy of the harem protected a different form of communication, allowed for greater liberty; safety was illusion, after all.

  Where was the Radann kai el'Sol?

  "Lady," the Tyr'agnate said, as he approached the Radann who stood, a slender human wall, before her. They had no choice but to turn to the side, and they faced each other like well-trained cerdan in the absolute silence.

  "Tyr'agnate," she replied, acknowledging the respect— and the evident desire—in the single spoken word with a nod of the head.

  He chose his ascent, stepping with care upon the manmade stairs that one had to climb in order to approach anything that the Lord claimed. His trail was dark, and as he drew near, Diora could see that not all of the blood was his enemy's. She hid her smile beneath the perfect fold of her lips.

  But when he held out his hand, she very carefully closed her fan and laid it in his palm. She was rewarded with his smile, and it was both dark and lovely. The plateau spoke with the hushed approbation of the clansmen.

  She rose, delicate and graceful, carrying the weight of the Lord's gold; the Lord's Champion offered her the hand that did not clutch her token. But she would not take it, for it was sticky now with drying blood and sweat. He grimaced as he looked at his empty hand, seeing it for the first time as a Tyr of the court and not a combatant.

  "Your pardon," he said softly, so softly that it might not have reached her ears at all. But he came to stand beside her, and as he did, the hushed murmurs that walled the plateau became shouts. Light glinted off swords raised in salute; wind gave to the flight of flags the sound of applause.

  The General Alesso di'Marente chose to greet them at this moment, climbing, as Eduardo had done before him, the steps of the dais unhindered.

  The shouts grew and then dimmed as the significance of his approach became clear.

  Some of the clansmen gathered here had crossed the threshold of the Tor Leonne proper for the first time; they were in the strength of their youth, and they had been summoned by Tyrs or Tors who understood the need for numbers at this Festival. But most had come, yearly, with their entourage. They had seen many combatants emerge victorious, and they had seen many Consorts rise to greet them.

  But they had never seen, until this day, a clansman who did not carry the Leonne blood in his veins join them upon the Lord's dais. Very, very few of the clansmen below did not recognize Alesso di'Marente, and even those who did not, understood what he attempted to claim by his presence.

  Eduardo di'Garrardi's smile was smooth as steel. "General."

  "Tyr'agnate. A most impressive display."

  The Tyr's lazy smile was genuine; he was pleased. But flattery was not the reward that he had fought to receive. Nor was the Lord's favor. "Is that the Widan I see below?"

  Alesso made no game of his response. "It is."

  "I would speak with him. Now."

  "As you wish. You are the Lord's Champion, Tyr'agnate."

  "Yes."

  "You will be content with the title and the… Serra."

  Silence; Eduardo was heady from his victory, and the cries from the plateau were close enough that memory and action could not easily be separated. He did not reply.

  The Widan Sendari par di'Marano walked stiffly and silently up the steps to the platform's height. There he joined the Marente General, making it clear to any and all where his loyalty lay. Eduardo could not mistake what the action meant; the Marano clan was known for their cunning and their caution, but when they chose to ally themselves, they had examined all avenues, and all foreseeable possibilities; they were steady; they saw far. A wise man gained much forsaking old allies at the right moment, and Sendari was a wise man—but Eduardo did not see the moment at hand that would sway the Widan.

  Did he want to rule? He gazed at the gathered clans, and then at the General, stiff-lipped and cool under the sun's height. "A General," he said softly, "never knows the glory of the fight."

  He was rewarded with the first smile that Alesso di'Marente had offered him, which is to say, he was not rewarded at all. "Do not play this game, Eduardo. Or play it," the General continued, his hand upon the hilt of his sword, "to its end."

  "And you challenge me?"

  "I neither challenge," the General said, "nor refuse one, if it is offered."

  Eduardo di'Garrardi met the unblinking gaze of the man who should have ruled Marente. Alesso was the older of the two, and although the Tyr'agnate had the advantage of size, he had not passed the Lord's test unscathed. Still, his hand touched the hilt of his sword, and he smiled crookedly. The Garrardi sword had history; the Marente sword, none.

  As if aware of the unspoken words, the General said, "Ah yes. Ventera is a blade with much history, some of it honorable. Terra Feure i
s a blade that will make history."

  "Tyr'agnate. General." The Widan Sendari par di'Marano spoke quietly—and in a tone that was generally reserved for the young. "If you will play this game, may I respectfully suggest that you choose a different time for it?"

  "Sendari—"

  "Or you may, if you desire, play it now. But the clansmen wait, and they grow impatient. We are already walking on treacherous ground, and our allies are not those who would gracefully ignore weakness in our own court." Although he seemed to pause for breath, the pause was illusory, for both the kai Garrardi and the par Marente had words to say, but it was the Widan who spoke. "Your loss would hurt us," he said to Eduardo, "and yours. None here would benefit by it.

  "The war cannot be called today—although it should be. We have no choice but to wait until the passing of the Festival Moon—and the Shining Court wishes that practice to end here; to disappoint them poses a risk that you should both understand. In between, we must hold power against any Tyr or Tor who thinks to take it, and the Dominion, from the men who are best fit to rule it. We may gather and build our armies; we may build those structures that will support a long campaign against the Imperials, should it become one.

  "Tyr'agnate, for my part I am willing to honor our bargain, and before the assembled clans, I will declare the Serra Diora di'Marano the keep of the kai Garrardi, in the Lord's name. More than that is beyond me; as you well know the rites cannot be performed on the Lord's Day.

  Even suggest it, and the Radann will show you how little tamed they are.

  "Either you will accept this in good faith, or you will not. We—both of us—do not have the luxury of a leisurely decision."

  The Tyr'agnate met the eyes of the Widan before glancing briefly at the shuttered gaze of the General. Then he turned to the Serra who stood, in perfect silence, at his side, and for her, he reserved the brunt of his attention.

  "Done," he said at last, and softly. "But you will declare this thing before the Radann offer the General the Lord's crown."

  "Of course," Sendari replied. He offered his daughter his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

  And as she did, he saw them: the three rings. The oath rings. He froze, and then met her eyes, and he saw in the darkness there a fire akin to Alesso's fire, a steel as sharp, or sharper. He could not hold her gaze for long, although her gaze held answers, and he was Widan.

  He had spoken truth: There was little time. His grip was harsher than he intended, but it was always thus: the things that one feared or valued—or both—were always clutched tightly, in caution or care.

  She was his perfect daughter; she was Teresa's perfect niece. She neither noticed the ferocity of his grip, nor cared. The Flower of the Dominion—the Serra that each and every clansman gathered knew had once belonged to the kai Leonne—stood as tall as her diminutive height allowed. That she might be seen.

  And that she might, being seen, be known as a worthy Consort to the Lord of the Sun. A hush followed as the father raised the daughter's gold-laden hand; a hush that held expectancy, a desire for the Tightness of the moment.

  "I call the Lord to witness," Sendari said, his voice surprisingly strong. "That this, the Serra Diora, is of Marano, and she is blood of my blood, and she is wholly mine by birth, and no other clan has lawful claim to her.

  "And I call the Lord to witness that this, the Lord's Chosen Champion, the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi, has proved himself worthy, in the eyes of the clans of Annagar, and of the Lord of the Sun, of the keep of the Serra who has been the Lord's Consort.

  "Therefore I, Sendari par di'Marano, grant the keep of my daughter, Diora di'Marano, to Eduardo kai di'Garrardi, such keep to be consummated upon the appropriate rites and observances, and further grant that all children borne to that union are of the Garrardi clan by birth and blood, and that Marano shall exert no claim to such offspring."

  It was, Alesso thought, a statement worthy of Sendari; no simple sentence when addressing a crowd where a complicated one would do.

  "Who will bear witness?"

  The clansmen across the plateau roared with a single breath.

  "Then let it be witnessed, and let no man of honor revoke what has been in honor offered to witnesses such as these!"

  The cheering was very like the roar of the wind across the open plains.

  The Tyr'agnate bowed, and then, unsheathing his sword—the Garrardi sword, with its subtle curve and its obvious weight—he turned to the General Alesso di'Marente and plunged the point of the weapon into the wooden planks. There was an audible crack, and many a swordsmith flinched at the noise, although they were probably the only men there to worry about the stress upon the sword, and not the stress upon the Dominion— for by his action, the Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi proclaimed the General his rightful liege lord.

  The General stood his ground a moment, that the clansmen who were less quick of wit might have a chance to understand what had occurred. Then he gripped the haft of the sword and levered it out of the wooden platform. He strained; it was not an easy motion.

  Only Sendari was close enough to see the way his eyes narrowed, and even if Eduardo had seen the slight contraction of lids he might not have understood how close he came to receiving the sword back, edge first. But Alesso's temper had long since, like all else in his life, come under his dominion; he was graceful as he returned the weapon to this, the first and now the most famous of his servants.

  There were murmurs; there would be dissent. They expected no less. But the murmurs were weaker than the breeze on the plateau, and the chants of the Radann—for they had begun their interminable song, although at what exact moment he did not remember. He was pleased to find they were to prove useful for something this Festival.

  They approached, three of the four par el'Sol who served the kai; the kai el'Sol was not present. Nor was he expected to be now, although he should have been witness to the resolution of the Lord's test; his place was by the waters of the Tor Leonne. The par el'Sol were granted the right and privilege of crowning the Lord's Champion— but only the kai el'Sol could give the power of rulership over the Lord's Dominion to a clansman.

  "General," the Radann Peder par el'Sol said, bowing with genuine respect. "The time has come."

  "Par el'Sol. Lead, in the Lord's name, and in the Lord's name, I will follow."

  At the head of the procession the Radann par el'Sol walked; they wore robes of pure white, with gold borders and gold collars, each embroidered in the form of the sun ascendant with eight rays, ail of perfect fire. They seemed a brotherhood of dignity and silence, although their swords had a history as long as the Garrardi sword, and names as venerable. Alesso di'Marente had never seen them drawn, but he knew their names; what clansmen did not? Five swords had been crafted for the Radann by the Lord, and if they were not as fine as the Sun Sword, they were more jealously guarded, for the Sun Sword alone had its methods of destroying the hand of one not meant to wield it.

  Samadar el'Sol wore Mordagar, Samiel el'Sol, Arral and Peder el'Sol, Saval. Marakas el'Sol bore Verragar, the least of the five, and the Radann kai el'Sol, Balagar, the greatest. It was said that when these five swords were joined, no enemy of the Lord could stand against them— and it was said that when they fought alongside the Sun Sword, the Sun Sword granted them a measure of its power.

  Myth and legend—folklore which had never been, would never be, proved. And what was proof to any but one Widan-trained? Something cold and hard, a weapon. And a weapon's only place in the heart was to still it.

  He joined the Radann in their long, slow walk, feeling, as he followed them, the weight of the Dominion's history. This was the triumphal march, and in truth he was triumphant, but he felt out of step with the Lord's will, and it disturbed him greatly. Markaso kai di'Leonne had been, and would have continued to be, a weak Tyr; a man with more control over his harem and his serafs than he could ever exert over either his Tyrs or his enemies. He had called one war in his life, and failed to
win it, losing both precious land and face in the process. No doubt he would have been forced to call another, and that, too, he would have lost.

  Alesso did not intend to lose any game he played, be it war or no. But he did not have the authority of time and tradition. He did not have the blood.

  What of it? He squared his shoulders, and felt the new skin pull across the breadth of his chest. Beneath armor, beneath silk, beneath things visible. It was enough. He brought his hand to the hilt of Terra Feure, and he followed the slowly growing shadows of the Radann.

  The path that wound in and around the Tor Leonne took on an edge of clarity that it had never had. His shadow was sharp as he walked the winding footpath, seeing each upturned leaf, each blossoming flower, each plant that, uprooted from its desert clime, still sought to deny the sun's heat by closing its armored petals, before he realized what the flowers were: Nightblossom. Odd, to see the Lady's flowers in the citadel of the Lord, on this Festival day. He frowned, thinking that serafs would have to be found and dispatched, if serafs were indeed the ones who had chosen so poorly. If Serras, then he would tread more carefully.

  The waters of the Tor Leonne opened up as the procession reached the peak of the path. The path itself had widened, and stonework, tended and kept free of the creeping plants that alone seemed to require no work, had been laid. No natural wonder here, no hidden dell or quiet recess. This was the seat of power, and in the Dominion, power did not hide.

  But the face it wore was not painted and pretty; it was not overly ornate. To the east of the lake was the dwelling which the Tyr'agar claimed as his own; it was recessed into hill and surrounded by trees, but it stood, thick-beamed and pale, as the most important edifice by the lake. The roof's wind chimes caught the breeze and made of it something delicate and soothing as they danced above the treetops. Elegance and simplicity were the rules of the Tor Leonne, and they were followed nowhere so closely as here. Gold? The light of the sun was brighter. What need of color, of banner, of flag? No man could mistake this building—or the man who dwelled within it—for anything other than it was. The home of the Tyr'agar towered above all else.