"He has cooperated with us in the past, Tyr'agar," the Widan replied mildly.
"Indeed. But we have never used the phrase 'Lord of Night' in our public dealings. I tell you, Cortano, it is too soon."
"And will you then return to Lord Isladar and Lord Ishavriel and tell them of our change in plan? Will you face the Shining Court? Will you face the Lord of Night?"
Alesso shrugged expansively. "If they wish to succeed, they will accede. If they wish to fail…" He shrugged. "Let them find another pawn."
"And the Voyani?"
"They have caused us trouble in their time," Alesso replied, speaking slowly. "But I foresee a greater difficulty. I had hoped to make use of them in the war against the Northerners; they bear them no great love."
"They bear us less."
Alesso shrugged again. "Yes. I will give the kin the Voyani if they so desire them. But the Consort must wait."
Evening.
Diora did not often pray; not to anyone. No sane woman prayed to the Lord, but even the Lady's face was often wreathed in darkness; no boon there, no comfort. When she had been younger, she wondered what it would be like to live in the North; to have the comfort of Northern gods; to be able to choose, among them all, a god to pray to.
Because she was only taken from her rooms twice a week, she seldom felt the wind; seldom saw the moon; seldom spent time beneath either the Lord or the Lady's face. Tonight would not be such a night; her father was absent.
Her father.
As a young woman in his harem, on a night such as this, she had often been seized by restlessness. It was the plague upon women; men were free—if'they were freeborn—to excise it in a variety of ways, most of them energetic, none of them graceful or feminine.
Diora had been different: she had been gifted with a talent for music, and she would hold the wildness and the hunger—rare though either might be—in until her hands touched the strings, Northern or Southern, and her voice was given permission to accompany them. Then, oh, then, she might briefly experience freedom, under the watchful eyes of either Lord or Lady.
Her father had destroyed both the samisen that had been her mother's and the lute. He had forbidden her song, and she had acquiesced, thinking only that he was a fool for not forbidding her breath or life instead.
Thinking it, knowing it, knowing that had she, in fact, been the Serra Fiona, Diora di'Marano would be dead. She had wanted that death. It still lingered, like a vision of peace and a return to the warmth of the only home she had ever made for herself. But before that, the penance, the only act that might explain, might excuse, the fact that of all the women she had loved, she alone still lived.
Diora di'Marano did not pray because she did not know how. She did not play the instruments that she had been raised to because they had been taken from her. She did not speak in the darkness of a night that was supposed to—somehow—contain her sleep.
But she sang.
Softly, softly, her voice by some miracle not cracking as she forced it back into her throat so that it might be otherwise inaudible. Her father watched her closely, even when he was not present; he would know.
The silence her voice broke was broken.
"Diora," the voice said. "Where are you?"
She froze a moment, losing her voice as she recognized the distant tones that hinted at a power she had only once seen in full display: the voice of Kallandras of Senniel College.
The winds from the North had unexpectedly swept in beneath the night sky, blending with death and the threat of death and the Lady's neutrality.
She was speechless.
"I am in the Tor Leonne—the city, not the palace proper. If the Serra Teresa is here, she makes no reply. Things are more complicated than I had foreseen. Are you well?"
His Torra was perfect. She wondered what he would look like this time.
"I am well," she said, speaking as he had taught her to speak, unaccountably happy that walls and screens and distance aside, there was no way to separate her from his company, should he choose to offer it.
"There have been rumors that you are not free to travel."
"Rumors often have a grain of truth; this is rare. It is true."
She heard his laughter; her own lips turned up in something so foreign she realized it was a smile. How long had it been? Too long, and it would be longer still.
"Ona Teresa is not in the Tor. My father did not see fit to send for her. She attends the Serra Donna en'Lamberto for the Festival celebrations in Amar." She paused. "I believe that she has been summoned, but only recently. I do not know if she will arrive in time for the Festival of the Moon.
"But, Kallandras of Senniel, the situation here is not what it was—and I would advise you strongly against attempting to offer your services to the Tyr'agar."
"Understood," he replied, his voice shifting strangely. "I have come on the winds of war, Diora. I will be honest. You have made yourself so much a part of the war you must know that this is no social visit."
"I do know it," she replied, because she did, and because she did not wish to let either Kallandras or the use of the voice slide away from her. "But I do not much care. Listen. Let me be the wind's voice, if it is war you have come seeking.
"I do not know if rumor has yet reached the street. There has been a change in the celebration of the Festival—or rather, a change has been planned. The Lady's Festival does not have the significance of the Lord's, but it is Her Festival.
"First, the masks worn will be masks decreed by the new Tyr. Second, there will be a Consort to the Lady of the Moon. Third, and most important: Yollana of the Havalla Voyani has been taken captive in the Tor Leonne proper; where, I do not yet know."
"And is the third most important?" he asked softly.
"I—" she remembered the ruined, tortured face of Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani, and for a moment, a pendant invisible to the eye— to even the practiced Widan eyes of her father and the Sword's Edge—gained weight and warmth as it hung heavily round her neck. Remembered the servant of the Lord of Night who had looked, first through her, and then at her. He would never forget her; she was certain of it. Just as certain as she was that she would never forget him.
"Yes," she said, speaking as softly as he.
"Odd."
"Odd?"
"I would have said, of the three, that the most disturbing thing you have yet told me is the first: the masks. Diora, I am no mage. But I have had experience with the magi. My instincts bid me warn you: beware of the masks."
Silence.
She waited as her heart beat out three minutes.
"Kallandras?"
But if he could hear her at all, he did not answer.
* * *
CHAPTER THREE
6th of Scaral, 427 AA
The Shining City, The Northern Wastes
The Kialli understood power, and they understood it well. When they had walked the face of this world last, they had served the Lord of Shadows in all his glory; he alone had had the strength to defy the greater gods combined. But they had been born, then; it was in rebirth, in the Hells of Allasakar, that they had been freed from all the folly that came with a life of earth and water and sky and flesh.
The fires burned it away, renewing them.
Garrak remembered the burning, and he shuddered, his body rippling beneath him as if it were an unknown and roughly made piece of clothing. He listened, waiting for the peace that often came with stillness; he stood, testing the charnel winds, trembling a moment with a desire that spoke of his long choice.
Emptiness.
He would not, he thought, become accustomed to the accursed silence of this place.
For in the Hells, it was not silence that reigned; the screams of Those Who Have Chosen were the winds' roar and whisper, the chill edge of morn and the arid heat of midday, the rush of the blood rivers and the ripple of the still ponds. When the Lord called forth more of his host, an echo of the damned touched the ears of all who listened—a
nd Garrak had been one of the first summoned; he listened well indeed. It was his only thirst.
There were those among the Kialli who found their return to this place of blue sky and gray rock and white, snow-capped crest of mountain fascinating. He was willing to watch them in their folly; if it weakened them, they would be his, and he would rule.
That was the law of the Hells. That, and the guardianship of the souls of those who had fully, and finally, earned the judgment of Mandaros through their many, many lives.
When, the kin said, in sullen, muted whispers, can we hunt? And the Lord said, Wait.
He slid between the towering pillars that carried a great, curved ceiling the long-dead giants of the Northern realm—the Northern Wastes, in this diminished land—would have been dwarfed by. He paused a moment, but only a moment, before the guardians of the halls in which the human Lords lived. Their attention flickered off his ebon skin, measuring and dismissing the threat he might present.
Against these two, he would not test his power, not yet. But sooner or later, in the stretch of endless time, he would measure it against all of his brothers and sisters; measure and be victorious.
That, too, was the law of the Hells.
"Garrak ad'Ishavriel."
He paused and then nodded, bowing low enough to show his respect for a foreign Lord's power, but not so low that it embarrassed the Lord he served. The Lord he served, after all, was among the Five that the Lord of Night had chosen to serve Him personally upon the field of battle. Of battle. "Lord Lissar."
"It amuses me to tell you that the young human woman, Anya a'Cooper, is alone in her room. The Lord Ishavriel has been summoned to a meeting of the Lord's Fist."
Garrak smiled, but the smile was a cool one. Anya a'Cooper was the lone human who did not choose to dwell in the human Court. "You know much of my Lord's activities."
"Indeed. But you will forgive us if we watch closely a Lord of the Hells who chooses to elevate a mere human over one of the kin."
It was meant as an insult; it was received as an insult. Thus did the strong treat the weaker.
It was the law.
And the weaker bided their time, waiting. Centuries could pass before the result of such an exchange might, at last, become final in one manner or another.
That, too, was the law.
Anya a'Cooper sat upon the throne she had carved out of the mountain's ancient rock. The act had shaken the Northern wall
of the Shining Palace, which happened to be that rock; had, in fact, shaken the twin towers in which the Lord of the Shining Palace, and his daughter, singly dwelled. Here and there, in the surface of the stone beneath her feet, she could, should she so choose, see the welter of tiny fractures that spoke of the casting.
The Lord had been less than well-pleased.
She had thought the Lord might kill her then and undo all her plans, all those things that burned inside her, hot as molten rock, or hotter still, but hidden from sight. It had been interesting to see Him cloaked in all His power, the edges of his wrath shining like the deep shadow from which there was no return.
More interesting still was the effect he had upon the Kialli; they dropped to the ground like imps, cowering in absolute silence. Even Ishavriel. Even her master.
She was careful, now, not to speak His name, but his voice returned to her, carried in the shadows which pooled at her feet like a familiar—an overfamiliar—cat.
His voice, she thought, was deeper and more sudden than the voice of the thunder itself; certainly as beautiful, in its wild, unconquered way. Even in anger, especially in anger. She loved the taste and she loved the sound of it, for it had depths of strength and power that the Kialli—that she herself—could only dream of, if her imagination was rich and dark and deep enough.
She thought it was. And besides, she wanted a big chair of her own.
She had carved here, taking care not to heat the interior of the rock so quickly that it shattered the whole. She wasn't certain why, but she knew that heat, applied too unevenly to rock—and marble, come to think of it—often had that effect.
And she had so wanted her own throne she chose to be careful. Her arms and her throat were scored with the shining white lines that spoke of her first attempt to melt rock. Lord Ishavriel had protected her from the worst of the scattering—but he was, and had been, slow to call his power. Slower than Anya, his pupil.
You know no fear, little Anya; you have no caution. Her parents had once said just that to her, but without her Lord's pleasure and irritation.
Thinking of her parents always brought back the edges of wildness, of anger—because to think of them was to think of him. And to think of him was like fire itself.
No one had ever betrayed her as he had done, and he had promised everything.
You're known by your word, Anya a'Cooper, and when you give it, you make certain there's no call, ever, to break it. You break a part of yourself when you do, child. Mind me.
Her father's voice. Father's truth, in a world so different from this one, it might have been nightmare. She could smell his voice, now; see the color of it, the richness of brown and green.
But her father had been wrong. He was wrong about a lot of things.
After all, how had he been broken? He ran; she suffered. But he was alive; she was certain that he was alive, although he had never once attempted to come to her. He was burning the insides of her; his memory was blue and purple and red, red rage, and since she had given him her heart, since she had told him that he was the only reason it still beat, she was certain she would know if he died.
No one had learned to live without a heart yet, or so she'd been told. She'd experimented on the odd animal she could catch, but there were so very few in the Northern Wastes, she'd never managed to prove her master wrong.
The Lord Ishavriel disliked it when she thought of him. It angered and displeased the only friend that she had in this world, but even so, what of it? The throne had angered him, and she'd wanted it a hundred times more weakly than she wanted this: Justice.
Without a word, the heavily warded doors to her throne room flew open, winged by her power and her devouring, her just, anger. Anya a'Cooper was angry and bored.
She was tired of caution, and tired of remaining in the darkness, waiting on her master. If he was too busy in his councils, why should it be left to her to suffer? And what were his councils about, anyway?
A stupid boy, raised half-slave and freed only to be tossed away—or so Cortano said, and she probably ought not to believe him as he wasn't a very friendly man except for his beard, which spoke to her sometimes in a glint of color and light—a stupid boy, one that Etridian had tried, and failed, to kill.
Now she remembered what she'd been about: She wanted answers, and the Lords would give her none. None. As if their answers were too precious to part with. They were all powerful, and she understood that well enough; she didn't particularly want them to overpower and hurt her. That had happened before, just the once, but the scars there were deep enough that she could still close her eyes and feel the getting of them, over and over. She did not relinquish them, and would not until he was dead.
In anger, she blazed a little trail of fire into the floor, melting it. She thought of killing the imps, but they were suddenly gone, absorbed by the lightless shadows in all directions. Imps.
But the imps had never hurt her, had rarely even tried. No, no—it wouldn't do. She was very angry. It had to be something bigger.
And what else but the demons themselves? They thought they were so very powerful. They thought that, if she turned her back on them, they might catch her. And hurt her. She'd been hurt before.
This was why she didn't choose to live in the middle of the human Court. None of the demons dared to attack her there, and if they didn't attack her first, Lord Ishavriel was always angry when she destroyed them. He was one of her only friends, and she didn't like it when he was angry.
She frowned. He had told her not to ki
ll any more of his followers—not that she could really tell the difference between the demons that followed one finger of the Lord's Fist and the demons that followed another—and that was a little more tricky.
But he always told her she could defend herself. Yes, of course. And he said it was good to learn things. So she would go and try to learn something new, and defend herself when the stupid demon didn't want to tell her what she wanted to know.
She laughed.
The colors of laughter, that day, were a brilliant blue, a brilliant orange, and a streak of rippling red.
The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was not amused. He had used his personal power to traverse the distance between the lands of desert sand and the lands of desert ice. It was a power he was not comfortable expending before he reached the Court, but he had little choice; he was not expected to entertain the council with his wisdom for at least another three days, and the summoning spell that would draw upon the Lord's power, and not his own, could therefore not be invoked.
The use of his power, however, did not bow him; he was not so foolish as that. Not here.
But he did not maintain personal quarters within the Palace. His early arrival meant that no rooms had been readied for his use. There was, therefore, no opportunity to recover. It irritated him, but much about the Court did; the Northerners were more firmly entrenched in the Lord's favor than the Southerners. That would change, with time, and with the coming war.
"Is that Cortano?" a familiar voice asked softly.
"It is indeed, Lady Sariyel," he said, bowing in the Northern style, his robes somewhat ungainly for such a maneuver. She offered him her hand, and he accepted it, bringing the pale line of her knuckles to his lips. It was not an art he was comfortable with, but she did him the courtesy of not turning her full attention upon him; if she had a natural prey among the human Court, it was Alesso di'Marente, a man who was both amused by and immune to her charms.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 8