They were not inconsiderable; she was not old, but she had a power about her that would one day rival his own—if she survived that long. Her hair was still untarnished by time, her skin untouched by sun; her eyes were a blue that was pale enough to be as cold as Northern skies.
She had been brought to the Court as both apprentice and paramour, and her Lord had died early in her tenure; by attaching herself—momentarily and conveniently—to another, she had purchased her survival. Many of the lovers who had made their way—willing or no—to the Shining Palace found their way in the end to the sections of tower that only the demons called home. Not Lady Sariyel. Privately, Cortano wondered how she would have measured up against one of the Hells spawn—but very privately. Her temper was like the Northern wind.
She had been, and was, voracious; a student that he might have been proud of had he not found the prospect of teaching a young woman to behave like a man so disgusting.
And why, he mused, do we waste power so conveniently? How many wars might we have won, how many lands might we have conquered, had we chosen to follow the Northern course?
Then, because he was not Northern, he added, And how many women might have brought down whole Tors in the wake of their duplicity and vengeance? Better as it is.
"We were not informed that you would be summoned today."
"An oversight, Lady Sariyel; I am sure that you might confer with Lord Ishavriel if such an omission is of concern." Woman or no, Cortano did not play by the rules of the Hells; he hid his power, always, behind beard and mask, unveiling it to his advantage. Even here, certain that she was aware that the art of distance-traveling was his, he could not bring himself to share that knowledge. He bowed again.
"Enchanted as I am by your company, Lady, I fear that my summons here is of a nature that will not wait."
"No, indeed," she said, her dark, hard lips curving a moment in what might have been a smile had she been a cat, "one does not dare the wrath of the Fist of the Lord. But, Cortano," she added, as he turned, "you might give my regards to the General; he has been away from Court far too long."
"Indeed, as you say."
He left; he did not bother to cloak his exit in magics. She would trace them, and find him, with ease should she so desire.
Still, he hoped that she was bored enough that she did not desire to follow him, for he sought not Ishavriel, but Isladar; not the Lord's Fist, but the shadow beside His throne.
Finding him proved simpler than it often did: Isladar had taken up residence, temporary residence, within the human Court. It was not unheard of; as far as Cortano was capable of understanding, humanity was his study, his speciality. Had he been human, he would have been Widan—which would have made him more of a danger to Cortano than he was now.
"Widan," the Kialli said, voice deceptively soft.
The chambers were completely darkened; shadow lingered at the edge of Cortano's magical vision, pulling away from the touch of his fire. This shadow devoured light where it could, and all magic, as life, was light. Where it could not devour, it seemed to bide its time—and that, too, was very much like its summoner. Isladar.
"Lord Isladar."
"You were not summoned."
"No. May I enter?"
A dry chuckle. "Indeed. Enter. But leave the lights… dim."
Cortano returned a smile for the chuckle. He stepped into the room and closed the door firmly at his back, sealing it with a hand's gesture. He chose a simple spell for the sake of expedience; the travel here had been costly.
Of the Kialli, he was comfortable locking himself in a room with only one: this one. It made him more of a threat, and not less; comfort itself encouraged lack of caution. He was no fool; he had made a study of the lost arts, and he knew that there was not a Kialli in existence that deserved that level of trust.
"You look well," Isladar said, as the lights slowly rose in a beaded mist around the periphery of the room.
"And you."
The Kialli smiled. "You lie well, for a human. My residence here is… a matter of more than curiosity at the moment."
Cortano was absolutely silent. The shadows that he had long since learned were a signature of power in the Hells were tattered; cloth, and rent cloth, rather than the armor that so often obscured the Court's least obvious Lord. He thought he saw—although in the dim lights he could not be certain—actual wounds in the flesh that Lord Isladar wore.
"You are, of course, curious. It is your nature. I have miscalculated," Lord Isladar said. "At an unfortunate time. Lord Ishavriel will press his advantage."
"Has he that?"
"The advantage? At the moment, yes. I will seek to separate him from the source of his power—but I am not in… condition at the moment." Isladar did not rise; he rarely condescended to take a seat, and Cortano was certain that he would continue his quiet disdain were that seat the throne of the Hells.
Isladar was a curiosity, a thing beyond comprehension, but not beyond its edge. A puzzle.
"You did not come here to ask after my health." Not a question.
"No."
"Speak, then; speak quickly. There is to be a council meeting, of a sort, in a few hours."
"Very well. Alesso di'Marente—Alesso di'Alesso—has chosen, wisely in my opinion, to reverse the decision to name a Consort for the Lady at this particular Festival of the Moon.
"In all other ways, he is willing to consider favorably the suggestions the Shining Court has made to him."
"They were not," Lord Isladar said softly, "suggestions."
"They were orders?" The light in the room grew brighter; the shadows darker.
"They were… requests. Lord Ishavriel's."
"Has Lord Ishavriel not learned from Lord Assarak's presump-tion? The Tor Leonne is the General's. He will not be ruled in it, not by Northern hands."
"Or wise ones."
Cortano shrugged. "We have begun our inspection of the Voyani caravans, and believe that we will soon have in our possession one of the four Matriarchs." It was a lie; Cortano half-expected that Isladar knew that she was already their prisoner. "If we are able to detain her, she will be offered to the Court, as Lord Ishavriel requested.
"But we will make no such offer, and take no such politically difficult prisoner, if we are forced to accept a Consort at a time when it would be… unwise."
"I can guarantee nothing," Isladar said softly. "In this, I am a spokesperson for the Fist of the Lord, a lesser messenger. It appears," he added, with just a hint of dryness, something so mild it might have been imagination, "that many of the messengers the Lords send fall foul of the men to whom they deliver their messages, and they are loath to risk more of their lieutenants." He shrugged. "If you desire it, I will present your case."
"I will also attend."
"I will forward your… request."
Cortano stood in front of the door for a moment, his hand on its protected surface. Magic twisted beneath his palm, the feel of it frustrating—almost, but not quite, familiar. Old knowledge here, and none of it his.
He tried to remember how important that desire for old knowledge was; how important it had been when he had first been approached by Lord Isladar of the Shining Court. Immortality, he thought, as he stood in the shadows.
But not—never—an immortality lived upon his knees. He straightened his shoulders and looked back.
"It was not a request, Lord Isladar."
Across the length of demon shadows and human light, Lord Isladar gazed. And then he smiled faintly and bowed. Cortano thought there was an edge of fang, a glint of light off perfect, slender teeth; hard to see. "Very well, Widan Cortano di'Alexes. We meet in the Shattered Hall upon the morrow. I will have rooms prepared for your stay, and I will deliver your message."
The Shattered Hall was of a piece of great, carved stone; a single piece. Tables, chairs, floors; it was, as the Shining Palace itself, the heart of a mountain exposed by the hand of a god. It was meant to impress, and it did; from height to g
round, it dwarfed the occupants with its majesty. No gold here; no jewels—none needed. They were, the room implied, the measure of man, and the works of men were as nothing compared to this.
It was true; truth was something the Widan accepted.
But he wondered, idly, if it had always been true. The interest that the Voyani provoked in the Kialli was of sufficient curiosity to Cortano that he had taken it upon himself to ask his own questions. To date, the answers he had received were unsatisfactory; the holding of the Voyani prisoners therefore served a joint purpose.
And, he acknowledged, a singular risk.
Lord Ishavriel raised a brow as he entered the room; no more. Etridian deigned to notice him; Assarak did not. Alcrax kept his own counsel. Nugratz was actively irritated, which pleased Cortano; he was the least powerful of the Kialli who formed the Lord's Fist. Lord Isladar offered a graceful—a human—shrug.
Shadows filled the hall; shadows blanketed the corners of the room, rounding them and filling them until they lost all definition. He wondered if the Hells had rooms. If they had any solidity at all. It was one of the few questions that he was not in a hurry to have a definitive answer to.
"Generals," he said quietly. "I have been sent to convey a message."
"Take a chair, then, if it pleases you. It is your custom."
"I see that this is not a session of the full Court."
"What we discuss today is not of interest to the mortals," Nugratz replied, his voice a high fluting sound that should have been either irritating or comical, but which was, in fact, neither. "Had it been, we would have presided over the meeting in the Great Hall." He turned his head, narrow and birdlike, in Cortano's direction.
"Come, Nugratz," Lord Ishavriel said softly. "It is of interest to our allies, and the Widan is chief among them." He lifted a hand in the room of shadows, and the shadows responded, carving themselves into a chair that was almost as grand as a throne beside the wide stone table. "I will avail myself of a chair." He gestured again; a second chair formed. "Sword's Edge?"
"Lord Ishavriel," Lord Isladar said, before Cortano could reply, "How… courteous of you. A reminder, perhaps, of older times."
"Or," Assarak added, "a certain sign that the influence of your human pet is growing."
It was always cold in the Shattered Hall. The sunlight that entered the room—and there was sun, scant, cool light that came in through the pillars that rose from mountain's foot to the palace's lesser height—was never warm. The chill, however, had little to do with the weather; it settled about the Lord's Fist like a cloak of nettles.
Cortano broke it only slightly; he accepted the offered chair. "Gentlemen," he said softly, stroking his beard a moment as if in thought, although the words themselves were in no way spontaneous, "We have a minor problem."
He waited; Lord Ishavriel obliged. "What problem would that be?"
"After lengthy discussion with our allies in the Dominion, we feel it unwise to proceed with the crowning of a Consort to the Lady."
"Wise indeed," Assarak said. "I assume this means you intend to dispense with the pretense of the Lady altogether?"
This was expected; Cortano offered a brittle smile. "Assumptions, as often, play you false." The smile shattered; he thought he understood why the hall had been named as it had. "We agreed to your timetable under the assumption that the boy—the kai Leonne—would be dead at the end of the so-called Kings' Challenge. That did not come to pass."
"You do not- seek to threaten us," Lord Assarak replied. He had taken no chair, and could not gain height by rising; it was the one advantage that a human chair sometimes offered. But his shadows deepened, darkening the cast of his complexion.
"No," Cortano replied mildly. He had discovered over time that a mild response—one verging on nonchalance—was an effective way of dealing with Kialli temper. It did not suit his temperament, but very little about dealing with the Kialli did; he was a man used to dispensing arrogance, not receiving it.
Lord Ishavriel did not rise, but it was close. "Widan," he said softly, "it was agreed upon after the Festival of the Sun."
The Widan shrugged. That was more of a risk. "It was agreed," he said softly, "but it was also agreed that the war would be called, and the Kialli joined—in subtlety—to the ranks of our armies. None of what we have agreed to, save aid in the assassination of the Leonne clan—an assassination that required no aid, in our opinion—has yet come to pass.
"There will be other festivals, Generals."
"It is after the Festival of the Moon that you will have your aid," Lord Assarak said, speaking before Ishavriel could.
"And it is after the Festival of the Moon that you will have your title," Cortano replied. "The Voyani, we are willing to cede you, provided they are not too costly."
"You are willing?" The great table bore the full weight of the furious Kialli claws; he could not be certain that the stone itself was not scored by the momentary rage.
"If we follow your course of action, we will lose the Radann," the Widan said softly, "before it is wise. We will lose some of the clans. We will lose the advantage of deploying the Voyani against the Voyani during the war with the Northern Terreans. Had we gained the death of the kai Leonne in the Empire, had we amassed our armies and taken the Terreans in question— As we agreed upon—we would not now face any danger by granting the title of Consort for the Lady's Festival. But now… what do you offer us in return?"
"Your lives."
It came to this often with Lord Assarak and Lord Etridian. Embers glowed in the skein of magic that Cortano knew was visible to the Kialli Lords. His personal power was not negligible; not even here. To demand his death was easy; to cause it, costly.
He had no doubt whatever that they could, should they so choose, cause it—but the death that one Lord offered, the other opposed, seeking advantage. That he understood well, and not from observation of the Kialli and their lesser kin.
Lord Isladar rose. "Those lives," he said softly, bowing his head slightly to Lord Assarak, "are not yet yours to grant. The Lord will decide."
"Isladar—"
"And if I am not mistaken," he added, raising a brow and turning toward the doors that stretched from floor to ceiling in a long, flat sweep of something that might once have been wood before the hand of the Lord transformed it, "we are about to have a visitor."
The doors to the council chamber flew open, scattering the shadows of Kialli conceit in their wake. No simple doors, these; they were not of a piece with the Shattered Hall, but they were formed by the same maker's hand. When closed by the will of the Lord, they were impenetrable; when opened by His hand, they were unstoppable.
The Lord's hand had not closed these doors; nor did he open them now; Cortano would have felt his coming long before the doors announced his presence. He had had reason to greet the Lord of Shadows once, twice, and a third time; it chilled him to the bone; made him long for the desert; made him desire to offer nothing but obedience, and that, quickly.
But if the Lord was not present, the doors themselves contained an echo of His grandeur; they were an announcement, both closing and opening, that it was almost impossible to ignore.
He was grateful for the interruption. Even when the cause became clear.
One of the kin fell at once groundward, cringing in a bow that should have been impossible, as half his back had been- seared away by fire, and smoked still. "My Lord," he said.
Lord Ishavriel rose at once. "What is this, Garrak?"
"The mage," Garrak ad'Ishavriel replied, bleeding shadows into stone formed by it. "She wants—information."
"And that?"
"To know what occurred when Lord Etridian failed his mark."
Lord Etridian rose as well, grim now, furious at the reminder of his failure. He was probably, in Cortano's estimation, wondering if the interruption was Ishavriel's attempt to humiliate or discredit him; Cortano thought otherwise, because he knew who the mage was.
"Did she gain i
t?"
"No, my Lord. But she is—"
"I'm here," the voice of that mage now said, her words floating above the noisy wheeze of the injured demon's voice.
"Go, Garrak," Ishavriel said. "I am pleased; if you survive, you shall be noted." He gestured, and his servitor looked briefly surprised before the Lord's magic carried him to sanctuary.
Such sanctuary as existed in the Shining City.
Cortano knew the spell; he had seen it cast several times during the visits to the Court, and he envied the ease of its casting, the lack of apparent cost. He was also keenly curious to know whether or not it could be cast upon one merely mortal without cost to the recipient; he was not, however, foolish enough to volunteer merely to satisfy his own curiosity.
But if there was ever a time when he might relent to such folly, it was now, for Anya a'Cooper was, in his considered opinion, completely and utterly mad; there was no sense about her, nothing at all save a bitter rage and a child's destructive glee and acquisitiveness. She had twice killed human members of the Court, and for this crime there was no recompense, no recourse offered. The kin were destroyed should they breach the laws which allowed the humans and the Kialli to coexist in uneasy peace—but Anya a'Cooper was useful enough, and wild enough, that she could not be contained by those laws; she exposed their frailty.
She was also the only human he knew of to openly insult Nugratz, Alcrax, Etridian, and Assarak in the same breath and survive; the only one foolish enough to attack Lord Etridian without paying with her life. A close thing, and for what? She thought he had insulted the color of her words. She could not be controlled.
Only destroyed, and Lord Ishavriel—indeed, the Fist itself— was unwilling to see that happen. Cortano understood why, but he would not have exposed himself to the risk she represented; indeed, he wished to absent himself, but did not desire his movements to catch her attention.
The Kialli concerned themselves with power.
Anya a'Cooper was, in his opinion, the most powerful mage who had ever worn mortal guise beneath the Lord's gaze. Obscene, to waste so much in the form of a woman whose mind was—had been—fragility defined. But obscenity existed. And it had its uses. Her power was, he thought, in no small measure responsible for the speed with which the gate between this world and the Hells had been opened, and if the gate was small and unpredictable, it was growing daily through her efforts. Hers, and the Lord who commanded her.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 9