Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  He looked across the table as if he could see through her, and his eyes, darkened by semicircles that spoke of sleep's lack, were a black that absorbed light, that denied it.

  He spoke a single word in a language she didn't recognize. Spoke again. Again.

  The fourth time, he shook himself. "Jewel," he said quietly.

  She picked up the sticks by her plate; they were longer than the ones she had often used at her grandmother's home; they were finer, lacquered black and gold—it was a theme—with a very sharp end. There was no point in refusing the political when you were eating with a man who seemed on the edge of collapse.

  Or madness, and she preferred collapse.

  He watched her eat.

  Minutes passed in a silence that teetered precariously, as if it were some precious object that was almost certain to break.

  At last she saw something shift in the lines around his mouth; saw a few familiar lines suddenly wedge themselves into the space between eyebrows and hair.

  "That," he said, in his most irritatingly superior domicis voice, "is a complete disgrace."

  All hesitation, all foreign syllable, was washed away by his familiar disdain. "What are you talking about?"

  He rose at once, walking with that stiff elegance that she so hated it usually made her grind her teeth. The crown was on his brow and the robes that looked so out of place—no, admit it, the problem was that they looked perfect for him, she was the one who was out of place—became, for a moment, simple accoutrement, a statement not of power but of fashion.

  He rarely touched her. In fact, he had only really touched her for two reasons in their sixteen years together. First, for safety's sake: he never trusted her not to do something stupid—and when she was in danger, he somehow felt that his title and his position gave him the right, no worse, the duty, to interfere. And second, for etiquette's sake, when he was at the end of his tether and had neither the patience nor the time to explain in small words—and words got smaller and more cutting as he got more annoyed, a habit of speech she detested.

  He caught her hands as she stared up at him in very real confusion, met her eyes and rolled his. "This is simple enough," he said, in the clenched jaw sort of way that always made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, "that most children past five of the Lady's Summers can manage with grace." And he grabbed the utensils from her hands and began to demonstrate their proper use.

  "I've been using these since I was past those five summers, thank you very much."

  "You've been using them barbarically. You'll be in the South and you can't afford to offend—" His voice trailed off. His brow furrowed. Almost as an afterthought, he set the slender sticks down beside her plate.

  And he looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time.

  "Avandar?"

  Looked through her.

  "Forgive me, Lady," he said quietly, and turned, and left the room.

  The food was awfully cold by the time she got around to eating it.

  * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Evening of the 7th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Tor Leonne

  Yollana of the Havalla Voyani sat in a darkness stripped of light, of the ability to bring light. She was not young, not by any stretch of the imagination, but until the moment she first met the Widan Cortano di'Alexes, she had not felt her age; it settled around her now, an ailment and an affliction that she feared—in this night, unblessed by the Lady's radiance—she would never be healed of.

  Her daughters were far, far away. She was glad of it, although they had argued bitterly. Still, she had no intention of ending her days in the Lord's citadel, this clansmen's home of wood and rock and prettified dirt. The Voyanne awaited her even now; it called to her, with its treacherous runnels, its open stretch of exposed twists, its heat, its rain, its terrible, terrible wind. -

  That was her home. The only home she had ever known, and the home she desired fiercely. Because, of course, in the wilds there was freedom.

  What price, Lady? she thought, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. What price will you exact?

  For she had heard hope; it was carried by windless air, through closed screens and walls and doors, into what she suspected was a room dug out of the earth itself, it smelled so much like the grave. And that hope was a voice, the voice a man's. She recognized it; it was not a voice she might forget, having heard it once.

  Evayne's servant.

  Evayne, called a'Nolan, called a'Neamis; the Lady's enigmatic face.

  In the darkness, the thought conjured light, but it was an odd light: a thing of fear and mystery. Evayne a'Nolan carried with her, for all to see who knew how to look, the heart exposed: the crystal formed of soul and pain and a vision that cannot be denied.

  There was only one way to expose a heart in such a fashion: only one road to walk. And none, not even Yollana herself who was counted wise by the ancient Voyani standards, had dared to look for more than the footpaths to that winding road.

  Evayne, she thought, the word a prayer, what have you sent me, and what price will I be forced to pay this time?

  The Lake at night was a thing of beauty, and there was so little beauty in his life that he forced himself to appreciate it.

  Carefully crafted globes, things of glass settled into bronze and gold and silver, fanned all of the water's edges that were visible from the platform of the Lady's Moon. There were other platforms, of course; some grander, some wider, some more brilliantly lit; listen, and one could hear the mournful play of samisen across the silence of night sky: The Tyr'agar was in session beneath the Lady's open face.

  But the Widan Sendari—born par di'Marano and elevated into the rootless, history-less di'Sendari—chose to take his ease, if such a pained and dark contemplation could be called ease, in isolation. And because he was the Tyr'agar's closest adviser, his request was granted quietly and without comment from any man save Cortano di'Alexes. The Sword's Edge drove them all, and the days had sharpened, not blunted, his tongue.

  The masks of the Shining Court remained a mystery, impenetrable and foreign. Mikalis di'Arretta had been introduced to the masks, but he had been forbidden to ask questions of their origin. Cortano merely said, "We wish your studies to be uninfluenced by our own work to date." It was, as far as areas of magical study went, the most appropriate course of action, and Mikalis di'Arretta did not blink twice. He accepted Cortano's edict as both the compliment and the precaution they would have otherwise been.

  But the man was no fool.

  It was Cortano's weakness and his strength: he could not abide fools. Sendari himself was far, far more tolerant—but Sendari had no desire to be the Sword's Edge, no desire to wield it. He gathered those young men who sought knowledge and answers that were not in and of themselves a road to power, and he protected them as he could from the scouring of the desert winds Cortano used to temper them.

  "Who made these masks, Sendari?"

  The question hung in the air, above the cool lap of water against artful stone, as if they were a companion. He desired privacy.

  "I do not know." It had the advantage of being the truth, this profession of ignorance.

  Mikalis took his silence, wrapped himself in it, and stared at the masks that had been laid out in the most private of Cortano's work spaces. "Does the Sword's Edge?"

  "No. Do you—do you know what they are meant to do?"

  "I? No." Mikalis' answer was not devoid of frustrated pride. Sendari was almost unique in that. His desire to know, and his pride in knowledge, were separate strands of the whole cloth; one or the other could be picked up or set aside as occasion demanded. "But I fear that you—or the Sword's Edge—have information that, far from influencing results, will give them."

  Silence, then.

  "Cortano will tell me nothing."

  "It is Cortano's… assignment. I am, in this task—"

  "As in all tasks, Sendari?"

  "In this task," Sendari had continued sm
oothly and without pause, "his Designate."

  "Why did he choose me to second you?"

  "He did not choose you to second me. He chose you—"

  "It was your idea, wasn't it?"

  Lord's sight, the man was no fool.

  "These masks—are they Voyani?"

  "I have said, and if you desire it, you may ascertain the truth of the words in an appropriate manner, that I do not know their manufacture. I am ill-used to being called a liar, no matter how delicate the accusation."

  Mikalis was powerful, but his power was in his knowledge; he had mastered fire, and some movement of air, but his strength was the deep earth, and the earth calling was a slow, steady magic. He bowed. "I… apologize for my intemperate remark." It galled him to say it.

  "No apology is necessary," Sendari had replied. "The remark itself was not intemperate. And my offer stands."

  "It is thoughtful, but I believe you. You do not know." He lifted a mask. "Nor do I. But I will say this, and I will say it to you, because you are adept with words, Sendari, and I am not. Under no circumstance are these masks to be worn on the night of the Festival Moon."

  Quickening, then, of heart, of breath. "You know their purpose."

  "No. And," Mikalis added, offering a rare smile, "I grant you the same permission that you grant me: You may ascertain the truth of the words I speak in an appropriate fashion if you so desire.

  "I do not know their purpose. But bound into it is something of a night that is not the Lady's. I fear it, and I fear very little that I do not understand."

  He had stiffened; he stiffened now. The wind was brisk and chill, as cold as wind ever got when it touched these waters. "You sense night in them? I have sensed nothing, Mikalis; I have studied ancient arts, and I am as familiar as any of the Sword but yourself with the undertakings of the Voyani craft. If there is magic there, it does not, it cannot speak to me." His frustration showed; he could not contain it, and did not try. Mikalis would understand it.

  Mikalis was quiet; Sendari knew him well enough to understand the expression. He was weighing words, weighting them, attempting to understand the role of the man who would hear whatever it was he chose to speak—and more, would hear what he did not.

  "Sendari," he said at last, "I do not know what game is being played, and if I knew it—if I knew it—I might have a better answer to give you. But it is clear to me now that knowledge is not an advantage in this particular game. The Sword's Edge has been sharpened almost to killing these past days, and once or twice I have heard rumors of Widan who do not survive seconding his knowledge when the knowledge itself serves a… political purpose."

  He had bowed then.

  Sendari had returned the bow.

  "I will continue my studies for at least three days," Mikalis continued, neutrality seeping into his voice. "Three days, and then I will tender my report to the Sword's Edge. I would appreciate it if—"

  "Of course. This is a discussion between colleagues; it serves the purpose of honing and sharpening thought, no more. I look forward to your report, Mikalis."

  That, of course, they both knew was a lie. They had bowed, parted as peers, and the day had dwindled into the unease of nightfall. In fifteen days, the Lady's Moon would shine upon them all. She was not as harsh a judge as the Lord, but She was subtle, and no man, not even those counted wise, could tell you what Her judgment might be.

  Her judgment. The judgment of women.

  He had not wanted to think of his conversation with Mikalis di'Arretta, but he desired such solace now, because those words held a certain safety compared to the others that came, on the lap of waves, in the dark of the Lady's hours. He attempted to hold onto the day's unease, the fear of the plans of the Shining Court— a Court that frightened him and angered him, that intrigued him and captivated him, by turns.

  But the Court was so far away to the North it might have been a child's story, replete with demons and evil magi in a world of cold, cold white that simply had no purchase in the South, and Mikalis slipped from him, washed away in the scent of night water, night plants, night air. The Festival of the Moon supplanted them both.

  Because Sendari di'Marano—ah, Lord scorch it, di'Sendari— knew what he wished to say on the night of the Festival Moon.

  Knew whom he wished to say it to.

  Diora.

  What he did not know, what he could not know, was what he hoped to hear in return: He could think of nothing that would, in the end, dim the pain of her betrayal.

  Across the lake, Alesso di'Alesso watched the same waters and heard the same music. He was almost moved to silence the players, but he had his guests and he did not wish to join them in the discourse that was almost certain to begin once the music's final notes had cleared the air.

  He had had scant word from Cortano, which ill-pleased him. There was pressure upon him to choose at least two Generals, and that pressure was slowly building.

  "You will declare war," the Tyr'agnate of Sorgassa had said, almost upon his arrival that morn. "Unless the circumstances have greatly changed. I have heard rumors that the Festival of the Moon itself is… to be different." A question, there.

  He looked up, met the friendly, convivial mask that Ser Jarrani kai di'Lorenza never removed, and nodded. The Tyr'agnate returned his nod.

  Alesso had been able to quietly put him off; the day's final ride had been a long one, and there had been some minor difficulty with the caravan the Lorenzan Tyr had traveled with; a difficulty that had resolved itself with the death of an overly zealous official and three of Alesso's cerdan. The loss did not upset him. The necessity of the loss—the embarrassment and loss of face that accrued to him personally—enraged him, but the point had been made.

  He knew what Jarrani wanted: Alef, his par, as General. And Alef was not a poor choice—but his loyalty was, and would always be, to his kai. Jarrani had seen to that.

  He deflected the request, as he deflected much else, by speaking with Ser Hectare's sharp-eyed, sharp-witted wife. Hectore was Jarrani's kai, the heir to the lands of Sorgassa, a man Alesso's junior, but not by much. He was as arrogant as the kin, dangerous; a man who would be a worthy foe.

  She, fan in hand, her posture perfect, had blushed and folded slightly like the silk and wood she carried. Pleasing, that.

  But not so pleasing as the posture, as the perfection, of the single woman he desired: Serra Diora di'Marano. The woman who had, by lilt of voice and perfect—yes, perfect—timing, caused him so very much damage.

  With such a wife, with a woman of that caliber by his side what could he not do? He smiled as he thought of her. It would take time to bring her to hand, and during that time he would have to survive her.

  The reverie itself was pleasant; the music and the Lake, the silence of his guests, the sense of the power behind the crown and the sword—these combined to give him a sense of peace.

  But it was night peace, illusive, a thing that changed shape and color in an attempt to evade the grasp. He looked up, although he could not have said why, and he saw, silhouetted by lamplight and the manifestations of the Sword of Knowledge, a single man.

  The kai el'Sol.

  Such a sight would not have been remarkable, except for this: he walked with a naked blade to the edge of the platform, and then knelt there, waiting, his head bowed. He did not sheathe his sword; it glistened, flat and new in seeming, in the moon's light.

  And in the moon's light, Alesso could see the darkening shadows of blood. He thought it new, but could not be certain.

  The young women who played their skillful duet in samisen did not pause, but by a gentle tilt of head, a movement of braided, beaded hair, they asked him their question. He was pleased, indeed, with the subtlety of it, and knew from this that they, too, must have been the choice of the Serra Teresa di'Marano, although they came from Sendari's harem. Her hand marked her brother's life.

  Alesso nodded, and the older of the two began to sing. Her voice was delicate and lovely; it did not have
the power of the Serra Diora's, and for that he was both grateful and regretful. He rose.

  The kai el'Sol rose to greet him, holding his bow to offer respect and an unspoken apology for the naked blade. It was long enough. Alesso did not bid him rise; they were, Peder and Alesso, the only two men in the Dominion of Annagar who could, by Lord's law, bear the sun in full ascendance as their banner, and one did not cast aspersion on the insignia, no matter which head bore the crown.

  "I would speak with you," the Radann kai el'Sol said, as Alesso approached.

  Alesso nodded.

  The kai el'Sol turned, and Alesso followed; the paths of the Tor Leonne, clipped and tended, unraveled before their feet, widening into something less private and less hidden than the previous Tyr'agar's home had been. Alesso wanted no hidden ways, no unseen avenues of attack. Not yet. Not now.

  When the Tor Leonne was secure, and the Lake indisputably his, he would repent, and return the trees and flowers to the care of keepers who better understood their art. Here and now, he was General.

  As General, he was surprised when the kai el'Sol led him directly to the Swordhaven. The Radann paused outside of the heavy doors that had been built into the stone monument; he bowed there, and then, with some effort, opened them. He did not speak; had not spoken a word since they had met at the Lake's edge.

  Alesso was, on occasion, good at waiting, although it did not come naturally to him. He entered the haven just slightly ahead of the kai el'Sol, and stopped there, transfixed in the open frame, the wait rewarded, in a fashion. Peder kai el'Sol gave him a moment's grace, no more; he then stepped in and began to secure the doors at their back.

  "You see," he said softly, softly, as Alesso di'Alesso stepped forward into the haven's heart.

  "Yes."

  The sword was glowing. It had taken, or so it seemed, the raiment of moonlight and starlight; had given them the sun's edge, the sun's harsh strength.