Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  The Tyr'agnate of Oerta did not bow, although he inclined his head.

  Alesso acknowledged the lack of respect with a very slight smile. It was a smile that Sendari would have recognized had he not been involved with the matter of masks; men had died on its edge. Sendari might have tried to blunt it.

  Alesso did not particularly regret his absence. "Kai Garrardi," he replied.

  * * *

  When Sendari heard the two words side by side, he stopped speaking. The sentence he had been in the middle of dangled a moment, like a display of ill-temper, before the man listening realized it would not be finished.

  He lifted a brow in curiosity, in confusion. As a craftsman from a humble clan, he was not conversant with the nuances of the court.

  "Ser Sendari?"

  In reply, the Widan lifted a hand; ruby caught sunlight the Lake had released, glimmering there. The merchant began to speak again, but his lips stopped before the words left them. A good sign.

  Sendari turned. From his vantage, he could see the profiles of the man who ruled the Dominion and the man who ruled Oerta. Their faces could have been chiseled by the same stonemason.

  There was, about the two men, a power that could not be ignored; it drew the attention, and held it. Alesso di'Alesso had taken the Lake of the Tor Leonne. Crown and Sword were symbols—but the Lake was the Tyr's heart. He held it.

  Eduardo di'Garrardi held Oerta. That in itself made him notable; he was one of the four Tyr'agnati. What made him remarkable was the fact that he had taken the Lord's title at the last Festival of the Sun, killing several of his opponents so that he might win his way to the side of the Lord's Consort. That he wanted her was not in question. Eduardo di'Garrardi's passions were ill-concealed, and once revealed, they were followed. Had he not sold an entire village, and more, for the purchase of a single stallion? Sword's Blood.

  But it was acknowledged that Sword's Blood had no peer. It had been acknowledged that the Serra Diora di'Marano likewise had no peer. Had his rival been any man other than Alesso, there would have been no question of the outcome.

  It comes, Sendari thought bleakly. He had watched and waited, thinking Eduardo kai di'Garrardi far more patient than his reputation implied. Thinking Alesso di'Marente more of a fool.

  And thinking that, no matter what, his daughter, his treacherous, beautiful daughter, would be one man's downfall and the other's prize. He did not want her to go to Eduardo for her own sake, although Eduardo was not so foolish a man to claim such a prize and destroy it. But he did not want Alesso to win her either, for although Sendari bore none of Diora's cursed gift, he could hear the death in her voice.

  For Alesso.

  For Cortano.

  For himself.

  Alesso and Eduardo were both the Lord's men.

  They had been allies, but in six months that alliance had become something dangerously close to a sword dance. No one doubted that they would see the end of it—the only question was in what circumstances. Armies had been gathered for less.

  For a woman.

  For his daughter.

  He had not thought of her mother for months. Alora. She had given him no sons, and for that lack alone he might have replaced her without fear had he been a different man. Could he criticize either Eduardo or Alesso? He had almost given up his destiny— he had given up his power—for her sake, merely because she had asked it.

  And in return she had given him a daughter, and that daughter had grown thorns, like all roses do: She had become the Flower of the Dominion. The Lily. The wife of the ill-fated heir. He had adored her at birth; he had adored her when she became wife, then widow. He had adored her until the moment she spoke with Teresa's cursed gift, to wound them all, in the hearing of every clansman of import in the Dominion who had not yet decided against them.

  Ah, she had shown herself to be his daughter, then; to be Teresa's niece. Alora's ferocity had never turned to treachery. He had thought to kill her, but the rage had guttered. The pain had not. Now he thought to see her die.

  He had done so much to prevent that.

  A lesson, he thought bleakly. What was love in the end but foolishness and loss? He had learned this lesson once, but obviously, demonstrably, he had taken so little out of it that he would be forced to learn it again

  Diora.

  "Ser Sendari?" the maskmaker said, touching his sleeve.

  He pulled away immediately, drawing himself up to his full height—which was considerable, but not obvious until he so chose.

  "The Tyr'agar asked you a question."

  And how much easier it would be to finally, finally, have an end to it. To have nothing left to lose but the game itself. The pause between question and answer would mean much to the watching court. What was infinitely worse was the fact that he had not heard the question. He bowed to Alesso, catching his eye before he fell into the proper posture.

  "The request," the Tyr' agnate said, breaking the silence with his usual intemperate tone, "is not unreasonable. I am a Tyr; she is the daughter you have promised me as a bride. But you have been… elusive, Ser Sendari; too often my messages find no one to receive them. My apologies," he added, with brittle insincerity, "for bringing this matter to the Tyr'agar."

  "My apologies, Tyr'agnate," Ser Sendari replied immediately, and far more gracefully than Eduardo's sullen temper warranted, "for being unavailable. I am, as you have no doubt heard, fond of my daughter. But I have undertaken the responsibility of counselor to the Tyr'agar at a time of great changes; his fate has taken precedence over hers."

  "Indeed."

  Sendari had seen ice form. The experience was rare enough that he remembered it clearly; he had, after all, sought it out. But he might have saved himself the time and his father's expense; he watched it again on the living countenance of the ruler of Oerta.

  "Then let me trouble you no longer with such a petty request. Tend to your matters of state. I will guard my own interests."

  Clumsily said. Sendari started to bow, but Eduardo had turned away from him, both figuratively and literally.

  "Tyr'agar," the Tyr'agnate said, drawing attention as fire did a moth's, "I wish two things."

  The Tyr'agar was absolutely silent.

  "First: I will see my intended. She is her father's daughter, but she is—it is rumored—under the guard of your Tyran. A House such as Marano can ill afford guards of such caliber, and as she is the Flower of the Dominion, I find myself taking no offense at this liberty." Eduardo waited. He waited in vain. After a moment he continued. "Second: I will have this business finished before the end of the Festival of the Moon. The Serra Diora di'Marano will be en'Garrardi when the sun sets on the first Lord's day."

  Sendari bowed his head.

  The first Lord's day was to be the day that Alesso di'Alesso finally declared his intent: War upon the Northern Empire. Such a war had not, of course, been declared, but the Tyr's intent was an open secret. It would have to be: the armies of Raverra were mobilizing on the Northern border of the Terrean; they faced Mancorvo.

  The armies of Oerta had been promised for that day.

  Eduardo, you are a fool. But an intelligent fool; a cunning one. The threat had been made, the matter decided. Alesso could not move North without the Oertan armies. With Eduardo as enemy, rather than ally, he could not afford to divest the heartlands of their protection. He could gamble on the Tyr'agnate of Sorgassa, but if he left Jarrani's men behind, he would not have the power to defeat both Lamberto and Callesta. Not even with the aid of the Kialli.

  Well-played, Tyr'agnate.

  The Tyr'agar rose, divesting himself of the trappings—the trap—of the chair.

  "And if she is not?"

  The silk of Sendari's robe was, of a sudden, as heavy as stone and earth. But his posture was perfect, his face more of a mask than the confused, common craftsman standing before him could conceive. Alesso, no.

  Two hands touched sword hilts. Eight hands followed. Tyr and Tyran faced each other across th
e length of a hall littered with spectators, none of whom were foolish enough to stand between these two men.

  "Your pardon, Tyr'agar," Ser Sendari heard himself saying. Having spoken, his choice was made, but his voice did not please him; he modulated it. "But the Tyr'agnate's request is my concern." Eduardo did not turn to him; to his chagrin, although not to his great surprise, neither did Alesso. "I will arrange, as I can, to fulfill my obligations. Tyr'agnate," he said, bowing as low as he might without actually falling to his knees, "I had hoped to spare myself this. You must understand that I come poorly prepared for the ceremony a man of your station requires. I had hoped to acquit my family in a fashion suited to your rank, and I find myself unable to support that at this time."

  Alesso said nothing.

  "The fashion of her arrival is not of import, Ser Sendari." Eduardo's words were cool.

  "One does not insult the station of Tyr without reason," Ser Sendari countered. He was aware of what this would cost him. "But my fortunes will be made with the war. I had intended to honor your request, and my agreement, appropriately after our victory." Oh, yes, he was aware of what it would cost him: the tongues of the court were already wagging at his open humiliation. He had exposed his throat as a dog did, declaring himself the weaker.

  But better that, better that than the war that was almost declared. He held his breath, his face white with effort.

  And Eduardo kai di'Garrardi turned, slowly. Reluctantly. "Very well," he said softly. "Had I realized your… situation, I would have been less intemperate. Your daughter could arrive by Voyani caravan and be exulted within my home, Ser Sendari. She would make humble any dwelling—as she did this one.

  "I would see her, if that is acceptable to you."

  "Of course," Sendari replied.

  "We may discuss, privately, the matter of appropriate arrangements."

  "Of course."

  The Tyr'agnate raised a hand. It was the hand that had rested upon the hilt of his sword. His Tyran did likewise so quickly the two motions—master and guards'—seemed continuous. "Tyr'agar," he said, and his bow was almost perfect.

  To Sendari's great regret, Alesso di'Alesso did not speak a word.

  Alesso was angry. Sendari expected no less.

  When the two men met at the Lake's side, they offered each other the stiffness of perfectly correct greetings, although there were no Tyran, no high clansmen, to witness them. Formality, as any weapon, could be used to either defend or wound.

  Sendari cast his spells to protect their conversation from being heard by all but the most powerful of listeners and wondered, as he did so, if there would even be a conversation. There was a quality to Alesso's silence that he had only rarely witnessed; it was not, it could not be broken by any but Alesso himself.

  But he had sacrificed his dignity for the sake of Alesso's war. He spoke.

  "The maskmaker confirmed what Mikalis di'Arretta suspected. Ground or broken bone must have been blended with the Kialli clays used to construct the masks' faces. He has changed the composition of the clay, but has retained the weight and shape of the whole. He, and his sons, believe they can create replacements for the masks so generously donated by the Shining Court, but he is not confident that he can replace them all without aid.

  He has asked permission to seek out those with similar craft and skill."

  Alesso shrugged.

  "Even so, he feels there is some chance that you will need to use some of the masks that came from the Court if you wish to preserve the numbers. He therefore asks which of the four styles of mask you would like him to concentrate on first. I took the liberty of telling him to start with the most expensive and work his way down."

  "Which pleased him, no doubt."

  "No doubt."

  Containing his growing irritation, Sendari said softly, "There are already rumors in the streets of the Tor about the Lady's Consort. It works against us, Alesso. I believe that while we disperse the masks—as we were ordered to do—we may also disperse the rumors."

  Alesso stood with his hands behind his back. His profile had not shifted once; it faced into the wind that blew across the Lake.

  The Widan ceased to speak; he listened. Heard the wind's voice. War was waiting.

  "Alesso, I had no choice," he said. "You of all men should appreciate this. War is your game."

  "We already discussed this," Alesso said softly, speaking at last, his gaze upon the waters of the Lake. "We agreed. Your daughter's role in this war was decided the moment she lifted the Sun Sword from the lake's waters and showed it, newly gleaming, to the clansmen."

  "Garrardi made clear he abided by no such decision."

  "So it would seem."

  "Alesso—"

  "This will cost us, old friend."

  "Will it cost us more," Sendari replied, his eyes narrowing at the way the words "old friend" took on an edge and a sharpness that made of them an attack, "than losing Garrardi's army? At best," he added. "At worst, the army would be pillaging the Tor Leonne. We would have to travel with Diora to protect her. Is that what you want? To fight rearguard action against—"

  "I understand war."

  "Yes. And you understand politics. You understand power. What you chose to do today is therefore deliberate, rather than the unfortunate result of youthful ignorance."

  "You go too far, old friend."

  "Tell me, then, Tyr'agar, what you would have had me do." -Silence.

  Alesso di'Alesso, Tyr'agar of the Dominion of Annagar, did not condescend to answer.

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  12th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Evereve

  They stood at a door that Jewel had never seen before. It was twice as tall as Avandar, with a face smooth as glass and broken only by hinges to one side. She couldn't tell what the door was made of: wood, stone, steel. It looked like a thing of shadow, and it glowed very, very faintly. There were no handles, no rings, no knobs, no visible means of entry or exit; there were no windows at which watchful sentries might peer out to ascertain the identity of visitors.

  Which made sense; she didn't expect he got much in the way of visitor traffic in these parts.

  "Not now," he said, frowning at the door's smooth face. "But you would have been surprised had you been here when the citadel was first wrested from the mountain fastness."

  "What exactly are you doing?"

  "I'm finding," he said, with a slight gritting of teeth just in case his annoyance wasn't obvious, "my reflection."

  "And that's going to help us?"

  "Only if you consider walking through the door alive helpful."

  She took the hint. Shut up, although it wasn't easy. The time passed; she loss track of how much as her eyes were drawn—for no reason she could think of—to the door. Watching Meralonne cast his spells was a special entertainment; he was alive with a glow of shifting colors and his magic, netlike, sparkled with power's confinement. She liked to guess the nature of the spell before the spell itself was cast. With Avandar, it was never so simple; she was usually involved with something like survival when he was casting his spell. And at the moment, he appeared to be doing nothing but grimacing, which was only entertaining for the first five minutes. "Avandar?"

  "Yes?"

  "Why does the door have no color?"

  "No color?" He turned, the edge of his jaw more pronounced, the curve of his fingers that flick of muscles away from being a fist.

  "I'm pretty sure that's what I said." It had no color the way shadow had none, except shadow was usually a soft shade of black, or a shade of whatever color it happened to be hiding from light. She frowned. Stepped forward slightly. "It's—it's like glass," she said. "No, it's like water. Flat water. Still water. I can see—"

  "Enough, Jewel. Stand aside."

  But she couldn't. Out of the nothing that was framed by the shape of a door, she saw darkness, and out of that darkness, surfacing slowly, eyes closed, lips half-parted, arms bent at the elbow and palms
face out, was—herself.

  Herself leached of color, but not form.

  She opened her eyes.

  Caught by herself, frozen by the hardening reality of skin that had seen a bit too much sun, of hair that was becoming a flyaway wild brown, of eyes that were becoming large-pupiled and dark-irised, Jewel ATerafin had the presence of mind to utter a single word.

  "Avandar—"

  The woman who wasn't her image, and who was, reached out, arms snapping with sudden energy, face twisting into an expression of glee and malice that Jewel prayed had never crossed her own face.

  Her fingers, so like Jewel's own that Jewel could no longer tell them apart, were point-to-point with the fingers that Jewel hadn't realized she'd raised.

  The other Jewel opened her mouth, lips moving slowly, skin stretching and releasing around syllables. Mine. Jewel's eyelids were extraordinarily heavy. She struggled with their weight; seer-born or no, she would have known it was a bad idea to sleep here.

  The other image, the other her, let her fingertips drop; hands that were completely foreign in their familiarity reached up, up, caressed her cheeks. She opened her mouth. Jewel knew what she would say.

  Funny thing, though. She spoke with Avandar's voice.

  "Jewel!"

  Coruscating blue light traveled down the length of Jewel's arms.

  Both of them. They screamed, and as they did, their voices, inseparable to start, slid into a harmony of pain and complexity, and from there into a discordant wail, a single voice.

  "I trust," Avandar Gallais said, in the silence that followed, his voice inexplicably close to her ear, one arm behind her back, the other beneath the crook of her knees, "you will listen in future."

  "No, you don't," she said.

  Her wrist was burning. She lifted her arm, and saw it for fact: the cuff of her shirt had been split and blackened, and the angry red mark on her arm was glowing with heat.

  He said nothing. But when he turned back to the door, he did not set her down, and she drifted into uneasy sleep waiting— with a certain smug defiance—for his arms to give beneath her weight.