Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  When she woke, she discovered that Avandar Gallais did not give. She opened her eyes and saw two things: the underside of his chin, exposed, as his gaze went out and slightly up, and, above him, a crown of stars, pale and luminescent against the perfect darkness.

  She couldn't have said why, but she turned her face into his chest and cried quietly, forcing her body into that peculiar stiffness that was supposed to pass for calm. Gods, she was tired, to cry like this, to even be able to cry like this. She was going to be a woman of power; she had promised The Terafin—Amarais, standing like a slender dagger, her eyes incapable of doing what Jewel's were doing right now—no less. She was no idiot; she knew the truth, knew it better than she knew how to do anything but breathe. Show no weakness.

  Amarais had never done her the disservice of putting that dictum into words. Avandar had. All of the time. When she lost her temper. When she was afraid. When she laughed out loud. When, in short, she expressed anything to anyone. She learned to keep her self to herself whenever she was forced to suffer the services of her domicis. But now, just now… She was tired. She wanted her home, nest of political vipers notwithstanding.

  He said nothing at all. He did not even acknowledge the fact that she was awake.

  She had never thought him capable of kindness.

  "Where are we?" she asked, when they had stopped for the day and Avandar had chosen some crevice in between huge formations of slightly worn stone as a reasonable place to eat and sleep. She had taken to the ground as if walking were third nature and not the second that it usually was to uninjured adults; he prudently failed to offer comment or criticism.

  He was silent for some minutes as he worked, calling magic for the fire that seemed both necessary and profane beneath the vastness of the night sky. He worked with care; she saw the lines of his power come up through his skin as if that skin were a porous layer of something insignificant beneath which only power resided. She had seen him use magic before, and he had never looked like this.

  Her silence must have been unusual—and if she were painfully honest, it was—because he stopped what he was doing and looked up at her. Up. She was standing above him, but she had rarely felt so much smaller in comparison.

  His eyes were the color of night sky made liquid, and like the power that now called on flame from the elemental wilderness, the night beneath the sheen of iris and pupil seemed eternal. Endless.

  "What do you see?" he asked her quietly. Almost every word he had spoken since she had woken was quiet. It made her nervous.

  Almost any act of kindness did; she was well enough versed in the arts political that she knew kindness for the facade it was. Not true, she told herself, the dialogue between youth and adulthood a continuous bickering match. There's Teller and Finch.

  But they don't have any power.

  They don't have any political power. It's not the same thing.

  Wind blew, carrying the aroma of roses, thick and heavy in the fullness of bloom. But everywhere she looked there was rock. She'd never much liked roses; the thorns had cut her several times as an unwary child, and when she looked at them now, those thorns were all she saw; the blossoms, fragrant and softer than skin, were an incidental, like hat or clothing; something easily shed.

  "ATerafin?"

  "I smell roses," she said without thinking.

  His frown was instant, a deepening of the lines around mouth, a narrowing of eyes.

  "Where are we?"

  He rose. "We are in the Stone Deepings. Under the mountains."

  "We can't be under the mountains," she replied, turning her face to the night sky, the glorious, perfectly clear Northern sky. "There," she lifted a hand. "Can't you see it? Fabril's Forge."

  "I see rock," he said quietly, although his eyes didn't leave her face. "I see darkness and shadow. The light I carry here," he held out a magestone that was an unusual lavender, "and here," he touched his eyes, "is the light we are navigating the path by."

  "But the path," she looked to the North—she was certain it must be North, she knew the constellations so well, "is clear." The crevice they walked in was made of rock as high as the eye could see from one side to another, but it was wide and flat, and she saw no hint of the heavy snows that plagued the mountains and made passage through the Menorans so treacherous at the wrong time of year.

  "Jewel," he said, and she heard the power he put into her name as clearly as she had seen it beneath the thin layer of his skin, "you are seer-born. If I could, I would blindfold you and have you walk in utter darkness, but here in the Deepings, I do not think anything as simple as a blindfold would spare you vision. Let me lead. No matter what you see, no matter what you hear— and you will hear much, I think—do as I tell you."

  His voice was a stranger's voice. It was deeper than Avandar's, fuller, richer; the words were chosen with care, and not in anger.

  "You've been here before."

  "Yes, of course. I came here to find the place that would become my citadel." He knelt again, cloth bending at knee and elbow as he spoke to the fire in a voice that crackled like kindling being consumed. She had never heard the magical words spoken so… clearly.

  She repeated them.

  His eyes widened. His power flared as the fire leaped in jagged blades of flame: orange, yellow, white, and blue. He spoke, words a crackle now, power no longer interior illumination but harsh, red light. His words girdled the flame, constricting it. Forcing it into the shape and the utility of insignificance: campfire.

  Her mouth hung open, as if the fire had come from her throat and not the ground upon which Avandar had been so delicately working. Fire had singed his flesh. She knew it without asking, the scent was so sudden, so strong.

  He spoke in a language she didn't understand.

  "No one else survived it," she said softly.

  He tended his burn in silence, taking his dagger and applying it cleanly to the edge of the robe he wore. "In the bag," he said, "there is a salve. Please."

  She did as he bid automatically, searching through the jars until she found one that contained a thick unguent consistent with treating burns. But her attention was trapped by fire, by the shadows fire cast. People's shadows.

  "They died on this path."

  He took the jar from her pale hand. "Yes," he told her quietly, as he coated the ugly patch of skin, "they died on this path."

  "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "No."

  "Good. I don't either."

  His smile was grim. "There are far worse than ghosts to be found on this path, and I fear we will find them all. But if it is in my power to protect you, I will protect you." He was silent for a time. When he spoke, it was grudging, and the very nature of the reluctance made her smile. "And he protects you, in a fashion."

  She didn't ask who he meant; she knew.

  The Winter King.

  13th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Tor Leonne

  Serra Fiona en'Marano seldom visited the outer reaches of the harem. The harem's heart was her demesne, and if she did not quite rule it, she was nonetheless accorded a reasonable measure of power and respect by the women who jointly did. Her plaintive warblings to Sendari aside, this had been a life in which she'd found a certain satisfaction. It was better than being unmarried, as Serra Teresa was; better than having no home of one's own. But as she listened to the words of a pale Alana en'Marano, she knew that that comfort was coming to a close.

  "Alaya," she said softly.

  The seraf, like shadow but far more pleasing, was at her side at once. She held brush and comb in her perfectly still hands as she knelt at the feet of her Serra.

  "Yes, the jade comb. And the green sari, the one edged in white and gold. But quickly, child," she added, although Alaya was fast outgrowing that endearment. She rose, and Alana helped her unwind the informal silks of her private chambers. The deep blue, unedged and unembroidered, surrounded her feet in folds of soft warmth; serafs would take it, clean it, and fold it neatly for her
later use. "Alana, have you told the others?"

  "They know," Alana replied, evasive as she often was in matters concerning the other wives. It had offended Fiona once; now it was merely fact. She had survived them; they had survived her. Time built different bonds than affection, but it bound nonetheless.

  "Good. I will speak with Diora."

  "Thank you, Fiona."

  She missed the lilies.

  Her father's wives, when they could, brought her the thick, white blossoms from the Lake's edge—but they were not so perfect out of their element; they were a beauty with no context.

  Still, she had not yet asked Alana or Illia to stop their infrequent gift-giving; she could hear, in their voices, that they found relief in the ability to provide her what they considered to be some small comfort. They were allowed so little, otherwise. She had been forbidden their company, except on those rare occasions when they were granted permission—by her father directly—to bring her one of the two daily meals she was allowed.

  She thought she might have lived without food, although she knew it to be a pensive fancy.

  Still, lilies, wives, fathers—these were things she had been deprived of before. And perhaps her father, in his great anger— and it was as great an anger as he had ever felt toward her— understood this. Perhaps he understood, finally, the cost of his treachery. There was only one loss—and it a minor one, but it was all that was left—that he could inflict upon her.

  He had destroyed her samisen and her harp.

  Standing there, in the middle of this room, he had had them brought; had taken them in his shaking hands. He had spoken little; a word or two that was not, and would never be, strong enough to bridge the enormity of the silence between them. And then he had called the Widan's fire.

  If she closed her eyes, she could hear the snapping of strings, the sudden harsh crack of wood. The fires were not extended; that was not her father's gift. No, they were sharp and sudden, and they left once their work had been done.

  Throughout it, she showed Ser Sendari di'Sendari all she was willing to show: the absolute serenity of her expression.

  Father, she thought, then and now, I know how to wait.

  Her hands, folded in her lap just so, had not even shaken. She had endured much worse than this.

  When she heard the screens slide open, she slipped into that deferential posture that gave nothing away. Her knees touched the plain mats, and in the lap that formed, she placed her hands, one over the other. She straightened her shoulders, and let her chin dip forward so that she might see the floor more clearly than the screens.

  But she lifted her head again when she heard the Serra Fiona's voice.

  "Diora."

  "Serra Fiona?"

  "I've come," she said, as Alaya closed the screens at her back, "to give you news." She smiled brightly, but there was a hesitancy to the whole of her expression that spoke far more than her presence did. Diora waited.

  "Your father has arranged for a visitor. For you," she added hastily.

  "Serra Fiona, I—"

  "It is the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi. He—he has demanded the right to see you, and your father has granted it."

  "I have seen the kai Garrardi before this. We have spoken."

  "Yes. But not as his intended."

  No, not that. As a captive; as a prisoner; as an enemy that still had the power to fascinate. Diora's smile was perfect.

  Fiona's became so. "Forgive me, Diora." Her voice gave away what her expression no longer would. Fear. Concern. Envy. Pity. It was a human voice.

  Had she ever listened to voice and ignored the nuances of its power, the musicality of its cadence, the roughness, the depth of its feeling? Yes. Of course, yes. She was certain that she would never do so again. That had been the most humbling truth about captivity. She wanted Fiona to continue to speak, and she almost despised herself for it.

  "I should let them tell you, Diora. But I know it won't make any difference; you won't give anything away.

  "Eduardo di'Garrardi has demanded the rights that your father granted him at the Festival of the Sun. Your father has acceded, although if I am any judge of character, it is at the expense of the General's anger.

  "You are to be married to the Tyr'agnate of Oerta before the sun falls on the Lord's first day."

  * * *

  There was about the Serra Diora di'Marano a quality of perfection that nothing marred; he would have recognized her in any setting, and in any style of dress. As the Lord's Consort, certainly. And as the lowest of the Lady's serafs as well.

  The former, he had seen with his own eyes, and the latter he saw now: The Serra Diora di'Marano, shorn of all conceit, knelt before him as gracefully, as gravely, as the most perfectly trained of serafs. Her sari was so simple, in fact, the serafs of the highborn would have escaped its use. She had no combs, and wore only the simplest of rings—something the eye could pass over and forget instantly.

  But her hair was long and perfect in its drape across bent back, and her face was the same face—measured, neutral, perfect in shape, in size—that he had, once seen, desired.

  It was a desire which had been rebuked.

  Worse, her father had chosen to accept the suit of the Tyr'agar's heir. He remembered her wedding night. There was almost nothing he would not do to rid himself of that memory.

  "Serra Diora," he said, bowing formally.

  She did not look up; her posture, delicate and perfect, made a shield of submission. He knew her well enough to understand that no wilting shyness marred the strength of her spirit; beneath all trappings she was as wild, as willful, as Sword's Blood. But she was more cunning.

  "Ser Sendari," he said quietly, "I understand your desire to hide your daughter, but your attempt to transform her into a common seraf is less than laudable. She is not to be the wife of a common clansman; she is to be my wife, and I expect her to be attired in a manner appropriate to that station."

  "She is not yet your wife." The Widan's voice was mild; his expression was as neutral as his daughter's. There was no doubt in the Tyr'agnate's mind that the daughter favored the father in intellect. He did not recall ever seeing Sendari's first wife—he knew, as they all did, that she was dead—which meant that she could not favor the wife in looks. There were some pairings that were fortuitous.

  "She is not yet my wife, no. But as she will be—and soon, soon enough—I… request… that you respect my wishes. If money is the sole reason you have chosen to hide your daughter in every possible way, let me alleviate it for you." He removed a large bag from the folds of his robe and had the privilege of seeing Ser Sendari's shuttered face stiffen into something hard enough that it might be steel.

  It amused him to drop the money squarely in front of the Serra Diora's bent form.

  "Serra Diora," he said softly, the two words a command. She heard it; she lifted her head.

  He knelt before her, reaching out with his ungloved hand. "I have been patient," he said softly. "I have been as patient as any man can be." His hand hovered an inch away from her cheek.

  She pulled back.

  He caught her chin in that hand; caught her hair, the back of her head, with the other. She had too much dignity to struggle. "Do you understand?" he said softly, too softly for any hearing but hers. "I have waited since the evening that you were given to the kai in waiting. Ser Illara kai di'Leonne. I have waited patiently since he made the mistake of telling me a single glimpse of you is all I would ever have.

  "And I remember that glimpse," he added; her face was very close to his now, her lips ever so slightly parted, her eyes involuntarily wide. "There is not a night that has passed since then when I have not thought of you.

  "I would not treat you so harshly; I would not offer to others what they have no power to take for themselves." His hand tightened in her hair; she could not look away. The most escape the grip afforded her was the simple expedient of closing her eyes. She did not disappoint him; if there was fear in her—and
there was; he could smell it—she did not allow it to rule her actions.

  "You have already refused me once, little Serra. But there will be no General to intervene on your behalf—and no interfering kai el'Sol. You will be my wife in a few long days.

  "Do you understand what this means? You will be my wife. You will make my harem. You will bear my children. And you will never play games of refusal with me again."

  Before she could answer—and he suspected that she would not, for she was so finely mannered, so perfectly graceful—he brought his lips to hers, holding back just that extra second so that he might feel her draw a sharp, short breath.

  She did.

  He cut it off with his mouth, pulling her to him with handfuls of hair so soft it might have been the folds of silk unwinding. Her hands came up; she rested them against his chest.

  He might have laughed had he not been otherwise occupied; she pushed. She pushed him back, her palms flat, her arms as weak as any woman's.

  He had waited so long he was not yet—not quite—willing to be put off; he kissed her more fiercely, bruising her lips, wanting to bruise them so that he might see them at their fullest when at last he chose to withdraw.

  If he chose. He closed his eyes. This was as close as he had ever come to the Serra Diora di'Marano. He wanted, suddenly, to be a little closer; to touch a little more; his hand slid down from her chin to stroke the length of her throat, the nape of her neck, the perfection of her pale, pale skin.

  Not enough. Never enough.

  Her tongue fluttered against his like a trapped butterfly against the walls that confined it; he was gentle, but he was unyielding. She would come to understand and desire what he offered her. She had never desired the kai Leonne.

  His hands brushed silk, folds of silk. Of a sudden, he wanted to remove it. Her eyes widened; this close to her face, he could not miss it.

  The hands that had been open palmed became fists—but she did not strike him; did not otherwise fight.

  Nor did she need to.

  The fire did.

  The fire was his strength. Of the Widan's many spells, it was the first to have come to him. He could remember few moments as clearly as this: The lighting of the first candle.