Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

He sat by the Lake's edge, upon the Pavilion of the Dawn, the cushions beneath him a scattered fan of colors that matched the grace of dawn's light; about him, nattering like cast-off harem wives, the peripheral members of the court he had risked all to rule.

  They, like the cushions beneath him, were brilliant in their display. Cool, calm, arrogant, they had the demeanor of men who knew they lacked power, but desired it nonetheless. Such men as these did not define the Tyr, but they bolstered him, for by their sycophantic behavior, they showed others where true power lay.

  The waters of the Tor Leonne were legend. They were also a weapon. At the Radann kai el'Sol's suggestion, he had begun to serve the water to all of his guests, great and small. Only one guest had refused to drink. Not even the ashes of his clothing remained, and the Shining Court had one less spy in the Annagarian court. Satisfying, that; so little else was.

  Other information had filtered in, where the masks had proved elusive. The most telling, of course, was this: No other city had been so gifted with the work of Kialli craftsmen. The masks had come to the Tor alone.

  There were two possible reasons to account for this lack. The first, and least likely, was that the distribution of such masks required the cooperation of the Tyr or Tor who ruled the city, and the Kialli could be certain of no such cooperation.

  The second, and more likely, was that the Tor Leonne itself was significant.

  A seraf appeared, noticeable as the flickering of a shadow that the light couldn't quite cast, and refilled his goblet. He allowed this, but lifted a hand when the seraf offered—by gesture alone—the wide, colorful fans that were used to add movement to the stillness of humid air. The serafs disappeared, reappearing at the side of the dignitaries who had chosen to grace the pavilion. Had any of them been tolerable, Alesso would not have sought the special isolation that comes only within a crowd.

  "There are no women here." The words drifted to him. Had another man spoken them, he would have been certain they were meant to be heard. This, this was just laziness, stupidity, or the very fine wine that was imbibed freely by men whose means might otherwise have forced them to abstinence.

  No women. No grave and graceful presence, none of the cool, soft beauty that were the marks of a great man's harem. I have had no time, he thought, rehearsing the argument. It was a poor rehearsal, but men in power did not require perfection in such minor matters. Less minor was the fact that he had been offered concubines by any of the great clans, and had demurred.

  He waited, he told them, for a wife who could see to the details of such a portion of his life; war was the only mistress he chose to dally with at the moment.

  Had it amused the offerers? Jarrani kai di'Lorenza, certainly. His kai, Hectore, certainly not. Perhaps they knew the wife he waited on. And he did not wish to think of that here; war was the more comfortable of the two.

  He therefore turned back to war, to the waters of the Lake itself. Because the Kialli defined arrogance, and they had no use for human titles, human geography. They would therefore not consider the Tor Leonne significant because it was the seat of power in the Dominion; that title counted for far too little.

  No; there was only one thing of significance in the Tor, but that one thing made the Tor unique.

  They chose my city, he thought, his gaze absorbed by the beauty of light broken by water, its harshness softened only by the round, white flowers of the lilies that seemed to have, and know, no season.

  Of course.

  He rose; at once, a dozen men rose as well; they cast unpleasant shadows against exposed wood grain and silk. "Gentlemen," he said softly. "The Lord's face has changed; 1 am called. Please continue without me; I will find you by the Lake at the platform of the Lord." He did not bow; it was not required, and the gesture no longer came naturally to him. So soon, he had excised it from his life.

  He sought the man whose friendship—inexplicable and unquestioned—had seen him from captaincy to Tyr. He found him. There was really only one place that could contain him at the moment.

  But the Sword of Knowledge had drawn blood in the past few days; Sendari's face looked as if it had never been graced by sun's light. His back was bent; his knees and feet were pressed into the carefully cultivated moss that adorned the rock gardens. He cast a long shadow; in it, another man toiled at his side, mixing something in a small urn. Mikalis di'Arretta. The Sword's Edge was nowhere in sight.

  A warrior could not be approached by a man—any man— without being aware of his presence; even if he chose not to acknowledge the visitor, little signs of his sudden attention were evident to one who knew how to look. A slight stiffening of back, a straightening in the line of shoulder, a minute change in the tilt of chin.

  These two were not, and had never been, warriors. Not until his shadow passed over the face of the closest man did one frown and look up.

  Sendari di'Marano squinted at the sun's edge, lifting a hand to his eyes. It was not a particularly graceful movement; certainly not a powerful one. Alesso found it disturbing; he had seldom seen Sendari look so much at the mercy of age as he did at this moment.

  "You need the Lady's water," he said carelessly, speaking as one spoke not only to friend but to blood.

  "And you," Sendari replied, his eyes narrowing enough to hint at irritation, "need answers. Shall we sacrifice your needs for our own?"

  Alesso laughed. "Well put, old friend."

  If possible, Sendari's eyes narrowed further. He put a hand on Mikalis di'Arretta's shoulder; the mage started and looked up. Alesso seldom observed the Widan at work; it still surprised him that anyone could be so firmly entrenched in their study that they could not be moved without physical contact.

  It was amusing to see the Widan's eyes grow larger as he all but dropped the slender pestle in his hands. He found the proper posture quickly enough, his mortification adding to the length and depth of his bow.

  Sendari offered the gesture without the mortification—observing form for the Widan's sake, and not the Tyr'agar's. In privacy, between these two men, gestures of formality were used as rebukes. In public, not even children failed to observe protocol in the presence of their fathers, if their fathers were men of power and influence; it demeaned the father.

  "I believe," Alesso said quietly, when both men had risen, "our concentration has been too narrow."

  "Oh?"

  "We still do not understand the purpose of the masks." The question was in the words; Sendari heard it and shook his head. "But let us understand their target instead."

  Both men frowned, and the frown was similar; it lent a furrow to brow and a sudden, particular absence to expression. They glanced at each other. Glanced at the mask. Glanced at the urn. There was a delicate ceremony in the silence of their questions.

  Surprisingly enough, it was Mikalis who broke it.

  "Need there be a target?"

  Alesso frowned.

  "We are dealing with the Kialli, and if the Voyani lore is correct—if our own lore is correct—the amusement of death and confusion is a goal in and of itself."

  "If they sought merely death and confusion, they would have an easier time of it in the small villages of lesser Tors. They have chosen the Tor Leonne."

  "Indeed," Sendari said, speaking for the first time. "I would therefore add humiliation and assertion of the superiority of their power to Mikalis' goal."

  His tone of voice implied all previous discussions. "Sendari," Alesso said quietly, "seek the Lady's grace this eve."

  "Our research—"

  "Will keep."

  Silence. Then, "Have you come to aid us?"

  "No. Nor to interfere. I come to confer. If we assume that the Kialli are intelligent—"

  "Alesso—"

  "There are two things within the Tor Leonne that make it special." He waited a moment.

  Mikalis frowned.

  Sendari said, stiffly, "The Lady's Lake."

  "Yes." Alesso smiled; it was brief, but the sun's light did not extinguish it
. "And the Sun Sword."

  "Their action can have no bearing on the Sword itself." Mikalis spoke with the flat tone of absolute certainty.

  "They could destroy it."

  "They could not destroy it without aid. It was made to stand against them. The Widan, working in concert, would have trouble destroying that blade." His tone implied that they would fail for their trouble.

  "Very well, Widan. I accept the knowledge you offer." He waited. The Widan exchanged another glance.

  "The Lake," Sendari said at last.

  Mikalis lifted the mask on the mat at his feet and brought it up, clutching the chin in a half-fist of frustration. But he did not argue with the two words; once spoken, they had the weight of the self-evident.

  "The Lake is an artifact of the Lady," Mikalis added gravely, "and one of the few proofs of Her existence. They dare not even touch the water; how are they then to harm it?"

  "Bend your thought to that task," the General replied. "Because if we cannot stop the use of the masks—and it appears we will be denied that ability—we may well stop their effective use. If the water can be harmed, let us guard it."

  "Elena."

  She stiffened. She didn't need to stand or turn to know who spoke. She did neither. She had had trouble even meeting his eyes since he'd tried to steal what Margret had forbidden him.

  No, be honest, Elena. Since she'd flogged him. If she closed her eyes for longer than a blink, she could see the stretch of his back broken by leather thong and rising blood; could see where he would scar.

  Could see, if she pulled back, the shaking hand that drove the whip. It was the only hint of weakness Margret had shown, and it was one that Elena was fairly certain no one else had been close enough to catch.

  Lady, the cost of it.

  "Elena, we need to talk."

  "We need," she said, grunting as she heaved the sack up and over deceptively strong shoulders, "to feed our own."

  "That's not your job. You're the heir, now."

  "That never stopped Margret from working her fingers to the bone."

  "Margret's not Evallen."

  "Not yet, she's not," Elena snapped back, "but she's working on it."

  She took a step. Two.

  Then the bag of ground corn meal wasn't the only thing on her shoulder.

  "Nicu," she said, through clenched teeth, "remove your hand, or I'll do it for you."

  His fingers tightened, a reminder that he was the stronger of the two. She wondered who needed the reminder more: herself or Nicu. The flogging had taken something from him. She wasn't certain how desperate he was to get it back.

  But she was certain she wasn't going to be the way he did it.

  "Elena," he said, changing tactics. His hand fell away, and his voice developed that… dimple, that fold in the middle of her name that fell just short of whine or plea.

  She tightened her grip on the heavy sack and turned to face him. "What?"

  "We need to talk."

  "So talk."

  "Not—not here."

  "Nicu, you're starving our children. What do we need to talk about that can't wait until after dinner?"

  "Everything."

  She turned away. Started to walk. Remembered two things, one easy and one difficult. Easy: the fact that the sword was still in the camp. Difficult: that he was her cousin, that she had grown up with him, that once upon a time they had been closer than siblings. AU those bonds, built then, still had the power to cut when struggled against.

  She stopped struggling, wondering whether or not he'd've even tried to steal the sword back if she'd given him the time he'd been begging for.

  She stopped wondering as quickly as she could because she didn't like the answer she was getting too close to. Nicu had always been strongest of the three. And he'd always been weakest.

  "All right," she said at last. "Let me just go talk to Donatella, and I'll be back."

  "Why do you want to talk to my mother?"

  "Nicu."

  "Why?"

  "Because," she said, forcing her jaw to relax although she couldn't keep the irritation from the words, "the children have to be fed."

  It was women's work, the feeding of the children. The Matriarch—Evallen—said it was a natural extension of the fact that women had breasts. Men could be trusted for many things, but they were short on attention span and shorter on patience. The children had to be fed, or there was no Arkosa; it was one of the highest responsibilities any woman in a caravan could be given.

  Elena privately thought the Matriarch crazy; the men in her life had been far more patient—with the single notable exception of Nicu—than most of the women, and far less likely to raise their hand and lash out in annoyance. But they had also been far more indulgent and therefore more likely to be late with food or angry about the waste of it. The latter was necessary, because no matter how hungry the family was, children were peculiar creatures with odd likes and dislikes and a propensity to choose play over sustenance. They had to learn to take what they were offered when it was offered; they had to know, as they grew older—and they did that so quickly—that any food they ate was less food for the men and women who protected them from bandits, clansmen, and Voyani raiders. To waste it was a slap in the face, and worse.

  During the hungry season, men died to protect food. Because, of course, in protecting their food—and water—they were saving the lives of the children.

  You didn't throw away food. Not even as a two-year-old throwing a tantrum.

  "Elena?"

  "Donatella." Elena dropped the sack neatly in front of the older woman's bent knees. "I hate to do this, but—"

  "But I need to talk to her, Momma."

  Nicu. Voice where she least liked it: behind her back, but close enough to her ear she could feel it tickle her spine.

  "Nicu," she said, forgetting for a moment that she stood in front of his mother, "go away. I'll meet you desert-side in five minutes if I can."

  "But—"

  "If you don't, I'm going to feed the children. You decide."

  He made a big display of drawing breath, but she could only hear it; she didn't bother to turn around. She also heard the heavy tread of his feet as he dragged and stomped them across the flat brush.

  Donatella's face had taken to shadow since the flogging. She had spoken no word against the Matriarch—and she never would—but she had spoken no word to her either, and Elena knew it hurt Margret. She also knew Margret would swallow her sword before admitting it, and you talked about Margret's pain at your peril. Her business.

  The older woman rose. Her back was more bent than Elena remembered it, but her hands were just as strong. Age wouldn't deprive her of strength, although it would probably try. She reached out for Elena's hands; caught them.

  Like Margret's, these days, they were shaking.

  "I'll feed the children," she said quietly. "You speak to my son."

  The tone of her voice drove a dagger a hair's breadth to the side of Elena's heart. Lady, Nicu. All this pain for a sword. Didn't you even think?

  To his mother, she said, "I will, Donatella. I will. He's not a bad boy. He's just wild with anger. Who wouldn't be? The clansmen—"

  "Enough, Elena. I know my boy."

  She'd thought the shaking hands were bad. "I'll talk with him," she said, backing away from the words.

  Ai, Nicu, there's not enough pain in the world, you have to cause more of it? It was a graceless thought, and she tried to rid herself of it before she met him. Because he was so much like the children that she'd been about to feed: willful, easily wounded with sharp words, in need of direction. You could manipulate him into doing what he needed to do—but it was work and it took patience, and the older he got, the less patience she had with him.

  And where had that led?

  Broken back. Scored flesh.

  He'd hurt them all.

  But not half as much, not a tenth as much, Lady, not a hundredth, as he'd hurt them if he tried something like
that again and Margret was forced to kill him.

  The streets of the Tor Leonne had opened before him and closed at his back as if they were liquid and he a diver. He spoke the right words to the right guards and they nodded him through gates. Of course he spoke with a voice that was, as he was, more than it seemed, and he spoke words that they would lose to the undertow of memory almost before they'd finished listening.

  He passed from gates through the various pavilions that were—finally—being richly and deftly built in the city that was closest to the Lady's heart on Festival Night.

  Silks, some deep with color that seemed like it must have been set in cloth by a blend of tradition and magic, others pale with light and sun, were being hoisted up on poles to make something that would be called tenting when composed of a lesser material. Men worked, straining against both weight and time; very few of these bore seraf marks.

  He lingered only a second or two at each, listening to the tenor of men's voices. Fear, but it was masked, and remote enough to be due to the orders of a more powerful man. Anger, but again muted enough to be part of the life of a man living in the Dominion.

  There was no joy. No hint of the wildness that was promised on the night of the Festival Moon. He wondered, then, if any of them believed it would come to pass.

  He was certain, but he understood—as they did not—that wildness could not be denied. It was as old as the Lord's gaze, as old as the Lady's full face, inevitable as dawn or dusk. Nowhere did men speak of masks.

  Instead they spoke of demons.

  They spoke of the Radann, the swords of the Radann, the work of the Lord. As if their words themselves were a harmony—several harmonies—to an old, well-known song, history blended with politics, past and present coming to a single, sharp edge. Someone would be cut by it; someone would bleed.

  But it was enough, at the moment, to know that person would not be Kallandras of Senniel.

  Not, that is, if he performed the task set for him by Yollana of the Havalla Voyani.

  She had not told him what to look for. She told him little, hoarding the texture of her aged and perfect voice as if aware of how much of a gift it was. It was, of course. Nothing slipped past Yollana. Nonetheless, Kallandras knew what he sought: Corronans. Lyserrans. Men who bore the marks of the Matriarch's van. They were not easily detected among those whose feet never walked the open road.