"No."
"Viandaran, please."
"She is one of those called Firstborn," Avandar said quietly. "The Firstborn are children of the gods."
"Fair enough. Some of the people I respect most are children of gods."
Arianne's smile was chill. "They are children of neutered, tame creatures, they are not children of gods."
"Before you speak again," he said, lifting a hand, "let me say that the neutered, tame creatures she refers to are not the human parents; those are completely beneath her notice and her contempt. She refers to the gods that are worshiped across the Empire of Essalieyan."
"And am I so forgotten that my words must be explained?" the Winter Queen said. "Then it is time to be remembered." Her foot, covered in leather that seemed very thin and very supple, dug swiftly into the sides of her mount—but Jewel knew that the gesture was entirely for show; the creature did not need to be visibly forced to do anything. It existed at her whim, at the convenience of her thought.
Brace yourself.
She did not need to be told.
She had taken Avandar's hand from her shoulder; he did her the surprising grace of leaving it at his side.
The light on the ground did not change, but at the last, at the last, Arianne drove her mount across it.
The creature screamed. Jewel recognized the scream, although it was distorted slightly because a different voice uttered it.
Inches away from her face, kept from collision by the grace and protection of Avandar's spell, she could see the creature's face. Stags, she had thought them, and she wished—incoherently—that she could still think of them that way. But no: The face that was burning in the light of Avandar's flame was a human face, distorted by shimmering spell and blood and fire's scoring, but recognizable for what it had once been.
She stepped back. She bit her lip and swallowed blood to stop the sound that was curled in her throat from escaping.
Avandar, damn him forever, turned to her as she stared unblinking at the face of a horror she could never have imagined, and said, "Your command?" in a voice as cool as ocean water. Light glinted across the surface of his eyes like light across the flat of a blade.
She understood the lesson he meant to teach her. She vowed that she would never willingly submit herself to such teachings again.
She did not raise her hands to her ears and she did not order him to drop the barrier that protected them. That was the point of this particular form of attack: Jewel's weakness. Well, she was weak. Didn't tell her anything she didn't already know about herself. She was weak in a way that Avandar and Arianne were not—and she refused to be ashamed of it. But weak or no, she wasn't stupid. Avandar's magic stood between her and the once human creature whose face was wilting—and while she might, for pity's sake, have saved it the agony of Avandar's magic, on its back, the true threat waited: The Winter Queen. Jewel could not quite bring herself to abandon all defense in the face of that threat.
But the screaming was terrible.
Jewel had been beaten in her youth; all the care and caution in the world couldn't prevent the streets from taking their toll. That had been better than this: the pain had been visceral, immediate, her own. She had thought, then, that she would not survive. She was afraid, now, that the memory of this moment would outlive her; that she would carry it to Mandaros' Hall and be scarred enough that it would echo down the length of the lives she had left her until she made her final choice.
She could not afford to show it, although she knew Arianne knew. A test. A game.
Gods, she hated these games. Hated Avandar, for playing them so well. Hated herself for learning them.
She had bowed her head. Wasn't sure when, but she could see the bright line of the ground, Avandar's magic neatly cutting the flow of the creature's blood. She would not order him to withdraw the magics that protected them both.
But she didn't have to stand by and let Arianne define all the rules of the game. If Jewel understood what she had done—or rather, how—with the other creature, she would have done it again, although her gut instinct told her that this time, with the Queen herself as rider, it would be impossible.
All right, it was impossible.
The fires were burning; she felt them touch her in the darkness; they hurt. And they liberated.
She wasn't helpless.
Jewel Markess ATerafin lifted her head. Stared a moment into the face of the screaming creature, and then, looked up and beyond, into the face of the Winter Queen.
She said, words as direct as arrow's flight, "You want to get through. Well, all right. I demand a price for passage, and if you continue this game, it will be beyond your ability to pay."
She didn't shout. Had she spoken in a whisper, she was certain the words would be heard. But she waited another heartbeat— and hers were coming thick and fast—and then said, "You lose a day."
Another beat.
"A second day."
Another.
"A third day."
The screaming stopped.
As simply as it started, it was gone. The creature's face, burned to bone and scoured by flame into a charred blackness that should have been beyond pain but wasn't, jerked up, out of the barrier. It stumbled as it took a step, and the silence that followed the stumble was profound.
But what followed made Avandar stop breathing in mid-gasp.
The Winter Queen dismounted.
17th of Scaral, 427
AA Tor Leonne
Kallandras wasn't certain that she wouldn't disappear; with Evayne, one couldn't be. Nor was he certain—for he had to turn his back on her several times during their journey through the Tor Leonne—if she didn't disappear, that she wouldn't age or diminish by the time he turned to face her again. It had long since ceased to matter to him what Evayne looked like or who, in fact, she was. Over the years he had developed enough of a familiarity with the woman at any age to be at ease with the suddenness of her changes.
It had started idly enough, and it had become a puzzle, a challenge, filling in the steps between terrified adolescent to serene, powerful woman. He had heard all of her voices; seen all of her faces. He knew the exact moment—in the chronology of her life— she had become a killer; knew that she would never lose the ability, as some did who visited that precipice and then withdrew. He knew how to anger the Evaynes it was possible to anger; knew how to comfort the Evaynes it was possible to comfort.
But he did not know if she would be at his side when he finally found the woman he was searching for.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Smiled. The older Evayne carried her warnings—if she offered them at all—by words. It was amusing. In her youth, she saw him as the shadowy, dangerous assassin whose eyes missed nothing, no matter how well hidden. In her prime, she saw him as a peer, and as such, presumed that anything she noted with ease would be likewise noted. Only at this age, between the two and confident of her own power, did she seek to warn him when no warning was necessary. "I see them," he said quietly. The hand withdrew.
Two men lounged idly in the midday heat, like many of the Southern clansmen. The hour was right for it, but the wind wrong; it was, as the Tor Leonne went, a cool day. Sweat, here, was a fact of life when the sun reigned.
They wore sturdy clothing that had probably seen better days, but could certainly see worse; uncolored cottons and brown vests, wide sashes, long pants. Swords adorned hip and rested off to one side, a foot above the ground. They weren't likely to be drawn.
But the daggers already had been; they were clumsily but deliberately concealed. He approached them, but kept a comfortable distance.
"Gentlemen," he said, speaking flawless Torra.
They glanced at each other; the older man, bearded and slighter of build, frowned. It was the younger of the two—heavier set, about three inches taller than Kallandras or most of the men one could see in the streets of the Tor Leonne—who chose to answer.
"Not usually."
Evayne came from around his back. He
saw the mask in her hand as if it were a natural extension. The younger man frowned, and once again turned his gaze to the older for a quick, silent consultation.
But the older man's eyes, caught by Evayne, were held there. Interesting.
"Kallandras," Evayne said softly. It was a question. A request. He nodded.
"Gentlemen," he said again, and this time the older man nodded slowly. "I am a stranger to the Tor, and I am… lost. I have been told that you guard one of the fairest merchant trains in the city. Perhaps you might offer me the kindness of your hospitality."
"The Tor," the younger man said, before the older could reply, "isn't known for hospitality."
"No, indeed. Nor is the open road, but I have found hospitality there in my time."
"And such hospitality as you have found," the older man said, speaking for the first time, "is offered in less dangerous times."
Kallandras nodded, but he did not offer an answer; he was, for a moment, moved to silence by the unusual richness of the stranger's voice. It was a deep voice, and it had layers to it—of anger and joy, of wariness and abandon, of sadness and determination—that were muted in other voices, when present at all. There was intimacy in it, or hints of intimacy; there was friendship, or the promise of friendship, and there was, distinctly, death. It was, he thought, a brother's voice.
But a brother did not serve the dictates of the living.
He bowed.
The older man raised a brow.
"Indeed, in less dangerous times. And by a family other than Corrona."
"You are… observant."
"No doubt. We," he said quietly, nodding to Evayne without taking his gaze from the stranger, "have come to deliver a message from two who have offered us their hospitality."
"And that?"
"It can be delivered only to Elsarre."
"That is not the way things are usually done in this caravan."
"It is the way things are done," he said, interjecting the faintest note of apology into words that, on the surface, held none, "in the entourage of my mother."
"Your mother?"
"Yollana," he said quietly.
"A common enough name." It was not to Kallandras that the man's intent gaze traveled, but to Evayne. "You have been on the road a long time," he said at last, his eyes never leaving her face. "And if you desire it, I will speak on your behalf."
"The message can only be delivered—"
"So that the woman for whom such message is meant might be predisposed to listen."
"Dani—" the younger man said, surprise and anger highlighting the two syllables.
But the man called Dani raised a hand, no more.
The gesture had the full force of an order. An order given by a man with the authority to give it.
"We desire it," Kallandras said, speaking for Evayne. "And we will be in your debt."
The man raised a brow. Nodded. "Follow, then. But follow quickly."
He moved.
Kallandras was not surprised by his speed. He wasn't surprised by his silence, either; the Voyani belonged to the shadows the Lord cast; they were used to running or hiding. What surprised him was the grace of his words; he spoke like no Voyani—especially no male—that Kallandras had ever met. That he traveled the Voyanne was not in question. Not in this caravan, not with this train. That he was born to it? Highly doubtful.
But the Voyani as a rule did not take in strangers, and on the rare occasions they did, they still distinguished between charity and blood. Family was family, and everything else was a matter of convenience.
Dani led them through the maze of narrow streets that the poorer clansmen who served the Tyr called home. He stopped occasionally to speak to his companion, his expression shifting with the careless wildness of a man who's drunk almost too much. The younger Voyani responded by shying back with a mild look of concern mingled with disgust; it was clear to the casual observer who was responsible for whom.
And it was a common enough sight in the streets. Kallandras frowned and drew the young woman at his side closer; she in turn pulled the folds of her hood farther down about her face. They walked as a loose party, one of several similar parties, the Lord's gaze upon them, the preparations for the Festival of the Moon crowding streets that were seldom so busy.
He smiled as they came to a narrow doorway, replete with long hangings and a garland that hung from the height of the stone frame. No one but Elsarre would live like this in the Tor Leonne. Or rather, no Matriarch.
They entered the dwelling, and then Dani turned and bade them wait; he did so with an economy of words—precisely none—that was astonishing among the Voyani. In spite of himself, Kallandras was curious. It had been a long time since he had been simply curious.
When Dani returned, he said, "She will see you now."
He led them down the long hall into a wide, round room; a room that was lit by lamp and hidden by hanging and shutter from the sun's light. The hanging, he pulled aside, holding it back as if he were a seraf. The gesture made him invisible and Evayne passed him by without a backward glance. Not so Kallandras; he stopped a moment to nod. Dani raised a brow and gestured, by nod of head, to the room.
There, seated upon a bench that rested against the unadorned stone wall, sat a woman. She was not alone; not quite. To her left—at the bench's edge—stood an older man, his hair white, his skin dark and cracked by sun and wind. To her right, seated, was an older woman, shawls pulled up about her head as if she were a clanswoman. Her hair was still dark in places; curls crept out beneath the edges of cloth framing her face, with its severe, suspicious expression.
But the seated woman did not trouble herself with such severity. She was younger than Kallandras, although she was old enough that she no longer deserved to be called young. Her face, unlike the faces of most Voyani women of her age, was almost unblemished by exposure to the sun; it was plain that she did not choose to face the Lord often. She wore red and yellow silks, much to Kallandras' surprise; they were fashioned in imitation of the saris that high clanswomen wore, but they were not as restrictive.
She wore a sword as well, although he judged it decorative rather than practical; she could not fight with competence in what she had chosen to wear. Nor in how she had chosen to present herself: her hair, long and thick, fell in a straight line from head to bench, rippling against the wood as it caught the light.
All of these things were seen, judged, and consigned to memory in an instant. Elsarre, of the four Matriarchs, had always been called the wild one. He better understood the naming now.
"You," the seated ruler said to Evayne.
Kallandras, standing beside her, heard the shift in her voice. She was momentarily confused, but she knew better than to expose herself to this woman.
"My apologies," she said softly, "for interrupting you in this fashion."
"It is hardly an interruption compared to your last visit." She lifted an arm, waved it to take in the whole of the small room. Kallandras kept the smile off his face; her look was luxuriant and elegant; her voice and her manner were distinctly Voyani. "You gave us portents and signs and warnings, and we traveled here in the secrecy you counseled wise. We have been waiting," she added.
"You know that I do not come at my own choosing, or in my own time. I travel at the Lady's whim."
"Oh, indeed," Elsarre replied, her words so heavy with sarcasm they could have damaged the floor had they been solid.
Evayne stiffened. "If you did not believe my words," she said, her voice the sudden breeze that takes heat—or warmth—from a room, "you had no cause to travel."
"It was not your words, but my own instinct, that brought us here."
Careful, Evayne, Kallandras thought. But he knew what his apparent position was in this room, and he stood as her shadow; attached, but silent, unremarkable.
"Then confine your anger to where it is due."
Elsarre lapsed into a silence that indeed confined her anger. Kallandras was momentarily impressed
.
"I come with information," Evayne said, breaking that chilly silence.
"No doubt it is urgent."
"I do not seek to second guess the wisdom of a Matriarch," the seer replied, smoothing the ice and irritation from her voice. "It is information; your sense of its urgency will decide, in the end, how urgent it is." She turned to Kallandras.
He bowed. The younger Evayne would never have been so politic because she would never have been so capable of judging the mood and character of a woman she had only just met.
He was certain that this was the first meeting for Evayne; her voice betrayed surprise, confusion and, overriding both, determination. Dislike. He wondered which Evayne had spoken with Elsarre, and what she had said.
But he did not wonder long. Elsarre's eyes were upon him, and she—the youngest, until the death of Evallen, of four Matriarchs— did not have the easy patience, or temper, that Yollana did. He knew better than to keep her waiting.
"Your information?"
"I have been sent," he said quietly, "with no words."
"Stranger, I warn you—"
He reached into the hidden pocket of the robe he wore. At his back, Dani moved, shifting position and changing his status of unarmed observer to armed one so quietly Evayne didn't turn at the noise.
When Kallandras opened his hand, Elsarre froze.
"This cannot be," she whispered. Her eyes narrowed, her gaze slid past him, flickering a moment like candlelight.
He moved, turning, his palm snapping into a fist, his free hand dislodging weapon from sheath. When it came up, it came up beneath the chin of the man called Dani.
To his surprise he found a slender blade a hand's width from the center of his chest.
He looked up; Dani's eyes met his. There was a flicker there, of recognition, perhaps of respect. A nod.
"Elsarre," Evayne said, her voice as cold as Northern winter. "This is not a game. It would pain me to deprive you of an obviously trusted ally, but I'll do it in a heartbeat if he doesn't lower his weapon."
The Matriarch rose, ignoring the seer's warning. Obviously, Kallandras thought, a better judge of character than he had given credit for. "Where did you get that?"
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 55