Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  Gold.

  The Summer color.

  It spread from his hands in a circle, following, she realized, the circle embedded in the stone. "Avandar?"

  He did not speak. He did not, in fact, seem to know that she was there at all; the light that left his hands seem to be fleeing him, and with it, his awareness of the world. She had seen him cast spells before, but he had never been quite like this: deliberate, almost contemplative. His spells were cast either with a precise energy and motion—which was usually necessary since when he used his magic it was often in her defense—or a nonchalance that was a grating part of his natural arrogance. But this… this was different.

  She looked over her shoulder; Kallandras was still singing, his voice sweeter than the spill of golden light around the Northern Fount.

  Avandar rose. He was pale.

  "Come," he said quietly. "We are done here."

  She frowned, and then saw that the Serra Teresa had indeed finished stoppering the crystal decanter and the small clay vessel that contained ash and death. She said, "I'm not sure Kallandras has finished."

  "He hasn't," the Serra said quietly. "But he will, and he will join us. We should return, ATerafin. Tomorrow we must complete this task, and it is already late. See? The sky is slowly paling."

  It was true.

  Jewel nodded, and together, they left the city. Only later would she remember that the Serra had waited, as Avandar did, upon her nod. As if she were the one in charge.

  21st of Scaral, 427 AA

  Tor Leonne

  "Very well," Alesso said, lifting one hand.

  Sendari di'Sendari and Mikalis di'Arretta did not appear to hear him the first time. He had, having witnessed the peculiar and boring discussions of the Widan over the minutiae of their studies, expected this level of attention, and had taken it upon himself to preserve both his dignity and the lives of either the two men or any seraf who might witness their lack of paid respect. He had summoned them to his personal chambers, had seen that those chambers, fitted for dignitaries, were well supplied with both food and cushions, had ordered warm water and the towels that were used to sponge and refresh oneself before either food or discourse in an informal setting, and had sent the serafs away.

  Sendari and Mikalis had been late.

  A bad sign.

  They were studiously avoiding each other's gazes, which he considered a worse one. They swept the room, each man taking a side, as they searched for magic, or the traces by which magic might be recognized; they found nothing, although a small out-burst about methodology occurred there. Alesso did not know whether to be amused or surprised; he had literally never seen Sendari so… imperfect in his manner or his presentation. Mikalis came from a poorer family; Alesso expected neither elegance nor grace from him; obedience and respect was enough.

  But while obedience was offered perfectly, respect was sadly lacking, at least for each other. The men were arguing about the exact meaning of their discovery, and using words that Alesso imagined would only make sense to other Widan, if that. As Tyr, and as General before that, he had done much to learn about the Widan's art—but this esoterica, this type of discussion, had always lost his interest, to Sendari's abiding regret.

  "Gentlemen," Alesso said, lifting his hand for a third and final time. He settled upon amusement at the lack of attention paid his first two attempts, but it was a thin veneer; it would not survive a third.

  They turned.

  "From what little I consider to be intelligible in what is clearly too heated to be a discussion," he said softly, and Sendari had the grace to flinch and then straighten up, adopting his usual posture, his familiar neutrality, "You are saying that the nature of these masks is to reveal, yes?"

  "Yes," they said, as one person. Mikalis threw a glance at the side of Sendari's face, but having been reprimanded in this fashion, Sendari chose to exercise his control, which was—or could be— considerable.

  "But you have not yet decided why this ability—unmanning as it appears to be—will actually be useful."

  Silence. Sendari spoke; Mikalis hiccuped half a word into the flow of Sendari's sentence and then, as if only just realizing where they both stood, fell silent. Which was good. The Festival Night— the night they now feared was the significant night—was one day away. And these two men, and their kind, were all that stood between the unknown plans of the Kialli and the Tor Leonne.

  "No, Tyr'agar, we have not. You have posited, and we have considered, that the Lake itself must be significant; but we have also taken into consideration that this is, regardless, the seat of power in the Dominion, and as we understand the society of the Kialli, were it a barren rock, it would still be of interest to them for that reason alone."

  "Trust my instinct, old friend." It was not a request.

  "Regardless," Mikalis said, not quite taking the hint, "we cannot understand the use of masks or the way they will harm the Lake." He bowed. "We posit that the demons themselves, in old texts, are known by, and to an extent, controlled by the nature of their name and their naming. Perhaps they so little understand the nature of mortals, they have crafted a weapon against which a demon would have little recourse. Perhaps this is a way of making a name known."

  Alesso stood. He found the cushions confining, and the necessity of privacy meant that there was no easy egress to the outer world. Everything about this discussion, this dilemma, was interior. He paced, pausing only to lift a fine glass that contained the water of the Lake which had made the Tor the chosen seat of power in the Dominion.

  "Having seen the effect of the mask itself," Sendari said quietly, "I would concur."

  "And you were… discussing?"

  "How that would be useful. I believe that with judicious use of the masks we might, ourselves, gain power if a demon were forced to wear one under the correct circumstance."

  "An idea, Sendari. A good one. Do not destroy them all."

  "No."

  "Tyr'agar," Mikalis broke in, and Alesso understood at once' the nature of the argument, "I believe it unwise. There are forces which we do not understand; with imperfect understanding, we cannot control them. They will control us. Our enemies will find egress into our private spheres of magic should we attempt to avail ourselves of theirs."

  "Oh? Sendari?"

  Sendari's shrug was dismissive. "There is a danger," he said, although the acknowledgment was at best theoretical; it was certainly not conveyed in the tone of voice that he chose.

  "And that danger?"

  "Is, in my opinion, purely theoretical."

  "You have done no studying of the arts you think to use," Mikalis broke in. "I have done very little—but enough to be granted some recognition. I am not a half-wit Designate, Sendari—I am fully Widan, and I know of what I speak." He turned before Sendari could reply—and it seemed, to Alesso's admittedly familiar eye, that he was about to, and addressed the Tyr'agar directly. "Magic," he said, "is like armor, but there is a personal element to it. When two Widan struggle in a contest of magic and power, they reveal much about themselves to each other unless one of the two is much more powerful, in which case he has the magical resources available to conceal some part of his own talent or ability. The Sword's Edge is such a Widan. I, and, I believe, the Widan Sendari are not.

  "And the Sword's Edge is not here."

  "You would take this risk, if he were available?"

  "No," Mikalis replied.

  "And that is the point. He has said himself—"

  "I said that between two Widan—"

  "Gentlemen." They quieted. "I will think on what you have said. It is of interest. But it is not of as much interest as the use of the weapon itself. Is it sword? Is it bow? Is it garrotte? What is its function?"

  To that, they had no answer.

  "Mikalis, understand: We do not throw away any weapon we are offered. Your objections have been heard, and they will be considered. They will not, however, be repeated. Do you understand?"

  He bowed im
mediately.

  "Good. Find Out what they will do. Speak with the kai el'Sol."

  "But—"

  "Do it. The Lake and the Sword have been their purview for centuries; perhaps it is time that they showed us the deeper understanding expected of their position." He paused. "No, Sendari, not you. You are to retire to your chambers."

  Sendari let the mask fall. Only then did Alesso realize exactly how much control his friend had been exerting. He was impressed; he did not embarrass his friend by openly admiring the restraint shown previously; there was no way to do it without pointing out its loss.

  "The… demon took much out of me," he said quietly.

  "Understood. Let Mikalis talk to—"

  "He does not maintain the proper perspective."

  "He will have to do. Sendari, do not mistake me. That was not a request. It was a command."

  "Tyr'agar."

  20th of Scaral, 427 AA

  The Shining Palace, The Northern Wastes

  The Sword's Edge had left word that his return to the Tor Leonne was imminent before he received word that it was also forbidden.

  The first words were a use of power that was not, given the distance between the Tor and the Shining Palace, trivial. The second, however, were far more costly; they were not his, and he was not a man to suborn his will to another's with grace or ease.

  But Lady Sariyel had brought the word, white and trembling, to his doors, and she loitered in them, waiting for his reaction. More significant, she had been used indirectly as a messenger from the Lord of the Shining Court.

  "Are you," he said at last, "to carry word back? The nature of your statement did not seem to imply a request on the part of the Lord."

  "No," she replied. "I—I'm not to carry word back. But do you—" She gazed to the side; the gaze was furtive. They were not protected here. To cast the magics necessary to truly ward a conversation from prying ears was almost to draw attention to it, the Kialli were so sensitive to magic. She swallowed. The Northerners were always vastly more expressive when upset than the Southerners.

  Expressive enough that he understood that she was about to take him into her confidence. They were not friends; he found her almost offensively forward, graceless for a woman, displeasingly bold for a. person. But he was willing to acknowledge—here, outside of the Dominion, where neutrality was the law—that her actual power was substantial and worthy of respect.

  Had she been Annagarian, he would have had her killed, or perhaps have killed her himself. She was not.

  She stood before him, hands bunching in the skirts that were so oddly functional in the North, the furs settled round her shoulders and face, framing the delicate paleness of her skin. The garish color of her lips, the bruised look of her eyes. This was, he supposed, attractive to someone. Certainly it had been many years ago to the unfortunate Lord Sariyel.

  He found that with Lady Sariyel, in a certain situation, one could use silence as a weapon; he used it now. Subtlety was not a shield that she could use in defense. The waiting stretched; he watched her expression shift, and shift again; fear fought with fear. The silence worked its way inward until she felt forced to expel or break it. She was so terribly obvious.

  Yet he could not offend her completely; not now. For she had carried an order that forbid travel to any of the human mages now within the confines of the Shining Palace. He did not think that, should the Lord desire their deaths, they had any hope of avoiding them.

  "Widan," she said softly, "you came to the Court with word that Anya a'Cooper had traveled South."

  "Indeed." It was not the expected subject of discussion; he segued smoothly, forcing even the faintest trace of frown from the lines of his brow. "Lord Ishavriel, I have been assured, is in the act of containing her."

  Lady Sariyel was silent a moment. "Containing her?" she asked at last, "or returning her?"

  "Lady," he replied, with the exaggerated politeness that would have been recognized for sarcasm in the South, "You have no doubt a much better acquaintance with Anya a'Cooper than any of us."

  She stiffened. "She does not, as you must know, reside with the humans; she is Ishavriel's curiosity and pet; she resides with him."

  "And she is his responsibility." He measured the silence, trying to discern which outcome would please her least; which would encourage fear, and therefore a further exchange of information. It was difficult. She had never particularly liked him, and he had never desired a change in that state of affairs. He did not desire it now. He watched; she waited; he made his decision.

  "But she eludes him and we suspect she will continue to do so; our only concern," he added smoothly, "is that she not interrupt our plans for the Festival Night."

  Apparently the decision he had chosen to make was a wise one. She sagged visibly; her breath literally stopped. She could not, and some part of him found this vastly amusing, speak. He almost wished that Alesso di'Marente were by his side for the sheer pleasure of her momentary silence. But she recovered. That was the interesting thing about the Lady Sariyel. She always survived. He did not therefore dismiss her now.

  "If she is not found," Lady Sariyel said, "then you will personally have far more to lose then the convenience of a successful plan in the Tor Leonne."

  "Oh?"

  "Why do you think we have been forbidden travel?"

  "I have," he replied, with complete honesty, "no idea."

  Again, the furtive glance to the door. Then, after a moment, she reached a decision; she stepped into the room and pulled the door closed at her back.

  It was his nature to be suspicious; it was as natural as breathing. But the very subtle magic he used was repulsed by her easily, and her expression shifted a moment, her hand hovering behind the fall of brocade near the door's handle. The situation was obviously dire; she let her hand fall. "I am here under orders, yes, but what I tell you now is no part of that errand." She leaned forward, as if secrecy and intimacy were entwined. He did not step back, but it was an effort.

  "We did not desire to distract you," she said quietly, "but there were reasons for choosing the Northern Wastes as the citadel from which our Lord might plan His victory over the Empire and the Dominion."

  "You did not desire to… distract us." The man who had lived with the sun and sand at the edge of civilization all his life had learned how to imbue his voice with Northern ice. "How… considerate."

  She flushed, and then drew herself up. "And you," she said coldly, "you have bothered us with every detail of plans which do not concern us."

  "And this plan does not concern us?"

  She shrugged. "No. If you truly serve the Lord and depend upon His ascendancy, it does not. It is another step, no more." She turned. Turned back. He was reminded of trapped or restless children who expect—but are not certain they will receive—a beating.

  "And this step?"

  "You know that He has been building the gate between our worlds."

  "Yes."

  "You know that many of His own generals and lieutenants have come through, but that the passage is not instantaneous."

  "Indeed."

  "You know," she continued, and he found it both fascinating and mildly insulting, "that He had a way of anchoring the gate to this world so that they exist in some fashion in the same space and time?"

  He stopped finding her babble mildly insulting. "No." His mind raced. "We—Lord Sariyel and I—had discussed this possibility briefly a long while ago; but it was theoretical."

  She nodded quietly. "I saw his notes. It was theoretically possible under very special conditions. First, whatever power the god contributed to the casting of the spell had to be met by a matching power that was anchored in this world. Second—"

  "That power had to exist in the same vessel as the matching power, an echo of the magical melding He wished to accomplish. And third—and the most problematic of the triad—that the ground upon which such a spell was cast must already have the properties He wished to cement: they must exist i
n a realm outside of this one, but be part of it."

  She looked at him expectantly. "Scarran," she said, and when his silence grew impenetrable she added, "The Dark Conjunction."

  "If it were simply a matter of Scarran," he replied, "the Lord would have cast His spell years ago."

  "He did not have a mage of requisite power until a handful of years ago."

  Understanding, then. "Anya."

  "Anya. Understand that her absence has already cost Lord Ishavriel two of his most powerful lieutenants."

  But it still did not make sense. "No," he said at last. "Even with Anya, the advent of Scarran does not guarantee him any purchase between the worlds. You are speaking, I assume, of the old roads? They barely exist, and they exist only when the Firstborn choose to use them."

  "No," she replied quietly. "That was our misunderstanding, our misreading of the signs."

  "Our?"

  "My Lord Sariyel's," she said, meeting his eyes in a way that men would not have dared to in the Dominion, given the differences between their ranks. "And my own. Or did you think that I merely amused him sexually while he worked?"

  "There is nothing mere about you, Lady Sariyel. You have chosen to play your role; I have chosen mine. But we mask power in our own efficient ways." He started. Stopped. Took another risk. "I have underestimated you in a fashion that you are no doubt aware of. I had assumed—Lord Sariyel let it be assumed— that the work, indeed, was his."

  She lifted her shoulder and let it fall in a delicate shrug. Or as delicate as a shrug could be in the rustle of heavy and coarse brocade. He was not certain if that inelegant gesture was a Northern acceptance of a tacitly worded apology; he was certain that she did not understand the personal significance or cost to himself to make it.

  But she continued, staring now at a point beyond his shoulder. "The old roads exist; we are certain of it. There has been evidence gathered—firsthand—by some of the previous servitors of the Lord in their summoned state, that those roads and the barriers that divide the two worlds are remarkably thin on Scarran— but although we chose the Northern Wastes, and the basin, because it was once a seat of power along the hidden way, we have personally found no sign.