Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  "And then, we felt it; seven years ago; a resurgence of the power along the way. And because Lord Isladar was present, he was able to tell us something that we ourselves could not discern: The horns were being winded."

  "Horns?"

  "When the Hunt rides," she said softy, "the Queen of the Hunt takes to the road. They are her roads, and when she walks them, they… respond to her presence. But she hunts infrequently. We do not understand the old roads clearly; the Kialli are unwilling to discuss what happened before the gods left our .world; but it is conceded that the Queen of the Hunt—whoever she is—is one of the godlings left behind."

  "Godlings?"

  "The gods were very corporeal at one time. The Northern gods," she added. For just a moment, her lips curved up in a full, and a very lewd smile. But it faltered as it met the stone of his gaze. "You are so very, very cold," she said plaintively. But her eyes were as cold as his demeanor. "The gods, however, were not. They coupled," she continued. "And they had children. Let me assume that you understand the mechanics." She walked away from the door and began to pace the perimeter of his rectangular carpet. Carpets here were thick and heavy—but they were necessary. Nothing about the Shining Palace exuded warmth.

  "Those children are—we believe—called the Firstborn. They were many initially, but they warred; there were few in the end, and the few that remained were either powerful, reclusive, or both. The Queen of the Hunt was most certainly the former. We believe she is the oldest of the Firstborn, but again, the Kialli will not discuss what they know with the merely mortal. This is conjecture.

  "Conjecture is dangerous in its fashion." She shrugged. "But when the Queen of the Hunt is mentioned, the Kialli tense. I believe that she and they were not friendly; that they warred in some fashion. Sor na Shannen, a kinlord in her own right and one of the few of her phylum to rise so high, encountered the Hunt on the Scarran—or the Winter—road. They fought; she escaped.

  "But that year, that year there was also the tangible sense of a meeting of worlds."

  "But Sor na Shannen was in the Empire."

  "Indeed. That is when we realized the geographic distance means nothing; the road is like a single body, a living thing. The Queen Hunts or she does not.

  "However, having said that, it took us time to understand that the solidity of the path is provided not only by the Queen but also by the victim she chooses. When the Kialli and Queen met in combat, we believe the old road was eclipsed again." She paused.

  He was not a slow man; he absorbed her words, examined them, toyed with pretending to be slow to understand. But pretense was all he had to offer, and he wished some confirmation; he also wished to see the notes she had taken and the path she walked to reach the conclusions that she had.

  "It was Lord Ishavriel," she said, after he nodded, "who pointed out that the points that drew the old road and the old world together were both elements of the Hunt: the immortal and the mortal. He posited that if the host hunted, and in greater number, we might see such a grounding of the road as we had never seen, and take advantage of it.

  "It was also Lord Ishavriel and the Kialli craftsmen who created the masks that were sent to the Tor Leonne." Her glance slid from his face. She swallowed.

  "The masks?"

  "The Tor is a special place. The Lake is—according to the oldest and most powerful of the Kialli lords—an artifact left by the Queen of the Hunt for her loyal subjects in their battle against her chosen enemies."

  Cortano grimaced. "That is not our telling of the tale."

  "No." Again, her expression hardened. "But even you do not believe the Southern telling of the tale."

  He brought hand to beard. "Perhaps. The Lake is significant?"

  "Yes. Because it exists in our world no matter what the time or season, and not in hers—yet it retains some elements of her gift and power." She swallowed. "I believe that it indicates that when the Queen of the Hunt roamed freely, she returned there, to the heartlands of the South; that some residual element of her power resides there still—and that, with the right tools, she can—like the Kialli—be summoned."

  He understood, then. "The masks."

  "Yes."

  And he wanted to kill her. He almost did.

  "If the masks summon the Hunt, they will Hunt in the Tor?"

  "The Tor, if we guess correctly, will become a part of the road that she travels; neither here nor there, but both. It will be the strongest anchoring of that path in this world since our tenure here began in earnest.

  "And on such a platform, the Lord might build His throne; might sit without being forced to devour the scraps that his demons bring him from the towns or the kingdoms where they might be little missed."

  "Very well. And our tenure here?"

  She frowned. "Do not play games with me, Widan. You understand the significance of what I have said."

  He did. He nodded, fingers stroking beard. "Anya a'Cooper is acknowledged as a power without parallel. She has no mind, of course. But she has power. She was to be the vessel?"

  "She was."

  "Would she have survived it?"

  "Does it matter? If you mean would it have killed her? I think it unlikely. Would it have damaged her mind further? How would we be able to tell?"

  He understood all. All.

  "If she is not found, we are to take her place."

  "Yes. And there are few of us; most of the talent-born are scattered across the North and West. You are here, and I; there is one other."

  Three. Three fully trained mages. "And you are concerned? Lady Sariyel, just how powerful is Anya a'Cooper?"

  She looked up at him through wide, darkening eyes.

  "What will happen to us if we are forced to take her place in the ceremony?"

  She didn't answer that question directly. But she said, "Cortano, she must be found."

  "I will… do my best to make certain that she is. Anya… leaves a trail. It is not hard to follow."

  "We have very, very little time. The Lord plans, and this is the only time that we will have this opportunity."

  "The ceremony can wait a year, surely?"

  "No. We believe that if the Queen of the Hunt Hunts in the Tor, when she leaves, the power of the artifact will leave with her."

  "The artifact?"

  "The Lake. The waters of the Tor will no longer be blessed by her and left by her; they will once again become part of her world when the Hunt is withdrawn."

  "What?"

  "Lord Ishavriel believes that the power of the Lake will be reclaimed by the Queen of the Hunt when she withdraws at the end of the Dark Conjunction; it will become ordinary; we will therefore have no way to summon her again, because there will be no focal point for her power; no beacon."

  "I… see." He did not smile. He knew that he had lost color, and he knew that she would assume it was for the same reason that she had. "I… thank you for this information. I… will converse with Alesso at once about the urgent nature of our business.

  "Where is Ishavriel?"

  "He is supposed to find her." She frowned. "He did not seem concerned."

  "He would not," Cortano replied absently. "He is Kialli; concern is an act of weakness. Lady Sariyel, I must ask you to leave. It is not our way to enjoin our superiors to act with haste in the company of women. I apologize if this is foreign or even repulsive, but I assume you want me to be at my most effective."

  "Understood," she said, curtsying. She looked almost pretty for a moment as she withdrew.

  Almost.

  Cortano stood, alone, in the center of his chambers. Aware now that he had a choice to make. He did not particularly like these rooms; he would have found some ease with such decision had he been given a different venue in which to make it.

  They understood so much about the desire for power, these Kialli and the Lord they served. They had a fundamental understanding of pride. But the complexities that marred the absolute desire for power… the way that pride hindered or aided that se
arch… they were fine points. Wasted.

  He had desired to live forever. So, too, had Alesso di'Marente; but the General who had risen to unheard of heights thought of immortality writ in generations: his name, a clan that bore it, a history that remembered it.

  Not enough, for a man like Cortano; he had desired to see the passing of those generations; to discover for himself what history remembered and what it forgot; what it chose to elevate, and what it chose to misplace—and whether in fact any truth remained buried. He was willing to lose much to gain that.

  The Kialli understood that.

  But they did not understand that there were limits to what he was willing to lose. He had seen the Allasakari come, their minds no longer their own, their bodies inhabited by Lord's Shadow that would eventually devour everything of substance.

  He had no doubt that that would be his fate.

  Unless Anya were returned to the Shining City.

  And then what? He thought of it: the moral authority of the new Tyr'agar completely destroyed by the loss of the Lake, by the inability to wield the Sword; an easy target, a man who could take the blame and be cast aside. Alesso was too difficult; too independent. The Kialli would have little problem finding a more complacent replacement.

  Cortano was certain as Sword's Edge he could personally survive the transfer of power intact. But in the end, would it matter? The Southerners were to be useful as a distraction for the North; the Kialli would have that, regardless.

  It galled him; he was—as Alesso was—a proud man. Cortano had seen Sendari swallow almost greater personal insult and continue; he had always wondered what it would take to force him into the same position. To make of him the same man. His pending death?

  Perhaps.

  But… he knew now with certainty that Annagar had always been intended as fodder. The Northerners had been informed of the use to which Annagar would be fully put. The Southerners had not. Which outcome was to his best advantage? To theirs?

  As Sword's Edge, the Widan Cortano di'Alexes was accustomed to quick and silent decision.

  He readied himself for the conversation to follow.

  21st of Scaral, 427 AA

  Tor Leonne

  Morning on the Lake.

  He knelt before it, knees against the smooth wood of the pier. The dawn's beauty had suffused the light with a color and a delicacy that a man could only appreciate serenely in isolation. That had been the intent behind this, the Pavilion of the Dawn. It was nestled behind a stand of trees, and behind the cover of the master landscaper's artful rushes; it could see all, but could only be seen, and in passing, at a distance. Distance, for a ruler, was everything.

  He knelt in isolation, silk of the very fine surcoat that made a statement of his position artlessly arrayed before him. The counselors that he most desired would be some time in arriving; he desired no other and had sent the graceful pedants of his own court scurrying away like rodents underfoot. And in time, if he had time, he would regret it; it was rash.

  But time was a luxury. And it was, Alesso thought, almost gone. He did not cede victory to his enemies, but he did concede that they had maneuvered artfully, playing him against his desire; feeding him the information that he expected, and dealing well with his discovery of the information that had been concealed.

  The Radann had found and destroyed four more of the demons in their search, and they had become a powerful symbol of the Lord in the city streets. How powerful, he could not say; he did not expect to be able to leash them in the aftermath of the slaughter, unless they perished in it.

  The combined forces of cerdan, Widan, and Radann had found, • and destroyed, some hundred masks. They had, against the better judgment of Mikalis di'Arretta, kept a handful. But the handful they kept were not the the only masks that remained. They knew that for fact. What they did not—could not—know was where the rest of the masks lay.

  Whose hands had lifted them; whose hands had carried them home either as poor prize or rich gift; whose faces would bear them, and in bearing them die so that the Tor Leonne—and the man who ruled it—might lose the one thing that had always set it apart from any other city in the Dominion.

  The Lady's favor.

  The Lake.

  The Kialli would destroy the Lake, the Tor, and his people. He wondered, idly, if he had been meant to survive at all. His hand found the hilt of Terra Fuerre and rested there a long moment; he bowed his head, exposed as he was to the Lord's gaze.

  He heard footsteps. They were heavy, slightly uneven. He rose at once from his contemplation of sunlight across the rippling water. The Widan Sendari di'Sendari came into view. Taking the wineskin from his own sash, Alesso knelt over the pier's edge, filling it with water. He was no courtesan, to move with elegance of pleasing grace, but he moved quickly. The skin passed between them and after a perfunctory politeness, Sendari di'Sendari drank.

  "Garrardi," he said without preamble, when the water had cleared his throat, "is demanding an audience with you."

  Alesso shrugged. "He will have what he wants; he can wait to receive it. I have summoned you here to ask you a question."

  "And I have come," Sendari replied, an odd expression on his face, "to offer you an answer."

  "You intrigue me. If I did not know you better, I would say that you find some levity in this situation which escapes me entirely. Share the joke, old friend."

  "It is no joke," Sendari said quietly. "But it is absurdly simple."

  "What?"

  "Here." He reached in his robes and took out a leather satchel whose smooth, brown face had been broken in several places by runic symbols.

  "You brought… a mask?"

  "Indeed. I wish your permission, Tyr'agar, to utilize the waters of the Tor."

  Alesso's face darkened. "It is for that reason that I have summoned you. I had word from Cortano early this morning."

  "He bespoke you? I was not informed."

  "No. It was done in haste, and with cause. Protect us."

  "It has… already been done." He lifted his arm; it was encircled by a bracelet. "Not by my skill, however; I thought it best to… recover."

  Alesso nodded. Another time, and he might have asked how such a bracelet had been created, or more precisely by whom. But their shadows were shortening as they spoke; he could almost feel it; the slow swing of the pendulum; the fall of the grains of sand. "Tell me of your discovery."

  "Mikalis discovered it. We were… late at work."

  "I ordered you—"

  "You requested, Tyr'agar. And I thought it best, given the urgency of our situation, to use my own discretion. You ordered me not to speak with the Radann."

  "Sendari."

  "Alesso."

  Alesso laughed. Truly laughed. For a moment, here, on this pier, surrounded by water and sun and enemies, he felt young again. His pulse quickened; his senses sharpened; he could see the variegated light, sharp and distinct, across the water; he could smell the rushes and the lilies on the breeze; could feel, for just a perfect moment, the heft of a weapon he had not drawn in battle for months. Sendari's frown deepened his laughter.

  "My apologies, old friend. Please. Your discovery."

  "It is merely this. Your permission?"

  "You have it; you have always had it. Let us not stand on formality when we are so close the end of all plans."

  "Very well, Tyr'agar," Sendari replied. With care not to touch the mask itself, he walked to the end of the pier. And upended the bag.

  Alesso watched, surprised, as the mask fell, spinning once in the air as if it were clutching for purchase. "Sendari—"

  The water burst into flames as the mask touched its surface. It did not have a chance to sink; the golden, glowing fire, brilliant and brief, devoured it, made ash of it. Absolute denial.

  Alesso was silent for a moment. When at length he was ready to speak, his voice was no longer captive to the wild edge of amusement. "So," he said softly, "our allies gain two things: The foothold they desire in th
e world, and the destruction of a weapon that is very effective against their magic."

  "Against the Kialli," Sendari replied. "You have never attempted to throw one into the Lake; I suspect it would last as long." He bowed. "I apologize. We were intent on discovering the masks' purpose; it only occurred to us afterward to seek a method by which they might easily be destroyed."

  Alesso smiled. "Let me change the subject, old friend. If I asked it of you, and if there were none to stand in your way, would you take the title of Sword's Edge?"

  Sendari was silent for a long moment. "Tell me," he said quietly.

  "It appears," Alesso replied, looking at the place where the mask had almost fallen into the water and the water had denied it, "that the masks are tied in to the destruction of the Lake. And worse."

  "Alesso—"

  "Anya a'Cooper is no longer in the Shining City."

  "We knew this."

  "Yes. We have some idea of where she might be; there are two reports. But that is beside the point. The Festival of the Moon is significant in its fashion to the Lord of the Shining Court, and He had His own plans for it. Cortano feels that there is a chance that if Anya a'Cooper does not return to the Shining City before the rising of the Festival Moon, it will mean his death."

  He paused a moment for Sendari's comment, but the Widan knew him well; he waited for the rest of the story.

  "It is however also Cortano's considered opinion that it will mean our doom if she returns to the City in time for the Lord to do anything other than utilize her directly."

  "I… see." Sendari was tired. After a moment he said, "The Lord's attention is turned toward Anya."

  "Indeed."

  "And if Anya returns to the Shining City early, he will turn his attention to the masks and the Tor. And the destruction of what is, essentially, the true crown and the true throne of the Dominion."

  "Indeed."

  "You will tell me how?"

  "I do not understand how. I know only that the destruction of the Lake is byproduct; that the masks themselves are a beacon that will summon someone Cortano calls the Queen of the Hunt. She must be summoned; the masks provide the sacrificial fodder for the hunting party she will lead. Her presence here somehow affects the… land… that the Lord has chosen as His gateway.