"Alana," the Serra Diora said, her eyes upon the Lake, "it is best that we watch, I think, and speak little." So easy to say. So easy.
She watched the little boy, now up to his arms, no attention upon him. All eyes were turned to the Radann who had now mounted a pedestal; who spoke of the coming of the Lord of Night, and the appointing of a new Tyr who might be strong enough to fight him. Clever, she thought it, but idly.
The boy would drown.
If she did not interfere.
No mother could go in after him. Where a child might— barely—be excused such an act of sacrilege, an adult, no matter what her reason, would not. These were the waters of the Lady.
Lady, she thought, give me a sign.
The child stumbled.
She froze; it was the sign she had asked for, but it was not the sign she desired. She had been a fool to pray to the Lady while the Lord reigned. Her mouth opened slightly, so slightly that Alana did not notice it. Neither did the cerdan, whose attention, like Alana en'Marano's was upon the spectacle that they had come to witness.
The child fell, and when he attempted to right himself, the water's ledge deepened. She knew what would happen next. She had asked for a sign, and she was given it, and she turned away.
And then, jaw clenched, she turned back.
The child did not know how to swim.
But the Serra Diora di'Marano had been taught by her husband, her little loved, very important husband. He had been truly delighted to be able to teach her something she did not know; to see her graceless and flailing as she attempted to find solidity and purchase in a medium that offered none.
And she had learned, laughing with feigned delight, silent with genuine fear, to navigate the treachery of water as if it were solid. What had she learned? That it would support her weight if she worked with it, obeyed its rules; that she would sink like a stone if she did not.
But stone could be retrieved whole and unharmed from the depths of the clear, clear water; not so small boys.
She spoke. Her throat was too thick for words, but the words had to be forced out.
Because the child could not swim, and she could, and she could force him, through strength of will and curse of gift alone, to do what must be done.
"Do not breathe," she said first. "Hold your breath and stop flailing." The boy had no choice; he held his breath; his body relaxed. "Now," she said, and the words stuck a moment as he floated limply in the water, "turn over."
He turned. He was facing the wrong direction, but she righted him, using a voice that was implacable. He had no choice but to obey her; she had no choice but to use that obedience. It no longer bothered her to watch him cough and struggle; it only mattered that he do it on land, near sand and stone, where someone—where anyone—might notice him. The waters were like the Lady; they were necessary, but in cases like this they seldom offered a second chance. No sharp edges, this; no fire, no arrow's head, no warrior-dealt death—but death, just the same.
"Na'dio?" her father's oldest wife said, but her voice, cracked by age and wind, was distant. Diora did not speak; she did not allow her voice or her attention to waver. She brought the child by slow degrees to the edge of the Lake, and then, beyond it.
She forced him to approach the crowd held spellbound by the Radann's harsh words, and she finally heard the words that would release her from her own.
But she could not quite hear what they were. A mother's words. A mother's terror and fear and guilt and anger.
She wondered what the boy would tell his mother.
And what the mother would say in return, if she said anything at all.
Her legs were weak. Not from effort, although the effort was there. Not from exertion. But she wondered if it would happen this way every time she was foolishly moved to risk herself by saving the life of a stranger: the horrible guilt, the self-loathing, as she confronted the fact again, and again: she had not raised her voice to save the people who had become the center of her life.
The wind whirled around her face, a cool and welcome breeze. And she heard, from across the Lake, something else that was almost as welcome.
"Well done, Na'dio."
Ona Teresa.
Lady, she thought, I asked for a sign, and maybe you have no sign to give me but this. She looked up again, and the boy, carried by his mother, was almost invisible beneath the dark length of her wild hair. His arms disappeared into it, and his face was obviously buried against her throat. She held him on the shelf of her hip, oblivious to the fact that he was wet, and perhaps oblivious to the fact that he had committed a capital crime.
The fires erupted again as the Lake denied a slender white mask not only entry but existence. But although the fire held everyone mesmerized, it could not pull Diora away from the contemplation of what she had done.
The contemplation of what was left to do.
She wondered where the rest of the Radann were.
* * *
Samadar's time on the front during the border war with the Northern Empire had left him with a permanent limp; the twelve and a half years since that battle had not worsened it. He had learned, with will and exercise, to mask it during all but the most grueling of physical activities, and as he was Radann, he traveled on horseback when any great distance was involved.
But he had assiduously avoided giving challenge or accepting it in all but a handful of cases; he was no longer young. Where he could, he substituted prudence and wisdom for the strength, the endurance, and the speed of youth, but he lacked the ferocity and the swiftness that had once made him the most noteworthy of the Radann.
And yet, lacking that, he managed to avoid the set of unnatural claws that came swinging for the side of his neck and got lodged instead in the side of a building. And when he rolled put from under them, Mordagar took half of the creature's chest.
A man would have been dead.
The demon was simply angry. He roared.
Samadar roared back, but his voice formed the syllables of a name. Mordagar.
Two people lay dead at the hands of the demon; the creature had lain in wait—as, indeed, the kai el'Sol and the Tyr'agar had guessed one might—along the path that led to the plateau. It was not in the best interests of the demons to allow their masks to be destroyed by the combined efforts of the Lord and the Lady, and it was easy enough to scare the common clansmen into immobility or flight.
The kai el'Sol had remained upon the plateau as a symbol of the strength of the Lord; the par el'Sol now scanned the streets, waiting, watching.
The Radann in this case had an advantage that they had previously lacked. The creature had taken no pains to hide its true nature. Instead, it had suddenly emerged in the midst of the long procession, unfolding to a full eight feet in height as it casually reached out with its blade-length claws and speared the two closest people by their throats.
They gurgled and died in full view of the people who intended to reach the plateau. Those people hesitated a moment in silence before the screaming began.
And by that time, Samadar had reached the demon. He wore full armor, and as much regalia as a man could competently fight in: the Sun ascendant adorned his chest and back, the eight rays emblazoned in gold, the curve of the sword beneath the high sun embroidered in shining silver. As background, instead of the darker blue favored by the former kai el'Sol, the Radann par el'Sol now wore azure. They looked like the Hand of God.
They served as protectors, but more: they made the symbol of both their office and the office of the Tyr the symbol of protection against the predations of creatures such as this. For the only people who did not flee—toward the Lake if they were closer, away if they were on the opposite side of the demon—were the Radann.
From a safe distance, Samadar gathered an audience.
And, taking up his sword in the empty space fear made between himself and his enemy, he became the root of legend, a part of the history of the Tor that would—whether he survived or no—be carried from the
mouths of these witnesses to their children, and their children's children, and on, until it served as a reminder of valor, and a game for children to play at: I'll be the Radann. You can be the demon.
If any of the witnesses survived the Festival of the Moon.
Mordagar flashed; a challenge.
The demon smiled; with a casual flick of the wrists, he disposed of the stilling bodies. He spoke in a language that Samadar did not recognize. Mordagar did. Blade hit claw, claw skirted the surface of arm, ripped surcoat; they met, and Samadar forgot his age; forgot his reluctance to join battle with those who were larger and faster, who were stronger, whose endurance had not been worn, like rock, by sand and wind.
He had passed the test of the fires every year he had faced them; he passed them now with a wild certainty that he would never face them again as anything other than a child's echo of the real war.
But first: survival.
He wondered, briefly, if the others fared as well as he.
"There's trouble."
Kallandras stopped. He had been in mid-step before the words left her mouth—she was certain he had—but there was no telling now; he had come to a complete stop with ease and grace, turning to face her as if that had been his intent all along.
"ATerafin?"
"I think Avandar and the Serra should go ahead to the Founts."
Avandar folded his arms across his chest. But he did not gainsay her, and she thanked Kalliaris—if Kalliaris could even hear her in a land where foreign gods were said to rule—for the small mercy.
"And you," he said calmly.
"Kallandras and I are—"
Fire erupted a hundred yards away.
"Going there."
"Jewel—"
"Both of the circles are cracked," she told him, without taking her eyes from the flowering plume that seemed to go on and on.
Avandar did her a second grace; he took her word. "Jewel."
"Yes?"
"Be careful. It might be best that you meet us directly at the Southern Fount."
She nodded absently, her face as focused and still as it ever got. "Southern Fount. Got it."
Then she turned, and she bowed, stopping her hand from making the automatic Northern salute that passed between political equals. "Serra," she said quietly.
The fire banked; the screams did not.
"ATerafin," Kallandras called, and as she turned away from the brief farewell, she saw that he had drawn both of his weapons, she nodded and he took the lead, navigating the streets as if he'd been born to them.
And for all she knew, he had.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
They found a man lying facedown upon the cobbled stone. Blood pooled beneath him. Kallandras barely broke stride to look down; Jewel's knees were at half bend when he shook his head. She stopped a second longer and then nodded to herself, but as she followed Kallandras, she thought that death should have more meaning than a curt half-shake of the head.
And it would. It would have meaning for someone else: Mother or father, brother or sister, wife, child, friend. She followed Kallandras as quickly as she could—which wasn't as hard as she'd feared. The streets, normally so busy with stall and hamper and basket, so crowded with merchants and men who couldn't keep their hands to themselves unless they were staring at guards with long swords, had suddenly emptied. Two doors slammed shut before she reached them. It angered her, even though she had no intention of seeking shelter. There would have been more, she was certain, but doors in this part of the Tor were rare. There were open stone arches, or simple wooden frames that held either hanging or sliding screens.
But these, too, were pulled close and wedged tight.
What did you expect, she heard her grandmother's voice say, the distance of years made small and insignificant by the steps of an unusual journey. People aren't ugly; fear is. But some fears are very, very ugly.
Maybe I'd hoped that people wouldn't give in to their fears so easily?
So says the girl who can't be killed unless she ignores all her instincts.
Shut up, Oma.
Kallandras rounded a corner. She followed.
There was almost no one in the street. Even the windows above the ground were empty—when they were open at all. Jewel could almost hear the frantic whispers or hysterical cries that the buildings enclosed. Here, it was easy. There were very few doors.
But, she thought, if she were one of the people huddled in buildings this close to the creature that suddenly came into view, she would have kept on funning. She didn't trust stone or wood to provide any defense against the obviously magical. And the creature was obviously magical; there was nothing human about it. Not even its form was human in proportion. Most of the demons Jewel had had the misfortune to meet had at least boasted arms and legs and torso in roughly normal proportions. This was like a giant cat, one with scales instead of fur and eyes that were as red as poppies.
She started to speak when the second such creature came into her view; stopped moving when the third followed. And in their center, sword literally awash in blue flame, was a bleeding, armored man. He was whole; he was standing. That said something. She was certain without intervention both of those states would be rectified by the creatures who hunted him now.
"ATerafin," Kallandras said.
She met his gaze.
"Do we require him?"
"What?"
"Do we need him?"
"Kallandras, how can you even ask a question like that? He's—"
"ATerafin, we do not have the time or the luxury for this argument. My apologies. Do we need this man?"
"I—yes."
He nodded then, and the weapons in his hands flashed. The man she did not recognize, the newcomer who had managed to hold his own against three demons, held a sword whose light was somehow compelling. She found it both beautiful and uplifting. Not so the weapons that Kallandras held. She promised herself that she'd never ask him where he got them from.
And reminded herself that she trusted him completely.
She watched him take to the cobbled field as if he were an army. He walked directly; he did not seek shadows or subterfuge. The creatures were intent on their kill, the way cats might be with mice if mice had fangs, and they assumed that any would-be help had fled.
Their second mistake. Their first had been to come here at all. She watched, fascinated, as Kallandras calmly walked up to the closest creature and severed its spine. It happened so quickly she almost couldn't understand what she'd seen; his funny long knives rose two feet in clenched fists and fell two and a half; he twisted them neatly and brought them out in those same fists— but his wrists were now crossed.
The creature screamed and began to writhe and twist as it turned to face its unseen attacker. Kallandras circled slowly until his back was exactly toward Jewel ATerafin; there he stopped, weapons held out to either side as carelessly as if they were gloves. The demon roared and bore down upon the slender bard; he held his ground.
Jewel watched Kallandras' back, wondering what he saw as the creature charged. She should have been afraid for him, but the bard appeared so relaxed that meeting bloodthirsty demons in the Dominion's capital seemed almost an everyday event, like shopping in the Common.
When he finally moved, he shifted position very slightly; the dagger arms came up. She couldn't actually see what followed, but an educated guess—from the way a roar stopped in mid bellow—made it fairly clear that they were now down a demon.
Kallandras stepped back. He watched the man with the sword very carefully, and after a moment, he turned to Jewel. "ATerafin," he said quietly. "I think our work here is done for now. The Radann par el'Sol is capable of—ah, you see?" «
The blue blade slide through bone and cartilage.
Jewel followed the roll of the resultant bodiless head along the uneven ground. "Good point."
She turned away.
And then turned back.
"Bard!"
The last of the demons lay aground. Jewel watched it in fascination. And watched. And watched.
"Kallandras?" She was certain that the creature was as dead as demons ever got.
" "I see it," he said softly. He looked up at the man who had called him by profession if not name, and nodded slightly. Acknowledging an equal, an ally, or a worthy enemy—in the Dominion these things were almost identical. And then he went one step further. "Marakas."
Jewel slapped her forehead. "Is there anyone you don't know?" She said out of the corner of her mouth.
"Many people," the bard replied. "And in truth, I would not say that I know this one at all well. Perhaps once, but people change with time and responsibility. But it is too late; we cannot flee one of the Radann par el'Sol; if they choose, they can make our lives very difficult."
"I think," Jewel said, looking at the bodies that had not yet dissolved into the nothing that she associated with dead demons, "They have other things to worry about."
Kallandras smiled. There was no mirth in the expression. But he stood his ground, and Jewel noticed that his weapons had disappeared back into their sheaths. He was an unarmed, simple clansmen with hair a trifle darker than she was used to.
The man Kallandras had called Marakas par el'Sol stopped ten feet short of them both and bowed. The bow was deeper than Kallandras' nod. "I owe you my life."
"There is no guarantee that you would not have prevailed without my intervention."
"And you believe that?"
Kallandras chose not to answer.
The silence was terrible. Jewel broke it. "So," she said, "how many of these creatures have you faced lately, and do all of their bodies stay behind?"
The phrase "looked down his nose" had never been so appropriate. Kallandras said, in Weston, and in a voice that clearly did not carry to anyone but herself, "You are a clanswoman in the Dominion. Think before you speak."
Jewel bit her tongue and briefly regretted saving the man's life. But only briefly. Marakas said, "I have news. The Voyani woman—"
"We know."
The man looked away. "I did not know," he said softly.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 76