The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

  “What debt does a man of power in the Dominion claim to owe its women?” Margret of the Arkosa Voyani asked. Her lips were thin, her nose thin; she wore her age as all women did who toiled beneath the open sky.

  “A debt of blood,” he replied, feeling the weight of his body against the folded bend of his knees. He adjusted Verragar’s length across his bent lap. “A debt of honor.”

  “So.” Margret’s frown deepened. “Do you understand what it is that you offer?”

  He nodded.

  “And to who?”

  Nodded again. The line of his shoulders straightened, as if he was shedding the weight of a great burden.

  Life could be that, could seldom be less than that, in the Dominion. He waited, in the calm that comes with surrender.

  “What you have seen today you must not speak of to any who does not bear the name and the blood of Arkosa.”

  He nodded.

  “Swear it.”

  And stiffened. Marakas par el’Sol was a man of his word; he was accustomed to the respect that reputation demanded.

  She waited.

  “What oath would you have me swear?” he asked at last, when it became clear that she would not speak.

  “Blood oath.”

  It was almost an insult. Almost. But a simple insult did not absolve him of the part he had played in the death of Evallen of Arkosa. He reached for the hilt of Verragar, and drew her from her scabbard.

  She was blue lightning, a flash of steel and old magic, as she came, unhoused, from her sheath.

  Yollana of the Havalla Voyani cursed and lifted a hand; her cane was caught by the woman who stood at her side before it could strike ground.

  Behind them, a large man drew his own sword, and Margret barked a single word. The man did not sheathe his sword, but he did not advance. Marakas noted that the Matriarch had not even glanced over her shoulder; she was certain of her people.

  Marakas par el’Sol drew the edge of his blade across his palm. He had done so perhaps a handful of times in his life, and this stroke would create a new scar, a new line to be read by the ceaseless eye of Voyani fortune-tellers in the shadowed hovels of their secret life upon the open road.

  “By blood,” he said softly. “I swear to preserve the secrets of Arkosa. Beneath the open sky.”

  “Beneath the open sky,” Margret replied. “I accept your oath. You will wait here. Tor Arkosa will never be home to the Radann; it will never house the clans. It is of, and for, the Arkosa Voyani.

  “But we share a common enemy, a common danger. Evallen of Arkosa chose to journey by your side for her own reasons, and she paid the price that in the end we will all pay if we fail or falter.

  “You owe a debt to Arkosa. You owe a debt to me.”

  He nodded. The blood ran from his injured palm to the sparse greenery that was, in itself, a miracle in this place.

  “Pay it. Accompany these women, these three, to the Terrean of Averda.”

  “Averda?”

  She turned, then, to the woman who stood so perfectly still by her side. In a much different tone of voice, she said, “Are you ready?”

  And this smallest of women raised her hands delicately, deliberately, and pulled the mask from her perfect, pale face.

  Eyes wide, dark, unblinking, she met the stare of the Radann par el’Sol.

  He bowed his head again, deeply, thinking: Fredero. Un-looked for, unexpected, the Flower of the Dominion blossomed in the heart of the Sea of Sorrows. “Serra,” he whispered. Seeing not the desert robes, but the pale, white dress of the Lord’s Consort, golden hem lost beneath the waters of the Tor Leonne, hands cupped beneath the weight of the Sun Sword.

  If a sword had a heart as fierce as hers, it would never break; it would never lose its edge.

  “Radann.”

  The Serra turned to the Matriarch of Arkosa. “Yes,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “Bring me only the burden that I must bear, and I will bear it.”

  The Matriarch of Arkosa hesitated; it was the first sign of vulnerability she had shown since he had arrived at the gates of a city he knew now must be the end of the Voyanne. The Voyani did not speak of the Voyanne to strangers, but Marakas par el’Sol was born with a healer’s gift, and he had offered that gift in their service.

  He knew what such an ending must mean.

  “Stavos,” the Matriarch said.

  The man who had drawn sword now nodded.

  “Tell them. Tell the strangers that it is time to leave. Have them gather what they will take upon the open road.”

  The large man bowed and nodded, vanishing through the wide gates into the streets of the city. Marakas did not strain to see where those streets took him; he had offered his blood as vow, and he desired to carry as few secrets as he could from this place.

  “Wait here,” the Matriarch said. “We will return within two hours. When you leave us, travel as guide and guardian. Protect the Serra Diora. See her safely to the man she seeks, and all debt between Marakas par el’Sol and the Arkosa Voyani will be discharged in full.” Her brows gathered, and her expression darkened; he knew that she would offer him threat for failure if he allowed it.

  “Choose another quest,” he replied, before she could frame the next sentence. “For the task you have set is a task that I would undertake of my own volition.”

  Margret’s smile was cold. “Your own volition? It is said that the Radann serve the man who styles himself the Tyr’agar. Do you claim to serve a different master?”

  “I serve the only master the Radann have ever served,” he replied coldly, exposing the steel of his own words. “And the Radann serve the Lord of Day.”

  “They have served another master in their history.”

  Anger deprived him of words.

  But the Serra Diora gently lifted a hand and touched the Matriarch’s sleeve. “Matriarch,” she said, bending knee without brushing ground.

  She met the Serra’s eyes and her expression shifted.

  It surprised Marakas. Of the Arkosans, Margret was known for the ferocity of her contempt for the clansmen. Or so she had been when Evallen had been Matriarch.

  “My apologies,” the Matriarch said stiffly. “In our history, many great men—and women—have served . . . unwisely. It is not history which is of concern; it is our future, the choices we make now, which are.

  “But I set you no other task. You are counted among the wise. Or so Evallen thought. You were counted among the merciful. I do not ask you to simply raise sword like a hired guard; I do not ask you to serve as cerdan. I ask you to serve—inasmuch as your oaths allow—as Tyran to the Serra Diora en’Leonne. I ask you to do whatever must be done, and whatever can be done, within your power, to deliver her to the side of the man who claims the bloodline of the clan Leonne.

  “And I ask you to see that she is—always—treated with the deference that her rank demands. See the man who lays claim to the Tor and the Lake; to the crown and the Sword. Judge him.”

  “And if he is found unworthy?”

  Margret drew a deep breath. “Then return her to the Tor Arkosa.”

  “Matriarch,” the Serra said again.

  But this time, the Matriarch did not deign to meet her gaze.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BUT how is worth in a man judged?

  3rd of Corvil, 427 AA

  Callesta, Terrean of Averda

  Steel voice.

  Sun like lightning flash from ground to clear sky.

  Steel song, broken by little harmonies: Breath. Sweat. Movement.

  All watch.

  Who judges?

  “Again.”

  Valedan kai di’Leonne lifted sword; brought it, dull edge to chest, tip to forehead, edge out.

  Andaro di’Corsarro mirrored the motion; there was a man’s length between them, no more, and it was measured by cast shadow.

  Valedan moved first, moved slowly, bringing the blade to the sheath by his side. Against Andaro, he had no clear advantage. He watc
hed.

  Andaro nodded, the movement economical and controlled; he drew his blade up to shoulder height, extending his free arm.

  Shadows here.

  Beyond these men, deprived of motion, stood the Ospreys, deprived of colors. They were not—would never be—dress guards. Duarte AKalakar was aware that as Tyran, they failed on several fronts. But it was a proud failure, a Northern failure.

  Alexis, dressed in the shirt and pants of the Kalakar House Guard, had drawn her hands to hips; her palms hovered above the pommel of a sheathed dagger. Beside her, restive, Auralis mimed the motion, but his blade was longer, heavier, straight where the Southern swords curved in a deadly crescent. His blade, as Duarte’s, was double-edged. And, as his Captain’s, sheathed.

  Beside him, and one step back, stood Kiriel di’Ashaf. Her dark hair was bound in a single braid; her eyes, dark, were unblinking. Of the Ospreys, she was the only one who could stand at attention while Ser Anton played at war; the only one whose gaze never wavered, whose attention was drawn and held, in its entirety, by a combat they had all seen, day in and day out.

  There was one significant difference on this warm afternoon. The Tyr’agnate of Averda stood opposite them, his Tyran by his side. And in front of him, brooding, radiating the heat of an anger that had not yet worked its way into words or actions, his son. Alfredo. The new kai.

  Kiriel had grown used to the heat. Used to sweat. Used to combat whose purpose was not death.

  Duarte told himself this again and again, willing himself to believe what did not seem credible. She had changed in the days since they had left Averalaan. He was not certain when he had first noticed the change; it was subtle. But it was there.

  He knew it, because he was no longer comfortable turning his back upon her. Oh, he did it; he forced himself to do it. Forced himself to feign a nonchalance that, day by day, was ebbing. Kiriel, he thought. He said nothing.

  Instead, he focused his gaze upon the back of the youngest member of Valedan’s entourage. Aidan, born in the streets of the hundred holdings, the son of a near-crippled wheelright. His hair was white now, with sun, and his skin much darker than it should have been; he burned too easily beneath the gaze of the so-called Lord.

  He should not have been here at all.

  “I will not take him,” Valedan kai di’Leonne said.

  “He is almost of an age,” Ser Anton replied with gravity. “He can carry either drum or banner; he can be horn-bearer or shield-bearer; he can serve you as the most junior of your footmen.”

  “He is a child, Ser Anton. He was well-pleased at your offer to teach him and school him; he will not expect more.”

  “He is almost thirteen years of age, Tyr’agar.” The clipped use of his title was—almost—disrespectful. But the Ospreys were lounging in the distance against any flat surface; they did not affect to hear the brewing argument, although he was certain Alexis at least had her opinions, and she seldom kept them to herself.

  “I would like him to reach thirteen,” Valedan snapped back. He reined his tone in; the words themselves; he did not regret. Ser Andaro di’Corsarro, often distant when Ser Anton was present, joined the Ospreys; this was not an argument that he could afford to hear.

  “No more than I,” Ser Anton replied coolly. “But I’ve listened to your Ospreys—”

  “They are no longer Ospreys.”

  “They will always be that, to the men of the South.”

  Silence, but it wouldn’t last. Valedan touched the hilt of his sword restively. The sun was high, and he was too exposed.

  “Aidan nearly gave his life to preserve yours,” Ser Anton said at last.

  The heart of their argument, and he had exposed it first. But Valedan knew a moment of frustration, for he perceived that to Ser Anton, it was not a weakness.

  “You do him no favor,” Ser Anton said, when Valedan did not tender a reply. “If you wish him to survive, he must learn.”

  “Learn what? How to kill?”

  “That, and more.”

  “We do not arm children.”

  “He is not a child. Your life is proof of that. He served as only Tyran would serve: he was completely yours.”

  “Ser Anton—”

  “Honor his courage and his choice, kai Leonne. Accept that his life is not entirely in your hands.”

  Valedan was silent.

  “You are in the North, Valedan.”

  “I know.”

  “But you must be of the South. No Tyr—or Tor—would deny him his request.”

  “Aidan is not of the South.”

  “No. But he is tempered steel. I say again: He has proved himself.”

  “He—”

  “He was not struck down by accident; he chose. Would you dishonor his choice?”

  “No. By leaving him here, I intend to honor it.”

  A dark brow rose then. Ser Anton bowed his head. Valedan thought—for a moment—that he had won this bladeless duel.

  He should have known better; he never bested Ser Anton in a fight.

  “You are afraid,” Ser Anton said, “of war.”

  “I am willing to die to achieve our ends.”

  “It is not the same thing, kai Leonne. You are afraid to see the cost of battle written upon the things you value or treasure.” He lifted his head, his eagle’s profile burnished now by the full day’s light. “Take him.”

  “I—”

  “Take him; he will remind you, in the end, of why you fight.”

  “I do not need reminders.”

  “All men do,” Ser Anton said. His hands joined behind his broad back; he stood a moment, the very statue of contemplation. A warrior’s pose. “Even I, in the end, have benefited from the reminder, although I came to understand it almost too late.”

  The words were devoid of heat. Had they been sparring, it would have been as if Ser Anton had put up his sword, exposing his chest to Valedan’s blade.

  It was never something that Valedan found comfort in.

  But against the history that bound these men, Ser Anton and Valedan kai di’Leonne, the younger lost all words. He felt a bitterness cloud the sun’s light, and he was young enough not to be graceful in his surrender.

  “If I choose to accede to your request—”

  “It is not my request, kai Leonne.”

  “If I do so, you will surrender to me something of like value.”

  Ser Anton’s brow rose, but he did not speak; he waited. He was damnably good at waiting.

  “You have said that in the South you will no longer be my master.”

  “You must be seen to have no master, and no equal.”

  Valedan shrugged. It was a forced gesture, and it was a hollow one; he could not have felt nonchalance had he bent the whole of his will toward it.

  “You will continue to train me. You will continue to teach.”

  Ser Anton said nothing.

  “That was not a request, Ser Anton.”

  The swordmaster’s frown was slight; more felt than seen.

  But it was a powerful presence. Valedan weathered it.

  “Tyr’agar,” the swordmaster said, bowing.

  Valedan knew what he was thinking, then. And he smiled. “You intend to hamper yourself in my training, to better elevate me in the eyes of those who watch.”

  Ser Anton did not reply, but the reply was wasted breath; his only options were denial or agreement, and he clearly favored neither.

  Valedan was bitter, and Valedan was content: as a sword-master, Ser Anton di’Guivera was a purist. Intent, when there were no blades and no flaws in their wielding, would in the end find scant purchase against the unquestionable integrity of his chosen craft.

  It was all he had.

  Steel song.

  Short. Loud.

  The boy at the edge of the circle—the invisible circle, a thing made of witnesses and not a thing etched in powdered grass—heard it all; the strike and the clash, the rich harmonics of a tuneless, timeless melody. His reddened, p
eeling face was still, and his lips, still as well. It was almost the only time that Aidan knew how to be quiet.

  Ser Anton turned for just a moment, and the oldest of Valedan’s servants met the gaze of the youngest; they exchanged the briefest of nods before the swordmaster lifted a hand. “Enough.”

  The two sparring men froze in place.

  Ser Anton di’Guivera turned to the Tyr’agnate.

  The Tyr’agnate nodded, but his gaze did not leave the kai Leonne. The breeze moved the grasses of the Averdan hills, turning the trees into an ocean of sound, a muted, constant whisper. It spoke to them quietly.

  The Ospreys, however, lacked the skills to translate what it said. Auralis rolled his eyes. And Duarte knew that he should not have noticed the open expression of boredom, because he should not have been looking at his men. He grimaced, forcing his gaze back to the men that mattered.

  The kai Leonne sheathed his sword and executed a perfect bow. Ser Andaro’s was less perfect to Duarte’s admittedly untrained eye, and the sword that slid into sheath slid less silently. It was subtle; it was artifice. Duarte knew; he had seen Andaro and Valedan spar a hundred times. Ser Andaro was as graceful, as silent, as perfect in the language of the Court of Swords, as Valedan himself.

  But by the little imperfections, he granted perfection to his liege lord.

  He did not do so in the circle itself, but he was Ser Anton’s student, in spite of their estrangement. What Valedan received in their drills, he earned.

  If any of the Southerners noticed, they did not betray that knowledge. They waited for Valedan to leave the grounds that had been designated for this test. For when he did, he became again the Tyr’agar presumptive; the man for whom they would fight and die.

  Now, he was part of Ser Anton di’Guivera’s life’s work; a testament to his art. This was the true test of a master. For in the end, the student, by dint of time and skill, might surpass him on his way to becoming both rival and legacy.

  There was fire in both of these men, Northern and Southern, but it was like fire wielded by man; it burned, and it scarred, but it remained, visibly, in control.

  Ser Anton nodded. It was a brusque, wordless gesture.

  Ramiro di’Callesta nodded as well. The nod was a fraction deeper; an acknowledgment of his appreciation for the drill itself. His Tyran bowed.