The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

  Valedan nodded. “He is irreplaceable. His son, the kai Callesta, is not yet the man his father is.”

  “Then you see a need for action.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  But his tone called for the opposite.

  Turning, he bowed to the Tyran; the bow was shallow, but it was not perfunctory. “These men are sworn to serve the kai Callesta with their lives. There are no others he can trust so completely; no others he would choose to have stand beside him.

  “He ordered them to remain. We cannot, in deference to that order, choose to go where they have been forbidden to follow.”

  “They are his men. We are yours.”

  Valedan nodded.

  “Are you aware of the risk you take?”

  Again, Valedan met the eyes of the Callestans, and Kiriel saw that they were now with him, to a man, although the Commanders stood between them.

  She had a glimpse, then, of understanding, some glimmer of a wisdom that was not—quite—her own. Valedan was not Callestan, but in refusing what was barely a request, he made himself less Northern in their eyes.

  The Serra Alina di’Lamberto, dressed in the armor of the Northern soldiery, came to stand behind him. Although she wore no sari, no veil, bound her hair with no comb, she stood as a Serra might; at his back, to his right, witness to his whim, and servant to it. No armor she wore could rob her of the grace and the habit of a lifetime.

  Still, she did not kneel as a Serra would be expected to kneel; she did not disgrace the Northern uniform that she had been commanded to wear. Did not forsake the role that she had been commanded, against her better judgment, to take.

  Valedan was aware of her. Aware of the flaws in her Northern facade, and grateful for them. He found himself angered by the Commanders, by their Northern attitudes, by their inability to understand what was at stake.

  She touched his shoulder gently, as if she were in truth his wife. Without thinking, he reached up and touched her fingers; she had removed her gloves. They chafed her skin, these things of chain and leather, and he had not the heart to order her to wear them.

  To Ser Fillipo, he said, “Forgive us; you have spent time in Averalaan Aramarelas. You know that the intent of the Commanders is honorable. But you know, also, that they come from a land where the bloodlines do not have the import and the significance they do in the South.

  “They are not fools,” he continued. “And they mean no insult to the Tyr’agnate. They honor his importance in this war; they believe that the winning of it will be much, much harder in his absence.”

  Ser Fillipo did not smile, but the line of his shoulders fell slightly. His hand did not leave his sword.

  Valedan turned his attention to the Commanders who stood between them.

  “His son,” he said, sliding into Weston, “was not only killed by the kin—that much must now be clear—but defiled by them. Used by them. The Tyr’agnate has always understood that the Northern interest in the war is not an interest in land or Dominion, but rather, in the hand of the Lord of Night and all its manifestations.”

  Ser Fillipo nodded, although he did not choose to speak. His Weston, as his brother’s, was flawless.

  “It is now his cause, as well. Where he might have hesitated in the interests of the Terrean, he will hesitate no longer—and that serves you; it serves our cause.”

  “He has to survive in order for that to be true,” Ellora snapped.

  “No. The Tyran understand what they face now. They will carry word, if he perishes; those words will carry weight. Callesta will never stand with Marente, while any of the Tyran remain. If Ramiro falls, they have lost not only the kai Callesta, but their Tyr—the man they are sworn to serve with their deaths. They understand this. But it was his son, Kalakar. His heir. His kai.

  “He has his duty to that son, and he has made this decision. This must be a private matter.”

  “But—”

  “He has claimed that privacy. I will not sanction interference. He chose to accept Meralonne APhaniel’s presence; that is all he was willing to accept. These are his lands, and when I rule the Dominion, they will continue to be his lands. We are guests here, and witnesses; we are in the South. And in the South no one, no matter how close or how trusted an ally, may come between a man and his son.”

  He thought that Ellora might say, His son is dead, which would be unfortunate—but Commander Allen now raised a hand.

  “We are here in your service, Tyr’agar,” the Commander said gravely. “And we accept your orders. We will wait.”

  Ser Fillipo, the Captain of the Tyran, bowed to Valedan kai di’Leonne; he bowed low. “What you have learned in the North, I cannot judge,” he said quietly—in Torra. “But the North has not displaced the South in your blood. Callesta is honored to stand beside you, Tyr’agar.”

  Hunter’s Moon.

  Northern phrase. Ramiro di’Callesta had heard it in passing, and although he understood the words, their conjugation was beyond him, a matter of culture, a different experience. But he walked beneath the moon’s face now, and it was partially veiled, veiled as Amara had been.

  Not since he had been a youth, unbridled, unmarried, and granted the sword of the younger kai, had he known such a dangerous anger; the Lord’s fire burned him. Without care, it would consume him, and he was almost past caring.

  It had been a long night, a night of revelation. And it had been the first night that his wife had come, unveiled, into his presence since his return to Callesta; had given him a glimpse of the heart that she had turned from him in grief and in, yes, anger. What she had—barely—forgiven was nothing compared to this, this defilement; what might it take to earn her forgiveness after she learned of the events of this night?

  He knew her well. He could order the Tyran to silence, and they would comply; were silent now, in the wake of his absence. But she was the Serra Amara; nothing passed in the city of Callesta that she was not, in the end, aware of. He had the ability to be silent in her presence; he had the ability to counsel her to silence should he deem that silence wise. But the ability to lie had long since passed with the first blush of married passion, and with it, much illusion. She was his Serra. She was half of Callesta to the man who ruled its entirety.

  Someone had once warned him of the folly of needing a woman. Any woman. He had seldom considered it folly, and even tonight, sword trembling in mailed hand, he could not consider it in that light. Moonlight.

  Carelo. Amara.

  He paused a moment.

  The mage by his side paused as well, and turned a side glance upon him. The Northerners often spoke too much. This man offered nothing. Funny, that silence itself could seem so much like strength. He was silent; he had none. None but the rage that drove him.

  Meralonne APhaniel lifted his head. Wind made his hair dance; strands of silver light, an answer, and a call, to the moon. Men fought; men were the Lord’s. This stranger, this Northerner, was the Lady’s.

  But Ramiro felt no surprise at all when he lifted a hand and a sword came to it, shimmering, gathering moonlight until that light was sharp and blue, a glittering thing of Northern edges.

  “I have announced myself,” he said quietly. “Stand ready.”

  Ramiro nodded.

  Lord Telakar raised his head in the silent clearing. “Lord,” he said, invoking formality as he inclined chin.

  Kiriel frowned.

  “Meralonne APhaniel, as you call him, has just drawn sword in the streets of Callesta.”

  She nodded, as if she expected no less. Turned to Valedan, a question in her expression.

  He shook his head.

  Telakar watched this minimal exchange, fascinated by it. Fascinated by Kiriel, Kiriel di’Ashaf.

  He had seen her when she dwelled within the twin towers of the Shining City; all of the kin had. The Lord had commanded their presence thrice, and three times they had gathered in the great basin at the foot of the ice and snow that formed the streets of that great edifice, th
e first of the Lord’s works upon this plane. Her father beside her, she had been a thing of wonder, but dark, enrobed in the shadows that the Lord invoked by presence alone.

  He had never once seen her like this: mortal. Human. The human Court denied her entry into their closed and feeble world. They did not fear her, perhaps because of her age, perhaps because she was surrounded, at all times, by the Kialli. As if the Kialli were the greater threat.

  They were. They were, and yet, Telakar stood by her side, gazing upon the souls of the living as if they were gemstones, and he a jeweler who might make of them something memorable. Something truly beautiful.

  He shook himself.

  She understood the laws of the Hells, but she accepted the decision of the young man whose mortal title held all of his power.

  Isladar, did you foresee this? And if so, why did you raise her, at such risk and at such cost?

  He did not speak the name aloud.

  Instead, he turned windward, toward the city that lay beneath them, contours of impoverished hovels shadowed by moonlight, even to his vision. And as he stared, as he listened, he felt it: another power, the hint, the whisper, of another name.

  “Lord,” he said softly, “there is another in the city streets.”

  Her frown deepened. “Who?”

  “He is distant. Careful. I cannot say for certain.”

  “Kai Leonne?”

  Valedan shook his head, with a grim look. “We have, I think, other work before us.”

  “What other work?”

  “The bodies,” he replied. “The bodies of the Lambertan assassins.”

  The man Kiriel called Auralis lifted his hand and smacked the center of his forehead with an open palm. The noise was soft, but it carried.

  “Ser Fillipo,” Valedan continued, “if you do not feel this compromises the orders of your Tyr, we will take the responsibility for exhuming their corpses.”

  The instant the sword was drawn, Ishavriel heard its voice. Cold voice, Winter voice, voice of ice and the Northern passages, it was unmistakable. It was both call and answer.

  He cursed softly. Without hesitation, he lifted his hands; his sword came to the left, his shield to the right. They were of darker light, and the depth of their fires burned. Across edge and surface, if one knew how to read it, the name that did not compel him now shone beneath the veiled moon.

  Illaraphaniel.

  Illaraphaniel, in the South, and in the company of the mortals. He did not question his presence; it explained much. Too much.

  “He is ready,” Meralonne said.

  “Moving?”

  “Toward us. Tyr’agnate, if it will not demean you or unman you, I suggest that you seek cover.”

  “I did not come to cower,” Ramiro replied, the bite in the words sharp as Bloodhame’s single edge.

  “No. But you are Tyr’agnate, and you almost bested the Commanders in the South; you defeated the Ospreys.”

  “I was not the General upon that field.”

  Meralonne inclined his head, an unpleasant smile across his lips. “As you say; I will correct myself. The young Tyr upon the field,” he continued, the irony heavy, “understood the value not of cowering, but of subterfuge. You are not a bowman. You wield the Lord’s weapon, and with some ferocity. But this is the Lady’s time. The Lady casts pale light and delivers you into shadow—into a shadow that does not devour you.

  “You have learned the shadow dance. You know when to hide, and when to strike. Seek the vantage, and the advantage, of the terrain.”

  “While you stand thus?”

  “I am beacon,” he said softly.

  It was half the truth. Ramiro di’Callesta understood power, and he understood that the powerful offered, at best, half truths among equals.

  He hesitated, warring with anger, with the visceral, terrible need to strike. To kill. The rage that rode him was almost his master.

  Almost.

  But had it been, he would never have survived his father, the former Tyr’agnate. And perhaps, just perhaps, that might have been a mercy.

  The Lord knew no mercy. He judged his followers by two things: victory and survival.

  “Move forward,” Ramiro said, and his tone brooked no refusal. “Stand in the lee of that building. I will . . . be cautious.”

  “If an opportunity presents itself,” Meralonne said, obeying the Tyr’agnate as if obedience itself had no cost and no value, “you will know when to strike.”

  Ramiro nodded.

  He walked quietly; he had chosen the location because the building itself was unusual. It housed the Guild of the Callestan Cloth Merchants, and because of that, it was larger than most of the buildings in this quarter of town. Of more significance: it was three stories high, and both the second and third stories were girdled by large, open verandas over which the cloths of the various members were often hung in gaudy display.

  But not at night; at night, the guild members most mindful of thieves caused those banners, those proud and prominent displays, to be carefully folded, and just as carefully concealed. He made his way up to the second veranda, and stopped there; crouched, knees bending, heels falling back into the flat slats of painted wood. Wood was seldom used in buildings such as these, but stone balconies of this size would have been costly; the merchants did not desire a finer dwelling than the Tyr’agnate’s, and they made this clear by the choice of the materials with which they built.

  Nor were they foolish or overcautious; such a slight, he could not afford to overlook.

  Fire strode through the streets. What strays there were, on many legs or few, vanished before it, leaving silence in its wake. Callesta should have burned; it did not. The flame was focused, like the breath of ancient dragons; it skirted the ground, but did not char it, seeking instead other prey.

  And fire answered. Blue fire, a single, slender line that was almost as fierce in its glare as the Lord’s. Ramiro’s breath was quiet, still; he watched, his shoulders hunching, free hand upon the rails. Through it, like a caged great cat, he watched, bore witness, bided time. But he did not pace; did not otherwise move.

  Instead, as the red fire drew closer to the blue, he wondered. He had chosen, months ago, to break the peace of the swordhaven, to lift Bloodhame, to choose his war. Had Bloodhame lain, silent, enclosed in case and sheath, unexposed to the glare of the Lord, and the Lord’s judgment, would his son now live? Would his kai now stand ready, at his father’s side, on the eve of the first war he was old enough to be tested in?

  Night thoughts, and pointless, but they came, and he allowed them entry. He had stood by his father’s side in a very different war.

  Ah. The fire stopped.

  Clear as morning bell, dark as Lady’s veiled Night, the creature spoke. “Illaraphaniel.”

  And the Northern mage bowed. “Ishavriel. It has been some time.” The blue blade rose, not in threat, but in punctuation. “And do not, please, for the sake of my dignity, attempt to tell me that I meddle in things I do not understand.”

  “You meddle,” the creature said softly.

  “Indeed. A failing of mine. There is so little amusement left to me, I take what I can find.”

  “You think this a game?”

  “A fine game,” Meralonne APhaniel said.

  Ramiro frowned. The words spoken, the language he heard, was Torra. And it wasn’t. He could not repeat the sounds made by either man, although he could easily resolve them into meaning.

  Mage, he thought, bowing his head at this unexpected gift.

  “As always, you have chosen the wrong side.”

  “Ah. As always, Lord Ishavriel, the right side is defined by the survivors and the victors.”

  “If you wish to be among them—” He leaped. He leaped, and the air solidified beneath his feet, granting him an impossible purchase as he swung his blade in a wide, wide arc.

  Meralonne APhaniel was not there to be bisected by it. He leaped clear, leaped up, his blade tracing a visible path in the ni
ght sky.

  “You are without your shield,” the creature said.

  The Northern mage did not reply. Not with words, not with blade. But the winds came in at his call, at the slight tilt of his chin; the winds howled through his hair, lifting it wide as if it were the span of wings. Above him, moon, below him, the city.

  His enemy flew back, striking a small building below; the stone cracked.

  A man would be dead, Ramiro thought, had he struck the ground in such a fashion. But the creature snarled and rose.

  Fire blazed from the tip of his sword, speeding like red lightning toward its target. The blue of blade split its foremost plume; flames lapped to either side of the Northern mage, flowing around him like a river.

  But not without cost.

  “I would offer you your life,” the creature said.

  “My life is not yours to barter with,” the mage replied, laughing. “And I have heard far prettier offers, far more polished and courtly words. Did you not come here for battle, Ishavriel?”

  He dove, then, ground rising to meet him.

  Ishavriel stood his ground; the clash of swords was blinding. But the Callestan Tyr merely closed his eyes and waited until the light had passed him by.

  Ser Fillipo par di’Callesta stood a moment as the color of the night sky changed. His hand ached; his arm shook. The Tyran gathered about him, silent as men, lost as children. He had but to give word, grant permission, and they would be gone.

  Instead, he handed Ser Miko a shovel. “If this is not to take the whole of the evening, we will help the Northerners dig.”

  Ser Miko accepted the shovel far less willingly than the sword. Had there been no strangers present, he would have argued; they were half brothers, and not all of the words exchanged between kin were fair or pleasing. But he would not demean the rank that Fillipo held in the presence of Northerners. In the presence of the Tyr’agar.

  Half of the Ospreys dug. Half waited, swords ready.

  Kiriel di’Ashaf was among the watchers.

  “Come, Miko,” Fillipo said, speaking as quietly as he could and still be heard. “We must finish this before sun’s rise. The Serra Amara has tended these grounds personally, and we would be well to be away when she discovers the damage done them.”