The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

“Is he not the closest and most trusted adviser to the Tyr’agar?”

  She said, simply, “I do not know. I am not a part of the counsel the Tyr’agar chooses to keep.”

  “And yet it is said that Ser Sendari almost doomed his clan by refusing to grant your hand to the kai Leonne. It is just possible that he might see this as wise.” He smiled.

  The smile did not touch his eyes, and it did not enter his words.

  “If,” he continued, “Ser Sendari di’Sendari thought there was no danger of war in the Terrean. And I do not think that even he could be so . . . optimistic. Come, Serra. I was witness to your act after the death of the kai el’Sol, and I ask you again: What is your intention?”

  “Let me first ask, if I may be so unforgivably bold, Tor’agar, the same question.”

  “You are indeed bold,” he replied, but this time he did smile. A dangerous smile, but one that transformed his face, lending it a beauty that had been absent. “It amuses me. It is rare.

  “I do not know what you have heard; given that you came to us from the shrouded hills of the dark forest, I cannot say for certain that you have heard much. The armies of the Tyr’agar have gathered. He has at his command the whole of the First and the Second army. The Third is scattered, and although some part of it has been gathered in his service, it has been left at the border. I do not believe he trusts the loyalty of those men; they served General Baredan di’Navarre, and rumor indicates that the General might still live.

  “But it is clear that the Lambertan Tyr has no love of the Tyr’agar. Clear, as well, that he has less love of the Averdan Tyr. What is not clear—to many—is what will happen to Mancorvo. War is almost upon us, and many who now govern lands within Mancorvo believe that should a change of rulers be fated, they might preserve their clans—and their power—should they choose to ally themselves with the Tyr’agar.”

  And are you such a man? She did not ask.

  “Word has reached Clemente that some measure of alliance was offered to Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto. No word has reached Clemente of his response. But while many see the Lambertan Tyr as hopelessly honor bound, I have seen him in battle, and I have seen him in the political arena. If he is bound by honor, it does not make him helpless; he is canny.”

  “What would you have of me, Ser Alessandro?”

  “The truth,” he replied.

  “I hold the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo in the highest regard,” she said softly, “and I owe a debt that no Serra could possibly hope to repay to the man who was once his brother.”

  He stiffened. “I owe that man a different debt,” he said at last, coldly. Anger, there. A deep anger.

  “The winds will make him pay it,” she replied. “Or the Lady, if any hope of the Lady’s mercy is true. He is beyond approach or reproach now.”

  “Indeed. But he dared much in this Terrean because he trusted the rulership of his brother.”

  “The Radann claim no family ties.”

  “Also true. And it was not family that he trusted; it was its sense of honor and justice. But such ties as exist among those born to Lamberto are at least as strong as blood; he disavowed the kinship that was obvious, but he could never disavow what he was.”

  “Would you see the Lambertans fail, then?”

  “In truth, Serra Diora, it would not ill-please me.”

  She was silent.

  “But I have always been pragmatic. Had the Tyr’agar intended to ally with Mancorvo, he would not now have his men stationed in the South and the East. If I were to guess, I would say that he originally offered some part of Mancorvo, and some part of Averda, to the Tyrs of Oerta and Sorgassa in return for their support. Any of the four Tyrs could choose to claim the Tor Leonne; it is clear that no one of them has, and it would take much support for the par of a lesser clan to do so. His offer to the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, while more recent, may change the balance of this alliance. But much depends on the reply that the Tyr will tender.

  “Lorenza and Garrardi are therefore of import to the Tyr’agar, and against their support, a clan of Clemente’s rank—and I labor under few illusions—is of little consequence. But not all that is of consequence is decided by either men, horses, or wealth. The more powerful of the clans will stand by Lamberto, for their own purpose. But a clan of little note? Such a clan might be left to rule as it has ruled for a century, if it offers its allegiance to another Tyr.

  “You would be a gift,” he added softly. “A gift and a sign of good faith, should I choose to return you to him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SERRA Teresa.

  Kallandras.

  You are well?

  We are both well. Yollana is . . . injured. Were it not for the cost to him, I would have her accept the offer of the Radann par el’Sol. The loss of her left eye . . . She turned to look at the older woman; sleep had come, and in its wake, the rigid lines of indifference had smoothed themselves into wrinkles and crevices. The weight of age descended with that sleep, and Teresa thought that waking would not lessen its burden.

  But old, she was beautiful; she had done much in the name of duty, and would do much, much more if she survived. It was a harsh beauty, perhaps a Southern beauty, and there was no softness in it.

  Where are you? she asked softly.

  I have been given quarters adjacent to the Radann par el’Sol’s. I believe we are in the Northern wing of the building; we have been given no windows, and cerdan patrol the halls with almost annoying frequency.

  There are no cerdan here.

  Ah. The Tor’agar does not wish to invoke the wrath of Havalla. He has some wisdom. Where is Diora?

  I am not certain.

  Kallandras’ voice fell silent. She waited, but it did not return. Instead, she heard the sliding of screens, and saw that a young seraf—a girl barely of age—knelt beyond the grooved wood, her dark hair falling across bent shoulders. She was not perfect; her posture was a shade too awkward, and her knees too thick to support it for long.

  But she lifted her face, and the Serra saw it was a sweet face, a gentle one, rounded and curved with the chubbiness of indulged childhood. Whoever the Tor’agar’s wife was, she was obviously not a harsh mistress.

  The girl waited a moment in a growing, awkward silence, and Teresa realized that the seraf did not know how to address either of the guests. She could not use the honorific Serra, for it was known that the Voyani took ill to the titles of the clansmen, but robbed of that title, the child had no other to offer.

  Poorly trained, indeed. And yet Teresa felt little contempt for the quality of her training; the hesitancy, marked and easily seen, was somehow endearing. I have been on the road too long, she thought critically.

  “Child,” she said. “Have you come with a message from the Tor’agar?”

  “Oh, no,” the girl responded quickly. “I have come from Serra Celina en’Clemente. She bids me offer you wine and fruit, if you will have it.”

  “We would be grateful for any such sustenance; we have come late from the road, and we are weary.” It was entirely untrue; Yollana would be deeply annoyed to be indebted in even this small a fashion. But the Matriarch slept, and the Serra Teresa reigned for the moment.

  “The Serra also wishes me to say that baths have been drawn, with hot water, if you desire it.”

  Teresa frowned. “My companion, as you see, is much exhausted from our travels.”

  The girl’s eyes looked toward Yollana and froze there. The wounds had bled through their bindings.

  “But tell your mistress that we are greatly honored by the offer of the bath, and if she would not feel insulted, I, at least would be grateful to accept the kindness of that offer.”

  The girl nodded at once, falling into the subservient posture. She could reach the floor with her head by rounding the curve of her spine, and only by so doing. Again, Teresa wondered at the Serra who had trained her, and her curiosity was intense. The Tor’agar did not seem a man prone to accept a lesser Serra as his wife.
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  The doors slid shut.

  “I heard all of it,” Yollana snapped, but only when the sound of footfalls had receded into silence.

  “My apologies, Matriarch. But there is no way, with grace, to refuse the offer of the Serra Celina en’Clemente.”

  “And you don’t want to, do you?”

  Teresa said nothing.

  “You want to go and bathe and sit in the heart of a harem. You want to feel at home.”

  “I will never be at home again in the heart of any harem,” Teresa replied. She let the truth seep to the surface of her perfect words. “But I am curious. And it may be that we might gain information—and some small advantage—from such a meeting.”

  “Small advantage indeed. The women of the clans have no teeth and no claws; they exist at the whim of their husbands.”

  “That is the law,” the Serra Teresa replied, and this time she offered the Havallan Matriarch the most perfect of her smiles. “But the Serra Diora di’Marano is such a woman. Tell me, Yollana, that she is without power; tell me that she is no more than pawn.”

  “Aye, aye, I understand your point. And I note the false humility you show when you fail to mention your own name. Learn to speak plainly, Na’tere. Learn to speak like a Voyani woman. You would find life among my kin much easier.”

  “Indeed. The Matriarch Maria of the Lyserra Voyani is treated with suspicion because of her inability to shed a lifetime of grace.”

  “A lifetime of subservience,” Yollana snapped.

  The Serra’s smile grew more perfect, more graceful. It was the only way she could clearly express her annoyance. “If you prefer it, I will rescind my acceptance.”

  Yollana snorted. “No. Go. But leave me here. I couldn’t stand to listen to the endless, pretty words that Serras use. But I caution you, Serra, to remember what you are supposed to be while you are here: my kin. My cousin.”

  Teresa bowed. And her bow, unlike the seraf’s, was perfect. Age had not lessened it. Nothing would.

  The Serra Celina en’Clemente was waiting in the baths. The tubs, wide and deep, were filled with water; the room itself was covered in a fine, thick steam. Serafs waited with towels and the broken beads of fragrant oils; they were, like the girl who had come to Yollana’s room, of less than perfect quality. They were not all young; one was older than Ramdan, and the damp in the room caused her movements to slow. All this, Teresa noted in a glance; she accepted the aid offered as she shed the robes of the Voyani, and sank into the blessed waters.

  But she was ill-prepared for the Serra Celina’s first words.

  “Serra Teresa di’Marano, I am honored to have you as a guest in my harem.”

  She sank shoulder-deep into the waters; let them lap against the point of her chin as she lowered her head in a slight bow, an acknowledgment of the Serra’s words.

  “It has been a long time since I last saw you; no doubt you have little memory of that day.”

  “I confess that I have, indeed, little memory of it, and it is my profound hope that your memory of that meeting is kind.”

  “Could it be otherwise? You have defined courtly grace in the Terrean of Mancorvo for many years. Your serafs, those trained and chosen by you, have been in high demand, and held in high esteem, for those years. I was never so lucky as to own one, and I hope that you do not judge my own serafs by the standards you helped define.”

  She listened with care, accepting the oil that the oldest of the serafs offered. The skin that had not been exposed to the Lord’s harsh glare was white, as white and perfect as it had always been; the contrast between her hands and her stomach was almost shocking.

  “Did the Tor’agar recognize me?” Teresa asked quietly.

  The Serra did not reply; reply enough. But the woman’s voice held no malice; it held open curiosity and genuine respect.

  “You come to us in a time of war, and I apologize for the conditions in which you find my domis; the grounds have been all but destroyed by the heavy feet of armed men; even the trees—the oldest of trees—were not spared.”

  She nodded.

  “The woman you travel with—is she as she claims?”

  “She is Yollana of the Havalla Voyani,” the Serra Teresa replied with care.

  “I saw her once. She was not so old then, but she was always terrifying. I was a foolish girl,” the Serra Celina added, “and she had the Voyani Sight.”

  Something in her voice caught the Serra Teresa’s attention; she turned to face the Serra Celina, and found green eyes intent upon her. “You are aware of the recent history of our clan?”

  “I . . . have been much absent from Mancorvo of late,” Teresa said, gentling her voice. “But I confess that I was surprised to see Ser Alessandro wearing the symbol of the Tor.”

  “He was not Tor when you last resided with your kai,” the Serra Celina replied. “I take no offense, Serra Teresa. Although Clemente holds the rank of Tor’agar, my former husband, Ser Roberto kai di’Clemente, was not a man overly concerned with the grace and nuance of the High Court; he was seldom seen upon the plateau of the Tor Leonne, and seldom seen in the Court of Amar. He was like his father, Ser Rogos, in that. A practical man.

  “A man,” she added, speaking with both sorrow and obvious affection, “who was not embarrassed by the quality of my serafs.”

  “It is said,” Teresa said quietly, “that the quality of the master—or the mistress—is best judged by the affection the seraf feels for him, or her, and I do not doubt that your serafs hold you in that particular warmth of esteem.”

  The woman blushed. She was, Teresa thought, a few years younger than Teresa herself, but vastly younger, and vastly more protected, than the Serra Teresa di’Marano had ever been allowed to be. Not a weapon, this woman, not a sword to be lifted at the behest of a clan.

  “You are still Serra here? Ser Alessandro has taken no wife?”

  “He has,” Serra Celina replied quietly—too quietly. “After the death of my husband, I was uncertain of my fate. I bore my husband two sons, but only one survived; I gave him daughters,” she added. “And he was perhaps foolish in his affection for them. Only one has married.

  “Ser Alessandro is kai,” she continued. “My second son was born to me late, by the Lady’s grace, and . . . he was young . . . to be without regent. When Roberto died, Alessandro approached me, and he asked me to remain in the harem, with my son, and my wives, for he said Clemente had need of continuity, and a Serra who understood her people. I accepted his offer, as you can see. Ser Alessandro has confirmed my son as the clan’s heir.”

  “You tell me much about your husband,” Serra Teresa said. “There is much to respect in his action; there are few who would follow the old ways as closely as he has.”

  “Yes. And yet you saw the bowmen upon the curtain wall when you approached.”

  She nodded again. “The kai Lamberto would be ill-pleased by their presence, for he despises all things Northern.”

  She nodded again. “I have said as much, but my husband is a man who takes no counsel but his own.”

  The Serra was silent. “Serra Celina,” she said at last, “what does your husband intend for us?”

  “It is to speak of these things that I have asked you to join me,” the Serra replied, “for there are things I feel you must know.” She drew a deep breath, tilting her face up and into the comforting wreaths of steam.

  “There have been rumors these past months; they have traveled across the Terrean, by merchant caravan and by Voyani caravan alike. I . . . am a simple woman. I have had some small business with the Voyani, Arkosan and Havallan, and although they are a rough people, they have been courteous and helpful when I have asked for aid.”

  And what aid, she thought, would a Serra be unwise enough to ask of the Voyani? Or do you not understand the debt you incur when you accept their favor?

  “It is said,” the Serra continued, lowering her voice, “that the Tyr’agar now deals with the servants of the Lord of Night; that he
intended to honor the Lord at the height of the Lady’s festival.

  “Serra Teresa, you were within the Tor Leonne during the Festival season. Is there truth to these rumors?”

  “There is . . . some truth to these rumors. Understand that it is unwise to speak of any rumors that involve men of power and the wars they play.”

  Serra Celina en’Clemente nodded earnestly, and Teresa knew, by the quality of that nod, that she in fact understood no such thing. She was not a girl, but Ser Roberto, and Ser Alessandro after him, had either been kind, or foolish, enough to allow her to retain the sweetness and the naïveté of youth.

  “The kai Lamberto would never deal with the servants of the Lord of Night. Never.”

  That, indeed, was truth. “No,” the Serra Teresa replied gravely. “Not while he drew breath. Not Mareo kai di’Lamberto, and not any of his children, nor his brothers.”

  “Aye,” the Serra Celina said, rough word that showed her breeding. “And it is the brother that lies at the heart of the difficulty. My husband’s cousin was killed by the kai el’Sol over the matter of a simple village seraf.”

  “The kai el’Sol was not a man to step outside of the bounds of law,” Serra Teresa said quietly. “And I find it hard to believe that he would kill a man of rank over his treatment of a simple seraf.”

  “She was not a seraf in name. But in all but name. She came from the poorest of clans.” Serra Celina frowned. “My husband—my former husband—was a gentle man. He sought wives among the villages within our domains, but . . . he never sought to . . .” She bowed her head. Lifted it. “Ser Alessandro has said very little, but word has come to me from other sources.”

  The Voyani, Teresa thought. Perhaps the Serra Celina was not so simple as she appeared.

  “The kai Manelo had taken an interest in the girl, but the girl was married.”

  “Ah.”

  “And her husband . . . was injured . . . by the kai di’Manelo. The kai el’Sol accused him of attempted murder, and they fought.”

  That—that, Teresa thought, was more than believable. “Ser Alessandro was fond of this cousin.”