The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  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, peeling 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.

  But his son did not.

  “Kai Leonne,” Alfredo said, lifting both chin and shoulders in an attempt to gain height, “you fight well. If it pleases you, I would be honored to test my sword against . . . yours.”

  All of the watching men froze.

  Valedan’s sword was sheathed. “Kai Callesta,” he said, bowing deeply to Alfredo.

  Alfredo was not yet a man, but more than a boy; a few years older than Aidan, but a head taller. His shoulders were broad, but he had yet to fill them; he was lean in the way that the youthful are.

  And angry.

  Duarte tensed.

  His eyes skirted the gathered men, and came to rest at last upon Ramiro kai di’Callesta. The Tyr’agnate’s face was completely still, his expression like steel.

  There was a risk here. Introduced by the Averdan heir, it waited for Valedan, a Southern trap. A man did not fight with children.

  A man did not refuse a challenge if it was offered.

  And what Alfredo kai di’Callesta had offered was just short of challenge. Had his words been a shade less graceful, had his sentiments been given leave to surface beyond the sullen rage trapped in his expression, Valedan would have had no room to maneuver.

  Nor would the Tyr’agnate.

  “Alfredo,” Ramiro said softly. “The kai Leonne has agreed to ride with the Tyran after we have taken our midday meal. Join us.” It was not a request.

  Alfredo did not acknowledge his father’s words.

  Ser Valedan kai di’Leonne did. “Tyr’agnate.” He bowed. “If it is acceptable, I, too, am curious, and I would grant your kai his request.”

  The General Baredan di’Navarre stepped between the open ranks of the Callestan Tyran. Silent and still until that moment, he drew closer to his lord. But he did not speak.

  “We will be allies,” Valedan continued, “your kai and I. When I gain the Tor Leonne, he will be second only to his father. I am from the North.” He said it firmly and without hesitation. “His . . . curiosity . . . is not unfounded.”

  “He has seen you in action, kai Leonne.”

  “Does a man learn to fight by simple observation? Does he take the measure of his ally at a distance?”

  Ramiro raised a dark brow. “You and I have crossed swords,” he said at last. He moved slightly; sunlight glinted off the golden sun embroidered across his surcoat. “I have taken your measure; you have satisfied me.”

  “I mean no offense, Tyr’agnate.” Valedan shifted slightly, drawing himself up to his full height. Funny, that; he was only a handful of years older than the kai Callesta, but he knew how to carry those years to advantage. Duarte wondered where he had learned that particular skill, if it was learned at all. “And I take no offense. Alfredo is blood to the man whose sword I now wield.”

  Alfredo stiffened.

  And Duarte understood, then.

  “Let me prove, if it is possible, that I mean no disservice to the memory of that man. Let me prove that I am worthy of the honor I have been offered in the wielding of that blade.”

  It was said. It was well said.

  “Ser Anton.”

  “Tyr’agar.” Ser Anton stressed each syllable.

 
“Do us the honor of overseeing the match.”

  Ser Anton nodded. “To first blood.”

  “To first blood.”

  Watching Andaro and Valedan circle and strike held passing interest for the Ospreys. Watching Alfredo di’Callesta unsheathe his blade riveted them.

  “Is he insane?” Fiara hissed.

  Duarte’s backward glance had the force of a blow; she stilled instantly.

  Ser Andaro di’Corsarro hesitated for a fraction of an instant before taking his place at the side of Ser Anton di’Guivera. His hand was on his sword.

  The Callestan Tyran stayed their ground. Ramiro di’Callesta stepped back, closing their ranks. He nodded.

  Valedan placed hand upon hilt, bending into his knees. Duarte recognized the stance; was surprised by it. In his estimation, the kai Callesta was no match for either of Ser Anton’s students—but Valedan’s sword form was the one he chose when Andaro had hit his stride. It was his most defensive offense.

  The Callestans must surely be aware of that fact; they had watched him often. So had Alfredo. But Alfredo saw with anger’s eyes, and with anger’s judgment.

  Still, he was Ramiro di’Callesta’s son. He fell back, shifting his stance. Both hands took the sword hilt; he held it before him as if it were a weightless pole.

  Ser Anton di’Guivera lifted a hand. “Begin.”

  Neither man moved.

  Duarte had some patience with this silent assessment; the Ospreys had none. That they watched in silence was a testament to his temper, not theirs.

  He had seen combat last twenty minutes; he had seen it end in one. Andaro and Valedan knew each other’s measure fully; they understood, before they started, what they faced.

  He was curious. This stillness, this waiting, had been slow to come to Valedan; even in the Kings’ Challenge, he had not shown this patient intensity. But those were Northern games, in the end; in the South all games led to death.

  First blood.

  When Ser Alfredo moved at last, everyone drew just enough breath that they could continue to hold it. The boy was fast. But Valedan was fast as well.

  Swords clashed, inches of steel running across each other as Valedan deflected the ferocity of the younger man’s first strike.

  For a moment, Duarte watched, eyes narrowed, assessing the situation. The politics of the Sword were both old and new to him, but across cultures, there was a difference. In the South, everything was scrutinized with a care and a deliberation that seemed so calculating to Northern observers. What Valedan did here would be defining. Duarte searched only for the definition that the combat would give rise to.

  Alfredo was good for his age. Agile, light on his feet, deceptively strong. But he was not, in the opinion of the Kalakar Captain, Valedan’s equal. Not yet, although with time and dedication, perhaps he would be. Valedan was not without mercy; he had shown that, time and again, in the North.

  He could throw the combat—at some risk. In the North, he could do so cleanly. But in the North, this type of combat did not carry the same weight.

  They drew apart.

  Valedan’s sword was now in play; it had left the sheath, and it would not return. Alfredo charged again, swinging his blade in an arc perpendicular to the ground. He let out a loud, harsh cry as blade met blade; the force of the blow drove Valedan back. Alfredo pressed him, using force and speed, seeking a decisive, early victory.

  In silence, Valedan denied him.

  They parted again. This time, Alfredo was cautious.

  He had twice attacked, with no visible effect; he was wise enough to know that he could not outlast the kai Leonne. Stamina and youth were twinned in this circle.

  A third time, Alfredo swung, leaning into his knees, back straight, arms extended.

  Valedan moved then, stepping in perfect time with the swing, cutting the distance between them to less than a sword’s length. He caught Alfredo’s sword an inch above the hilt, twisting his own blade beneath it, grunting with the sudden strength he exerted.

  Alfredo’s blade left his hands, and it flew in a heavy arc toward the Southern observers.

  Ser Fillipo leaped in front of the Tyr’agnate in that instant, his blade unsheathed. But Ramiro himself did not move to deflect it as it traveled. He trusted his Tyran.

  The sword, with no hand behind it, clanged off Fillipo’s exposed blade and fell to earth.

  Alfredo leaped back, raising his hands as Valedan raised his sword.

  It hovered a moment between them before he lowered it.

  “First blood,” the Tyr’agnate said quietly.

  Ser Valedan kai di’Leonne stepped back. He glanced to Ser Anton.

  “To first blood,” Ser Anton concurred.

  But Valedan did not raise his blade. Instead, he met the steady gaze of Alfredo di’Callesta. “With any other sword but this one,” he said at last.

  Alfredo’s brows rose slightly.

  “It is a Callestan blade,” Valedan continued. “And it is yours. If you seek blood, you will have it; there are enemies—in number—that must be faced and defeated in the war to come.

  “But a Callestan blade should not be raised against a Callestan blade, except in a test of strength; unless you demand it, kai Callesta, it should not be used to draw Callestan blood.

  “I meant you no dishonor when I asked permission to wield this blade. I only meant to honor the fallen.”

  Their eyes clashed, as their blades had, and as their blades, it was Alfredo’s in the end that glanced away.

  “Alfredo,” the Tyr’agnate said quietly, in a tone of voice that made it clear that the word was a command.

  Both men turned to look at the man who ruled Averda.

  He was completely still. “First blood,” he said again.

  Alfredo met his father’s gaze more easily than he had met the kai Leonne’s. Ramiro di’Callesta was the undisputed ruler of the Terrean.

  Alfredo did not hesitate. Stepping forward, he reached out and gripped the end of his fallen brother’s sword.

  Valedan had the time—and the reflexes necessary—to pull the blade clear; he did not.

  The kai Callesta gripped the blade. Blood seeped up between the tight fingers curled around edged steel. It welled there slowly until its weight drew it toward the crushed grass. There, red against green, the end of the challenge was signaled.

  “First blood,” Ser Anton said quietly. “Ser Valedan, the match is yours.”

  Valedan nodded. But he bowed to Alfredo. The boy’s grip relaxed. His blood was bright and wet against the sash that Valedan wore after he wiped the blade clean.

  Duarte AKalakar studied the faces of the men who had watched the short combat from beginning to end.

  He could not tell, from the complete lack of expression on their Southern features, what Valedan had won this day. But one thing was clear.

  Ser Alfredo kai di’Callesta was a young man who should be very grateful that the Callestan Tyr had no other sons behind him.

  “You have,” Ser Anton di’Guivera said quietly, “A strong son, Tyr’agnate.”

  Ramiro kai di’Callesta said nothing.

  “He is blessed by the Lord.”

  And how is worth in a man judged?

  3rd of Corvil, 427 AA

  Terrean of Raverra

  Although Marente was not among the richest of the clans, it was among the oldest; if Alesso had not spent his life in the idle and frivolous luxury that the dead kai Leonne had imported from the North, he had spent enough of it in its presence.

  He knew the cost of silk, of gold, of glass—especially glass, that pane of artifice that kept the world at bay. He understood that there was a beauty in the garish designs and workmanship that the Northerners so prized; understood—with a much clearer precision—
just how much of the Southern gold had, through merchants from the Terrean of Averda, left the Tor Leonne.

  He valued none of these. It was not his desire to impress the Northerners by the conceit of wealth, although he did desire to leave upon them a lasting impression.

  Here, in the building his cerdan had constructed, the maps around him like the pieces of a great mosaic, were the things he valued. He dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword and stood a moment in perfect repose, gazing upon the whole of the Terrean of Averda.

  As if it were, line by line, a dense, irregular poem, he studied it, absorbing it whole. He knew the roads, knew the rivers, knew the valleys. He knew where the cities lay, and where the villages—those villages that provided food and sustenance in abundance—were most vulnerable.

  What the maps could not tell him was more subtle. He could be certain that Ramiro di’Callesta was housed in Callesta itself, grieving over the death of his son. But he could not be certain of where the last of the Leonnes was now encamped.

  The armies of the North had moved, and in numbers greater than either he or Sendari had expected. If his spies were correct, they had brought with them the three Generals who had experience in the terrain of Averda: the flight. The Eagle, the Hawk, the Kestrel.

  Thirteen years had passed since he had last been called upon to take arms against these Commanders; against Commander Bruce Allen, Commander Devran Berriliya, and Commander Ellora AKalakar. The kai Leonne had been a fool; he had completely discounted the third division, the division over which the Kestrel presided, simply because it had been led by a woman.

  What harm can a woman do, on the field? What loyalty can a woman command, among men?

  With respect, Tyr’agar, the Demon Kings do not grant control of their armies to fools and those with an inability to lead.

  How can she lead? There must be another upon whom she relies.

  The Tyr’s overly heavy face was a permanent part of the geography of Ser Alesso’s memory. In just the same way that he read maps, read the stuttering chaos of the movement of whole armies across the landscape, he read that expression. He had chosen to retreat, while retreat was a possibility.