The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “The Northern armies have moved, and in number. They are almost certainly amassing—if they have not already done so—within the borders of Averda.”

  “In what numbers?”

  “We believe they have traveled with not less than twenty-five thousand men.”

  Adano’s silence was gratifying. It did not, however, last.

  “Mancorvo and Averda were not meant to survive the new Tyr’s rule under their current rulers.”

  Sendari offered no reply; there was none that could be offered without insult.

  Adano’s lips thinned. His smile held no mirth whatsoever. “Rethink that strategy.”

  “The strategy is not mine.”

  “No. But Alesso values your counsel.”

  “And Mareo di’Lamberto values yours, does he not?”

  “Yes. But he values it less than he values his clan. Less,” he added, “than he valued his brother. When Ser Alesso can draw and wield the Sun Sword, the Tyr’agnate will offer his oath and his services.”

  “And until then?”

  “I . . . believe that he will not move against you.”

  “That is all that we desire at the moment.”

  “Will you withdraw your troops?”

  “They are not mine to withdraw.”

  “They are amassed between the border of Averda and Mancorvo. It seems—to those with no information to counter it—that Alesso has not yet decided which Terrean he seeks to invade.”

  “In the end, Brother, he will invade only what he is not offered. He is the Lord’s man.”

  “Which Lord, Sendari?”

  Ah, it was out in the open. Sendari did not hesitate. “The Lord of Day.”

  “Then the Lord will judge.”

  Sendari bowed. He reached into the folds of his robes, and pulled from it two things. A letter, in a coded tube, and an oath medallion.

  Its wood had been broken by the edge of a sword’s single strike. “This is the mark of Terra Fuerre,” he said, his fingers brushing the rough runnel. “Tell the kai Lamberto that we will avenge what Mareo di’Lamberto himself could not avenge.”

  Adano took both scroll and medallion.

  “If Ser Alesso chose to travel, he might bear word himself.”

  “He is,” Sendari said, composed now, “occupied.”

  “And Lamberto,” Adano replied, “is not.”

  That drew a smile from Sendari.

  “Did you write the letter?”

  “I? No.”

  “But you know its contents.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I will carry it for you.” The Tor’agar Adano kai di’Marano turned to leave. Without looking back, he said, “Do not offer me safety, Brother. If, in the end, the man who styles himself Tyr’agar sees reason to invade, I will fight and fall with my liege lord.” He took another step, and then spoke again, the words drifting in the breeze of the plains.

  “And if, in the end, this comes to pass, I will acknowledge that you are Sendari di’Sendari; you are a clan in your own right.”

  If he had been a younger man—if he had been his younger self—Sendari would have spoken, then. But the enormity of the acknowledged gift was daunting, and he retreated, as men do, into silence, losing the moment.

  28th of Misteral, 427 AA

  Terrean of Averda

  Commander Bruce Allen surveyed the mouth of the straits. There were boats moored among the docks that his soldiers had spent a week constructing; there was not a Southern ship among them. The trees that lined the river did so at a distance; those that had had the misfortune to grow where the army built its encampments had been cleared.

  In another four days, the last of the ships would arrive, and their cargo—men and supplies—would be left upon these wooden docks, their reflections broken by the rush of moving water. Nothing was still in the South.

  He shook his head. Nothing stayed still in the North either. Turning to the younger man who waited ten yards away, he gestured.

  The man turned instantly and began to cover the distance between them; the light of the medallion of the Order of Knowledge was a brief, bright flash as he moved.

  Commander Allen had worked with his share of magi in the past, and he could count on one hand the times that he had not found it frustrating. They were not military men; when inducted into the army for fieldwork, they responded as Members of the Order of Knowledge and not as soldiers in the Kings’ armies. They could be obdurate men, and when they felt that they dealt with inferior intellects—which, in the case of most magi, was almost always—they were curt when they tendered what they felt was due obedience.

  Gyrrick of the Order was therefore a surprise to him; a man who seemed to understand the chain of command, at least as far as it extended between himself and the Commanders he served. He spoke little, and when he chose to speak, he tendered replies that were brief and to the point without bordering on rudeness.

  It should have been comforting.

  Commander Allen found it mildly disturbing. And that made him smile ruefully. He let the smile linger as the man reached his side.

  “Member Gyrrick.”

  Gyrrick bowed. “Commander Allen.”

  “I wish a message to be delivered to Commander Berriliya.”

  Gyrrick nodded. His eyes, rather than closing, became glassy; his face lost all expression. The Commander waited.

  “Commander Berriliya is present,” Gyrrick said, speaking as if speech itself were foreign to him. “The Member Aldraed asks me to tell you that he has spent much effort purifying drinking water for the three vessels today; the communication—unless of course it is urgent—should be brief.”

  “Tell him that his warning is appreciated. I merely wish to know where the ships are.”

  “They have reached the Ocean of Omaras. They are on schedule. The weather is calm at the moment.”

  “Good. Tell the Commander that we will expect him in four days. We have received word from Callesta, and we are expected to travel there in haste.”

  “Commander Berriliya wishes to know if we will travel by land or by water.”

  Commander Allen gazed at the turbulence of the river in the distant west. “By land,” he said at last. “The horses have had enough of the water.”

  “Commander Berriliya asks if Captain Duarte AKalakar has sent word from Callesta.”

  “Only that.”

  Gyrrick’s eyes snapped shut.

  But he had not finished speaking. “Member Aldraed has one message to add.”

  “What message?”

  “Meralonne APhaniel of the Council of the Magi will be joining us directly.”

  “When?”

  The younger man’s eyes snapped open, his lids jerking up in a curl of dark lash. He turned swiftly, his face shedding neutrality and stiffness. He did not waste words; they were unnecessary.

  Commander Allen could hear the sudden cry of his men; could hear the clang of swords hastily leaving their sheathes in the encampment below the riverbank. He leaped from the peaceful lee of water’s edge, his voice raised in command.

  Damn these mages, he thought. He heard the arc of an arrow’s flight. Saw it as it paused in midair, trembled a moment, and fell, deprived of momentum.

  No others joined it.

  In the middle of the clearing that housed the command center, arms folded, hair streaming loose down his back, stood the Member of the Council of the Magi. He raised a pale brow as Bruce Allen strode between the armed men who served as his personal guard.

  “At ease.”

  Simonson had already brought the men to order; he had not, however, given them orders to sheathe their swords. “Commander Allen,” he said, drawing his arm up and across his chest in the sharpest of salutes. It was
, strictly speaking, unnecessary—but it was also his way of reminding the magi who ruled here.

  “Member APhaniel.”

  “Commander Allen.”

  “We received very little warning of your arrival.”

  “Ah.” He lifted his shoulder in a shrug that was in itself an act of monumental arrogance. This, this was what the army was accustomed to dealing with when they traveled with the magi. “I see that things have changed little in twelve years.”

  “Very little. Why are you here?”

  “I was sent,” he replied, “at the behest of the Kings.” He gestured; a scroll materialized in the air between them. “In light of the present difficulties, my expertise was considered of value to the army.”

  Commander Allen nodded brusquely; Simonson plucked the missive out of the air without any visible hesitation. He placed it carefully—and quickly—into Commander Allen’s upturned palm and stepped to the side.

  The Commander nodded. “Join me,” he said curtly.

  The tent was large. It housed a desk, chairs, and a large table. The table was covered with maps. They were not Northern in manufacture; they were Southern, a gift of the Callestan Tyr.

  As such, they were considered to be incomplete. Commander Allen had his own men—those who were skilled in surveys—in the field gathering information; what they brought him would determine how incomplete the maps were.

  Simonson entered the tent; the men who had been selected as the Commander’s personal guard cast shadows against the fabric. They did not, however, enter.

  Bruce Allen broke the seal upon the scroll. He unrolled it, and noted that it contained not one, but two, pieces of paper. The second, seal broken, was of more relevance than the first; the first was a simple confirmation—if it were needed—of the magi’s claim to legitimacy.

  We regret to inform you that Jewel ATerafin is unavailable at this present time. When she has returned to the House Terafin, she will be sent in haste—at the expense of House Terafin—to any location deemed safe and accessible.

  It was signed by The Terafin.

  He looked up.

  Member APhaniel waited.

  “Where is she?”

  “I am not a member of the Terafin House Council,” the mage replied coolly. “And she is not a member of the Order of Knowledge.”

  “She was given leave to travel?”

  “As she is not a member of the Kings’ army, or the Astari, she is not considered to be under the direct command of the Kings.”

  “She was to be seconded to the army.”

  “Indeed, that is my understanding. It was not, apparently, the understanding of House Terafin.”

  The Commander raised a brow; he spoke after a pause. Those who knew him would understand the significance of such a pause.

  Clearly, the mage was not among them.

  “Has she been seen since the attack on the Common?”

  “I am privy to exactly the information contained in the letter you now carry.” Before the Commander could speak again, the mage lifted a slender hand. “However, I am also privy to rumor, if that suffices.”

  “Speak.”

  “She is alive.”

  “That is not of significant value if she is not here.”

  “It is not of value to the army, no. Let me assure you that if her whereabouts were known, she would be with you now. If they become known, I have been authorized to . . . retrieve her.”

  “And your researches have not given you the ability to discern her location?” It was a bitter comment.

  “We are not seers,” the magi replied, with just a trace of arrogance. “Nor are we bloodhounds. We cannot be set to hunt. She is alive, and if I am not mistaken, you will see her before the war is finished.”

  “And this information?”

  “A . . . hunch, Commander Allen.”

  Commander Allen was accustomed to the magi; he did not grind his teeth. Barely. “Where does rumor place her?”

  “With the Voyani,” the magi replied.

  “And they?”

  “They are not easily found, when they wish otherwise. But they wander these lands; they claim no home.”

  Commander Allen nodded curtly. He had heard of—and even encountered—some few of these wanderers in his previous journey into the Dominion.

  It had not been pleasant.

  CHAPTER SIX

  1st of Corvil 427 AA

  Sea of Sorrows

  THERE was life along the riverbank.

  In and of itself, it was not remarkable. Jewel was no botanist; she could not name the plants that grew, roots near their only source of water, in vibrant, pale greens, in dark, deep emeralds. In Averalaan, she would have passed over them without noticing them, for they reminded her of the weeds that grew up between the stones on the old roads, wedging themselves between gate and grass; that grew, unwanted, and in a way that advertised neglect in the hundred holdings.

  But in the desert, the plants were proof—if it were needed—that water was life; water, as the Voyani said quietly, was blood. For good measure the older women would add, when speaking to children, that blood would be spilled if their horseplay spilled water. It was said with mock gravity, but Jewel knew the tone well; none of the children had been careless near the desert’s edge.

  She missed them, in its heart, but children did not travel in the Sea of Sorrows unless death threatened them otherwise. Having survived the trek, she knew why. She wondered where they were.

  She trod carefully when she approached the water itself, afraid to crush these small miracles, these new births. She noticed their leaves, small and squat; their stems, thin and supple as they leaned toward the moving river.

  If she knew how to listen, she thought she might hear the plants whisper or speak as they nodded and bowed like a congregation of children.

  But she did not know how to listen; only how to observe. In the brilliant hue of setting sun, she watched.

  Kallandras of Senniel College walked the river’s bank in silence, but not in isolation. Celleriant of the Green Deepings, Celleriant of the Court of the Winter Queen, walked beside him. He moved without apparent effort, his steps light and graceful; he disturbed nothing as he passed over it. Every so often he would bend, his knees brushing sand and dirt, his fingers caressing the upturned face of a pale flower, a leaf’s bud, a delicate stem. He would speak, then. But even when she could hear his voice, his words were like a song; she could understand none of them.

  If Kallandras was likewise encumbered by ignorance, it did not show. He would tilt his head to one side, listening, and on occasion, he too spoke.

  Those words were private words; they made no sound. She envied the person who did hear them.

  Was surprised at the strength of that envy.

  By her side, warm shadow, and tall, stood the stag. He left her only to drink from the waters that rushed past, and he did not stay long in that water.

  Yollana of the Havalla Voyani and the Serra Teresa were likewise inseparable. Stavos attended them in almost perfect silence, for they seldom acknowledged his presence. He had left wife and Matriarch behind, but if he yearned for either, it did not show; he walked with quiet purpose.

  The man who had identified himself as Radann—which was, as far as Jewel could tell, a priest of some sort—often walked alone. But like the stag to Jewel, he did not stray far from the side of the Serra Diora. Neither did her seraf.

  Seraf.

  Jewel knew that in the Empire, he would have been called a slave; knew, too, that in the Empire, she would have despised the Serra for retaining him. Knowledge and emotions tangled briefly, and as was so often the case, emotion won; this was not a man who seemed chained and bowed by the servitude that his country considered his only recourse. Although he
seldom spoke, his attention was focused, tuned, honed; she was his craft; she was his life’s purpose. In the relative prosperity of the Empire, the concept of a willing, proud slave would have been anathema, an intellectual puzzle at best.

  Jewel was far from home.

  And the only person that she had brought with her was as silent as this seraf.

  But he was not her shadow. He walked alone. Ate alone. Slept alone. He was never far from her side, but he was never too close; she could look at him and see profile, the proud line of brow, the strong nose, the unmoving jaw, a statue’s repose.

  Something warm and wet brushed the nape of her neck. She turned to meet the large, unblinking eyes of a creature that had once been—in a lost season—the Winter King.

  “What?”

  He nudged her arm gently. Only when he did so did she realize that she had been reflexively rubbing her sleeve, running its rough, heavy fabric against skin broken by the mark on her arm. It was flat; she could not feel it. Nor could she see it. But she knew its shape better than she knew the shape of her hands, her legs, her feet, the parts of her body that she could almost always see. Red, red S, livid like burned flesh, broken in the middle of each of its outer curves by a silver V and a gold one. She stopped at once, letting her arm fall loosely to her side.

  The stag nudged her arm again.

  “Let it be,” she whispered.

  You are worried.

  The sound of his voice was warm and deep. She remembered, dimly, that she had once found these words vaguely threatening, but all that remained of that feeling was memory.

  “I’m always worried. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”

  She heard the dry chuckle of an older man. You are worried about Viandaran.

  “Avandar.”

  As you wish.

  “You read too much into gestures.”

  You read too superficially.

  Her shrug was economical.

  Speak to him.

  She said, by way of reply, “I think Marakas is about to call it a night.”

  But the stag nudged her again, drawing tines across her brow. They were sharper than she remembered, a reminder—if she needed one—that he was not the hunted, here.