The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  And it was not as a god that he had come.

  Not as a god that he desired power.

  Why, then?

  He had taken the title, had laid claim to the bloodline, for only one reason: to save the lives of the hostages in Avantari, the palace of Kings. There, surrounded by the Northerners who had marked his life in every possible way, he had done his thinking, his planning, had made his choice. Had felt the weight of it keenly.

  But in the North, such a lapse as Ser Callas had committed was not worthy of notice. It was certainly not worthy of death.

  Ramiro’s silence granted Valedan power; the power to choose, and to judge. He almost threw it away, because he desired no such power.

  But he had come this far with the guidance of Serra Alina di’Lamberto, and she had been the most adept of teachers, the harshest of masters. He understood, as he sat astride his great horse, that he did, in fact, desire such power. He called himself the Tyr’agar.

  And in the South, the power that he abhorred and the power that he was willing to die for were so intertwined he could not easily dismiss the one without damaging the other.

  “Ser Callas.”

  “Tyr’agar.” The man would have fallen to the ground again, but Valedan—the Tyr’agar—had bid him rise.

  “I am not Markaso kai di’Leonne. I bear the Leonne blood, and I serve the Leonne clan—but I serve it in a fashion of my own choosing, as every Tyr has done before me.” He took a breath now, committed. “Markaso kai di’Leonne once bid the Terrean of Averda to fight a war that was ill-considered and costly.

  “I am aware of the cost; I am aware that it was borne upon the shoulders, and by the bloodlines, of clans such as yours. You bow. It is a social grace, a gesture of respect. I accept it. That you offered your obeisance to the Tyr’agnate before me, I also acknowledge.

  “But it is the gestures that I will never personally see which will define you. You carry a sword by your side. Had the visitors at the gate meant harm to Callesta, had they drawn sword or offered threat, you would have used that sword in defense of the city in which I am honored to reside.

  “I might never have witnessed such an act, but it is that act, that willingness to serve and to sacrifice, that I value. I am aware that it will be granted me, time and again, by all of the men who are bound to serve the Tyr’agnate Ramiro kai di’Callesta.

  “And I will not squander it lightly.”

  “Ser Callas,” Ramiro di’Callesta said, his voice cool.

  With no relief at all, the cerdan now turned to the Tyr of Averda.

  “You have been honored by the Tyr’agar, and by receiving such honor, you honor Callesta.”

  The lines of the man’s shoulders shifted slightly. In the North, they would have sagged with open relief.

  “However,” the Tyr’agnate said, “I do not wish to . . . expose . . . the kai Leonne to such blatant disrespect from the rest of the men who serve you. Inform them that we have arrived.”

  “Tyr’ agnate,” Ser Callas said. He lifted the lamp and walked quickly to the guardhouse.

  Only when he had passed beyond their hearing did Ramiro di’Callesta turn.

  “Well said, kai Leonne.”

  Valedan returned that gaze quietly. “Tyr’ agnate, a question.”

  “Ask.”

  “Had I chosen to take offense at the order in which our titles were acknowledged, what would you have done?”

  “I would have allowed Ser Fillipo to take the man’s head and offer it to you for his crime.”

  Valedan did not doubt him. He chose his next words with care, skirting the sudden anger that weighted them. “You could not expect him to recognize me.”

  “No.”

  “What would his death have accomplished?”

  “The cerdan at the gates would never again make such an obvious mistake. In the South, they learn quickly from the errors of others; if Ser Callas could not serve in one way, he would serve in another.”

  Valedan was speechless.

  Carefully, deliberately, speechless.

  But Ser Andaro, who now stood by his side, his reins in hand, his horse as still as any horse of his size and temperament could be, spoke.

  “His inability to recognize your crest and your title does not reflect poorly upon Ser Callas, Tyr’agar. It reflects poorly upon the Tyr’agnate. By such omissions, the Tyrs freely offer slights to one another that they could not—without war or bloodshed—otherwise offer.”

  “Had it been deliberate, I might have accepted his head.”

  Nothing in Ser Andaro’s quiet gaze spoke of belief.

  “But word will now travel,” the Leonne Tyran continued. “Among the cerdan who serve in this capacity, your name will be known. And your words, your words will be known as well. They will grow in the telling, they will change. But they will carry the seed of a truth that must be felt: You bear the Leonne blood, but you are not your father’s son.”

  “And in truth,” Ramiro di’Callesta said, “because it is the Lady’s time, I will say this: Ser Callas is not of the High Court, but he has served me well in the capacity for which he was chosen. Had I been forced to surrender his head to you, I would have done so with regret; I would not have destroyed the rest of his family, and in time, I would have ceded to his son the position he now holds.”

  “Let me speak as well with the Lady’s voice,” Valedan replied.

  Ramiro waited.

  “I desire no such gestures. I seek to take no offense. It is not by the death of men such as these that I wish to prove my worthiness to rule.”

  “I am aware of this, kai Leonne. If I were not, I would not have requested the honor of your presence on such short notice.”

  Valedan was weary. And because he was weary, he spoke freely, aware that it could be costly. Aware that, when Serra Alina discovered it, it would be.

  “I am weary of this testing.”

  “You consider the respect due the rank you desire a game, Tyr’agar?”

  “No. But this—this is a game.”

  “Ah. No. I will speak freely, although perhaps that word does not have the same resonance in the South that it does in the Halls of Avantari. You are not my son; your instruction is not in my hands. But you have bound your blood to mine, and I grant you this much.

  “You desire to rule in the South, and in the South, such title must command respect. It must be a matter of life and death. If you do not desire to be the cause of such careless death, there are ways to avoid it. And one of the accepted ways is not to simply ignore insult when it is offered—even when it is offered in ignorance.

  “Make yourself known, kai Leonne. I will put at your disposal the necessary funds with which to do so. Take serafs. Hire cerdan. The building of your Tyran will of necessity be something you must approach with caution, but at the moment, the only guards that attend you are not guards conversant with the ways of the South. If you wish to spare men like Ser Callas, you must become a man that such men will know on sight. You must carry yourself as if death is a matter of whim—your whim.

  “I will treat you as if you are that man, kai Leonne. Others will not; they will seek advantage if they feel that there is weakness to be exploited.” He lifted a hand. “You are not weak? I do not accuse you of weakness, although my words seem harsh to your Tyran.”

  Ser Andaro’s face was completely impassive.

  “But others will mark any hesitation that you give them. If it is suspected that you care for men such as these, they will use them against you. Make yourself a man above that suspicion.” He bowed, and then, with care, he dismounted.

  The sudden difference in their height was not lost on Valedan.

  “There are many ways in which a war can be lost,” Ramiro said, with no rancor. “And I believe that I have witnessed
most of them.”

  “Had one of my men offered such an offense, would I be expected to offer his head to you?”

  Ramiro did not condescend to answer the question; the reply was obvious.

  “You are not in the North, kai Leonne. And if you are successful here, you will never again call Avantari home. I admit that when I traveled with Baredan di’Navarre, I expected very little. I understood his desire; he is, in all ways but the oath itself, Tyran, and honored to be so.

  “But you distinguished yourself in ways that I had not anticipated in my sojourn in the Northern capital.”

  Ser Andaro bowed to the Tyr’agnate.

  Ramiro’s nod was cool. But the moon was at its height; after a pause, he continued. “I will be surprised if Eneric, the man who won the Kings’ Challenge, is not upon the field of battle. I will be surprised if the men who serve your banner in cause of war in my name, do not in the end, serve your banner because of yours.”

  Valedan, mounted, noted that Ser Andaro now watched the Tyr’agnate like a hawk.

  “Ser Fillipo,” he continued, “is my par; the captain of my oathguards. Scour the Dominion and you will not find his equal. But I will tell you what he will not say himself, even if asked in the full blush of the Lady’s Night: He serves you.”

  “Ramiro—” Fillipo began.

  The Tyr’agnate raised a hand casually, and the words died.

  “Ser Kyro serves you. He is a man cast in the Lambertan mold. Even Ser Miko, second of my Tyran, has become proud of the war we fight in your name.”

  “It is a war,” Valedan said with dignity, “that Averda must win if Callesta is to survive. You have . . . honored me. But in doing so, you say little of your people, little of what you have offered them.

  “You would have offered me Ser Callas’ head.”

  “Indeed.”

  “But you have already stated that you would not have asked us to travel in haste, to join you at the gates, had you guessed that such an offer would be necessary.”

  “True as well. It would have been a disappointment to me. But I have lived beneath the Lord’s gaze for all of my life; I accept disappointment when I choose to take that risk. Had you taken his head, it is the last thing Callestan that you would have been willingly ceded, the politics of necessity aside. Are you aware that the Serra Amara holds you in high regard?”

  Valedan said nothing.

  “She is canny, and she is cautious; far more cautious than either I or my brother. She is a Serra; she will accept with grace any order that I choose to give her. She understood, before we left, that I would seek the last of the clan Leonne, and that I would bring him to the South, in order to protect Averdan interests.

  “But she did not expect to like you. Did not expect to feel any respect at all for you, however grudging. She remembers well the last time a kai Leonne walked within Callestan lands.

  “I am a man who holds his wives in some esteem, and although it is unwise, I will admit that I have been impressed by your ability, your wordless, guileless ability, to draw from the Serra what even I have almost failed to obtain.

  “And perhaps it is because of this that I offer you the instruction that she herself would offer were she ever to be placed in the enviable position of being the woman to whom you turned for advice. Fillipo,” he added, with a rare smile, “you may speak.”

  Fillipo grimaced. “The Tyr’agnate is far too kind,” he said with a wry smile. “Scour the Dominion and you will find men who match my worth. I am not a humble man; you will not find many. But you will find none that are Ramiro’s equal. And I begin to think, under moonlight, on the day that we have received word that war has begun in earnest, that were we to scour the Dominion, kai Leonne, we would not find another man that was yours.

  “Without your intervention, I would not be here, to fight this war at my kai’s side. That,” he said, wolfish now, “would be his loss.” The grin faded. “But without your intervention, my wives, my sons, my daughter, would also be lost to the howl of the winds. You have spent much time in the company of the Princess Royale; you must understand the Kings at least as well as any of the other hostages. You must know that you risked your own death at their hands when you refused their first offer of clemency.

  “But what I do not think you fully understand is the debt that we, as survivors, have accrued. Any of us.”

  “The Kings are not known for their lack of mercy.”

  “Indeed. Our deaths would have been private, swift, merciful. But the Justice-born King demands his due. Or do you think that he would have held his hand? If the Northern gods are not the gods of the South, they are gods in their fashion, and they demand their due.”

  Valedan nodded quietly. “Ser Fillipo?”

  “Kai Leonne.”

  “Had Ramiro di’Callesta ordered you to take that man’s head, would you have hesitated?”

  “No.”

  “And had I ordered you to withhold your sword, what would you have done?”

  Ramiro chuckled. “You are clever, kai Leonne. Fillipo, answer the question.”

  Beneath that humor, steel. Genial, affectionate steel.

  “He is my Tyr,” Fillipo said gravely. “And as oathguard, I am bound to him by laws that supersede all other loyalties.” The words were stiff. True.

  But they were not the last words that Ser Fillipo offered Valedan. “You are not my son,” he said gravely, echoing the kai Callesta’s words. “But I will offer you advice, as my brother has sought to do. If you are ever to find yourself in such a situation, do not deliver your orders to Tyran. You would serve only to insult the Tyran in question.

  “Deliver those orders, instead, to the Tyr’agnate himself.”

  Ramiro laughed out loud.

  Valedan looked between them.

  Ser Andaro said gravely, “Such an order, bluntly given, would be obeyed by any man who did not desire your death. And the Tyr’agnate of Callesta has proved himself, this eve, to be a trusted ally.”

  Valedan could almost hear Alina’s sharp words in the distance. “You honor me,” he said quietly.

  “Indeed. But the time for such honor has almost passed. Listen.”

  Hooves thundered in the distance of the dark Callestan streets.

  Ser Callas came out of the guardhouse at once. He moved quickly, his stride as wide as stride could be that was not an all-out run.

  He met the horses in the distance, using the pull of his bobbing lamp to catch their eyes. Valedan could hear his voice, but could not make out the individual words; he didn’t need to. He could guess at some of what was said. Could almost hear his title carried by the caprice of the night’s breeze.

  The horses slowed to a walk.

  There were four; upon the backs of three, made dark by the night sky and the silver moon, were men armed and armored. On the back of the fourth, two figures.

  Ser Callas led them to the waiting men, and he bowed, first to the Tyr’agar, and second to the Tyr’agnate. “Tyr’agar, Tyr’agnate,” he said quietly, “she has arrived.”

  “Good. Bring her into the light.”

  Valedan waited as the last of the horses walked forward, its reins in Ser Callas’ hand. The cerdan who rode the horse became obvious in the light of the lamp; he all but carried a woman across the back of his mount. Her legs dangled freely to either side of the beast; freely and stiffly. She was not used to riding.

  Valedan chose that moment to dismount.

  Ser Ramiro approached the horse with caution.

  “Aliera,” he said quietly, removing his riding gloves in the scant light. He offered the woman in the evening robes his hand. “My apologies for the harshness of this summons. You were not harmed?”

  The words themselves were pleasant enough. But Valedan heard them clearly: There was danger i
n each syllable should her answer be the wrong one. None of it was for her.

  “Harmed? No. The summons itself was not, of course, to be denied—but no one lifted hand; no sword left sheath.”

  “Good.”

  “Tyr’agnate,” the hooded woman said. “I did not expect to see you here, not at this hour.” She accepted the hand he offered, and left the back of the horse with a grace that her posture upon it had not suggested she possessed. When both of her feet were upon the ground, she fell at once into the full subservient posture that Valedan had seen Alina assume so often.

  “My apologies,” she said, in the softest, the most pleasantly musical, of voices. “I did not ask for the time to dress myself appropriately. No one thought to inform me that you might be present.”

  “No matter how you choose to dress yourself, you could never be accused of impropriety.”

  She lifted her face. The lamp’s glow was soft in the evening light, but not so soft that it could completely disguise the lines in her face, the pale edges of hair that had once been black as night. “Is that Ser Fillipo I see? By your side?”

  Fillipo looked, for just an instant, ten years—twenty—younger than he was. “It is, Aliera.”

  “Then our enemies have much to fear, much indeed, if the two Callestan brothers stand once again side by side.”

  Ramiro smiled. “It has been far too long, Aliera.”

  “You have been busy, of late. Or so I am told by your lovely wife.”

  “She is, as usual, correct. I have been busy. But sometimes the rigors of duty are eased by the grace of the familiar and the trusted. Aliera en’Callesta, it is my privilege to introduce you to Ser Valedan kai di’Leonne.”

  Her expression, perfect in spite of—or perhaps because of—the lines that spoke of age, shifted; her lips widened in a smile that seemed, to Valedan’s eye, to be entirely genuine.

  He bowed. She was en’Callesta, but she was far too old to be wife to the Callestan Tyr—and had she been, she would not have been summoned in haste in such a fashion.

  “Aliera en’Callesta was the youngest of my father’s wives,” Ser Ramiro said. “I asked her to attend my Serra after my father’s death; the Serra Amara herself enjoined me in my pleas.”