The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  Whatever that was.

  He did not move.

  He did not lift hands from her shoulders, and she knew that if she attempted to evade them, he would draw blood. Knew it.

  “My apologies,” Lord Telakar said, in a voice that was preternaturally loud.

  Everyone froze in that instant; everyone except the pale, dark girl. She stepped forward, unhindered a moment by the command of a petty Tyr. No light glinted off her blade; Elena could see it as moving shadow. Slowly moving.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. Desert night, in the words.

  Elena could not see Telakar’s face. She wanted to. In just that moment, she wanted to—because she knew that he would be judged by his expression; knew that she faced the same death, the same judgment. She could not turn.

  “Do you mean to ask if Lord Isladar sent me?”

  The girl froze. Her eyes narrowed. Golden light fled, and it was the only light in her.

  “Did he?”

  “No. No, Kiriel, daughter of—”

  “I am called di’Ashaf now.” Her blade rose.

  Elena’s breath stopped. Without intent, without plan, she retreated in the only direction available: Telakar’s chest.

  He laughed. “You see well, for an ignorant mortal. But you are safe. For now. Very well,” he continued. “Kiriel di’Ashaf. I was sent to the South.”

  “Ordered?”

  “Only the Lord may command me, and not without cost. As you should well know, now.”

  Again, the sword drifted up. “And?”

  “He is concerned with greater issues than a single Kialli lord.”

  “He is unaware of your presence here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And Isladar?”

  “He is unaware, as well. And if I am not mistaken, he will continue to be unaware. Some rumor has come from the Shining City.”

  “What rumor?”

  “It appears that he has . . . fled the towers. And in haste. He took injury, but the source of that injury was unclear. The Lord’s Fist sensed the weakness. They used it.”

  “You lie.”

  Telakar was very, very still. The sudden absence of all motion was remarkable. Frightening. But after a moment, he spoke. “We all do.” His voice was as close to neutrality as Elena had yet heard; stripped of amusement, of almost all shadow. Not mortal, but close. “I have not returned to the North to ascertain the truth of those rumors. Nor,” he added softly, “is that my intent.”

  “You cannot evade the Lord,” Kiriel replied.

  “I can, and for some time yet. But not in the Northern Wastes.”

  “And you choose to abandon them?”

  “You have forgotten,” he replied quietly. “My tenure was seldom in the North. I came for the ceremonies that required my presence. I came,” he added coolly, “as we all did, to witness the investiture. That last time, I chose to stay, but the North is not my home.

  “You, of all the inhabitants of the Shining City, should well understand that; did you not make a similar choice? Are you not here, among these?”

  A man who had until now been a tall, broad statue, stepped forward in that instant, edging past the woman to whom Telakar spoke with such care.

  His blade was bright as he swung it.

  It clattered off hers. “Auralis.”

  “Kiriel, he talks too much.” The words were almost a hiss. As if, Elena thought, this man sought to protect Kiriel. Which was odd; he didn’t have the look of a fool about him. More the look of a killer. His sword, deflected with ease—with impossible ease, given the difference in their size—fell slowly, slowly groundward in the lee of shadows cast by lamps they had not managed to dislodge.

  Kiriel nodded. “He does.” She did not consider this stranger, this pale-haired Northerner, a threat; her eyes had not left Telakar’s face. “I have never heard him speak so much.”

  The man she had called Auralis glanced at her profile; it was all she offered him.

  Her gaze shifted. Elena met it squarely, without flinching. Realized that she was actually, of the two, the taller.

  “I am Kiriel di’Ashaf,” she said. “You?”

  “Elena Tamaraan.”

  “Tamaraan—you are Voyani?”

  “Arkosan.”

  For the first time since the strangers had come crashing through the Serra’s garden, the Tyr’agnate of Callesta spoke. “She is the second most powerful woman in the clan Arkosa.” His voice was the coldest thing Elena had heard this eve. “If indeed she is what she claims to be.”

  “She is mortal,” Kiriel told him quietly. “If that is what you meant. I was told that the Voyani served the Lady, and not the Lord. Certainly not the Lord of Night.”

  “You were told the truth,” Elena said, struggling not to sound as defensive, as pathetic, as she felt.

  “You keep odd company.”

  Elena smiled almost bitterly. “We are not always fortunate enough to choose the company we keep.”

  Kiriel nodded. “Telakar,” she said, without preamble, “release her.”

  His grip tightened. It drew blood. She saw the crimson spill down the rise of her breast; it was dark enough that it looked like the spread of shadow. Warm shadow.

  The pain followed.

  Kiriel’s sword rose.

  “She is my guest. Tyr’agnate,” Telakar turned to the man who ruled the Terrean. “Forgive this subterfuge. I was concerned about your ability to sense the kin; had I known who you keep as . . . guard? . . . here, I would have been less so.”

  “Telakar,” Kiriel said again, her voice fuller now, louder. “Release the woman.”

  Blood again, from her right shoulder this time. Spreading, absorbed by cloth. Elena was glad that she had lost her voice; she did not want to belittle Arkosa by screaming or crying. Or whimpering. The moon was sharp now, the light of it clear.

  “I will release her in one way, and one way alone. You may take some joy from her corpse, but if you continue to press this, Kiriel di’Ashaf, it is the only thing you will have of her.”

  “You cannot fight and hold her.”

  “Indeed. If you force me to draw blade, I will kill her first. You have your mortals to play with, Kiriel. This one is mine.”

  Kiriel did not blink. At all. She continued to meet Elena’s gaze, although it was to Telakar that she spoke. “You will kill her, and you will perish. Is that why you chose to come?”

  “Oh, no, little Kiriel. Make no mistake. I did not intend to be so revealed in this diminished place, but I intended to deliver warning, in a fashion.”

  “And that?”

  “I fear that it is less relevant. Release me, and I will take my leave.”

  “I do not hold you.”

  Telakar was silent.

  “Kiriel,” the Tyr’agar said quietly. “The Ospreys come. What would you have them do?”

  She raised a brow, and the shadows dissipated. Moonlight, silver, remained across the fine porcelain of her skin. “He is Kialli,” she said softly, “and of necessity, no friend of ours.”

  But the boy Tyr frowned. “I have seen you approach the kin before. You have never once hesitated. You have never once chosen to speak where attack was possible.”

  “The Kialli have never held so obvious a hostage.” She turned to Valedan as an equal, her gaze intent. “Is the woman important?”

  “She is important.”

  “And her loss?”

  He shook his head.

  “You take too many risks,” she said calmly.

  “And you. But this one?”

  She turned to face Elena, to face Telakar. “I have not attacked because he did not. Had he desired it, he could have killed you, and ended the war in that instant; we were
too far away when I . . . became aware of his presence.”

  “Perhaps,” Telakar said, with an edge of amusement in his voice, “I did not recognize his import.”

  She did not grace him with a reply. “It is what our enemies would have demanded, Tyr’agar. Your death. And perhaps the Tyr’agnate’s.”

  Ramiro di’Callesta stepped forward. “What warning,” he said softly, “would it suit your purpose to give?” He spoke to the Kialli lord.

  “I came with information,” he replied quietly. “First: The Tor Arkosa has risen in the Sea of Sorrows.”

  Elena cried out in denial. She was bleeding now; the two wounds that were obvious were beneath notice; the third consumed her. “You cannot speak of that!”

  Telakar laughed. “It may have escaped your notice, Elena Tamaraan, but you are not in a position to dictate.”

  “I thank you for your information, but I confess that its meaning is not plain,” Ramiro kai di’Callesta said.

  Telakar stilled. After a long pause, he said softly, “You are so diminished, and the greater part of your history has been buried more effectively than the Cities of Man. Very well, Tyr’agnate. It is a refuge of great power, a place which the Kialli cannot, without temerity, approach. There is knowledge there, old magic, old artifacts, that if bartered for, would make your cities a great deal safer from the incursion of the kin.”

  “I . . . see.” He met Elena’s gaze; she turned away. She would not answer his questions; not about the Tor Arkosa.

  Not even to save her life.

  “Second,” Telakar continued, “to tell you that there are indeed demon kin within the city of Callesta; there are certainly kin, and kinlords, within the borders of Averda. Averda is a distant concern,” he added coolly, “compared to Callesta.”

  “If that were true, would we not have seen evidence of their presence?” Ramiro kai di’Callesta continued, speaking softly, his gaze intent. As if demons were just another part of the political game that men of power played.

  “I expect that you would see evidence, yes, but in time. I had not counted upon the quality of your . . . guards. If the kin are still present, and they are aware of just how much power resides within the walls of your city, they will bide their time.”

  “There are ways,” Elena said, against her will, “to detect those who serve the Lord of Night.”

  “Oh, indeed. And they are time-consuming, little one. They also depend greatly upon the kin’s inability to flee or fight. I had thought,” he said quietly, “to offer my services.”

  “And in return?”

  “Amusement,” Telakar replied. It was probably the only answer he could tender that would be acceptable to the Callestan Tyr. Elena saw that, now, in the lines of his face. She had not recognized him when she had first seen him; she would never forget him now. She was trapped between them, Telakar and Ramiro di’Callesta, and given a choice between the two, she was no longer certain in which direction she would run.

  “My own amusement. War does not displease me, but if the odds are too uneven, it is a short and pathetic affair. I seek merely to prolong it until it reaches its inevitable conclusion.”

  “And that?”

  “Your defeat, of course.”

  “Ah.”

  But he shifted. “Kiriel di’Ashaf,” he said at last. “Will you grant me leave to depart?” He spoke coldly, but the words were softer than any he had used this eve. Certainly softer than any he had spoken to Elena.

  “The woman?”

  “She goes with me.”

  “And if I grant you leave to remain?”

  Telakar stilled. “I do not believe that such leave is yours to grant.”

  It wasn’t; Elena knew it. Telakar knew it. But Kiriel did not seem to; she waited, her gaze inches above Elena’s. For the second time that eve, Elena desperately wished she could see Lord Telakar’s face.

  “Tyr’agar,” Kiriel said quietly. “Tyr’agnate.”

  She had their attention instantly; the titles she had chosen to invoke to gain it were of almost no import.

  “Kiriel,” the Tyr’agar said. The Tyr’agnate, for his part, was silent.

  Into the silence, footsteps came, like the fall of hail. His guards, she thought. Callestan Tyran. Nor was she mistaken.

  “Tyr’agar,” Kiriel said again, as if the Tyran were of no concern.

  “You cannot trust him.”

  “No.”

  “Will you release him, then?”

  “To the Lord of Night and his Kialli lords? They can trust him even less than I,” she replied. “I believe that his destruction will aid their cause, even if they are unaware of it.”

  “And you believe him when he says he came to offer warning?”

  Her silence was as cold as the Callestan silence. Her eyes were once again upon Lord Telakar’s face, her gaze above Elena. “I believe him,” she said softly, gaze dropping, eyes once again meeting Elena’s. Cold comfort. Elena felt lightheaded.

  “Why?”

  She shook her head.

  Auralis, the Northerner, stepped up to her side. Elena had heard the phrase closing ranks before, but it had always had some distant military meaning, had hinted at the neatly ordered posture of their foot soldiers, their legendary discipline and organization. The uniforms that graced the handful of men and women who had arrived at Kiriel di’Ashaf’s side were made mockery of by the disparity in their size, but they had done just that: had closed ranks.

  “Tyr’agar,” Auralis said.

  But the woman—the other woman—now lifted a slender hand. “Kiriel,” she said softly.

  “Decarus.”

  “The question?”

  Kiriel shook her head.

  The woman was poised to speak; the Tyr’agar simply nodded.

  It was not to the liking of Ramiro di’Callesta. “Where are the kin?” he asked abruptly.

  “Tell him,” Kiriel said to Telakar.

  Elena’s shoulders stung. The wounds themselves had been clean: she was certain of it. But what had started as a sharp pain had spread, had become something very like a burden—one that her shoulders were no longer capable of supporting. She could feel the beat of her heart to either side of her bent neck. Her clothing was sticky.

  Telakar’s words came at a distance.

  “Come, come, Kiriel di’Ashaf. Not all of the Kialli are military creatures; some are born merchants. I do not consider myself a creature of war, although war is the crucible of preference.

  “What will you give me in return for that information?”

  “The value of the information you offer is not high; I am here. I found you.”

  “Indeed. And that is curious to me, for I am almost certain that you have failed to find the others, and I can only guess that that failure has been deliberate. Of your choosing.”

  Again, again the large man with the sword stepped toward them, toward Telakar, toward his shield. “Kiriel—”

  “Auralis, no.”

  This time, Auralis almost snarled. Elena didn’t understand what he chose to say; it was fast, Weston, guttural.

  “We can hardly be trusted any less. Lord Telakar?”

  “It appears you have made allies in the short time you have been absent. I would have thought it impossible, given how poorly you mingled with the human Court.” He shrugged. “What will you offer?”

  Kiriel di’Ashaf was silent. For a moment. And then she smiled.

  Elena swallowed. Closed her eyes. She could not step back. Could not, she thought, although she did not say it, stand for much longer. The world was losing color at the edges of her vision; night was spreading inward from all sides.

  “If the information pleases me,” Kiriel replied, “and if it pleases the two men who rule these lands
by mortal law, I will give you the life of the mortal you hold captive.”

  “It is not yours to give,” he said coldly.

  “No, but I fear that you’ve overestimated her ability to bear casual injury. It is . . . a failing . . . among the kin.”

  Elena only barely understood the words.

  She wondered, briefly, if she would be better off if she could actually see the face of the woman who had spoken them, and decided that, better or not, it didn’t matter.

  The ground was a long way away.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  KIRIEL di’Ashaf watched the stranger fall as if her injuries and her probable death were beneath concern. For a moment, they were.

  Her vision had shifted again; the fires banking. She could not longer see. She saw Lord Telakar no more clearly than any mortal present could, but she had seen him. For a moment, for a handful of moments, she had seen his name as a fire, a nimbus of light, a thing that was woven through him, and of him, in a way that it could be of no other. Beauty, in that, beauty and danger, and a terrible, visceral desire. To speak the name, to speak it well, was to offer challenge; to win that challenge was to own it.

  There were very, very few who could win that challenge; his name was a subtle binding, a thing of power far easier to destroy than subvert.

  Her hand was warm; the ring, as she lifted it slightly, luminescent. Luminescent or no, Telakar’s gaze was not drawn to it; it was beneath his notice. Whatever she saw when it burned, he could not see. Comfort, there, but it was cold.

  When she had first touched the ring, it had almost been beneath her, but the woman from whom it had fallen had shown the only moment of fear that Kiriel had yet seen, and she wore it to invoke that fear. To enjoy it.

  She had paid. Small and perfect, it was the only cage she had ever lived in; it had taken her power. It had robbed her of self. She had been frenzied with the terror of being helpless. That frenzy could not sustain itself—or her—and she had moved from it to a terrible frustration as she was exposed, at last, to weakness and mortality: She felt the air’s humidity, the sun’s heat; she sweated and burned when she toiled, feckless, beneath it. She had always needed to sleep; she had always needed food. But the strength of those needs dismayed her.