The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “The Leonne boy must be in Averda.”

  The Radann’s brow rose. He did not argue with the fact, but the form in which she had chosen to describe the rightful Tyr rankled.

  “That would be my guess,” Kallandras replied gravely. “And the main body of the army has certainly traveled there.”

  “The Tyr’agnati?”

  “He has Lorenza and Garrardi.”

  She removed the pipe from her mouth, spit, and returned it. “The Radann?”

  “Their disposition is less clear.”

  Marakas nodded.

  Yollana, who appeared to pay little attention to the Radann, swiveled. “With Marente?”

  “They travel at the side of the General, yes.”

  She removed the pipe and spit again, but this time kept its lip from her own. “Why?”

  “It is where the strongest of our enemies will gather. What other field would you have them choose?” Curt words. Cold ones.

  “The right one. Or have you forgotten your history?”

  His head snapped up, pulling the line of his sparsely grown beard with it.

  “Matriarch,” the Serra Diora said softly, “not one of us will forget our history. Not here. But let us not be governed by what has happened; let us be guided by it, instead. What will happen must be our concern.”

  If possible, the lines around the Havallan Matriarch’s mouth deepened. But she held her tongue.

  Jewel stared at the Serra Diora di’Marano for a moment. But she had fallen silent; the Radann Marakas par el’Sol began to speak instead.

  “The swords granted the servitors of the Lord are our strongest weapons against the servants of the Lord of Night. They warn us of the presence of the enemy, and they are equal to the weapons they summon from the fire’s heart. We do not serve the interests of the Lord of Night; we will never serve them again. Offer us another method of detecting the servants of the Lord of Night, Matriarch, and we will gladly dispense with the pretense.”

  Yollana nodded gruffly; it was as much of a concession as Jewel had seen her offer. Tobacco burned down, acrid, where the smoke of the fire was sweet. She held it in the cupped palms of her hands before she condescended to speak. “We go to Mancorvo.”

  “I think it wisest,” Kallandras said quietly. “The Havallans gather there.”

  “You know the movement of the Havallans now?” Yollana spoke testily.

  “The Voyani call no place home, but in time of war, they gather in the Terreans that are least . . . contested. Havalla has always had ties with Mancorvo. I believe you will find your daughters there.”

  The old woman snorted. “You offer no comfort, bard.”

  “No.”

  She cursed the cold genially, and without much fervor. “We’d best start now.”

  The Radann par el’Sol had a face smooth as glass. Jewel read nothing in it, but she knew from the line of his shoulders that he was angry. Angry and mindful of the burden of debt. He turned to the Serra Diora.

  “Serra?”

  “The kin see as well in darkness as they do in light—but according to Kallandras of Senniel, they are few. If it pleases you, Radann par el’Sol, we will travel now. The moon is bright enough to see by.”

  Yollana snorted. “Not in the Mancorvan forests, it isn’t.

  And the plains are too open.” She gestured to Teresa. “But there are roads the clansmen don’t take. Na’tere, lend me your arm. I’ll lead.”

  Jewel rose. “Matriarch,” she said quietly. “If you wish, you may ride.”

  Yollana gazed at the stag; he lifted his head, bent tines toward earth, and waited.

  She shook her head. “Not him,” she said softly. “Maybe if you had a decent horse—but I’ll owe no debt to the horned King.”

  She does not trust me, Jewel. Do not press her.

  I didn’t offer out of kindness, Jewel snapped back in silence. She’s too slow.

  Maybe. But she is the Matriarch of her line, and she understands the debt she would incur by accepting your offer.

  What debt? You serve me.

  Ah. He lifted his face, his dark eyes reflecting a light that did not hang in the night sky, did not burn in the heart of heartfire. I serve you, yes, but not as Lord Celleriant does. The Winter Queen no longer binds me.

  If that were true, wouldn’t you be a man?

  I am a man, he replied, just a hint of the arrogance of kings in the tone of unspoken words. And she is wise. You are almost a child.

  I am not—

  Almost. You have already begun to walk a road that will change you, and only your . . . domicis . . . can see clearly where it will lead.

  But you carry the child.

  Yes. For you. Because if I did not carry her, you would, and although you would find the burden too costly, you would bear it anyway. I have it said before, Jewel ATerafin. You are weak.

  Some weaknesses are better than some strengths.

  Shall we debate that, here?

  She lifted Ariel, struggling to balance bent knees with child’s weight, and succeeding. “Ride,” she told the child. “I’ll be behind you.”

  We can discuss it.

  His chuckle was warmer than his tone. Indeed. We can discuss it until you are old; I fear you will never be wise. But in the end, this war will define all truth, and it will grant victory either to your position or mine. The Lord of Night is waiting in the farthest reaches of the Northern Wastes; he feels his power, and he grows confident.

  And if the Lord of Night rules, if in the end the battle decides the course of the war, you will have your answer.

  And the end will justify the means?

  Only if you win. He rose as slowly, as carefully, as Jewel had, but with infinitely more grace, shouldering the burden he accepted at her behest. Ask the timeless one, if she chooses to visit again. Ask her what she has done in the name of war; ask her what she would not do for the chance of victory.

  The chance?

  The chance. There is no certainty, Jewel. You fight a god, and you have no god behind you.

  We have the Cities.

  You have one—and it is an empty place; armor without the warrior at its heart, sword without the wielder. Perhaps if you had the other four . . .

  Four? There are only three other Matriarchs.

  Indeed. I have spoken overmuch.

  She mounted almost carelessly; he gained his feet before hers had left the ground.

  “We’ll ride ahead,” Jewel told the Matriarch of Havalla.

  Yollana nodded. “Only the gifted will see you. Or the wise. And it cannot be said that the wise travel with the armies of Marente.”

  I wish you would tell me your name.

  Ah. Names have power.

  You’re not a demon. You’ve said you’re a man—what power does a name have?

  He laughed. Wind curled round the crown of antlers, broken and snarled in the multifoliate branches; it was not allowed to pass, to offer the worst of night’s chill. If names have no power, what does it matter whether or not you know mine?

  It’s a little bit awkward calling you “that big deer.”

  He said nothing.

  The obdurate, condescending silence was familiar. She didn’t press him. Instead, she gazed out.

  ATerafin. The Havallan Matriarch bids me tell you that you must travel to the West for some miles yet.

  She had no way of answering Kallandras, but she passed the message on.

  The Winter King—for in the end, demeaned in some fashion by his loss to the Winter Queen, he retained that title in Jewel’s mind—nodded.

  Jewel, answer a question.

  If I can. Not that he answered many of hers.

  What is the Voyanne?

 
The Voyanne? I don’t know. If you asked Yollana, she would say it’s what my Oma deserted in order to live in the North, in the Empire.

  She would indeed say that, if you were unwise enough to ask. She would also ask your Oma’s name, and her lineage, to better determine whose bloodline you follow. But that is not an answer. Again.

  It’s—I’ve never had it explained. It seems to be a way of life. Laws, rules, customs—and wandering. Always the wandering.

  The Voyanne, he said quietly, is more complicated than that; it is not merely a way of life, although perhaps your Oma did not fully apprehend this when she chose to find a home for her family. This Matriarch—this woman—has strong blood.

  What do you mean?

  You must ask her. I could tell you, but you are not . . . discreet. And there are secrets that the Voyani will trust with no one. I will not be responsible, indirectly, for your death. He turned, his feet finding purchase in the dark, dark shadows cast by foliage in the moonlight. But I know this road. My feet know it.

  Is it safe?

  No. But no road is. We will trust the Matriarch.

  There was no path. None that Jewel could see. But she did not doubt the Queen’s consort.

  They traveled in silence. Ariel fell asleep, leaning into the curve of Jewel’s collarbone. She was warm, and Jewel wanted warmth, but the memories that came with it were bitter. The streets of Averalaan came back to her—the old streets, the streets of the holdings.

  Ah.

  Ah, what?

  You would never have been Matriarch, he said softly, but I believe that you have some of that talent.

  Memory stung. What do you mean?

  You have made roads of your own, in a foreign place. If you traveled it again, you would find them.

  She said nothing, thinking of how little she desired to find them again. Thinking, as well, that she would never lose them, no matter how hard she tried.

  “Matriarch.”

  Had any other woman chosen to speak, Yollana would have pretended that her hearing was much worse than it actually was; such pretense was one of the few advantages of age.

  But the woman who had spoken was the Serra Teresa di’Marano, and her lips were inches away from the older woman’s ear. That much pretense was beneath Yollana’s dignity.

  “Serra.”

  “Where do we travel?”

  “Into Mancorvo.” The words were smooth, softly spoken; as much of a warning as the older woman ever offered.

  The Serra Teresa nodded gravely. But she did not demur. “Lord Celleriant and Kallandras of Senniel have been speaking,” she said quietly. “And Kallandras bids me warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Bitterness seeped into the smoothness, lending it the cracks and fissures of experience. “Warn me?”

  “It is presumptuous,” the Serra said, being entirely too agreeable. Yollana wasn’t fooled.

  “What do they wish to warn me of?”

  The Serra was silent a moment, tilting her head to one side as if listening. Which, of course, she was. “It is the Lord Celleriant’s opinion,” she said gravely, “that the dead are bound here.”

  “They seek to frighten me with ghosts?”

  “I do not think they seek to frighten; merely to inform.”

  “Tell them the ghosts are mine,” she said coolly. “And the past, as well.” After a moment, she added, “And tell them to shut up.”

  The Serra Teresa had never admitted the existence of the gift that Yollana was certain she possessed; she did not admit it now. But she offered no pretty protestation, no insult to the perception of the wisewoman of Havalla. Instead, she said, “How costly will this passage be?”

  It was not the question Yollana expected. She stumbled, her legs—legs that would never be right without healer’s gift, and healer’s invasive touch—giving in to the weakness of cut muscles. “Why do you ask, Serra?”

  “I am concerned.”

  “For yourself.”

  “Of course. And for my niece.”

  “Hah. You lie so prettily it’s no wonder poets made such fools of themselves in your presence.”

  “Say rather that I do not choose to speak the whole of the truth, Yollana.”

  “Why?”

  “It is kinder.”

  She laughed. “I’m not known for kindness.”

  “No. But it is not beyond your reach.”

  Yollana shrugged. “What purpose does it serve?”

  The Serra said nothing, shifting her grip upon the older woman’s arms. The handles of the canes were cold and hard; the old woman’s hands were shaking.

  “Did you see Evallen die?”

  “No. But you know this.”

  “Did you hear her?”

  “No, Yollana.”

  Yollana stared a moment at the face of the moon. “You didn’t choose to listen.”

  Teresa bowed her head.

  “The Lord burns those bold enough to seek to gaze upon his face; the Lady denies us little, choosing fan or veil when she seeks privacy. It is said that the Lady is the more merciful of the two—but you understand the veil, Teresa. You understand the fan.” She stumbled; Teresa righted her. There was a rhythm to this motion that had become almost as natural as walking. “Do you understand the choice Evallen made?”

  “I understand that she felt it necessary. And seeing the Tor Arkosa, hearing the change in Na’dio, makes it clear that she was not wrong.”

  “Good. Her price is not my price, not yet. But my price is necessary. I will pay it.” She grimaced. “All Matriarchs make their plans. For escape. For return to safe harbor. Some see clearly enough to plan well. Enough. If you will not give my advice to the young man, follow it yourself.”

  That drew, from the Serra Teresa, the prettiest of smiles. It was not a court smile. There was no veil between them.

  “But stay to the road.”

  “I cannot see it, Yollana.”

  “No? Let me make it clear.” The old woman gestured, and although she was hobbled by injury, there was grandeur in the motion. Command.

  “I have traveled this road in secrecy once before,” Yollana said quietly. “But there are no secrets now; I think that only Stavos and the child will be unaffected by what we pass across.” She shook her head. Her hair was sun-dry, harsh as desert scrub. “Do you see them, Serra?”

  The Serra Teresa followed the direction of Yollana’s shaking hand.

  Against the floor of forest, absorbing the silver light of veiled moon, were the imprints of footsteps.

  “No,” Yollana said bitterly, “they are not mine. But they were made by my kin, and they have endured against this moment.”

  “Our enemies?”

  “They might see them if they know how to look.” She kept her voice flat, forced it to be the uninflected mask that might better protect her from the unspoken gift that lay within the Serra Teresa.

  But she thought that the Serra Teresa heard what was there anyway: fear. And not of the demon kin.

  An hour passed. Two. Yollana stopped once to gain breath, and the Serra dropped to her knees, her hands against injured calves, massaging warmth and blood into them. She offered no words, for Yollana would accept none, and she had come to understand the Matriarch well enough to offer her the blessing of silence.

  The stag returned. In the darkness, Teresa saw that his hooves—hooves that were at once delicate and deadly—stepped among the footprints that Yollana’s gesture had invoked; he did not touch them, and did not allow either of his riders to touch the ground they crossed.

  As if he did not trust them to step carefully.

  Kallandras.

  Serra Teresa.

  Are we followed?

  Celleriant sees nothing.

  She
nodded. Waited until Yollana made to rise, and rose as well, becoming crutch and cane, bearing the burden of the Matriarch as carefully as she had borne the burden of any power the High Courts had granted her. In truth, it was much, for she had had the respect of her brothers as a shield, and she had used it at her convenience more than once.

  It was gone; she would never shelter behind it again.

  In its place, sun, wind, sand; the desert lives of nomads played out against the skin of her hands, her arms. There was a curious freedom in bearing the marks of the elements so openly, but with that freedom, fear. Beauty had not been her only power, but it was the only power that she had been allowed to acknowledge, and live.

  She turned to gaze over her shoulder at her niece, stepping carefully, balancing the weight of Yollana with the weight of curiosity. None of her grace had left her; she managed both with care.

  Ramdan stood a step behind Diora. He carried no weapon, for as seraf he was allowed none, but although he now bore a burden of years greater than most who served in such an exalted position, he did not waver in his duties. If it was true that the Lady loved serafs, she would honor this man above all others when the winds at last claimed his voice, his solid presence.

  Diora herself was silent.

  She was Serra, still, and the only effective role she could play in this war, gift notwithstanding, was that one. Serra Diora en’Leonne. Bride of Tyrs.

  “What do you mean, they lost her?” Eduardo kai di’Garrardi was an unpleasant shade of red. “Alesso, I warn you—”

  Ser Alesso di’Alesso raised his head in silence. It was enough; the threat did not leave Eduardo’s lips. “I am aware of her import, both to our alliance and to our enemies. But the report our scouts made was clear enough. She travels in the company of Voyani—which, we cannot be certain; the scouts are poorly informed, and they chose not to engage the enemy in conversation.”

  “Were it not for the stupidity of your allies, General, the Voyani would not now be so hostile to our role in the Northern Terreans.”