The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  Nor were they foolish or overcautious; such a slight, he could not afford to overlook.

  Fire strode through the streets. What strays there were, on many legs or few, vanished before it, leaving silence in its wake. Callesta should have burned; it did not. The flame was focused, like the breath of ancient dragons; it skirted the ground, but did not char it, seeking instead other prey.

  And fire answered. Blue fire, a single, slender line that was almost as fierce in its glare as the Lord’s. Ramiro’s breath was quiet, still; he watched, his shoulders hunching, free hand upon the rails. Through it, like a caged great cat, he watched, bore witness, bided time. But he did not pace; did not otherwise move.

  Instead, as the red fire drew closer to the blue, he wondered. He had chosen, months ago, to break the peace of the swordhaven, to lift Bloodhame, to choose his war. Had Bloodhame lain, silent, enclosed in case and sheath, unexposed to the glare of the Lord, and the Lord’s judgment, would his son now live? Would his kai now stand ready, at his father’s side, on the eve of the first war he was old enough to be tested in?

  Night thoughts, and pointless, but they came, and he allowed them entry. He had stood by his father’s side in a very different war.

  Ah. The fire stopped.

  Clear as morning bell, dark as Lady’s veiled Night, the creature spoke. “Illaraphaniel.”

  And the Northern mage bowed. “Ishavriel. It has been some time.” The blue blade rose, not in threat, but in punctuation. “And do not, please, for the sake of my dignity, attempt to tell me that I meddle in things I do not understand.”

  “You meddle,” the creature said softly.

  “Indeed. A failing of mine. There is so little amusement left to me, I take what I can find.”

  “You think this a game?”

  “A fine game,” Meralonne APhaniel said.

  Ramiro frowned. The words spoken, the language he heard, was Torra. And it wasn’t. He could not repeat the sounds made by either man, although he could easily resolve them into meaning.

  Mage, he thought, bowing his head at this unexpected gift.

  “As always, you have chosen the wrong side.”

  “Ah. As always, Lord Ishavriel, the right side is defined by the survivors and the victors.”

  “If you wish to be among them—” He leaped. He leaped, and the air solidified beneath his feet, granting him an impossible purchase as he swung his blade in a wide, wide arc.

  Meralonne APhaniel was not there to be bisected by it. He leaped clear, leaped up, his blade tracing a visible path in the night sky.

  “You are without your shield,” the creature said.

  The Northern mage did not reply. Not with words, not with blade. But the winds came in at his call, at the slight tilt of his chin; the winds howled through his hair, lifting it wide as if it were the span of wings. Above him, moon, below him, the city.

  His enemy flew back, striking a small building below; the stone cracked.

  A man would be dead, Ramiro thought, had he struck the ground in such a fashion. But the creature snarled and rose.

  Fire blazed from the tip of his sword, speeding like red lightning toward its target. The blue of blade split its foremost plume; flames lapped to either side of the Northern mage, flowing around him like a river.

  But not without cost.

  “I would offer you your life,” the creature said.

  “My life is not yours to barter with,” the mage replied, laughing. “And I have heard far prettier offers, far more polished and courtly words. Did you not come here for battle, Ishavriel?”

  He dove, then, ground rising to meet him.

  Ishavriel stood his ground; the clash of swords was blinding. But the Callestan Tyr merely closed his eyes and waited until the light had passed him by.

  Ser Fillipo par di’Callesta stood a moment as the color of the night sky changed. His hand ached; his arm shook. The Tyran gathered about him, silent as men, lost as children. He had but to give word, grant permission, and they would be gone.

  Instead, he handed Ser Miko a shovel. “If this is not to take the whole of the evening, we will help the Northerners dig.”

  Ser Miko accepted the shovel far less willingly than the sword. Had there been no strangers present, he would have argued; they were half brothers, and not all of the words exchanged between kin were fair or pleasing. But he would not demean the rank that Fillipo held in the presence of Northerners. In the presence of the Tyr’agar.

  Half of the Ospreys dug. Half waited, swords ready.

  Kiriel di’Ashaf was among the watchers.

  “Come, Miko,” Fillipo said, speaking as quietly as he could and still be heard. “We must finish this before sun’s rise. The Serra Amara has tended these grounds personally, and we would be well to be away when she discovers the damage done them.”

  Miko managed a feeble smile; it was better than nothing.

  They fought; he waited, refusing to give in to the sting of bitter envy at the power they wielded so casually.

  The ground broke at their feet, the air moved at their whim, fire gouted from between cracked stone, blackened earth. He could not survive this.

  They were distant; too distant; the battle had moved, and moved again. No simple swordplay ranged this far; no simple battle for life or death traced such a large circle of destruction. He had thought to hide, to bide his time, to wait for an opening. The anger that had moved him this far was guttered; flames burned beneath his feet that were hotter, and colder, and brighter by far.

  What place, he thought bitterly, had he in this war? What place had he, in the shadows cast by legends? What place, Callesta, or Lamberto, or even the kai Leonne? He closed his eyes, hands shaking now around the hilt of a blade that seemed dull, ordinary, a child’s toy.

  And then the wind changed; small stones and shards of glass flew past his upturned face, tracing thin lines of blood across his cheeks, nesting in his hair. He opened his eyes to the face of the moon, Lady’s face, veiled but bright

  And he thought, as he met her distant gaze, that she waited in judgment; that she had seen things greater, and things far more insignificant than he; that all time had passed beneath her august gaze. And if, indeed, these were warriors of legend, if they were men—or worse—who could destroy whole cities when they came face-to-face—where were their kin now?

  The whole of the Dominion, the whole of the Empire, was owned by the insignificant. Mortals ruled, mortals lived—and died—in places that would never know such glory as he was given to witness. And the lack of this knowledge did not impoverish them.

  We rule here.

  The moon’s face. The sun’s face. Between them, the hour of man, and it was coming; the sky was not so dark as it had been when he had ridden through the streets at the side of the kai Leonne; nor so dark as it was when he had seen the sacrilege done his son.

  He rose, hand gripping rails; he watched. The winds had given him warning, and more, a reminder. He did not lose focus now, and the anger returned, primitive, a fire unlike the fire that ravaged the streets of his city. His city.

  They passed beneath him, red and blue, dark and dark, and he tensed to leap, his sword before him, the curve of the crescent held up and toward his chest.

  He would strike one blow, if that; he knew that he would be given no chance, no opportunity, for a second. He was not of the magi, not of the Sword, and for the first time in his life, he regretted it. But fleetingly.

  He saw the creature draw back, saw his body shift, weight supported by his back leg, body lengthened to the side, shield out to absorb the blow offered him by Meralonne Aphaniel.

  Before the twin blades met, Ramiro was in motion; gravity bore him down; no air sustained him, no wind broke his fall. One blow. One blow, for his son.

  One.

&nbs
p; What blue sword had failed to do, his sword did not; the creature, absorbed in the combat he had chosen, failed to notice something as insignificant as the Callestan kai. Bloodhame fell into the darkness behind the shield of the demon lord; it fell heavily, jerking with the force of a man’s weight, a man’s fall.

  But the shield fell. The shield, and some part of the arm that had borne it.

  The creature roared.

  Had Ramiro voice for it, he might have joined its brief ululation, for the emotion it contained was kin to his own: fury. Pain. Instead, he leaped to the side, rolling along the broken ground.

  Meralonne APhaniel passed above him; he saw the sword of the demon and the sword of the mage meet for the last time.

  Heard the mage curse, in a language that was utterly foreign, as the demon suddenly withdrew.

  The moon paled in the night sky. The Lady began her passage into day. But the Lord had not yet come.

  “Kai Callesta,” the Northern mage said, his back toward the Tyr’agnate, his face toward the South.

  Ramiro rose. Almost without thought, he removed his cloak; its edges now burned with the tongues of small flames, and he set it beneath the heels of his boots, grinding them, denying them further voice.

  Then he rose.

  “Meralonne APhaniel,” he said, speaking in Weston, “I am in your debt.”

  The mage turned slowly. His sword was gone. The wind had left him; he seemed, for a moment, an old, an ancient, figure, weary with the burden of years.

  “In my debt? I think not,” he said quietly. “For Lord Ishavriel has lost his shield, and in the war to follow, that loss will count.” He bowed.

  He bowed, and Ramiro di’Callesta returned that bow, made of it an obeisance.

  “You led him here,” the Tyr’agnate said quietly.

  “I?”

  “I have . . . rarely . . . seen such a display. And I am grateful for the lack; I am not a young man, with a young man’s dreams of glory. But I could not fail to notice that the battle was in no way contained; it had passed well beyond my reach.”

  Meralonne’s gaze was cool. “It is said, among the Northern Commanders, that there are only two men to fear in the South. The Tyr’agnate of Callesta, and the man who now leads the armies of Annagar against us.

  “You see too clearly, kai Callesta. I meant to burden you with no debt.”

  “Ah. That is very Northern of you, Member Aphaniel.”

  The mage smiled briefly. He bent his head a moment, and in the dawn light, untied the flap of his pouch. “I will smoke, I think, if it will not trouble you.”

  Ramiro nodded. “Forgive me if I do not join you.”

  “Indeed. It seems a habit that is out of favor in the South.” He set dry leaf into the bowl of his pipe with meticulous care. Hard to see the warrior in the mage now; hard to believe that the hands that shook slightly as they conveyed pipe to mouth had wielded a sword of cold fire. “You see too clearly,” the mage said again, “and you ask no questions.”

  “None,” Ramiro replied gravely, gazing upon the broken ground, the guttering flames. “I have gathered wisdom over the years, and at some cost; I have learned that there are some answers that are better left unspoken.” He smiled, and the smile was the sharpest of his smiles. “Was he important, mage?”

  “The demon lord?”

  Ramiro nodded.

  “Oh, yes. You live up to your reputation.”

  “And that?”

  Meralonne inhaled. “In the Averdan valleys, you chose to ambush the Black Ospreys. They were a small unit, and in the eyes of the North, one viewed with distaste; their loss could not dictate the course of the war.

  “Why, then, did you choose to focus your efforts upon their banner?”

  “In the South,” Ramiro kai di’Callesta replied, “they were the only face of the Northern army that was clearly understood. I did not strike to damage the North, but to strengthen the South.”

  “They remember it.”

  “I remember it,” Ramiro said, the smile gone from his face. He turned away. “Enough.”

  But the mage had not quite finished. “This kinlord was kin to the Ospreys. You have made a name for yourself among the enemies of the North, and it will not be forgotten; the Kialli forget little.”

  When they returned to the plateau, they found it little changed. The addition of the whole of the Tyran did not seem to crowd the damaged grounds; did not seem to crowd the broken frame of the temple door. The Ospreys were there in their full numbers as well, but they milled, like a small crowd.

  This stopped when Commander Allen issued a soft command. All heads turned to Ramiro di’Callesta; in the soft glow of a carried lamp, he could see the momentary relief that changed the Commander’s features. “Tyr’agnate,” the Commander said, offering him a full Imperial bow.

  Ramiro nodded. He was weary now. Whatever had driven him from balcony to ground had deserted him; the night was cold.

  “Member APhaniel,” the Commander added, turning to the mage.

  Ramiro perceived that it was indeed the mage they waited upon. Why?

  “Commander Allen.” Meralonne was once again robed in the loose fitting garb of the Order; the sword was gone, and the mail of tiny chain links hidden. He bowed and reached for his pipe, the latter gesture robbing the former of due respect.

  Not even Widan, Ramiro thought, with just a hint of humor, would dare as much. But the Commander, the Eagle, seemed familiar enough with this rough lack of respect; he paid it no heed. None at all.

  “We have need of your services, APhaniel.”

  “The bodies?”

  The Commander lifted a brow. Then he grimaced, and this, too, was completely unfettered. “The bodies,” he said. “There were four. The days beneath the ground have been . . . unkind . . . to two of them. But the others seem whole.”

  Meralonne nodded.

  “The Serra Alina di’Lamberto does not recognize the two.”

  “Then only two of the men served Lamberto.”

  “At best guess, none of them served Lamberto,” the Commander replied, and this time, steel girded the words.

  The mage shrugged. “This will not wait?”

  Commander Allen’s silence was answer enough. And it was the expected answer. It seemed that the Northerners had their own customs, their own dance of power. The manners that informed it were not Southern, but they were there, if one knew how to observe.

  Meralonne lit the leaves in the basin of his pipe and then gestured; Commander Allen, himself, led. They walked between the ranks of the Tyran, smoke lingering in their wake like a pathway through air.

  Ramiro met the gaze of his par. “Fillipo,” he said.

  “Was it done?”

  Ramiro nodded.

  “The bodies were disinterred. They have not been otherwise disturbed. If magic was used—by the Northerners—it was subtle enough to escape our detection.”

  He nodded again. He shed weariness, replacing it with a bitter curiosity.

  Valedan kai di’Leonne waited beside Ser Andaro di’Corsarro, flanked by Ospreys, before the pallets upon the cleared ground. The open stone path that led to the temple served as bed; the Radann, some four men, Fiero among them, stood stiffly by his side, the rays of their office catching light as they moved. Dirt clung to the hems of their robes, dirt and grass; they carried their swords openly, forsaking shields for torchlight. But they bowed as the Tyr’agnate approached, and they retreated.

  The kai Leonne did not.

  Nor did Kiriel di’Ashaf or the Serra Alina di’Lamberto; nor did Alexis AKalakar or Fiara AKalakar. Commander Ellora AKalakar was likewise present; they formed the living antithesis to things graceful and feminine by their watchful, militant—and in two cases, sullen—presence.

 
But they ringed the kai Leonne, and for just a moment, Ramiro saw in them a ferocity, a fellowship, that reminded him in a way he could not explain, of his wives and their daughters.

  There is very little, he thought dispassionately, that these women would not do for your cause, or in it. And then he smiled again, thinking that the same could be said of Serra Amara. He had—all of the South had—chosen the few weapons by which the Serras might fight, but having chosen to arm them so poorly, he still knew what they were capable of. He desired his wife now.

  But he would not demean her by summoning her. There were other reasons why he did not wish to face her yet.

  “Member APhaniel,” Valedan said quietly.

  The mage looked up. To Valedan kai di’Leonne, he offered a somber, perfect bow—a Southern bow, graceful to the last detail, and held for exactly the right length of breath, of heartbeat. So, Ramiro thought. But he said nothing.

  “You are aware of what passed within the temple,” the boy Tyr said quietly.

  “Indeed.”

  “We wish to know how it was done.”

  “If I am not mistaken, Tyr’agar, you have seen it once before.”

  Ser Andaro di’Corsarro was pale. The light that shone orange upon the rest of the Ospreys seemed to discolor his face and his skin.

  But the mage made his way to the side of the bodies, and he knelt there for some time, his expression shifting. He passed a hand over the sunken faces of the men that the Serra had called Lambertan. With a grunt, he rolled the first body over, dislodging it from the pallet. Armor had already been stripped from it. From the back, the black of a sword wound could be seen; the blood had long since dried.

  “These?”

  “Perhaps.” He rolled the second corpse on its chest, and likewise examined back and spine, and then bid the Ospreys roll them back. He said quietly, “I will have to cut them open.”

  “Why those two, APhaniel?” Ramiro asked, choosing the Northern title.

  “If, as you suspect but do not say, one of the four carried demons within them, evidence will almost certainly be found with these two.”