“And not the others?”
“They are a different problem,” the mage replied. “And they may offer different answers. But the Tyran and their presence would be significant here; were I to choose a method of conveyance, were I to desire their presence, I would control it personally.” He glanced up at Kiriel di’Ashaf, and after a moment, she shook her head. “They are empty,” she said quietly.
“Good.”
Ser Andaro said, “When . . . my compatriot . . . was—”
Valedan lifted a hand, but Ser Andaro shook his head. “The body was his; the memories his. I would swear it. Cutting him open, wounding him, did not—”
Meralonne frowned. “You are correct, Ser Andaro. And perceptive. Our lore in these matters is poor; we are forbidden the study of ancient arts, and we gather information as we can. But you are correct. What . . . inhabited . . . the kai Callesta’s body was not kin to what we witnessed upon the Kings’ field. I am almost certain that the kai Callesta was dead before the demon moved.
“The kin do not easily inhabit living flesh, and not without a great deal of preparation; they can, however, wear it, for some time, and in a fashion. They can preserve it for their own use, if they have the self-control, but no more.” He paused, and then drew his dagger.
Without another word, he cut across the center of the first man’s chest; his blade was sharp, if short, and it passed with ease between ribs and sunken flesh. Too great an ease, the Callestan Tyr thought.
He peeled back the skin.
The chest cavity was hollow; the number of ribs too few. “Here,” he said quietly.
“There is no heart,” Valedan said.
“None, Tyr’agar.” The mage rose, and bent beside the second corpse. This, too, was empty.
“We found only one demon.” Valedan rose.
“If there was a second,” Kiriel told him, “It is long gone. The plateau is free of the presence of the kin.”
“So,” Meralonne said, rising and stretching his shoulders, his long neck. His pipe flared again. “At least that much of a mystery is solved. It leaves another, of course. Tyr’agnate, is it possible for the oathguards to quit?”
Ramiro’s scorn was only barely concealed. “They are not Northern guards,” he said quietly.
“And is it possible to dismiss them?”
Ser Fillipo par di’Callesta, silent until that moment, said, “Yes. We call it execution.”
“Ah. Then this must have been done in Lamberto.”
“They planned well,” Ramiro said quietly.
“Lack of organization has never been among their failings; they are not bound by mortal time; haste can be measured in decades, not hours. You are confident that the kai Lamberto is in no way allied with the kin?”
Ramiro kai di’Callesta said nothing. But he looked to the Serra Alina.
She, too, was silent.
“We are confident,” Valedan said, speaking the words that they would not.
Meralonne rose. “They cannot do this easily,” he said at last. “And not for long.”
“Did they retain the memories of the men whose bodies they wore?” Ramiro asked.
Meralonne shrugged. “I cannot be certain. I would say no, but that would be conjecture, and we have no way of testing it.”
“It would be best if this were not known.”
“Indeed. It is the same situation in which the Kings found themselves: the cost of the fear and the panic would be too great.”
“Can we protect our own against this?”
Meralonne shook his head. “As we protected the contestants? No. We offered them no protection in the end, kai Callesta; we offered ourselves early warning, that was all. But I will tell you again, this is rare, and it is costly.”
“Not costly enough.”
“Not yet.”
“Kiriel di’Ashaf,” Ramiro turned to the Osprey. “If these possessed my men, could you detect them?”
She hesitated. And then, as if ashamed, she lowered her head. “Not I,” she said at last. “But—”
“Say no more. But I better understand your decision now, and if I do not rejoice in it, I accept it. Your creature—your servant—I wish use of him on the morrow.”
She nodded grimly.
But the mage had not yet finished.
“These two,” he said quietly, coming at last to the bodies that seemed freshly fallen. He paused before the first, looking up, not at Valedan, but at the Tyr’agnate. “Kai Callesta, with your permission?”
“You have it.”
The mage looked down. And then he set his pipe aside upon the stone, and spread his hands flat against the chest of the nearest. He spoke words, and they were sharp and harsh to the ears of the Callestan Tyr; they were fully formed and yet completely unintelligible; they eluded the ear, and all memory. He could not hold them.
The chest of the man began to unfold. Skin rose, and rose again, like tendrils of a plant, flesh-colored but thin and almost translucent beneath the lantern hearts, the billowing smoke of torchlight.
Everywhere that skin had touched the mage’s hands, it sought to elude them, until beneath his hands, only one thing remained, shining and wet in its exposure to the cool of the night sky: a heart.
Not a living heart, but not—yet—dead.
Meralonne APhaniel cursed roundly in Weston. Reaching down, he caught the heart in his hands as the skin that had risen now collapsed in a sudden effort to heal the breach. It came too late; the heart was his.
And as he drew it from the chest, the body began to collapse, taking the form now of dead leaves, long grass, bent branches and twigs.
“It is Allasakari magic,” he said quietly. “I begin to understand now.”
No one spoke for a full minute.
“Two others must have traveled with the possessed Tyran,” he said quietly. “But they had no intention of dying here. You will no doubt find—if you look—that two of your own have gone missing, kai Callesta. They will never be found; no more of them remains than this.” And he lifted the heart in the scant light. “It is a magic of seeming, only; it has not the power to grant life, or even its semblance. But it has served its purpose here.
“They may have served as witnesses to the assassination; they could not afford to leave any real witnesses alive. Seek them.”
But his tone made clear that he thought nothing would be found.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
12th of Corvil, 427 AA
Terrean of Averda, Amar
THE Serra Donna en’Lamberto entered the courtyard with two of the Lambertan Tyran. Her husband’s men, and trusted, they walked before her, swords sheathed; they were meant not as warning but as evidence of her significance.
She accepted them with an ease borne of familiarity, and in truth, she found them a comfort—but she would have to shed them before she spoke with the Voyani who waited. Her hands were steady; she drew strength from the formal posture, the rigidity of lifted chin, of elongated neck—forms that she adopted without thought, they were so necessary.
This was not her home; her home was the heart of the harem. Exposed, she retreated into the mannered dignity of a Serra.
And knew, as she reached the waiting women, that it was the wrong retreat.
The older of the two was no longer dark-haired; time had grayed the untidy spill of raven black, and lines had become engraved around mouth and lip. Whether these were due to frown or smile, she could not say; the woman herself betrayed no emotion, other than the mild look of irritation that seemed so common among the Voyani.
But when the Serra Donna left the Tyran and approached, both women surprised her; they bowed. She did not kneel, although instinct bade her bend knee. Her husband was watching.
“Serra Donna en’Lam
berto,” the older woman said quietly, as she rose. “I am Nadia Yollanaan, Daughter of the Matriarch of Havalla. And this is Varya, my sister. We’re honored that you could meet with us.”
This last was said with a heavy irony, and the younger woman frowned openly. But she did not speak, and by her silence, Donna knew who was in command. Still, she gazed at the sister a moment; she, too, was darkened by sun, creased by wind—but the color had not yet been bleached from her hair, and the wildness was moored in her face, her dark eyes. In the full bloom of her youth, however brief, she must have been beautiful.
“Accept my apologies for my tardiness,” she said quietly. “I received a message that could not wait.”
“Was it welcome news?”
“No,” she said quietly, discomfited by the boldness of the question. Squaring shoulders, she added, “It came from the Terrean of Averda.”
Both women were instantly alert.
“And I will offer it to you, although it was private, in return for information.”
The women relaxed. The Voyani were not true merchants; if they traded at all, it was in secrecy and herbs. But information was bartered often between the poorer clanswomen and the Voyani. “And that information, Serra?”
“I wish to know how something impossible might be achieved.”
“If indeed it is impossible,” Nadia replied cautiously, “it might never be achieved at all.”
“Ah, you mistake me—I speak poorly. It has been a long day. I do not desire to achieve this thing; I desire to understand how it came to pass.”
The sisters exchanged a look. Donna read much in what passed between them, but it did not surprise her; the Voyani did not wear masks in the High Courts. Did not spend time in the High Courts, if it could be avoided.
“You will have to trust us,” Nadia said at last. “For until you ask the question, we will not know whether or not we can answer it; you may be offering us information for free.”
“I will take that risk,” she replied quietly. “For it is said that the Voyani serve the Lady.”
“It is not said beneath the Lord’s gaze,” Nadia replied quietly, lifting a hand.
That hand cast a shadow; the Lord was in the sky.
“If you will,” Serra Donna replied, “I would offer you the meager hospitality of my quarters. I know that the Voyani are not accustomed to spending much time beneath roof or enclosing walls—but there is privacy in the harem that is not found elsewhere.”
Nadia bowed again. “We have traveled in haste,” she replied. “And although it is said that we neither bathe nor sleep, neither of these things are entirely true.” Her smile was almost warm; it was certainly genuine.
Serra Donna returned a scant bow; it hid her relief. “Please,” she said quietly, “follow me. The Tyran will not accompany us if you prefer their absence; you do not travel in the company of men.”
“No,” Nadia replied. “We do not. You are considerate, Serra Donna, but it is no surprise; you are Lambertan; If you are truly comfortable with their absence, we will gratefully do without; if there is difficulty in the domis, both Varya and myself are capable of dealing with it, and we will defend you as if you were Havallan.” Her accent, indeed her choice of words, was awkward—but it was appropriate. To the domis, to the High Court, to the Serra.
She felt a prickle of unease take root at that.
Serra Donna bowed again, and turning, she offered the Tyran the agreed upon signal. They parted to allow her to pass, and they did not follow; they were perfect enough that they showed no concern, no interest all, as she left them behind. It did not surprise her, but it gratified her nonetheless, for she knew that Nadia of the Havalla Voyani was now slightly off her stride; she had expected neither offer, and had accepted both.
The Voyani women were offered access to the baths, and food was prepared in their absence; when they returned to the heart of the harem, Serra Donna en’Lamberto was alone—but her screens were not yet closed, and through them, the sounds of the children could easily be heard. She had arranged it, just so, but children were often unpredictable.
Nadia sank awkwardly to her knees, and Varya, even more so, but the cushions were soft and the food at a height that standing made awkward. Serra Donna herself poured both water and wine; she knew that the Voyani were not comfortable in the presence of serafs, and she therefore sent all of her serafs from the wing. The children, however, remained, a distant reminder of the things they had in common.
Only after the women had eaten did Donna rise and close the screens, sealing them with the silk flashing that requested—no, ordered—privacy.
“Nadia of Havalla,” she said, as she resumed her seat, “we have had no word of the Matriarch. Have you?”
“Some,” Nadia replied, with care. “But none of it from her directly.”
More than that, Donna did not ask. Instead, she swallowed breath and shed dignity, in order to better accommodate her unusual guests. “I received a letter from the Serra Amara en’Callesta.”
Nadia raised a weathered brow. It changed the landscape of her face. “How much does she say?” The tone was now completely neutral, if too blunt.
“Enough,” the Serra Donna replied. “It is a Serra’s letter . . . and it is not. She does not,” she added, when Nadia opened her mouth again, “speak of the Northern armies, if that is what you mean to ask.”
Nadia subsided, but her expression shifted again, and this time she offered the Serra the sharpest of her smiles. “So,” she said quietly. “You know.”
“My husband knows,” Serra Donna said carefully, setting the water aside. “It is not given to the Serras to study the arts of war.”
“Fair enough,” Nadia said.
But Varya said bitterly, “No. Only to die by them.”
The older sister turned a venomous gaze upon the younger; it was the first thing they had done that made them seem, in truth, kin. Serra Donna was careful not to smile.
“What, then, does the Serra Amara offer you?”
“She offers nothing,” Serra Donna replied, with just a hint of reproval. “But she asks much.”
“Be blunt, Serra.”
Donna stiffened. “I was being blunt,” she said coolly.
Varya snickered.
“But I will be more so, if it pleases you. Her son, Carelo kai di’Callesta, is dead.”
The two woman stilled completely. That much information, it seemed, had not traveled between the two Terreans, at least not by the roads the Voyani walked. “How?” the older of the two asked sharply.
“Assassins,” the Serra replied, serene now, the knowledge a sharp weapon. A weapon, she thought, with some regret, that could only be used once.
“What was the nature of the assassins? Is it known?”
It was not the question that Donna expected, if she had expected any at all, but it told her much. It changed the face of the conversation.
“To the Callestans,” she said, with deliberate care, “it would seem that he was killed by Lambertan men. By,” she added softly, “the Tyran that serve my husband.”
“Impossible,” Varya said, and from that moment on, Donna felt that she must like this sharp-tongued, prickly woman.
Nadia, however, said nothing. She was not yet her mother’s equal, but the potential now lay before the Serra, open to inspection. “Were there witnesses?”
“I think there must have been,” the Serra replied quietly. “But although the bodies of the killers were identified by a source that both the Callestans and the Lambertans must consider above reproach,” she continued with care, “the Serra Amara en’Callesta is cautious.”
“How so?”
“She has asked me if my husband ordered this killing.”
“And your answer?”
“Ah, forgive me, Nadia. I ha
ve not yet tendered a reply; I was late to meet with you because the information was of import enough to the Tyr that I attended him first.”
Nadia frowned.
“My husband, of course, did not order the assassination.”
Nadia nodded. If she doubted the words, the doubt was kept from her otherwise fluid expression.
“Yet the men who carried it out were, indeed, his men.”
Impassive, the Voyani woman waited.
“We do not treat with Widan, except at need,” the Serra continued, “and their arts are not our arts. But it is not my husband’s belief that such . . . deception is within their capabilities.”
“No,” Nadia said quietly. “It is not.”
“How, then, could this be achieved?”
Nadia looked toward the opaque screens. She bowed her head a moment. “There are two ways,” she said quietly. “And I will offer you both, Serra Donna en’Lamberto, and more.
“If the killing itself was carried out by a third party, it would be a difficult—but not impossible—task to then leave the bodies of the supposed killers behind. The Voyani could do it, although it would carry some risk to us, and the witnesses could not be people with any sophistication.”
Donna said nothing at all, but folded her hands in her lap as Nadia spoke.
“We did not, nor would we, assassinate the Callestan kai. Not now. Especially not now.”
“And the other way?”
“The other way is not within our grasp,” she replied. “But it is within the grasp of the servants of the Lord of Night.”
The hands in her lap shook briefly; Serra Donna stilled the tremor.
“Even here?” she said at last, when it was clear that the Havallan would not continue.
“Even here.” Nadia lifted wine, not water, to her cracked lips. “We did not come to barter with old wives or to offer fortunes and mystery, Serra. Were that our intent, we would never have approached the plateau.” She drank; there was no grace in the bitter, deliberate gesture. “The wine is sweet.”
“And the water.”
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