The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  Such a stance would not be lost upon the Tor’agar.

  The horses came to a halt; she heard their hooves slow and become silent. A moment passed; the sound of men’s boots were less thunderous, and more dangerous, when they came. The Radann Marakas par el’Sol did not move; his shadow joined Ramdan’s as the Tor’agar’s men made their way across the wilderness of land that had not yet been cleared or tilled.

  She had a wild, terrible urge to look up.

  Could remember the time she had sat thus, in a dark, cold desert night, when Adam of the Arkosa Voyani had come bearing the instrument of Kallandras of Senniel College—a gift, to her, that had almost cost him his life, and that had, in the end, cost him the only family he had.

  Could even she be changed in so short a time? Could she be ruined, destroyed by the freedom and the conflict in the desert’s heart, her own laid bare?

  No.

  No. She was Serra Diora di’Marano. She understood duty.

  But it was hard, much harder than she had expected it would be, to sit in silence, head bowed. To be perfect.

  She did not pray to the Lady for strength or guidance; the Lord reigned. Instead, she waited, her hands palm down in the fold of her lap. Palm down, so that the imperfection might be hidden, that it not trouble the sight of men.

  Ramdan bent, still shielding her from sun’s rays by the breadth of his shoulders, his back. In his hands, pulled from the robes of the Voyani desert, he held a simple fan. Painted silk, spread by straight, slender jade spokes. She took it as if it were an anchor; raised it in gratitude and hid her face.

  “Strangers,” a man said. She heard worry in his voice, the vague edge of fear, the certainty of duty. “You have entered, without permission, the lands of the Tor’agar Alessandro kai di’Clemente.

  “Identify yourselves, and state your business clearly.”

  Swords were drawn. Clemente swords.

  “I am the Radann Marakas par el’Sol, and these, my companions, have come to your Tor’s lands in haste. Accept our apologies for the unsuitability of our dress and our manner; we have been on the road these past weeks, and we have seen little in the way of hospitality.”

  “You traveled the roads?” Disbelief in that voice. Suspicion.

  “No,” the Radann said quietly. “We traveled through the forests at the border’s edge.”

  “The forest?”

  “Indeed.”

  The Serra waited. Silence followed the single word; she wondered if the man would challenge the Radann’s words. But the Radann par el’Sol was granted, by right, the symbol of the sun ascendant, and if it did not adorn his chest in the open light, his name carried its weight.

  “Radann par el’Sol,” the man said. His armor spoke as he bowed; she heard it clearly, the clink of metal against metal, the chaffing of surcoat. In the Southern Terreans, armor was rare. “We . . . did not expect . . . a man of your import. Your companions?”

  “I will speak for them,” he replied evenly.

  “Then speak,” a new voice said. A strong voice. Not, the Serra Diora thought, a friendly one. But this man spoke with the certainty of power: this man was the Tor’agar.

  “Kai Clemente,” the Radann said. “My companions are varied, but as you can clearly see, they are not a band of war.”

  “Give me their names, par el’Sol, and let me judge their worth for myself.”

  The silence was stiff. But the command in the words was almost laced with threat. Diora lifted her face, protected now by folds of translucent silk, her eyes seeing between the painted petals of lilies.

  She saw, veiled in gauze, a man dressed in armor, his coat adorned with the full symbol of the rising sun, its six rays reaching to throat and shoulders as they caught light, glittering. His hair was dark; he wore a scant beard. His eyes, she thought, were dark as well, but the fan’s folds hid their color, and she did not dare to lower it; he was not a man given to missing even the slightest of gestures.

  “Very well, Tor’agar,” the Radann replied. He turned and bowed to Yollana, the Matriarch of Havalla.

  The old woman’s nod was visible.

  “May I present the Matriarch of the Havalla Voyani,” Marakas said gravely, “and her cousin, Teresa.”

  The Tor’agar stiffened slightly. That he did this much showed the depth of his surprise; he was Court trained, after all. After a marked hesitation, he lowered his head. No other courtesy was demanded of a clansman of his rank; indeed, not even that much was necessary. But etiquette and prudence often diverged, and he had chosen prudence.

  It spoke well of him, if nothing else did.

  “The others?”

  Again, the Radann par el’Sol turned, and again, he received a slight nod.

  “Kallandras of Senniel College. He is . . . of the North.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “He travels with Jewel ATerafin.”

  “ATerafin? If I am not mistaken Terafin is one of The Ten Houses that have prominence in the Empire.”

  “Indeed, Tor’agar.”

  “The man?”

  “Her domicis.”

  “I am not familiar with the term.”

  “There are no serafs in the North,” the Radann replied evenly. “But there are those who choose—free of constraint—to serve. He is one.”

  “I doubt that, par el’Sol. I doubt that highly.” The Tor’agar held the words for just a second longer than necessary, and then added, “Although it is clear that the claim is his, and not yours. And the other man is also Havallan?”

  “He is Arkosan.”

  “Arkosan?”

  “Even so.”

  The men who had ridden at the side of the Tor’agar were silent, but beyond them, their voices clear to Diora’s strange gift, the others spoke. They gestured toward the forest, the forest heart, the forest height.

  “It seems that old tales have some truth in them after all,” the Tor’agar said. “But I notice that you have failed to introduce the last member of your party.” And he stepped forward, into the shadows cast by the bower of ancient branches.

  Marakas par el’Sol moved as well, interposing himself—with far less courtly grace—between the Tor’agar and the Serra Diora. His hand was on his sword, and Diora thought—for just a moment—that he might draw it. She held her breath; contained it in the same way she contained all motion. Remembering, now, how to wait.

  Marakas par el’Sol glanced toward her; met the sheen of fan, the shadow of seraf. “Serra,” he said quietly, “it would honor us both greatly if you chose to grace us with your presence.”

  As his words died into silence, the Serra bent slowly and delicately toward the earth, aware that there was no mat against which to place her forehead. Her hair brushed the undergrowth, revealing the curve of the back of her unadorned neck.

  Ramdan was at her side in an instant, offering her a hand with which to steady herself. It was unnecessary; she had no need of his aid. But it was also necessary, for he showed himself to be a seraf of breeding and refinement, and by so doing, showed that the woman who owned his name was worthy of note.

  The Serra Diora di’Marano rose quietly, unfolding as delicately as she had unfolded the fan, her movements both conscious and unconscious. The line of her shoulders both rose and fell, lengthening her neck, accentuating the perfect line of a back hidden by folds of stiff desert cloth.

  Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente met her gaze, his eyes widening as he recognized her exposed face. He gestured sharply, and his Toran fell back a step.

  “I understand,” he said softly, “why you chose to forgo the open road, par el’Sol.”

  “Will you allow us to pass, kai Clemente?”

  “That is a complicated question,” the Tor’agar replied, his gaze fixed upon the face of the Flo
wer of the Dominion. “But you have been on a dark road, and you must be in need of rest and refreshment. Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my domis. It would be my honor to have such noteworthy guests.”

  She heard all the words that he did not choose to speak. None of them brooked refusal.

  The Radann Marakas par el’Sol was no fool. “The honor,” he said, bowing, “is ours.”

  The Tor’agar nodded. And then he bowed to the Serra Diora di’Marano, and gently offered her his hand.

  If the cerdan were ill pleased at being unhorsed, they did not show it. Ser Alessandro offered horse to Yollana of Havalla and her companion; he offered horse to Jewel ATerafin; he offered horse to Kallandras of Senniel College, and to the Radann par el’Sol.

  But he paused a moment, the line of his lips shifting as Avandar approached the horse upon which the Northern ATerafin woman sat so awkwardly. They spoke quietly, and he helped the child he bore into the saddle; the woman enfolded her in arms that were a shade too stiff. “You failed to introduce the child.” He spoke quietly.

  “We found her wandering the road in Raverra. Her parents are dead,” the Radann replied. Again, his hand found the hilt of his sword.

  “And you travel with her?” Ser Alessandro smiled; the smile was as sharp as sword’s edge. “You have always been an unusual servant of the Lord, par el’Sol. It seems that the fate of the helpless and the barely free continue to be of concern to you. I am impressed. But the Lord’s steel must hide beneath the gentleness of your demeanor. I would not have guessed, years ago, that you would have risen to the rank you now hold.”

  “The ATerafin has chosen to extend the protection of her House to the child; she eats little, and she interferes with nothing.”

  “I see. She is not a seraf?”

  “She bears no brand.”

  “Good.” He placed foot in the stirrup of one of Mancorvo’s finest horses; a great, black beast with gold markings. “We must ride in haste,” he said quietly. “Word will travel.”

  Marakas par el’Sol nodded. “You travel in numbers.”

  “Indeed. There are bandits upon the roads, and worse.” His smile was grim. “Twenty mounted men might give pause to even the most foolhardy of outlaws.”

  The dwelling of the Tor’agar of Clemente was not so grand a dwelling as Marakas might have expected, for the lands in Mancorvo were rich. Yet if it was not grand, it was deceptive in its simplicity; it was built of stone, and the gates, great, rolling walls, were of steel and wood. Men stood upon the curtain walls that girded the city; men armed with spears and, to Marakas’ great surprise, bows.

  Ser Alessandro noted his surprise with an ironic smile. “We have learned that not everything that comes out of the North is evil.”

  “It is said that weapons of distance breed poor warriors.”

  “Indeed, I have heard it said,” the kai Clemente replied. “If you are unfortunate, you will judge for yourself the truth of that adage.”

  Radann Marakas par el’Sol stilled a moment. “You are at war?”

  “We are Mancorvan, but we do not border Averda. We are not yet at war, but we are not unprepared for it, as you have seen.”

  “The armies—”

  “There are guests in great number along the Southern border of the Terrean,” the kai Clemente replied evenly. “The Southern border, and the Eastern one.”

  The lands claimed by the clan Clemente were neither.

  “What word, Tor’agar, has come from the South?”

  “Do you not know? For it is said that the Radann kai el’Sol himself rides at the behest of the Tyr’agar.”

  Marakas par el’Sol stiffened slightly. But he did not deny the truth of those words. “The Radann are not Widan; what message travels, travels by roads that are easily seen by men.”

  “You were not sent.”

  It was not a question.

  The Tor’agar turned a moment to gaze upon the Serra Diora di’Marano. “And you have come with a small party, indeed, to guard such a treasure. Come, par el’Sol. I was present at the Lake of the Tor Leonne at the culmination of the Festival of the Lord. I saw the hands of the Flower of the Dominion draw, from the waters of the Tor Leonne, the Sun Sword. I saw the ashes of the kai el’Sol scattered by the winds. I heard her plea, and I was not . . . unmoved . . . by its strength.” His eyes narrowed. “But we had no word that she, jewel to crown, was no longer upon the plateau.

  “Her presence here explains much.”

  Marakas par el’Sol offered no further words; none were wanting, and he was learned enough to keep his own counsel.

  “My Toran will see to our horses,” Ser Alessandro said, “and I myself will lead you to the rooms you will occupy for your visit.”

  He spoke to his men; the Toran came at once and took the bridles of the Mancorvan horses, and the horses, light-footed and ill-pleased to be so confined, went quietly at their command. He felt a twinge of envy; the horses of Mancorvo were indeed as fine as any in the Dominion, and although Marakas came from the Southern Terreans, he was the Lord’s man: he understood their value.

  But he did not understand their lord, and he was troubled.

  Unbidden, memory returned.

  The first time he had seen this man, and the last, Ser Alessandro had been the par, not the kai, and he had closed the eyes of a fallen friend in the aftermath of the kai el’Sol’s bitter judgment. His just judgment.

  He had also taken the unblooded blade of the son of the Tor’agnate of clan Manelo, and cut his own arm, so that the Tor’agnate might see his son’s blade, and know that he had not died completely unmanned.

  Ser Alessandro had offered no threat, no enmity, to Fredero kai el’Sol—but that was simple prudence, for Fredero was younger brother to Mareo kai di’Lamberto, the Tyr’agnate who claimed rulership of the Terrean of Mancorvo.

  As if he were privy to that memory, Ser Alessandro turned. “Yes,” he said softly, “I remember our first encounter. And I remember what occurred after the departure of the Radann kai el’Sol. The Tor’agnate, Ser Amando kai di’Manelo, was ill-pleased by the death of his son. Had the man who killed him not been Radann, there would be blood feud between their clans that might last generations.”

  “The Radann claim no kin-ties.”

  “Indeed. And it is folly to war against the Lord. Ser Franko chose his weapon and his course, and he suffered the Lord’s judgment.”

  The words were smooth as stone; cool as stone, and just as hard.

  “He was my cousin,” Ser Alessandro added. “And almost brother to me.”

  Marakas par el’Sol closed his eyes as the gates of the city of Sarel rolled shut at their backs.

  “I do not like it,” Yollana said quietly, in the confines of a finely appointed room. There were no windows, although the edifice itself was of stone, and allowed them. The Havallan Matriarch, and her “kin” had been given quarters that suited the needs of Serras, and Yollana was no Serra, to be comforted by pretty, gleaming planks of wood, by jade-colored mats, by flat tables adorned with bowls and the pink blossoms of the trees of the Northern Terreans. Nor was she impressed by the painted fans that adorned the walls, by the translucent paper that, nestled in wooden lattice, was the only door to this half prison.

  No open road here. No Voyanne.

  But she was tired, and her injuries were grave; although she spoke her mind, as was her wont, her voice was weak. The Serra Teresa did not leave her side. Clothed as Voyani, darkened by more exposure to the Lord’s gaze than she had had in the whole of her life at Court, she served as seraf, the grace of her movements uninhibited by the loss of the rank she had enjoyed as the unmarried sister of a man who served the Lambertan Tyr.

  “What of the kai Clemente?” Yollana asked, waving away the slender bowl with its clear, sweet water. “Will he hinder us, T
eresa? Does he mean us harm?”

  Teresa was silent a moment; the water that would not be imbibed, she put to use cleansing the wounds that Yollana had taken at the hands of the dead. Those wounds were dark and ugly, but none so disturbing as the one that had robbed her of sight.

  “He is not our friend,” she said at last, when Yollana stilled enough to allow the Serra to remove the eye patch and treat what was left of the eye. “But I do not believe he knows, himself, what he intends for us.”

  Yollana closed her good eye. “And if he intends us ill?”

  “There is little that we can do. But I think he will be cautious. He will not hold you, Yollana; he is prudent enough not to seek the enmity of the Havalla Voyani, not when he is so obviously prepared for war.”

  The old woman snorted. “Where is my pipe?”

  “Here.”

  “Fill it, then,” she said gruffly. “And get me some pillows. This place is too soft and too empty.”

  Teresa’s smile was gentle. She was accustomed to command and dictate, and very few of those commands had come so gracelessly into her presence. But she had obeyed few as willingly as she obeyed this woman’s. She filled the bowl of Yollana’s pipe. “There is no fire here,” she said.

  “I am capable of lighting a pipe,” the old woman replied. But her hands shook as she lifted it. “Na’tere, what will you do?”

  “What I have always done,” was the serene reply.

  “And that?”

  “What is necessary, Matriarch. No less than that, and possibly no more. If we must leave, we will leave; there is not a force in this world that could contain Kallandras of Senniel College if he chooses to speak, and if he bids the gates open, they will open.”

  “Is he proof against arrows?”

  “I do not know. But if any man is, I would say it is he. He is blessed by the Lady.”

  “Aye, and cursed by her.”

  The Serra frowned.

  But Yollana would say no more of the bard. Instead, she said, “Where is your niece?”