The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “And you speak for the Lord, now?”

  “I am Radann. I am par el’Sol. If not me, then who?” He touched the hilt of Verragar. “If victory were the only thing the Lord valued, he would not have intervened in the Leonne wars. He would not have chosen to bless the clan Leonne with the gift of the Sun Sword; he would not have granted, to the Radann who were not blinded by promises of power and Dominion, the use of the five.”

  “You make a persuasive argument, par el’Sol. But the clan Leonne is dead; the Sun Sword takes no other master.”

  “The clan Leonne,” Marakas replied, “is not yet dead; the line has not yet perished.”

  Ser Alessandro’s smile deepened, and Marakas was instantly on his guard.

  “And so we come at last to the heart of the matter. The clan Leonne.”

  Marakas was silent.

  “Where is this scion of Leonne to be found, par el’Sol?”

  “I do not, in truth, have the answer to that question.”

  “And yet it must be the kai Leonne that you seek.”

  “And you, Tor’agar?”

  “I seek what is best for the clan Clemente, of course.”

  “And the people who are beholden to Clemente?”

  “What is best for the clan is best for the people.”

  Marakas said nothing, but memory intruded; memory was strong. He weighed his words carefully, understanding their weight and their cost. “When you traveled in the lands claimed by the clan Manelo, would you have made the same claim of the people there?”

  Ser Alessandro’s silence was sharp and cold. He walked the distance that divided them—the obvious distance, the one most easily crossed—and came to stand before the par el’Sol. “Clan Manelo,” he said quietly, “was not my clan, and its people, not my people.”

  “And it is thus that you abjure responsibility for your actions there?”

  “My actions there? Speak plainly, par el’Sol. Speak quickly.”

  “You would have seen a boy barely man murdered for a moment of self-indulgence.”

  “I saw just that,” Ser Alessandro snapped, losing the perfect control that had defined his presence in this room.

  “The kai di’Manelo was no boy,” Marakas snapped back. “He was granted the gift of power by the expedience of birth, and his use of that power—”

  Ser Alessandro slapped the Radann par el’Sol.

  The blow rang out in the silence.

  Marakas rose.

  The Toran who stood upon the dais started forward; Ser Alessandro lifted a hand, the silence—and the fury—of the command inherent in the gesture unmistakable.

  “I was not born to the High Clans,” Marakas said, forcing a calm into the heat of his words. Fredero would have handled the discussion differently, but Fredero was gone, consumed by flame. “I was born to the low. I know what they suffer at the hands of men who claim power.”

  “And it is your duty to save them all?”

  “It was my duty to stand by the side of the kai el’Sol. My duty,” he said, “and my honor.”

  “Costly honor, that.”

  “It may well be. What do you intend, Tor’agar? We are within the bounds of Clemente. I have seen your Toran, and the cerdan that line the walls, and I have little illusion; the safety that we enjoy is entirely at your whim, and that whim has yet to make itself clear.”

  “Tell me of duty, par el’Sol. The kai el’Sol himself travels at the side of the Tyr’agar.”

  “He does.”

  “Surely, then, your duty is clear? Or do you serve the memory of a dead man?”

  “It was never his memory that I served,” Marakas replied, standing taller now, the weight that had bowed his shoulders falling away in a moment of clarity. “It was his vision. It was his goal.”

  “He would never have served at the side of the General.”

  “No. Never. He chose instead to draw the Sun Sword, in the Lake of the Tor Leonne; chose instead to offer proof of the General’s illegitimacy.”

  “And now?”

  “I am in Mancorvo.”

  “You have been in Mancorvo before.”

  “I will not leave it until I am called to war.”

  “You think that you have not been called to war?” Ser Alessandro laughed. And then, to Marakas’ surprise, he drew his sword.

  “Will you challenge me, Tor’agar? Will you ask the Lord to settle what has long lain in the past?”

  “Perhaps.” The sword did not glint in the sun’s light; the sun had egress through the opacity of paper, that was all. The lamps were not bright enough to bring the edge of steel to light.

  “Then let me draw Verragar, and I will accept the challenge you offer.”

  “Draw her, then,” Ser Alessandro said softly. A challenge.

  Without hesitation, the Radann par el’Sol complied. Verragar came from the sheath.

  But the light that was denied the Tor’agar’s sword shone bright and deep along the runnels and edges of the Radann’s blade, and in the runes etched in steel, words now glowed, painful to look upon.

  Marakas’ eyes widened.

  But the Tor’agar lowered his blade and lifted a hand to his brow, turning away, exposing his back.

  “So,” he said softly. Just that.

  Marakas said nothing; he stared instead at what was written upon the blade, and felt its ancient fire with a hunger, and a clarity, that he had forgotten. Had had to forget; a man could not be scoured by such fires and retain their perfect memory, and live in the world.

  “There are . . . envoys . . . within my domis,” Ser Alessandro said. “They have come through Manelo from Alesso di’Marente.”

  Their eyes met.

  “I would not have my people suffer as the people of Manelo have suffered,” Ser Alessandro said. “Whatever else you choose to think of me, believe that.” He paused, and then stared at the unsheathed blade. “And believe that the people of Manelo would not suffer as they do now were it not for the decision of the kai el’Sol a decade past. What he saved, in that village, he saved for death—for it is death that walks those lands.”

  “The kai el’Sol cannot be held responsible for the choices that other men make.”

  “But for his own? There were other ways to have resolved the difficulty. Any other man, save perhaps the kai Lamberto, would have in prudence chosen those instead. But the kai el’Sol sought to prove that justice prevails in these lands, and he has had his justice.” The words were bitter, the accusation unadorned. “And what justice will you now offer, par el’Sol?”

  “Tell me, Ser Alessandro, that the actions of the kai Manelo were just. Tell me that they were justified.”

  “I will not play those games with you.”

  “You play them now, and at some risk.”

  “Very well. The kai Manelo was young; he was unwise. He made poor choices—but not all of his choices were poor, and he was capable of largesse and compassion in his time. You judge him by the act of a single, ill-considered day.”

  “I do not judge him at all. Whatever else I may be, I do not claim to speak with the wind’s voice; he is beyond my judgment. But I learned, that day, that rank alone is no protection against ill-considered action.”

  Ser Alessandro said nothing.

  “There is no protection for Clemente under the rule of the Lord of Night.”

  “And under the rule of the Lord?” He laughed. “Where are your armies, par el’Sol? Where is the strength of the Lord now? In a handful of people who fled the dark forest?”

  Marakas par el’Sol straightened. “Yes,” he said softly. “In a handful of men—and women—who dared the forest to arrive in Mancorvo.”

  The Toran moved now, restive. Marakas spared them a glance because they had shown th
e strength of training, the strength of the kai’s purpose. They stood, hands on swords, bereft of direction, waiting.

  “The forests,” Ser Alessandro said softly. “Do you know what they mean to Clemente?”

  “No, Tor’agar.”

  “Do you know what they mean to those who live in the lands they border?”

  “No.”

  Ser Alessandro’s expression was knife’s edge; sharp. Cold. But at last his shoulders shifted, his chin lowered. “The kai el’Sol would lend no credence to old stories, and older losses. He was the Lord’s man, and such stories were perhaps—to a man raised in the heartland of the Terrean—children’s stories. The tales of old women, the dark musings of Voyani seers.

  “But they have significance to Clemente, story or no, and it seems that they have given you to us, when you were unexpected and unlooked for.” He brought his blade up until it mirrored the straight line of his spine.

  “Those stories?”

  “Can a man who is a part of their nature appreciate them?” the Tor’agar asked softly. “It is not the Lady’s time, but my thoughts are given to her now.”

  “And my companions?”

  “They traveled the darkest road,” the Tor’agar said. “They traveled it willingly, if I am any judge. Even the Serra Diora. Perhaps especially that Serra. And they traveled that road to us, in the wake of the emissaries of the General Marente. The man who claims the Tor Leonne.

  “Against his arrival, the bowmen upon the curtain wall wait. We have sought word,” he added quietly. “And the simple people of the Clemente villages have sought more. They have looked to old stories for their wisdom and power, for they are bereft of any other. And it seems that some answer has been granted their prayers.”

  “What would you have of us?”

  The Tor’agar stared at the unsheathed blade; Verragar’s edge seemed to converse in the silence between them. “You owe me a debt of blood. Pay it.”

  The sword whispered. The fire burned.

  “And that payment?”

  “Wield the sword.”

  “Gladly.”

  The Tor’agar turned to the two men who adorned the dais. “Adelos, Reymos,” he said. “Open the war room.”

  They nodded in unison, and turned.

  “Par el’Sol, forgive me my curtness; forgive the lack of hospitality you have been shown. What food we have, we have chosen to store in the granaries against the need and the movement of our forces.”

  “In time of war, much is forgiven,” Marakas said quietly, his hand still tingling with the heat—and the ice—of blue fire. “But I must ask, Tor’agar, what you intend in the event—however small the chance—that we fail.”

  Ser Alessandro nodded grimly. “I will offer the Serra Diora di’Marano to the General,” he replied. “And I will offer my formal allegiance to his armies.”

  “And if we succeed?”

  “I will consider all debt between us repaid,” was the even reply, “and I will put my forces in the hands of the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, against my blood-kin, the clan Manelo.”

  Again Marakas par el’Sol nodded. The Tor’agar turned, but the Radann lifted a hand, calling him back with the force and the silence of that gesture.

  “Par el’Sol?”

  “Another question, a brief question,” he said.

  “That?”

  “Which outcome is preferable, kai Clemente?”

  The kai Clemente was still. “Is it not obvious?”

  “If it were, I would not ask. Indulge me; I am not—as you have correctly guessed—a man of the High Courts, and the subtlety of the Courts often escapes me.”

  “I would not have brought you here, nor requested your aid, if I desired the allegiance . . . offered me . . . by my kin.” His lips twisted in the curl of a man who has eaten something bitter and has not yet decided if the manners decreed by hospitality will be enough to force him to swallow. “I have been fond of my cousin,” he said softly. “And I understand his pain. If the kai el’Sol were among the living, I would be . . . less certain of my answer.”

  Marakas nodded slowly. It was not the answer he would have chosen, had the choice been his, but it was shorn of prettiness.

  “I will ask, in my turn, why the answer is of interest to you; it changes nothing.”

  “It changes much,” Marakas replied. “The kai el’Sol went willingly to his death,” he said softly. “On the eve of war, in the heart of his enemy’s stronghold. You . . . resent him . . . for his part in the death of your cousin.”

  “Resent is a petty word.”

  “Perhaps. But were it not for that day, I would have followed a different course. I would not now wield one of the five; I would not now enter your war room with intent to wield it in your service.”

  “I have already said the necessity of such action would not exist were it not for the kai el’Sol’s intemperate action.”

  “No. Nor would justice within the Dominion.”

  “You speak as a servant of the Lady,” Ser Alessandro replied curtly. “The Lord’s justice is delivered by sword.”

  “And it was, and it was not accepted as such by either Manelo or Clemente, although neither of you have stooped to accuse the kai el’Sol of dishonor in the fight.”

  “Justice is not static,” Ser Alessandro said.

  “No.” Marakas bowed. “I will require the aid of my companions upon the road.”

  “Granted; you may take with you all but the Serra Diora; the Serra will remain within the safety of these walls.”

  A grim, grim smile touched the Radann’s face. “There is no safety within these walls; Verragar does not speak so openly when the servants of the Lord of Night are not nearby.”

  Ser Alessandro’s expression was soft as steel. “I would have this done with discretion,” he replied. “For the clan Manelo is not, in its entirety, the man who now rules her.”

  “And his heir?”

  “His heir,” Alessandro said coolly, “is perhaps a man who might meet with your approval under different circumstances. He was not much loved by his brother, Ser Franko; nor was he much valued.”

  “And by his father?”

  “His father understands the necessity of having an heir; the son understands the necessity of loyalty to his bloodline. Do not look for help from that quarter.”

  “Understood. I will leave you now, and I will return shortly. But Tor’agar?”

  “What?”

  The word was curt. Cold.

  “I would hear, when we have time, of the stories of the dark wood.”

  To his surprise, Alessandro di’Clemente laughed.

  Kallandras of Senniel College was waiting when the Radann par el’Sol knocked upon his door. The door opened silently; Kallandras met the gaze of the Radann par el’Sol and nodded.

  He carried little, and of that, he left only his lute behind. He did not ask questions, and it seemed odd to the Radann that a man known across both the Empire and the Dominion for the strength and the clarity of his voice should trade so little in words.

  He came next to the room occupied by Jewel ATerafin, and hesitated a moment outside of its screen—for she had been given rooms better suited to the women of a clan than their men. But his shadow had drawn her attention, and she waited for no seraf; she shoved the screens to one side, rattling them in their groove. The child was huddled in the room’s corner. Jewel ATerafin spoke briefly, and in Weston; the man who was her servant nodded. He lifted the girl in his arms.

  “The Serra Diora?”

  “She is to remain in the stronghold of Clemente, an honored guest.”

  The Northern woman almost spit, her expression was so clearly one of open contempt and hostility. But Marakas noted no surprise.

  “We will take the
child to the Serra Diora,” the ATerafin woman said, in her rough and lowborn Torra. “If we can find her.”

  He nodded. He had not yet finished.

  But he hesitated outside of the last door: the room in which Yollana of Havalla resided. He was no seraf, but he opened her door gently, and bowed at its outer edge.

  She was awake; the wounds she had taken had not yet ceased to cause her pain, if they ever would. “Matriarch,” he said quietly, “we have been summoned to a council of war. Will you join us?”

  The old woman snorted. She was entirely graceless. “Na’tere.”

  The younger of the two women rose swiftly. “We would be honored to join you, Radann par el’Sol; give us but a moment.” She knelt at the side of the Havallan Matriarch with the grace and form of a perfect seraf. But she lifted her head as she lifted the burden of the older woman. “The Serra Diora?”

  “She is to be held in the safety of the domis,” he replied.

  The answer was not to her liking; it was not to his. But it was unwise to offer a lie to the Havallan Matriarch; she was canny, and she was easily angered.

  “Stavos?”

  “A seraf has been sent to fetch him; he is quartered in the outer domis.”

  She nodded. “Lead, then, and we will follow as we are able.”

  Brother.

  The word traveled on the Lady’s wind. Kallandras did not listen for an answer; none would be forthcoming.

  It seems that we will fight; the ATerafin summons you, and the Winter King, should you care to join us. It would he best if you met us beyond the gates; the men here are easily . . . intimidated . . . by the unknown.

  The words left a peculiar silence in their wake.

  Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente looked up from the table upon which the flats of his palms rested. The perfect line of bent back straightened as he rose.

  “Par el’Sol,” he said, nodding. “Matriarch. You honor us by your presence.” He did not condescend to notice the wounds that darkened her clothing; if she chose to be present, she did not consider them worthy of note.

  He gestured; command came easily to the rise and fall of hand. The hand then fell to the table; niceties were kept to a minimum.