The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “This,” he said, “is the border of Clemente lands.”

  Marakas understood the invitation in the sparse words. He walked to the table and took his place at the side of the Tor’agar. Beneath his hands, a map lay, pinned gracefully across the tabletop. It was the only adornment a war room required.

  “These are the forces of my cousin.”

  Marked in red, they were concentrated on the wavering line of the border closest to the city itself. “All of his men?”

  “Not all. He has had the prudence to leave his city well defended against our enemies.”

  “And these?”

  “Ah. The blue marks are an estimation, to the best of our ability, of the forces of the Tyr’agar within the lands Manelo holds.”

  “They are concentrated in three villages.”

  “Yes. They have built a rough stockade. The villages,” he added quietly, “are those that have granaries. They supply themselves there, although we believe that they have some method of feeding themselves that does not rely upon the friendliness of the Mancorvan Tors.”

  “It is not a small number.”

  “No.”

  “And your own forces?”

  “They are represented by the green. They are ready, upon my word, to close our borders.”

  “The red here?” Marakas placed finger lightly above the marks that existed within the Clemente border; they were not inconsiderable.

  “My cousin,” Ser Alessandro said quietly. “He has come with a small force to discuss our military plans. We have agreed to allow his troops to station themselves within the village of Damar.” At the mention of the village, the Tor’s expression darkened.

  “And that village?”

  “Ten miles to the south,” he said quietly.

  “How large is this small force?”

  Ser Alessandro’s smile was bitter. “To the best of our knowledge, three hundred armed and mounted men.”

  “A definition of small that only a Tor’agar would condescend to use.”

  Ser Alessandro’s brow rose. “There were reasons he was granted leave to remain within the fields and inns of Damar.”

  “There are blue marks within that village as well.”

  “Indeed, but those are of a less certain nature. We know that he travels with Marente advisors. We cannot be certain of their number; we cannot be certain of their strength. The men that my cousin claims as his own could be Marente’s.”

  “The village of Damar is bounded by the Adane?”

  “No; the river cuts through the village; the fields—and the buildings that house the officials the village boasts—reside on either side of the water.” He reached out and lightly touched the ridges of dark terrain. “Damar is bounded by the dark forest on its Western edge.”

  “Can men be secreted within the forest?”

  His smile was grim. “You have traveled it yourself; you are better judges than I.”

  Yollana grimaced.

  Answer enough.

  The men bent over the unfamiliar map; the Tor’agar allowed them their silent study, studying their faces in turn. Kallandras was still; Avandar was still; Marakas moved quietly from one side of the table to the other. The Havallan Matriarch did not seem to notice the map at all—but it was likely that she found it unnecessary. All of Mancorvo was, inasmuch as it could be, the wandering grounds of the Havalla Voyani.

  “The road that we took from the forest?”

  “The Western road. It is a smaller road, and it follows the West bank of the Adane. Here, and here, the Eastern road follows the East bank.”

  The Adane drifted toward the city of Seral. “This is where we crossed the river,” the Tor’agar said.

  “And if you travel to Damar?”

  “We will take the Eastern road. Here,” he added. “There is no river crossing until we are within Damar itself. My cousin is lodged, with the better part of his men, in the fields and houses of Damar; they are bound by the forest, here, and by the Western road and the Southern one, here.”

  “And the Eastern road?”

  “If there is difficulty, the greater part of my forces will be stationed on the East bank. We can hold the bridges, should the unforeseen happen, and it becomes necessary.”

  “And if you want to drive them out of Damar?” Marakas asked quietly.

  “That is our intent. But we do not know, for certain, where their forces are arrayed, and in what number. We will remain in the East until our meeting.”

  “Bridges?”

  “Two bridges. One is wide enough to easily convey the whole of a merchant caravan; the other is a footbridge two men wide.”

  “Ferries?”

  “Boatmen work the banks of the Adane, but not in great numbers; the bridges are considered safer. Only when the river swells in the rainy season do the boatmen show their true value, for the footbridge is considered unsafe at that time. The larger bridge is traversable.”

  “You are certain your cousin can be found within the Western half of Damar?”

  “There is more room, and more to his liking, in the West; the Eastern half is poorer.”

  Kallandras of Senniel, reading the lines of the map as easily as he might have read music, now raised his head. “Do Widan travel with the Tor’agnate’s party?”

  “Openly?”

  “Or not.”

  “One man wears the sword,” the Tor’agar replied.

  “And do the Tor’agnate’s forces arm themselves, as your own appear to have done, with Northern bows?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, no.”

  He nodded. “Is the Tor’agnate to be found in the village of Damar?”

  “He resides there, yes. I offered him the hospitality of my city, but he chose to take the counsel of his advisor.”

  “The advisor?”

  “A man who wears the colors of Marente,” Ser Alessandro replied. No gift was required to hear the anger that lay beneath those words.

  “And no messenger, no member of his entourage, is within your city?”

  “That I know of? None.”

  Kallandras turned to the Radann par el’Sol. Marakas nodded grimly and spoke. “There is at least one.”

  “We cannot assume that he has no method of communication.”

  “No.”

  “If we remove him, you may be forced into a position of war,” the Northerner said.

  “And if you do not?”

  “Then when we seek the village of Damar, he may be in a position to do great damage within your domis. The choice is yours. You may say that our intervention was entirely without your blessing or knowledge, but in order for such words to have effect—”

  Ser Alessandro lifted a hand. “It is not to my liking, to be told how to wage war by a man who sings for a living.” His voice was cool.

  Kallandras, however, took no offense. Marakas wondered, briefly, if he was capable of taking offense; in their travels together, he had shown no sign of temper, no sign of anger, no sign of fear.

  “I have received three messages from the Tor’agnate. I have returned two; he has been patient, but the tone of his third letter makes clear that his patience is almost at an end.”

  “What does he request?”

  “My presence,” Ser Alessandro replied coldly. “He wishes to meet in the village of Damar, to discuss the future of our place in the Terrean of Mancorvo. He has, at his side, a man who is given leave to negotiate on behalf of the Tyr’agar, and it is in Damar that my cousin feels such negotiations would best be served.”

  “Not a sign for lovers of peace,” Kallandras said quietly.

  “Indeed.”

  “And this meeting?”

  “It is to take place on the morrow. Understand,”
he added softly, “that there is a reason that you are viewed with both suspicion and reverence among the more superstitious of my cerdan.

  “They understand what is at risk; they understand that I have no choice but to attend my cousin. But your presence here—with the Matriarch of Havalla as traveling companion, and the bearer of one of the Five Swords of the Radann at her side—has come upon a day of decision for Clemente. You are seen as an omen.”

  “Omens are not guaranteed to be good.”

  “Indeed, as you say.”

  Kallandras of Senniel College inclined his oddly colored head and fell silent. He was a strange man, even for a Northerner.

  “How many of your men will stand ready?”

  Another voice. Another Northerner. Avandar Gallais had quietly joined the table.

  “Three hundred,” Ser Alessandro replied, barely lifting a brow at the interruption. “Here. And here.”

  “Six hundred men in total. Are they mounted?”

  “They are all mounted.”

  “And the villagers?” Jewel ATerafin spoke for the first time.

  To Marakas’ great surprise, the Tor’agar smiled. It was a bitter smile, but not devoid of humor. “I should have guessed,” he said softly, “for they travel in your company. It comes, always, to that, does it not? You will seek victims no matter where you travel, and no matter who claims to own them.

  “Very well. The villagers are trapped within the bounds of Damar. Some few have fled, where they are able; it is how we have the information we do have.”

  “And the others?”

  “They may yet live. My cousin is not a fool, but he is not entirely capable of containing his cerdan.”

  “He expects you to say no, doesn’t he?”

  Ser Alessandro’s brows rose. “In the North,” he said at last, “are all women so blunt?”

  “I don’t know. I can only speak for me.”

  “No,” Avandar Gallais replied. “Not all women are so blunt. But you will find that our men are often just as ill at ease with the social grace demanded by the Courts of the South. And Jewel ATerafin has asked the most obvious of the questions your answers offer; let me ask the second.”

  “And that?”

  “The information the villagers brought you.”

  Ser Alessandro nodded again, his face growing grave. If he was ill-pleased by the broken currents of interrupted conversation, it did not show; Marakas suspected that he was in some ways relieved—for the questions showed an understanding of tactics that required no lengthy explanation. “Understand that the villagers are not serafs, but they are not of clans whose power might otherwise protect them. They are often superstitious, and in times of duress, will see what superstition suggests.”

  “Understood.”

  “It is said that in Damar, when the Lord has turned his face toward the night, fell creatures walk. There have been deaths and disappearances among the serafs, and among the poorest of clans, who are incapable of demanding restitution.”

  “Then let me speak bluntly, in the Northern style,” Avandar Gallais said, although he did not veer from the use of Torra. “We are seven men—and women—and at least one of our number was greatly injured in the passage through the Deepings. You cannot intend us to destroy the whole of the forces arrayed within the village of Damar unless you intend the destruction and the loss of that village.”

  “And if I were willing to lose the village in its entirety?”

  “No,” Jewel ATerafin said sharply.

  Avandar Gallais raised brows at what was obviously an expected interruption. “ATerafin.”

  She subsided. Hard, thought Marakas, to tell who was master, and who servant, here.

  “I see,” Ser Alessandro replied quietly, and it seemed to Marakas that he did. His gaze was now cutting where it rested upon Avandar’s face, but it did not rest there long. “That was, indeed, not my intent.”

  “What would you have us do, Tor’agar? What would you have us achieve?”

  The Tor’agar turned to Marakas, and only to Marakas. “Hunt what you must hunt, man of the Lord. Seek what only you can find. Destroy it, and you will have destroyed a greater part of the threat that is leveled—in silence—against us. We cannot fight what we do not understand.”

  “And the demon who walks within your own fair city?” It was the first time the threat had been given name.

  “Destroy it,” Ser Alessandro said, without pause. “If it can communicate with the forces the Tor’agnate has assembled, it will do so; I am willing to take that much risk with the fate of my village.”

  “Can I make a different suggestion?” Jewel now spoke through tight, thin lips.

  “Please do,” the Tor’agar replied, in a tone that should have conveyed warning and veiled threat.

  “Why don’t we time this so that we strike in tandem?”

  “In tandem?”

  “Let the Radann par el’Sol deal with the demon within the walls,” she replied curtly. “But let him do so only when we’re in position to attack the demons in the village.”

  “You have obviously never been on the battlefield, ATerafin.”

  She shrugged. “So?”

  “Information of that nature is seldom easily conveyed; to attempt to time—”

  “Kallandras is a master bard of Senniel College,” she said coldly. “There is no better method of conveying information. No bird, no horsed rider, no cursed wind. None. I’m betting that the demon in the city will be easier to find than the demons in the village—if they’ve got half a brain, they’ll be wearing human guise. When we know what we need to know, we’ll let him know what he needs to know. He can strike at leisure; any warning the creature can send will be too little and too late.”

  The Tor’agar was silent a moment while he considered his options. His gaze shifted to the Radann par el’Sol. “Can this be done, as she claims?”

  “I am not a Northern bard,” the par el’Sol replied cautiously, “but in my limited experience with the Northerners, no claim they have made has yet been proved idle boast. If it were my city, and it were my choice, I would trust them.”

  Alessandro’s gaze shifted. “Matriarch?”

  “I have already placed myself in the debt of the bard and the Northern woman; if we are an omen here, she was a like omen to the gathering of Matriarchs. I, too, would place my faith in their claims, were I minded to incur a greater debt.”

  “It is said a wise man will accept the counsel of the wise. Very well.”

  “If you can spare them, Tor’agar,” Kallandras said quietly, “I will take two bows.”

  “Two?”

  The Northern bard smiled, but said nothing.

  “I can spare a handful of bowmen.”

  “Will you risk them?”

  “I am loath to send you on a mission within my domain with none of my own in attendance.”

  “We would, of course, be honored. But the line of command must be drawn before our departure.”

  “They serve me,” the Tor’agar said quietly.

  “Indeed. But you will not be present.”

  “Ah. I see that we have a misunderstanding, Kallandras of Senniel College. I will of course be present.”

  Silence, then.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SILENCE greeted the Tor’agar’s words; silence punctuated by the grim edge of his smile.

  “We have watched the Lady slowly raise her veil while we have debated the course of Clemente. There are those among my advisers who are not of the High Courts, and they have spent much time adorning the Lady’s shrine with water, wine, and blood.

  “It is said that the guidance of the Lady is a hazardous thing to the men of the Lord, and perhaps we shall see the truth of that in the evening to follow
. But we will tender our answer to the Tor’agnate and his allies: the clan Clemente does not negotiate on its knees.” His smile was slender. Cold.

  “Can you give him that answer after we’ve started our own attack?” Jewel ATerafin asked.

  “You will be in position,” he said quietly, “for I will carry the answer myself.

  “My men will travel with me, and in number; they have been prepared for this since we received information from the clansmen of the village of Damar. I should warn you that not a few of them were born to Damar. Their concern is no idle concern, and in the event of victory, they can be trusted.

  “And you, gentlemen—and lady—will grace us with your presence.” He stepped back from the map, surveying it with the intensity a circling bird of prey gives the low lands beneath its flat expanse of wings.

  “Go now. Ready yourselves. Say what must be said to your companions; if you require armor, it will be provided.” He hesitated a moment, and then turned to Jewel ATerafin. “It is said that women serve in the armies of the North, and if what I have seen here today is any indication of the women of that strange Empire, I believe the words to be true.

  “But you are not of a size that would normally be considered acceptable for the ranks of the Clemente cerdan, and if I bid all of my armorers to work in the scant time remaining us, they would not be able to produce anything that would fit you.”

  “I’m not used to armor,” she said; she was of the North and did not notice his descent into bluntness. “But I don’t really need it. I have Avandar.”

  “Then let us hope that your Avandar is proof against steel and spell, Lady.”

  She smiled. “Lady is a Northern title, but it’s not one I use. Call me Jewel, unless that causes some sort of political difficulty.”

  He raised a brow.

  “I’m called ATerafin when people feel the need for formality.”

  “ATerafin,” he said, and he bowed. The bow was shallow, and it was short, but the fact that he offered it said much. “We have weapons that might be of use to you. Long daggers. Our swords, I fear, will be heavy for your hand.”

  “And all the wrong shape,” she said quietly. “No, don’t worry about me.”