The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  “Will you go mounted?”

  Her smile was peculiar. “Yes,” she told him softly. “But I’ll spare you the horse.” Just that.

  “Then withdraw; we will meet again in the courtyard.”

  14th of Corvil, 427 AA

  Terrean of Mancorvo

  The Serra Teresa di’Marano sought the company of the Serra Celina en’Clemente one more time. She came without seraf, but she had long since learned to navigate the heart of harem mazes, with or without the benefit of a guide.

  Her hand touched the screens beyond which the Serra Celina lay confined; her hands lifted the doors with deliberate care; her hands moved them, an inch apart, along their grooved tracks. She bowed there, in the small space made, and waited.

  Nor did she wait long.

  A seraf bid her enter at once, and the only awkward moment came when the seraf herself did not move quickly enough, and the Serra Teresa was forced to choose between stumbling or stepping upon the folds of her sari. She chose the former, but it pained her. Vanity.

  The Serra Celina rose at once, and then made courtly obeisance to an honored guest, gesturing for privacy by the curt wave of fan. She received it instantly.

  They stood, two women in an empty room.

  “Forgive me for my interruption,” the Serra Teresa said. “Forgive me my lack of grace; the circumstances are dire and permit little.”

  “You have spoken with my husband.” It was not a question, and it was not a statement that the Serra Teresa had been prepared to hear. It seemed that the humble Serra Celina was yet a Serra capable of surprising.

  “Say rather, that he has spoken with us,” she replied softly. “And that the Radann par el’Sol, and the men who have traveled with us, are of a mind with his intent.”

  Celina’s eyes closed heavily; she bowed her head a moment and strands of black hair curled round her cheeks with their full weight.

  “Serra Celina, this night, no matter what we might otherwise wish, war will be joined. Battle fought. But although war is the affair of men, some wars are said to be more evil than others. I believe that the Tor’agar will grant the armies of the Tyr’agar no easy passage through his lands.”

  “I am glad,” the Serra whispered, her voice shaking.

  And Teresa heard the sorrow and fear in the words as clearly as if they had been spoken instead. “I ask a favor,” she said quietly. “The Matriarch of Havalla is not well, and she is not fit to travel with the Tor’agar and the men he has assembled. Where she cannot travel, I do not seek to travel.

  “But our rooms are no harem rooms; they are blessed with no windows, and no view of the Lady’s face. By your grace—”

  “Stay with me,” the Serra said quietly. “I am not afraid to have the Matriarch within my harem, and I would—as any Serra would—be honored by your presence.”

  “I thank you, Serra Celina, for your kindness.” She bowed again, her knees now touching floor, her shoulders flowing over them beyond the perfect line of her back.

  Kallandras.

  Serra Teresa.

  It is done. I will remain in the domis, and if the situation here becomes dangerous, I will send word.

  Word may well travel too late, Serra Teresa. Will you not reconsider? He did not say, but could have, that the power she had at her command was not the equal of his; that her voice might not travel the stretch to Damar, even to his ears.

  She was grateful for this kindness.

  You know the answer, but you are Southern enough to ask. No. I know how I may best serve, and I am no longer Serra, to be bound and hidden at the whim of my kai.

  She did not mention the Serra Diora di’Marano; he did not ask.

  But when she raised her face, she met the unblinking gaze—the appraising gaze—of the Serra Celina en’Clemente.

  The Lady’s time had not yet come; the light in the room was warm and gentle. But it was to the Lady that both women had claimed some small allegiance, and by the Lady that the Serra Teresa was now guided, in some fashion.

  “Serra Celina,” she said, “a question, if it is not too bold.”

  “I do not think you capable of too bold a question, Serra Teresa.”

  “You have not heard the question,” the Serra replied, smiling.

  “Then ask it without fear; I shall take no offense.”

  “The young man and the young woman over whom your husband’s cousin perished—what became of them?”

  “An interesting question, Serra. An unusual one. What do you think happened, given the outcome to the Manelo family?”

  Teresa bowed her head. But she heard, in the words of the Serra Celina, some hesitancy, and something akin to both shame and pride; she did not press further.

  Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente came to her in the early morning, but this time he traveled by the side of the par el’Sol. She heard their muffled steps only moments before the knock came at the door, and she had already made the obeisance his rank demanded when the door was opened from the outside.

  “Serra Diora,” the Tor’agar said, “after much discussion, and some misgivings, we feel it may be best to sequester you within the Clemente harem. But it has come to my attention that there are suitable companions for you among your own party, and in such a case, your name might not be damaged by placement among my own wives.”

  She bowed her head at once.

  “If there is anything you desire, you may ask it of the Serra Celina. She is aware of who you are, and she understands that you were once the wife to the man who ruled the Dominion. She is not . . . as you are; but she is kind and gentle, and she will do all within her power to see to your comfort while we are gone.”

  She looked up then, although he had given her no permission to rise, and met the watchful eyes of the Radann par el’Sol.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I will be occupied for a few days at the behest of the Tor’agar, and I may be unavailable for hours at a time. The Tor’agar is summoned to a meeting with the Tor’agnate Amando kai di’Manelo; the Northerners will travel with the Tor’agar, but the Matriarch and her companion are not deemed fit for travel upon the open road; they will be your companions in our absence.”

  “The Radann par el’Sol will remain within my domis. I do not believe he would be parted from you; he has given his oath, and I, of all men, am aware of what that oath entails. I have not asked.”

  “And the child?”

  “She, too, will be taken into the harem.” He glanced at the girl; she slept in a corner of the room, without benefit of blanket or pillow.

  Serra Diora bowed again. Thinking, although she knew it was foolish and self-indulgent, that she would ask for the samisen when she was brought before the Serra Celina.

  And that she would play it.

  When Jewel, accompanied by Avandar and Kallandras, made her way to the open courtyard that stood in the lee of the great gates, the cerdan were talking among themselves in voices that were both heated and hushed. Silence descended upon them all when they caught sight of the Northern contingent.

  Jewel wondered what the Tor’agar had told them, for she knew awe and fear when she saw it, even writ as it was upon foreign faces.

  But when they turned their gazes toward the gates, she looked beyond their iron bars, and saw that it was no word from the Tor that had caused their muted conversation.

  Lord Celleriant stood in the rounded glow of torchlight, and at his side, tines dark in the diminishing light of day, stood the Winter King. His eyes were round and dark as he turned toward her, and she felt some hint of his humor as their eyes met.

  So much for subterfuge.

  Celleriant stood just under seven feet in height, and every inch of it seemed a mockery of human frailty and the lack of beauty inherent in that condition; his hair fell to his shoulders,
spill of silver, cloak of light; his face, unadorned by the leather and splint helms of the cerdan, was flawless, his eyes silver.

  His lips turned up at the corners, and she lost breath for just an instant; hated herself for doing it. But traveling upon the open road at the side of the Arianni lord had done nothing to diminish the effect of his beauty—and only his absence, be it for a few short hours, had given her the illusion that she had developed some immunity.

  He bowed to her, in full sight of the Clemente cerdan; he held that bow until she realized that he meant to hold it, awaiting her permission to rise. She gave it awkwardly, cursing in the silence.

  The Winter King’s laughter was rich and deep; a resonant, welcome sensation.

  “Lady,” one of the cerdan said, in awkward, broken Weston. “Open the gate?”

  “Please,” she replied, in the Torra that so ill-suited the High Court. “They are allies, not enemies.”

  The gates rolled open, creaking and straining; she waited in their center.

  Lord Celleriant straightened, tossing his hair past his shoulder. “Lady,” he said, in flawless Weston, his voice the perfect tenor. “You summoned me. How may I serve?”

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “Cut it out.” Her Weston was clean, sharp, and very, very quick. She hoped that none of the cerdan could follow the words.

  But he did not condescend to notice the ill-grace she offered his perfect bow.

  “I mean it,” she whispered, aware that no one else spoke. “Cut it out. Everyone is staring at me.”

  “They are perhaps aware that you wield a power that is seldom seen in these lands.”

  “Great. I want them to be less aware.”

  His smile was perfect. “I think it unwise,” he said quietly. And then he frowned.

  She turned; Kallandras had come to stand by her side, and his lips moved, briefly and silently, over words his gift protected from reaching her ears. He turned to her next. “ATerafin,” he said quietly, “It is unlikely that you will be . . . unnoticed here.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You are a woman, and you will ride with the Tor’agar. The men are armed and armored as if for war, and they expect to see battle before dawn’s light. If you did nothing but ride at the side of the Tor’agar, you would still be worthy of remark.

  “But even without the Lord Celleriant, you would engender much comment, for if I’m not mistaken, you intend to ride the stag.”

  “I don’t have much choice,” she said grimly. “I’m not highborn. I never learned to ride horseback. Not well.”

  “Then accept the curiosity and the mute awe of strangers,” he replied gravely. “Because accept it or no, you will receive it.”

  “Jewel ATerafin is not noted, among The Ten, for the grace with which she accepts the inevitable.”

  “Why, thank you, Avandar.”

  The domicis offered her a shadowed smile, and she realized that it was one of the few he had offered in a very long time. “Understand that the Tor’agar plays no game,” he said quietly. “You’ve never been on the field in a battle.”

  “I’ve been in battles before.”

  “True enough. But you had the luxury of command in those situations; you have no such luxury here. While you can hear him, while he can speak to you, the course of the combat is his. Do not forget this.”

  She nodded stiffly.

  The stag entered the courtyard and came to stand before her; she stood in the cage of his shadow, staring up, and up again, at the length of his neck, the length of his jaw, the proud lift of his head.

  She could almost see the man in the creature, and as always, it disturbed her deeply.

  Come, he said. If I am to be servant, and I am not disturbed, you have no cause to trouble yourself. He bent, his forelegs kneeling into the flagstone that seemed so out of place in the South.

  She nodded and reached up, gripping his antlers in the palms of her hands. He rose as she slid over his neck and across his withers to the slight curve of his back. Then he turned to gaze upon the cerdan; Jewel turned as well, seeing them from the vantage of height and safety.

  The Tor’agar had joined them in silence.

  He met her hesitant gaze, his own unblinking. “So,” he said softly, “it appears that we saw no mirage on the road.”

  “We thought it . . . best . . . to . . .” her voice trailed off.

  “Had you arrived in the presence of any less a man of the Lord than the Radann Marakas par el’Sol, I think we would consider you as great a threat as the one we now face. But I am well aware of who his master was, and I know how far he will go in his odd pursuit of honor. You walk out of story, Lady, and the stories of the South are not kind.”

  “It seems very little about the South is.”

  Avandar’s frown was a thing more felt than seen.

  “Kindness is often ill-rewarded,” Ser Alessandro replied gravely. “As you will no doubt see, should you remain in the Dominion. I have not asked you why you have journeyed South, and perhaps it would be prudent to have such an answer.”

  “It would take far, far longer than you have,” Avandar said, bowing.

  “No doubt. But when we have the time, it is a story I would like to hear.” He turned to his cerdan. “Enough. The gates are open, the stables are waiting. Bring me Quick-heart, and ready yourselves; we ride to join the rest of Clemente.”

  Moonlight crested the horizon before the sun’s light had faded; the dark of night had not yet banished crimson and orange gold from view. Against this backdrop, the cerdan of clan Clemente rode behind their leader and his Toran. They were silent, although the hooves of shod horses spoke in a clipped, steady thunder, the drumbeat of war.

  Lord Celleriant went unmounted; Kallandras and Avandar accepted the offer of horses, and rode to one side of the Tor’agar. But although the Arianni lord followed the paths by foot, he did not fall behind; indeed he disappeared for long stretches, following the road and the shadows trees cast across it. Every time he disappeared, the cerdan spoke; every time he returned, they spoke again. Only the Toran and the Tor’agar seemed immune to his presence.

  Jewel watched them all, nervous now.

  She had told the Tor’agar she had seen battle, and she had. But she had never seen it shorn of all her den. Never seen it at the head of a small army. She might have said something, but there was no one to say anything to.

  There is me, the Winter King said quietly.

  She had thought he would be amused.

  Not this eve, he replied, his voice rich and somber. Can you not feel it, upon the wind?

  Feel what?

  The servants, he replied, of the Lord of Night.

  No. But as she spoke, she realized the words were a lie. She could not see, could not hear, the enemy—but she was aware of them.

  She wondered whether or not she should speak with the Tor’agar. In truth, she didn’t much care for him. He was cold, and obviously fond of the rank he held.

  Do not mistrust power so openly, the Winter King said.

  Why not?

  You will be one.

  Great

  Power is the only way to ensure that your law and your justice prevails.

  I thought you said I was weak.

  You are. You have chosen weakness, he added quietly. It is a choice that I could never have made.

  Would never have made, you mean?

  They are the same, your statement and mine.

  Understand, Jewel ATerafin, that the power you will wield will never be whole. It will be broken. It will be tested. It will never be a certain fortress.

  You say this to me? When you look like—

  I say it because I can.

  I’m . . . sorry. That was unnecessary.

  It is hard
to choose the power you have chosen.

  There is no other power, for me.

  No. But . . . His voice, devoid of amusement, was stark and uncomfortable. Great, she thought, attempting to keep the words to herself. I’m now only comfortable when I’m being mocked and condescended to.

  It will be hard not to be twisted and broken by the sacrifices you must make. It is easy—for you—to contemplate death. But only as long as it is your own. Learn to contemplate others. Learn, he said softly, to be unbowed by them.

  I can’t—

  You can. The Terafin does.

  You know nothing of The Terafin. You’ve never even met her!

  I know, he said quietly, what you know.

  Leave it alone, she told him. Just that. But she was uneasy again. How much of her life had she given him, in the silence of musing and thought? How much more of her past did he know?

  She seldom gave him orders. And if she was honest, it was not what he knew that troubled her—it was what Avandar might also have gleaned.

  If the Winter King heard her, he did not choose to acknowledge the thought. Instead, he turned his great, tined head toward the horse which bore the Tor’agar. Without order, he began to canter toward the stallion, Quickheart.

  The stallion, unlike the men, did not view him with awe, although suspicion was there.

  “ATerafin,” the Tor’agar said. “Does something trouble you?”

  She nodded.

  His face, in the moonlight and lamplight, was dark. “Speak plainly, as is your custom. I will take no offense. In times of war, much is excusable, and much excused.”

  “The servants of the Lord of Night are ahead of us.”

  She spoke in Weston, out of habit.

  After a moment, he replied, and his Weston, unlike her Torra, was strongly accented. “Do you know their numbers?”

  She shook her head.

  But he marked the hesitation in the gesture. “Speak,” he said, the word inflected and brusque.

  “More than one, I think,” she said at last. “Or one very, very powerful one.”

  “Do you know much of these creatures?”