The Riven Shield

by Michelle West

  Marakas bowed and entered.

  The Radann Santos el’Sol was much like the servitor at the gate; weathered, aged by sun and wind, but unbowed. He was not perhaps as perfect as the High Courts would expect; his robes were rumpled, and his hair flyaway with sleep. But his eyes were both dark and sharp when Marakas entered his presence.

  “Radann par el’Sol,” he said, bowing.

  “Radann Santos el’Sol,” Marakas replied.

  “We had word of your arrival.”

  “The Tor’agar?”

  “Ah. No, not through the Tor,” Santos replied. “He has been occupied of late with preparation for war, and it is not his way to ask for counsel. Or offer it.”

  Marakas nodded. He did not ask how word had traveled; it was not his business.

  “We have had little word in the Torrean,” Santos continued, “But of the words that have reached us, none have been more troubling than the news of the kai el’Sol.”

  “Peder kai el’Sol travels with the armies of the—of Alesso di’Marente.”

  Silence, then. With caution, the Radann Santos said, “It was not of Peder kai el’Sol that I spoke. Forgive me.”

  Marakas lifted a hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said softly. “My own allegiances are—in the Terrean of Mancorvo—well known, in life and death, and I stand by them.”

  Santos’ eyes widened slightly; his boldness had been far surpassed by the Radann par el’Sol’s. But after a moment, the older man smiled, and his shoulders seemed to slump slightly, as if he carried a great burden and was at last allowed to acknowledged the fullness of its weight.

  “I told them,” he said softly, “that you were Fredero’s man.”

  “But you were surprised to find me in Seral?”

  “Yes,” Santos replied gravely. “But not because you do not travel with the Radann kai el’Sol; rather because you arrived at the side of the Havallan Matriarch. She is known in this Terrean. Even to me, she is known.” He seemed about to add more, but hesitated.

  “Speak freely,” Marakas said. “I am no more a man of the High Court than you, and wherever possible, I shed its burden.”

  “You came from the Lady’s forest,” Santos said. “I am . . . a man of the Lord . . . but I was raised in the Torrean. Very, very few are the men who enter that forest and leave it again. But if there were one such among the living, I would guess it would be you.”

  Marakas was uncomfortable with the awe the words contained, but he held his peace. He had grown to understand that such awe was a gift, and no gift of its kind could, with grace, be refused.

  “It is not of the forest that I would speak,” he said softly, and with the force of truth. “I am not permitted to speak of it openly, and if I had the choice, it is not a road I would take again.”

  “Of course. Of course, par el’Sol.”

  “The Tor’agar has ridden to Damar.”

  Santos el’Sol closed his eyes. The lids were thin, veined in rich blue, a rich purple. But they were steady. “We expected as much,” he said quietly, and opened them. “Among his cerdan travel some ten of our number. They go to war.”

  “Aye, war. But it is of the nature of that war that I have come to speak.” He rose to his full height, placed his hand upon the hilt of Verragar, and drew the sword.

  Its light was much diminished in this hall, but it was unmistakable. The Radann Santos el’Sol stared at the length of the blade for some time.

  “So,” he said at last, the word an echo of the Tor’agar’s word. “So.” He bowed. “I will don my armor,” he said quietly, “and summon the Radann left at my disposal.”

  “The crest must be seen,” Marakas said quietly.

  “It will.”

  He could have refused the Radann’s offer; he had fought with the demons of the Lord of Night, and he knew that normal swords counted for little against them.

  But not for nothing. And Santos par el’Sol was the Lord’s voice in this Torrean. The weight of his presence could not be underestimated.

  “We hunt,” Marakas said, as the older man reached the door. “And what we hunt, we must find before dawn.”

  “Understood, par el’Sol. While you wield one of the five—”

  “Verragar.”

  “You will be noted; if your face and your name are not known, the importance of what you wield will be.”

  Avandar.

  Jewel Markess ATerafin, comfortable now in all three names, stared at her domicis. She must have called the Arianni lord, for he traveled down the unseen path, careful to drag Kallandras with him, until he stood by her side.

  “What does he see?” she asked him softly.

  “What did you see, Lady?”

  She hesitated for just a moment; she did not trust Celleriant. Could not. She had seen him on the Winter Road, and although she had seen him countless times since then, the road was strong this eve. She knew what he was capable of.

  But trusting him was not an issue, here.

  She had learned that secrets weighed her down in ways that she could not afford to be weighed down. Had the den appreciated her honesty? Yes. But in truth, she was honest because it best suited her. If she spoke openly, nothing that lay in her past could be wielded, without her consent, as a weapon against her.

  “I saw a boy I had killed.”

  He nodded.

  “Is that what he sees?”

  “I would say that he sees far more than one,” Celleriant replied.

  She glanced at his face; his expression was neutral. He took no joy and found no horror in his statement; it was bald fact, unadorned by malice or concern.

  “But he’s seen them before,” she said faintly. “And I’ve never seen regret in him.”

  “Mortals are strange, even those that cannot die,” Celleriant replied. “They take comfort from their strength, and they resent it, in turns. Both emotions are true.”

  “Can we define strength as something other than killing?”

  “We can define strength in a myriad of ways,” he replied, bowing slightly. “But I ask your pardon; I attempt to define strength in the way that the Warlord has defined it for millennia. It is by the fear of death that he wielded the greatest power.”

  “Can he hear me?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Can we move him?”

  Celleriant was silent. After a moment, he said, “Perhaps you can. I think it would be unwise for anyone else to try.”

  And unwise for me to. But she didn’t say it aloud; there was no need.

  The Winter King waited.

  “Kallandras?”

  “ATerafin.”

  “Can you speak to him?”

  “What would you have me say?”

  “That we are on this road, and we need to move.”

  She felt what she seldom felt when Kallandras chose to speak in the tongue of bards: the tingle at the base of neck and spine that spoke of power being shed. But a glance at his face revealed as much as a glance at Celleriant’s: Nothing.

  The Arianni lord was not human; he did not say I told you so. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if he had. Couldn’t imagine his cruelty descending to that level of pettiness.

  Avandar did not move:

  “ATerafin,” the master bard said quietly, “if he hears me, he either chooses not to answer.”

  “Or he can’t?”

  “Or he cannot.”

  This is my fault, she thought. It was true.

  But it had happened before. It would probably happen again. What could she say? It had seemed like a good idea at the time? It had.

  She took a deep breath. He wasn’t dead; wasn’t dying. Short of that, there was no point descending into guilt. It wouldn’t do either of
them any good. Later, maybe. When she had time. But it was tempting, that paralysis, that internal conflict. Tempting, because she had the choice of that and fear.

  You’re afraid of Avandar.

  Big surprise. I’ve seen what he did. I know what he can do. How could I not be afraid of him? He was a monster.

  Is he a monster now?

  Yes. Yes. Maybe.

  She wasn’t the type of person who said “I can’t judge.” Judgment—her own—had saved not only her life but the lives of her den more times than she could count. She lived by that judgment, by that ability, and to set it aside was something she wasn’t capable of.

  What are you afraid of right now, damnit?

  Harder question. Because the fear wasn’t a clean one; it was muddled. Muddy.

  There was only one way to get clarity here.

  Steeling herself, she reached out and touched him. Her right hand. To his right.

  The trees vanished.

  Pain did that.

  She stood by the seawall, Avandar at her side; the night was moonless and dark.

  At least, she thought it was the seawall; the ocean’s voice was a crashing thunder, a horrible rumble of wave. No one with half a brain stood here in a storm; the water could easily crest the walls.

  No. No, that was a comfortable thought. The truth followed quickly on its heels. That wasn’t the ocean’s voice. It was the thunder of a crowd. A mob, each voice subsumed by the whole, individual words lost to its shouting, its terrible anger.

  She turned, clenching her hands into fists. One hand. The other couldn’t quite close.

  Of course it can’t, idiot. It’s holding Avandar.

  She could see him clearly.

  And after a moment, she could see some part of what he saw. Steel yourself was such a useless expression; all the steel in the world couldn’t prevent her from blanching.

  He gazed at her, almost unaware of her grip on his hand.

  But his frown, while not the familiar one, was the first expression he offered her. There was something else in it, but it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was because she couldn’t remember ever seeing it on his face before. Fear.

  She even understood it.

  “No,” she said quickly, before he could speak. “No, I’m not dead. I’m not one of your dead.”

  She thought he would turn from her then. But his eyes remained fixed on her face.

  “Avandar?”

  He lifted his free hand and cupped her chin in it. She would have drawn away had they been in any other place. Had he looked at her in any other way.

  But his face was rigid, and the hand beneath her chin was shaking. Not a lot, give him that, but it was the first time—

  The first time that she thought he needed her.

  She stayed her ground.

  “Avandar,” she said. And then, after a long pause, “Viandaran.”

  “Lady.”

  Not the word she wanted, but it would do. She was surprised she could even hear it; the voices of the dead were so damn loud.

  “We can’t stay here,” she told him.

  His eyes narrowed. She didn’t much like the look.

  “Viandaran,” she said again. “They’re already dead. The dead can’t hurt you.”

  He laughed. “The dead,” he said, the words soft, “are the only things that can hurt me. Have you forgotten, Lady? I cannot die. I will never die.”

  So much truth.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Can it be you do not know?” He turned from her then, releasing her chin, and his hand swept out in a grand gesture, encompassing the ghosts that she could hear, but could not see. “How else am I to escape the past, Lady? How else am I to know peace? Or can you grant me absolution from my sins?”

  “Are they?” she shouted back; the voices, as if sensing the weakness in the Warlord, grew louder, grew frenzied. Or maybe it was her; maybe the frenzy was entirely contained.

  “Are they?”

  “Sins!”

  He stopped then. His eyes were dark and clear.

  Afraid to lose him, she continued. “You’ve walked darker roads than this. You’ve seen the dead before. Why are they stopping you now?”

  “Should they not?” His voice was soft; deceptive. “If I am not mistaken, Lady, you met only one upon your road, and you could not continue. What might you do if faced with them?”

  The curtain fell away. The darkness parted.

  There was almost no distance between Jewel Markess ATerafin and the mob.

  Her heart stopped. For just a moment, it stopped; her mouth was frozen, and her eyelids refused to budge.

  What was the first comfort she offered her den? The past doesn’t matter. But against such a past as this the words were a thin, fragile shield. She couldn’t even lift it; couldn’t offer it to him.

  Even Haerrad, she thought, if he were forced to walk this road, wouldn’t face what Avandar now faced. And Haerrad, she would leave to the wolves with a fierce joy. Could she do any less here? Could she?

  No.

  But she could not let go of his hand.

  Was bitterly aware that had he injured any of hers, she wouldn’t have come here; wouldn’t have touched him; wouldn’t have taken the risk.

  And yet there were men, and women, and children, that he had hurt just as much; was she to forgive—and forget—those deaths, that pain, because he had never done anything to her?

  “You understand,” he said quietly. He started to pull his hand back, and she almost let him go.

  “Yes,” she told him. Because he had seen the truth and she didn’t much feel like lying. “I do. But what you do here won’t bring them back. And it won’t give them peace.”

  “And your own dead?”

  She shook her head. “He only . . . needed me . . . to acknowledge what I’d done. To understand it.”

  “You understood it already.”

  “Yes. And no. I . . . can ignore it. I have, for years. I’ve taken it out once or twice. I’ve used it against The Terafin, the only woman I’ve ever served, and ever want to. But I’m not ruled by it.”

  “But you are, Jewel.”

  Her name. She started to pull him away from the crowd, and he took a step as she pulled.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me how.” Tell me how, she thought, as we get the hell out of here.

  She thought to make a pretense of listening, but she found the words compelling. Almost as if she actually cared what he thought, which was strange, given how much of her adult life had been spent convincing him that she didn’t give a damn.

  “You let his death define you.”

  “Gods, I hope not.”

  The corner of his lip turned up. It wasn’t quite a smile.

  “You let it rule what you will—and will not—do. Haerrad is a danger. Rymark is a danger. At the very least, those two would always be a threat. But while the others play their games of power, familiarize themselves with the assassins and the poisons that they will use in the war for the House, you hide. You caused the one death—and a death, in the end, that no one but you regrets—and having faced it, having paid no other price—”

  “I paid a price,” she said coldly. “And it’s as much of a price as I’m willing—ever—to pay.”

  “And was it not a just death?”

  “No.”

  “Did he not cost you at least one of the family that you so value?”

  “Enough, Avandar.”

  “No. Not enough.”

  “If he had lived, he would have made no difference.”

  “Not to you. But to those who took your place in the twenty-fifth holding? Did you not, by his death,
ease their future suffering?”

  She was white now. “It wasn’t a clean death.”

  “No. But in the end, clean or no, death is death.” He turned away again.

  She hadn’t finished. “It makes a difference to me.”

  “Justice, in its rudimentary form, is a wergild. Justice, in the absence of a wergild, is an eye for an eye.”

  “Great. So we all walk around blind.”

  His brow rose as she spit.

  “An eye for an eye,” she continued, “makes me no better than Haerrad.”

  “Ah, but it does. You did not start the hostilities. It can be argued that you finished them.”

  “It’s too easy to argue that,” she snapped back. “It’s just too damn convenient.”

  “You don’t trust yourself.”

  Not a question. She shrugged. Shoved hair out of her eyes. “Yes. Yes I do. And I want to continue to be able to trust myself. I want to know who I am. I want limits. I want rules.”

  “Why?”

  “Because without them, I’m no better than—”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” she said, softly now. “Yes.” She tugged at his hand.

  “Is superiority so important?”

  “Yes,” she said again. A third time. “Because without trying to achieve it, what’s the point? I know I’m not perfect. I’ll never be perfect. But if I don’t try to be as perfect as I can be, I might as well just be Haerrad.

  “I met Carmenta tonight. But really, he was just me. Some part of me. I don’t want to add to him. Not even for the House. I want . . .”

  “You want what a child wants.”

  “Maybe. But it’s my goal.”

  “And of me?”

  “What?”

  “What do you want of me? If Carmenta was simply some part of you, what of my dead?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want them.”

  “They come with me,” he said quietly.

  Her arm ached. Her hand had gone from warm to something just shy of burning.

  Could she accept it? She closed her eyes.