The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 38

"They have faced the winds once; they will seek a wall behind which to face them again. We are

that wall, of course."

"Of course." But there was more to it than that; they both felt it. Oh, it was dark, and the moon was at her height. Alesso gave the Lady her due. "The s.h.i.+ning Court."

"Yes."

They stared at the flames, rather than seeking the doubt in each other's eyes. Of the two, Sendari had always found it easier to express doubt. Of the two. They were both proud men.

"There has never been a gathering of so many of the kinlords." A question, but accompanied by no rise in voice.

"No," the Widan replied. "And it worried me, in truth. But those who study demon lore say that the kinlords spend eternity as we do: attempting to enlarge their dominion." His smile was quite grim as his fingers found the length of his beard. "It is why I believe the creature; the kinlords must be warring among themselves. Nature exerts its influence."

"The Allasakari said that they summoned the kinlords." The Widan stared into the fire for a long time. "I told you, Alesso. They did not, by the test of my spells, lie."

"And yet we do not believe them."

"No."

The General smiled, and it was a wolf's smile. "And we told them, old friend, that in exchange for the a.s.sa.s.sination of the entire Leonne clan and the action of the kinlords in securing our rule, we would wage war against the Northern empire. And under spell, we did not lie."

Sendari nodded. "No." But he stroked his beard absently. "What a game, Alesso. What a gamble we have taken." Silence, heavy and dark. "We consort with the enemies of the Lady. We have promised the rule of the land to the Lord."

"So we have," Alesso said lightly, shrugging the words off. "And we told no lie, according to the spells of the Allasakari priests."

"He ruled for over a century before the coming of Leonne," the Widan said mildly, the warning in his voice unmistakable.

"We know this." Alesso stood, which was usually a signal of conversation's end. But he turned, his face seeking the soft glow of moonlight through thin screen. "Did they attempt to a.s.sa.s.sinate the boy?"

"I believe yes," was the reserved reply.

"You are not certain?"

"No. I cannot be."

"Why?"

"You know it as well as I. You dare not touch the Sun Sword until that boy is dead, and if he is not dead... the Sun Sword was a weapon that the kinlords feared. One of the very, very few." Sendari gazed into the depths of the fire. His hand sought, and found, the eyes of the Voyani simulacrum. "If they do not wish the blade brought into play, they will keep him alive for as long as it takes them to prepare their own schemes."

"Yes."

"And that leaves us with the problem of the boy. And the interference of the kin in the capital of the Kings."

Vergo kep'Marente emptied his bladder in the bush, taking care to keep to the shadows cast by the full moon above. Then he carefully wrapped the length of his shawl over his peppered hair, and slid farther into the cover of the rock gardens. He had served the General Alesso di'Marente for all of his adult life, and knew well the nuance of that powerful man's expression; the glance that he had pa.s.sed over the four serafs who had faithfully obeyed all of his commands was one of regret, however distant.

And Vergo kep'Marente was a seraf without parallel. If death were the only threat, he was prepared to meet it and accept it as his master's will. Thus did the serafs prove themselves worthy for the true life in service to the Lady-for the serafs knew, as the clansmen did not, that it was service that the Lady most valued-and most rewarded.

But if he served the General, he sought to serve the Lady as well, and under her moon, General Alesso di'Marente had all but spoken the forbidden name. No matter; he had made clear his intent to lead the Dominion once more into the fold of the Lord of the Night, and this-this Vergo kep'Marente could not allow. Not without some attempt, however unworthy it might prove to be, to come to the Lady's earthly defense.

He gained the high ground, clinging to low wall and standing stone, and paused a moment there as he heard the sound of heavy boots upon the paths. Closing his eyes, he murmured a supplication just before the cries of dismay were cut off by the work of swordsmen. Then, touching his head to the soft ground, he moved more quickly.

The serafs knew how to navigate the Tor Leonne; from the peak of its heights to the depth of its valley, they walked in near invisibility as the clansmen and the riders conversed and dallied. Vergo knew the Tor better than almost any man, and he knew, from his service to the General, exactly who occupied each of the guest houses and rooms. Quickly then, quickly, he ran, until the lights of the evening hours shone from across the lake. Then, composing himself, he walked with the supplicant dignity appropriate to his station. He paused only once, to look at the face of the moon in the still water beside the bridge. Starlight. Silence. The Lady was in her glory. For every night of his adult life upon the plateau of the Tor, in cool wind and hot still night air, he had come to gaze upon the face of the Lady, and this small pause brought routine back to a night that had lost all semblance of things normal. He whispered a prayer and felt the easing of the cords between his shoulder blades as he gazed upon light in darkness.

Quieted by this beauty, and the reminder of his purpose, he continued to the domo.

Serafs did not announce their presence by use of the bra.s.s clappers; if a message was to pa.s.s to one clan-born, it pa.s.sed from seraf to seraf, and thence from seraf to cerdan. Vergo saw no reason to change this routine. He MicheUe West was a seraf, after all, and not yet worthy of note-not yet a hunted fugitive.

Not yet. And perhaps not ever. If the General was not careful, he would not question the Tyran. They would come, with drawn and blooded blades as evidence of their obedience. He would inspect the crescent swords, ask if the serafs were properly buried, and then thank the Tyran for their service-and their loyalty.

But the Widan was different, and if the Widan were there, he might think to ask: "How many?"

Vergo's time was the Lady's time now; his life had ended at the command of his master, and only the grace of the moonlight and its shadows had preserved him. But the Lady's grace was her own to bestow, and no man-no wise one-could demand that it last beyond her whim. Let him only speak; let him only deliver his message. Then fate might take its course.

He knelt upon the coa.r.s.e mats outside of the closed sliding doors, blowing on the lamps so that their flicker might be seen through the textured screens. Then, in a silence of breath and heartbeat, he waited.

The doors slid open a crack, and the face of a young seraf-a girl on the verge of womanhood- peered out from around the door's frame. Vergo privately thought this girl had been brought from the training halls too early; this was not the appropriate posture for a seraf to a woman of Serra Teresa's consequence. Or Serra Teresa's exacting standards. But he was seraf, not Ser, and it was not his position to criticize or advise.

The girl stepped out into the night, slid the door shut behind her, and then knelt upon the mats in front of the door. Her hair was dark and fell in a single braid across her shoulder.

He touched his forehead to the wooden slats and then raised his head. "I bear a message from Ser Alesso di'Marente for Serra Teresa di'Marano, if she would hear it."

The young girl bowed her head to ground in return and then rose. "It is late," she said quietly.

"Indeed. And my master apologized for the disturbance, but the message is most urgent."

"Wait, then."

As she slid the doors open again, he caught the scent of something sweet and light wafting across the breeze. He had had daughters, of course; some had even been accepted as concubines to the clansmen, both of Marente, and farther afield. To his great surprise, Vergo felt a bitter pang as the young seraf disappeared-for it was at this age, with one foot firmly planted in childhood, and one in womanhood, that most of his daughters had been taken from him.

Ah, but that was a graceless thought. A useless one. And only beneath the gaze of the pale moon, from which such things could not be hidden, would a man think it. Lady's grace, he thought, bowing his head; he must be close, indeed, to the end of his life. At least none of his daughters had been given to Garrardi.

The young seraf returned, accompanied by no cerdan, no other seraf. She knelt upon the slats, but this time her bow was very correct. "If you will follow me, the Serra will hear the message you bear."

Serra Teresa di'Marano was not a young woman-and because she did not have youth to hide behind, the night made her powerful. Or at least so it seemed to Vergo kep'Marente as he knelt at her feet in the orange flicker of lamplight that somehow felt strange. She sat upon a divan, cus.h.i.+ons to either side, her hands resting against raw silk as if it were the arms of a throne. Jewels glittered upon her fingers, multiple rings in silver and gold against which the light played.

The young seraf knelt immediately to the left of, and behind, the Serra. Vergo noted the complete absence of cerdan in the Serra's quarters; the lack did not comfort him.

"You are Vergo kep'Marente," the Serra said softly.

Vergo was well-trained; he knew how to school his face in the presence of a woman of quality, and he did so now, although surprise made his heart dance. "I am, Serra."

"And you bear a message from Ser Alesso?"

"I do."

"Then speak it freely."

He hesitated a moment. "Serra," he said, his voice a shaky whisper.

She raised a dark brow.

"Are you-do you-" Shaking himself, he straightened his shoulders. "It is said that you are a follower of the Lady's mysteries."

"And this, Alesso sent you to ask? I think not, seraf." Her expression was odd; she stared at him long in the dim silence before speaking again. "Ser Alesso did not send you."

It was almost a relief, to hear the words from her lips. "No, Serra. The Lady of Night did."

"I see. Personally?"

He had the grace to blush, although the shadows hid it. "No, Serra. But I live at her whim."

"And, at this moment, at mine. I grow impatient, seraf. Why have you come?"

"To tell you that Ser Alesso and Widan Sendari serve the Lord."

"That is hardly news."

"And they intend to return the dominion of night to his keeping."

Her face, at that moment, became stone; her eyes, a glittering darkness, an ebony. He thought her the very picture of the Lady, for not in youth did the true power of a woman reside.

nd of Morel, 427 AA Annagar, The Terrean ofAverda, Callesta General Baredan kai di'Navarre saw the sun begin its ascent over the last of his prayers, and rose, unbending his knees. For each of three days he had wakened in darkness to begin this ritual, beneath a sky shorn of roof and beam. No one else would bespeak the Lady for the safe ascent of the Tyr Leonne, and it was clear that the clan now resided beyond the Lord's reach or care.

All, he thought, save one, Lady be bountiful in her infinite mercy.

He spilled wine, dark and rich, in a half circle at his feet; the ground drank it in as he waited. No serafs attended him, but for the moment, none were wanted. Had they been, there would still be none. He had left the Tor Leonne in haste enough to preserve his life, but little else of his fortune. Not since his youthful days as a common cerdan in the Tyr'agar's armies had he traveled so poorly.

But it was in those days that he had distinguished himself in the eyes of the kai di'Leonne, and for all the years of his service thereafter, he served the kai-and then, when the time came, the Tyr-with pride. With honor.

Markaso. He was younger then; the winds had carried him far from youth.

When the sun had fully crested the horizon, and not before, Baredan opened his lips on a different prayer: one for the clan Navarre. He had thought to do without, and grimaced; it seemed, in dark times, that there was never an end to prayer.

He'd sent word, of course, once he'd cleared the Tor Leonne; had it not been for the coming Festival, he would have been found with his clan. They lived in the heart of the Terrean of Raverra, and there was no question in Baredan's mind that that Terrean belonged to Alesso. Let warning only reach them, and he would serve the Lady for life.

As it was, he had escaped by dressing as a seraf, answering the Tyran's summons to the welcome gate, and racing in search of his "master" at their behest. He had always been a good lord to those who served his clan. His wife's advice. He had chosen to take her advice in such matters-the serafs were, by and large, the concern of the women-but he had never been so grateful for her wisdom. Ten serafs had seen him pa.s.s in his hasty disguise. Any one of them might have spoken -and gained much for it.

He hoped they did not lose in equal measure for their silence.

Bardur had been waiting for him with tack and bridle in the stables. The stables. He grimaced. More than one loss, this war. And it would be war. Michaele. His kai. "General di'Navarre."

He turned, surprised. A respectful distance away, unattended by even the most trusted of his Tyran, stood the man who had been the second most powerful in the Dominion. Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai di'Callesta. His dark hair looked peppered, and the winds had carved their lines into his brow, the corners of his eyes. But his eyes were still the hawk's, piercing in their clarity.

He knew the Tyr'agnate on sight; not a man whose care had been the protection of the Tyr'agar did not. Men in power were always a threat; they had to be watched.

And who watched the watchers? Bitter thought, that. He was sorry that the ceremony of placation required so much wine; he had a sudden thirst for it. "Tyr'agnate kai di'Callesta."

"Call me Ramiro. I have no doubt that you have called me worse."

"Not in audience," Baredan replied, smiling. It surprised him; he had not smiled in weeks.

"This is no audience," the Tyr'agnate replied. "It is a chance meeting of two solitary men who seek the blessing of the Lord of the Dawn."

Ramiro di'Callesta sought no one's blessing. Again, Baredan felt his lips tugged up.

"Walk with me."

A command. Baredan nodded; he felt no need to a.s.sert his authority here. He had, after all, very little of it with the pa.s.sing of the Tyr. His knees were still damp from the dew, his cloak's edge wet; what further proof of the day's supplication could be asked for? And a man who had been on his knees in such a fas.h.i.+on was not a man to command this Tyr'agnate. If any man was.

The lands of Averda were the richest in the Dominion. Almost anything could be grown here; there was even an abundance of fruit in the wild, untended by anything save the sight of the Lord. A man could grow soft here. Baredan cast a sideways glance at his companion's profile. It gave nothing away.

He cursed his luck quietly.

Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto was the only man of the Five he trusted-the only man whose honor was above question. But he was also known for his hatred of the Essalieyanese, and Baredan di'Navarre intended to cross the borders between their countries. To ask, although it galled him, for their aid. He could not do so without the knowledge of the Tyr whose border he crossed.

And perhaps, knowing that the last di'Leonne might survive in the foreign court, the Tyr'agnate of Mancorvo would accede to Baredan's request. But perhaps not-and if not, the flight was over, the war stillborn. It was too great a risk; Mareo could not be moved once he had reached his decision.

Mareo, however, was not his concern; this man was. He did not know Ramiro di'Callesta well. Averda continued to trade and barter with the foreign merchants and their kin; the roads were kept open, the taxes paid.

The gra.s.slands stretched out before them as far as the eye could see, changing only in color and texture in the valley below. A crop of some sort. "Do you know your histories, di'Navarre?" It was not the question he expected. "Military histories, yes."

"Good." He paused, bent down, and lifted a small weed from beneath his toes. Frowned a moment, before crus.h.i.+ng it and letting it fall back to earth. "Then you know of the clan wars that ended only with the rise of the clan Leonne."

Baredan nodded. "A bitter time."

"Two clans were razed to the ground. Not even daughters were spared." Ramiro folded gloved hands behind his back as he came to stand at the edge of the gentle slope that led valleyward. The sun cast his shadow, stilettolike, down the slopes. "The villages were burned and burned again where people were foolish enough to rebuild; the serafs were slaughtered like pigs."

"It was war," Baredan said.

"Ah, yes. Of course." He lifted his chin slightly. "And your lands have not known war for a very long time. But mine have; I was born to it."

"I fought in the Dominion-Imperial wars."