The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 66

Mareo di'Lamberto sat beside the only person in the Dominion of Annagar he trusted as much as he trusted himself, and she was silent. She did not expose her face to the light very often; her skin was fair, and unblemished by the sun's reach, although the brush of time itself could never be avoided.

"Donna," he said, and he thought, as his eyes traced the familiar lines of her face, that time had been brutal indeed in these last few weeks. Would they survive this? They had survived all else.

Even the death of their kai at the hands of the Imperials. It was not the Lord's time, the Tyr'agnate thought. But he is gone, just the same. Of course a clan of Lam-berto's stature could not be left without an heir, and a new heir had been appointed after the grieving had been done in accordance with the Lord's will. But it was not a clean grief; not until those responsible lay dead, their blood a red spill beneath the open sky. He had sworn it, although his gentle wife would take no part in the swearing; the disk remained, uncrossed, in their bedroom, a thing of wood, a reminder of death.

Thus did she spare the Terrean over which he presided from a war that he could only acknowledge in his most serene moments was futile without the support of his Tyr. They swore their clan oaths together, for she was his support; wife, yes, and graceful perfection whether she wore that t.i.tle for public view or in the privacy of their moments together, but more than that. Oh, she was not the frail and slender girl who had once come to him so meek and so terrified, although she hid the latter for two years before he had at last received from her the one gift that he desired: her trust. No, time had silvered the dark sheen of her hair, and thickened her body, and lined the corners of her eyes and her lips.

He saw in them the hints of the smile he loved, and knew, to be fair, that time had been no kinder to him. Or perhaps, it had been just as kind; for she did not look the part of a young girl, and she was not: she was stronger, wiser, and more just than the fear of youth allowed; she gave him the shelter that he needed, on the rare occasions that that need drove him. She trusted him, always; she looked up to him, still; he strove, in every way, to continue to live up to her expectation. She was the one person in his life he did not wish to disappoint.

Let other men tell him that he did not care enough for gold, or for the power it could buy; let them tell him that he did not pay heed to politics, and the political winds that blew through the Dominion with such force; let them call him a self-righteous fool.

She did not, and her belief was the strength that he required to stay steady in the eyes of the Lord; to live an honorable life.

One did not pray to the Lord for mercy. One prayed at night, or before dawn's light, and Mareo di'Lamberto had only ever prayed for two things, for prayer took the strength from the man, and put it in the hands of the Lord or the Lady, and he disliked to be so unmanned. Only two things.

And he watched one of them now, thinking that flesh could not contain her, that time could not degrade her; she was Donna.

Yet in spite of the fact that he adored his wife as openly as any man that he had ever known, the Tyr'agnate was a man p.r.o.ne to practical thoughts. It was his wife who was sensitive to the changes of moontide and time, and he moved closer to her, putting an arm around her shoulders as if by doing so he could protect her from the freedom of the Lady's darker thoughts.

She accepted the shelter of his arm for a time; the warmth was gentle between them. And then she spoke.

"War, Mareo."

"I know." He rested his chin upon the top of her head. "The Callestans have ceased their border raids. It tells us much. Word has come to me that the Tyr'agnate did not travel to the Tor Leonne."

He heard her breath; felt her surprise in the way it was drawn. To understand Donna, you had to listen for the small things, the subtle gestures.

If she heard regret in his words, she did not ask him about it; instead she said, "I would not have thought the Callestans would have valued the honor of their vows so highly."

It pleased him, and he smiled. "It has little to do with honor; the Callestans think honor and silver have the same meaning. No, it's more likely that they know they can't trust him."

She was silent for a long time; longer than was her wont, although she was not a talkative woman.

"Donna?"

"They could not trust you-not to murder the Lord to whom you swore your oath. Not to plan his death through the office of the Tyran.""But?"She pulled away from his arms, breaking the circle; reached out and very gently touched his face."Donna," he said, resting his chin a moment in the cup of her soft hand, "tell me.""It may be nothing," she told him.And her tone, of course, told the opposite tale."Then tell me, and be free of it. Come.""I received a letter today.""A letter? Not a message?"

"No. A written letter. It was-it was penned by Serra Fiona en'Marano."

"Serra Fiona? I'm not sure I recall-ah, wait-the par di'Marano's young wife. He was trapped in the capital, then?"

"Yes."

"How did this letter reach us?"

"I do not know who carried it; by the time I saw the mark at the end, the messenger had

vanished."

He sat still, waiting; once she began to speak, she rarely left a tale untold. Yet she hesitated a moment before she continued. "The letter-it was harmless enough. But-"

"Might I see it?"

"I do not think that you would read the words as I read them."

"Woman's business, then."

"Yes." For a moment, a smile glimmered in her eyes, and the corners that surrounded the one feature that time did not dim crinkled. Then the night took the expression from her face so

completely it might never have been there at all. "The armies will be gathered after the Festival of the Sun."

He stiffened.

"But there is a possibility that the armies need not be arrayed against us."

"And what possibility is that?"

"She tells me that the Captain of the oathguards acted in haste when he ordered the public

execution of the Imperial hostages."

"His only decent act."

"-and that, for his part in both the execution and the death of the Tyr, he himself was executed,

although the execution was a private matter. She... feels that he was not an acceptable, or an honorable, man, and that he met his just end."

"I see."

"There is no Tyr'agar, but when the Tyr is appointed, the Captain of the oathguards will be replaced."

"I see."

"She believes that there is a possibility that the General Alesso di'Marente would accept your recommendation before he makes that choice."

Silence.

Serra Donna averted her eyes, but she did not stop. "And she says that the armies that are

gathering will be raised-and sent-to the North. The far North."

"Donna." He caught her chin; it trembled as he met her eyes. They were glittering brightly in the lamplight. "The Empire."

He spoke a single word then, although it was unnecessary to do so for her sake. No, he spoke it for his own, because in speaking, a man made his will known, made it real.

Andreas.

His kai.

His unavenged kai.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

rd ofLattan, 427 A A Essalieyan, Averalaan Aramarelas.

The Hawk and the Kestrel stood by the seawall, the distance between them both vast and tiny. The Hawk, appropriately named for the hook of his nose and the clear piercing gray of his eyes, wore a single sword. If he carried a dagger, it was appropriately placed where eyes could not easily see it. The Kestrel, named not for any resemblance to the hunting bird most favored by the Western Essalieyanese, but rather for her ability to circle the Hawk, also wore a sword; she had chosen to leave her armor in the safety of her house. It was too hot, this summer day, for the extra padding, and in the city of Averalaan, it was also ostentatious and unnecessary.

The breeze took their words by halves, but they spoke the language of their chosen profession, and what the wind took, years of experience and knowledge filled in. It had been a languid summer night, but the humidity of the day had threatened rainfall for hours; the time was almost come.

Many a discharged soldier, and many a retired one, had seen these two before, but they seldom stood alone; there was too much anger between them, too often, over the field of battle chosen, or the rules imposed upon those soldiers, or the discipline involved-they disagreed on everything but the actual battles themselves.

One man had always stood between them in these arguments, and more often than not stood above. And he was, of course, called the Eagle.

The flight of Commanders.

The Kestrel saw him first, and her demeanor changed subtly; the Hawk, aware of her every move because he trusted them, by instinct, so little, turned as well. They waited in a companionable silence until he approached.

He was not as tall as the Hawk, nor as commanding a presence as the Kestrel, but of the Commanders, his was the eye that saw clearest, and saw farthest. Time had taken much of his hair, but if he felt self-conscious about the loss, it did not show; he was not a vain man. Not a loud one.

And yet.

"Commander Allen," the Kestrel said, offering a clipped nod that spoke both of habit and precision.

"Kalakar," he said, bowing. "Berriliya."

"Commander Allen."

They stepped apart, and he took his accustomed place between them, flanked by them and

comfortable to be so. They stared at his profile, at either side of his profile; she saw a perfectly normal man whose calm smile gave nothing away. He saw the scars of an old fire, healer-doused and tended, but visible if one knew where to look.

"Well?" the Kestrel asked.Commander Allen smiled. "You haven't gotten patient in the last decade.""No.""I thought ruling a great House would at least teach you that."The Hawk snorted. "She rules her House the way she did her regiment."The Commander lifted a hand. "It is her House. The regiment was the Kings'.""You haven't answered the question.""You noticed." He stared out at the waves upon the sea, at the clouds, gray and that deep, livid green-if green was a color that could be said to be livid, it was on days like this, with the storm

gathering in its folds-and he said, "Can you see the rocks?"

It was an odd question. The Berriliya looked; The Kalakar snorted. "The only rocks I care about are the ones beneath my feet. They're stable. Allen." Pause. "Bruce."

"We haven't spoken for well over eight years, Ellora."

She shrugged.

"What have you been doing in those eight?"

"Building a House."

"Building a small personal army."

She shrugged again; it was true. "I've tended to the responsibilities that fell on my shoulders."

"And you, Devran?"

"I did not choose the House," the Berriliya said curtly, as if at an unspoken accusation. "The

House chose me. I either accepted the t.i.tle, or I... abandoned the name. The name meant, and

means, much to me. But if you mean to imply that I've seen no fighting..." "No," was the dry response. He waited. And then he laughed. "I have spent my time in the company of a very suitable woman. I have watched my grandson grow; I have sponsored my granddaughter into the House Terafin. She is not," he added, as if only then realizing that he spoke with the leaders of two of The Ten, "a military woman, and I would not have her become one.

"I have spent three months traveling in the company of Sioban Gla.s.sen, and was looking forward to doing so again." The sea's waves were almost nonexistent, but he looked down at them as if they were fascinating.

Or as if, beneath the facade of the nearly still waters, other memories were surfacing.