Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (114 page)

"Tyr'agnate," the Tyr'agar replied.

Jarrani rose and smiled. "The long road is not so harsh a road
now."

Alesso's grin was fierce. "No. Your Tors?"

"They come," Jarrani said. "All but four."

The four, he would deal with later. The Tyr'agnate stood at
the water's edge while the Tor'agars and Tor'agnati who owed him
loyalty and service made their trek to the water's edge. To the only
man not of the Lord's Radann who had the right, by law, to stand within
the waters themselves. Twenty-six.

The Oertan clansmen came next; there were twenty-eight. Of the
Mancorvan clansmen, he had a handful, but among those, the clan
Marrani, Tor'agar, and so of import. And of Averda, he had more, but
they were so close to seraf in rank they served him only by what their
presence said to the others. That even the common and the lowly were
less afraid of their Tors than they were of the new Tyr'agar.

As the last of the clansmen retrieved his sword and returned
to the rocks, Alesso di'Marente smiled. His shadow had grown long with
the passage of time, for this ceremony was no small and trivial affair;
each clansman had to meet his eyes, and see in them the power that
Markaso kai di'Leonne—the last of the Leonne Tyrs— had never truly
possessed.

Still, if it was triumph, it was also grueling; he wore light
armor, as befit a warring clansman, and it trapped the warmth of the
sun too well. The heat was lessened by the touch of the water.

And then it was taken away completely as the Radann kai el'Sol
spoke again.

"The Radann," the kai el'Sol said, "have chosen." He bent,
placed both hands into the waters of the Tor Leonne, and when he raised
them he carried a scabbard, one rich and fine and unmistakable.

Alesso cursed him without need for words; he had waited until
the ceremony's end, so that he might be certain that each and every
clansman—or woman—of significance had gathered to bear witness.

The gasp of the gathered crowd was followed by the silence of
held breath, of inability to draw breath. "But the Lord has not.

"Tyr'agar, will you not take up the Sun Sword, as the Lord of
the Sun has decreed all Tyrs
must
do? Will you
not let the Lord speak?"

The lilies floated upon the surface of the waters behind the
shining back of the Radann kai el'Sol, theirs the only motion in the
stillness. Light, pale in color, they rested always above the water,
never in it, yet the two could not be separated.

Diora ceased to breathe. The lightness that came with breath's
lack made her feel like a lily upon the surface of the world. The kai
el'Sol had told her that he would present the Sun Sword, and she knew
voices well enough to hear the truth in his words. But in her mind's
eye, in the privacy of thought, she had seen the Sword brought to the
lake by servitors, as it was always brought; she had seen the Sword
presented, almost as afterthought, a reminder to the clansmen of the
one thing that the General lacked: the blood.

Subtlety was the way of a Serra, by necessity; it was not the
way of a Lambertan. Not this man. She felt fear, and tried to wrap it
around herself like a shawl; tried to grip and cling to it as if it
were the skirts of her mother, and she a child.

Because she stood this close to the only action that she had
conceived of for every waking hour of every day since the slaughter,
and she could not afford to lose all fear, because without fear, there
was no caution.

And without caution…

Her hands caught the light as they trembled, and she stared at
the things that bound her: three simple rings.

Silence stretched, unbroken until the Radann Peder par el'Sol
stood forward. "Kai el'Sol," he said softly, "you overstep yourself.
The Lord's truest test of rulership has always been the warrior's path,
and it is clear to all assembled here that
this
Tyr'agar rules because of his strength, where the last fell because of
his weakness.

"Or do you claim that the Lord's true choice was a man who
died without fight or cost in a
single evening's
slaughter? The Radann were chosen
by
the Lord.
Our;
choice is the only choice. There is no other."

But the kai el'Sol was implacable in the face of Peder's
words; he met the silent death in Alesso's eyes without flinching.

"The Sun Sword," the Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza said,
entering a fray that could not be resolved with weapon skill, his voice
loud enough to carry but somehow calm enough that he did not appear to
be shouting, "is myth. It is a part of the Leonne legend, as is the
crown. You'll note," he said, with a wryness that held no warmth, "the
crown rests upon the General's head in far more fitting a fashion than
it ever sat upon Markaso di'Leonne's.

"The Tyr'agar has chosen to play the games of the Radann; he
has followed the rules that you have set. He has paid his respect to
the will of the Lord—and more— by leading armies rather than cowering
behind the safety of stone walls in 'worship.'

"He is not beholden to you, kai el'Sol. Both the Tyr'agar and
the kai el'Sol wear the sun ascendant, in full blossom. In the Lord's
eyes, you are equals; you will not order him to perform to your will."

"It is not
my
will," the kai el'Sol
said, untouched by the open edge of the Tyr'agnate's words. "It is the
Lord's will. And I note, Tyr'agnate, that the crowning, which is also
part of the 'Leonne legend,' was of the utmost import to the Tyr'agar.
The legend is a body, and it
is
alive; you cannot
cleave off the arm or the leg and say that it is the same as the whole
because it is flesh."

"Have I been struck down, kai el'Sol?" the newly crowned
Tyr'agar asked. "Have the winds come to bear me away? I am not a child.
The clansmen gathered here are not children. We are not to be
frightened by the partisan politics of a fool."

"And that is your answer?"

"It is."

"The Sword is a sword; it is significant because it is a
symbol of office," Jarrani kai di'Lorenza said coldly.

There was a murmur in the crowd, a mixture of approbation and
disapproval, of encouragement and fear. For there were men who were of
the same mind as the Lorenzan Tyr'agnate. History for such men seemed
to be a thing of the past, always of the past; only things witnessed
were real.

Fredero, born of Lamberto, turned to face the clansmen of
Annagar for the last time. Thinking, oddly, that it would have been
nice to see Mareo one more time. That it might have been nice if Jevri
kep'Lamberto—Jevri el'Sol—had been of high enough rank that he might
join the clansmen and be present for this last of performances; this
singular bow. Or that it might have been nice to have the opportunity
to apologize—yet again—for his shortness in the early hours of morning;
the robes that had been wrung, bead by bead, out of the hands of the
reluctant servant, had been far more than Fredero thought he could ask
in so short a time.

What might it have been like, a life like Mareo's, with a wife
at his side, and a kai?

And then he remembered the kai's loss, and he was still.

It
is time
, he told
himself, but his
hands shook. He was ready, but he was not ready, and he balanced upon
this edge for a moment longer.

Until he met the eyes of the Serra Diora di'Marano. The Serra
Diora en'Leonne. The Lord's Consort. In finery she was second only to
Fredero, both of them clothed by the genius of Jevri. In strength, in
determination, he thought her second to none. Almost, he bowed.

And she surprised him. Surprised them all.

Because she
did
bow, lowering her fan to
expose her face to the kai el'Sol.

Serra Diora di'Marano had from Fredero kai el'Sol all that she
required, but she was speechless. Voiceless. Such a gift as he had
given her he had given freely; not even her father had ever offered so
much. And her father had never been a man of the kai el'Sol's political
stature.

She did not tell herself that Fredero kai el'Sol gave her this
pretty act of treachery because he knew his days were numbered. It
wasn't true. She could see that clearly. His convictions alone had
brought him to the Radann, and his convictions held him now; they were
such that she thought, had he made a different choice, he might have
met the same end. No Lambertan man could escape what he was, after all.

The Lambertans had always been loyal.

Oh, she heard the murmurs. She listened to the steel beneath
the very thin veneer of the Tyr'agnate's words, and she found its power
persuasive. But no matter how he—or the Tyr'agar—might try to gloss
over the truth, it had been made clear: that he did not dare to take
the Sun Sword.

It would do him some damage.

And the words that she had practiced, in secret prayer, in
fantasy, and in tearless anger, would do the rest. It would not be his
death though he deserved it. But it was the damage that she, a widowed
Serra, could do, and she had worked this long month for no other goal.
Yet before she could speak, the kai el'Sol turned from her, to the
restless crowd.

"I have served the Lord, and serve him still, in the only way
I can.

"These men tell you that they will not see the Sword raised
because they do not wish to play
my
games. I play
no game. If there is a man among you who feels that my tenure as kai
el'Sol has been unworthy of the Lord— unworthy of the
clans
—let
him speak now."

The silence was unbroken, although Alesso's face was as white
as the sun's full glare.

"The Lord has his laws, and they were broken once before. And
in that break, the darkness found purchase in lands where the Sun's
might reigns. There are reasons for the laws that he has made,
and
the Lord makes no exception
.

"The Tyr'agar of the Dominion, by the laws of the Lord,
is
the man who can wield the Sun Sword. Not a man worthy of the title
Lord's Champion; not a man worthy of the title General; not a man whose
prowess in battle is unmatched or unmatchable. It is not power, not
service, and not loyalty that defines this law. Do you allow your
serafs to decide to serve or disobey at their own whim, and through the
merits of their own wisdom?

"We
are
the Lord's servants. We obey the
Lord's will. He makes no exception.

"I offer this as proof." And to her horror, Fredero kai el'Sol
gripped the Sun Sword firmly by the hilt.

And drew it.

She stepped forward, the motion involuntary, and Eduardo
di'Garrardi gripped her arms, drawing her back. She could not struggle
without losing all dignity, all power; she stilled at once, and the
Tyr'agnate was forced to release her.

The Radann par el'Sol—all of them—watched in tight-lipped
fascination. And she realized, as she looked at their set faces, that
not a single one of them was surprised.

Nor were they surprised when the Radann kai el'Sol began to
burn. But by the reflected fire in the eyes of Marakas par el'Sol, she
knew that he alone grieved.

The fire was not one that came from without; she saw it first
in his eyes, and second between his lips as he opened his mouth to draw
breath, or to scream, or both. She wanted a good death for him, for he
had had the strength to choose this death, but there was only the
reality of fire, and she knew—as all the clansmen did—that the fire
burned from the heart out. That all that would be left of this, a man
of honor, was ashes that the winds would scatter forever.

Thus, the Lord's law.

It seemed to go on forever, this burning, this terrible fire.
She thought that it would, for if the fire first consumed the heart, it
was a burning that must, by its nature, be without end, for his heart
seemed vast and boundless.

But the legends must lie, for the fire blossomed from his
chest, devouring flesh, emptying his body of what little life might
remain within it. Shining raiment became a garment of flame, and then a
thing of ash, a thing without shape. The waters boiled a moment,
steaming with the heat of the unnatural flame.

With no hands to support it, the Sun Sword fell, unsheathed,
into the waters of the Tor Leonne.

Lady, Lady be merciful. Keep him from the winds, who
takes this step in your service. Lady show mercy. Lady, please.

She almost forgot the words that she had come this far to
speak, so intent was the prayer. But she was a Serra, and she was
Diora, and she was the Flower of the Dominion, grieving for her dead in
the only way she knew how.

Before the last of the flames had consumed even the crystal
with which the kai el'Sol's robes had been beaded, she walked into the
waters of the Tor Leonne. Eduardo di'Garrardi could not stop her, nor
the Tyr'agar, nor the man who had been her father; they were transfixed.

To stand in the lake itself was a crime, but she stood, for
the Festival's Height had not yet passed and on this day she was still
the Consort of the Lord of the Sun.

Hands shaking, she knelt—or so it first appeared. But she had
not stepped into the waters to kneel; she merely bent to retrieve.

The flat of the Sun Sword rested in her palms as she brought
it out of the water's cradle. "I am Serra Diora di'Marano, the Lord's
Consort," she said, pitching her voice so it carried the width and
length of the Tor Leonne, stretching her abilities so that she might
clearly be heard by not only clansmen, but serafs and Serras and those
who tended the grounds. "And I say to you, clansmen all, that I was
promised, in the eyes of the Lord, to the man who would be Tyr. Where
the kai el'Sol has given his life, I give less, for he was a man of
honor, and I am a simple Serra. But in honor of the laws of the Lord,
and in honor of the memory of Ser Illara
kai
di'Leonne, I say to you that I will never survive to marry a lesser
man—a man who cannot wield
this
Sword."