Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (104 page)

They were meant, these Radann, to keep clansmen from entering,
not to keep serafs from leaving. They did not shift position to
acknowledge this serafs presence, although she knew that they were well
aware of it.

She passed two other serafs in the halls before she found her
passage to the outside; the cerdan who served her father and her aunt
nodded quietly as she left. Not a single one of them paid close
attention to her face.

Even so, she did not breathe easily until the stars, and not
broad wooden beams, were above her head. She walked quickly to the
lake, and there, the Tyran that served the General Alesso di'Marente
did stop her, but they were perfunctory in their inspection—for Diora
had, every night for the last four, sent Alaya to the lake to retrieve
the waters. This night was no different.

Her hands did not shake as they touched the waters, although
the waters were surprisingly cool. She filled the pitcher carefully and
then, in her kneeling position, bowed respectfully to the Tyran. They
were clansmen of note, if not merit; they would expect respect.

Carefully balancing the full pitcher, she lingered a moment to
catch the soothing lap of waves against the shore, desiring a moment of
peace, no matter how brief. Then she left the waters of the Tor Leonne
behind, carrying only this small portion with her.

She did not return to the harem.

Instead, she found the long and carefully tended road that led
to the gates of the Tor Leonne; the gates through which any lawful
visitor must pass. In the shadows, they were still very fine, and she
paused a moment as she saw the lights that glowed brightly by them.

Did she falter?

A moment, no more. If the Tyran were at their duties, she was
safe; if they were not, she would make no approach.

The night was very dark.

She heard his voice before she saw him, because she knew how
to listen better than she knew how to do almost anything except
breathe. And sing.

The Voyani's voice she would have heard in any case, and the
listening magnified it, made of it a piercing, horrible scream instead
of the whimper she knew it to be. A plea for mercy. A denial of
knowledge.

"You know this is not necessary," he said, his voice a blend
of neutrality and distaste. "Only tell us what we wish to know, and we
will leave you in peace."

We.

She froze; she knew how to stand in a silence that was almost
absolute.

"Who sent you?"

"Cortano, with all due respect, I believe that I am better
able to handle this interrogation."

"Lord Isladar, with all due respect, I believe that you are
not within your jurisdiction."

They were of a kind; they spoke with the same precision, the
same distance, the same surety of power. She measured the silence after
this short exchange by the labored breathing of their victim. Her knees
bent; she knelt, slowly, the folds of her robe crinkling beneath the
breaths, heavy and hoarse, of the Voyani woman.

"You were with the Radann." Not a question. "Who sent you?"

Serra Diora di'Marano knew how to wait.

Folding her knees, bowing her perfect, ivory face, she began
her vigil, praying to the Lady's Moon for strength and guidance and an
end to this—and all—torments.

"Well, Peder?"

"I don't know. I did as you instructed, and discovered her
presence—but I do not know how she was used, or at whose instructions."
She heard his shrug. "I assure you," he said blandly, "that she was not
present during the meetings of the Radann; Fredero is weak, but is not
a fool."

A lie.

She tensed and then relaxed, fighting her reactions. She had
never trusted Radann Peder par el'Sol, and she did not trust him
now—but he lied to his allies, and he lied about the Radann kai el'Sol,
and in that, he found some small favor.

They did not hear it.

"Well?"

"The wanderers caused us trouble once before," the man called
Lord Isladar said softly. "They were a great people once, and they had
cities that make the Tor Leonne seem paltry and dim by comparison. We
thought them scattered, but the Annagarian winds seem to carry the dust
and debris for a very long time. Cortano, may I?"

Silence.

No
, Diora thought, willing the answer.

But she knew by the time it took him to answer, what the reply
would be. "Yes." There was warning in the word.

"Thank you."

She heard him step forward, and then she heard the woman
scream
,
and every cry that she had ever heard— save only one—lost strength and
meaning; from this point on, pain would be defined by a lone Voyani
woman, one who was almost a stranger.

One that she had come this distance to kill. Quickly. Cleanly.

She could never have said why afterward, for it was her habit
when in danger to sit perfectly, rigidly still. But this once she
lifted her hands—both of them, and clutched a pendant that sat, unseen
by even her own eyes, around her neck. It bit into the flesh of her
palms as her fingers locked around it.

Light flared in her eyes, blinding her with its flash. But it
was a light more
felt
than seen, and although it
terrified her, it was not because she feared the exposure it would
bring. She moved; felt something beneath her feet— although she knew
her feet were folded under her legs— and moved forward.

Into the clearing.

There were three men there; she could see their backs as she
approached. One wore the robes of the Radann's office, one the silks of
an evening's disturbed leisure. And one wore black, a color darker than
the night or her hair or the nightmares that had plagued her since the
death of the clan Leonne. She wondered what hand had fashioned the
cloth, and then wondered if it were cloth at all.

She did not wonder long; they did not see her. And she was
drawn forward by a compulsion that she could not explain, and would
never have ignored. The light bit her palms. Standing before the three
men, she cast no shadow at all; they could not see her. And she could
not look back to see their faces, for she found what she had come
seeking, and it held her gaze and all of her attention.

In the savaged ruins of the woman's face, Diora could still
recognize the rictus of humiliation and agony. Blood was there as
punctuation, and bone where flesh had been casually gouged away. She
did not think that a body could suffer so much and still cling to life.

Or be forced to it.

The Voyani woman lifted her face with effort; the collar that
clung to her neck far too tightly came with it, clinking and rattling.
She raised hands—a single hand— and it, too, trailed chains.

Margret
, she said, although her lips did
not appear to move,
this is your mother's death. Understand
what it is that you face
. As if pushed, Diora turned—and
when she saw the visage of Lord Isladar of the kin, she froze anew. For
the darkness of his robes was nothing compared to the darkness that was
his eyes. Beneath a face that was strangely, savagely beautiful was a
chill that the wind's loudest voice could barely touch.

She had never seen a creature that was outside of the Lord's
dominion before. Having seen him this once, she would not forget. And
she would try, at least once, before this war was over.

This is our damnation and our salvation. I have come
to the end that the Oracle's road decreed. And the bearer of this gem
has paid the price to bring it back to the Voyani. Do not let our past
be forgotten; do not let your past rob us all of a future.

This is your mother's death
, she said
again, and Diora turned.
Blessed death. Peaceful death
.

Avenge it.

She reached out, the chains grew taut with the whole of the
force she could muster. The three men watched in unseeing silence as
the Serra Diora di'Marano lifted one hand, one free hand, and reached
out, touching the fingertips of the Voyani woman with her own fingers,
as if, for a moment, they stood on either side of a piece of glass.

Aye, you are the Lady's dagger
, the woman
said,
Grant me the Lady's death
.

Diora reached into the fold of her robes with her hand, with
the one free hand, and pulled out the dagger that she had slid so
carefully from beneath her bed. She had meant to blood it. She had
meant to end both threat and torment. But as she looked at her hand,
she saw that it was translucent, a ghostly image of a hand.

I 
did
not break. They know nothing
.

"What is this?" Lord Isladar said, stepping suddenly forward.
"Cortano—are we watched?"

"No. There are none within the boundary save us."

The creature bent forward, and caught the woman's chin in his
hands.

Diora raised the dagger, and it, too, seemed translucent, but
shone with a pale light. She hesitated a moment, for the creature was
now in her path, but the woman faced her, unblinking.

"There
is
someone. We are at risk—

Lady's daughter, please
—
hurry.
He is kinlord; if he is prepared, he will hold my spirit for the Three
Days, and this will be nothing in comparison. Please. Strike
.

"There is an older magic here. They have it. Hold, Cortano. I
need a moment or she will escape us."

"Escape?"

"There are many avenues of escape," Lord Isladar said coolly.
"Death among them. But I almost have her now."

Diora drove the dagger into the Voyani woman's open left eye.
It slid through the flesh as if it had no substance; the ghost of a
knife, and not the knife itself.

But the kinlord cried out for the first time in anger. His
hands tightened. She could see the struggle beneath the woman's torn
flesh; a struggle that eyes alone were not meant to see. And she could
see that death was somehow losing. Without thought, she drew the dagger
again, but this time, brought it about in an arc that drew blood from
the creature's hand. Real blood.

His grip faltered for a second, for less than a second, but it
was enough. He was left with empty flesh, a shell, devoid of the
ability to offer either answers or pleasure.

Diora took a step back and froze; the clearing was gone. She
sat, her hands clenched around the pendant that pulsed like a heart of
light in her palms; to either side was a bush in full bloom in the
darkness.
Roses
, she thought,
or
another exotic bloom
. She did not dare open her palms; did
not dare to release the crystal or let it fall back into the folds of
her robes. Rising clumsily, she began to run with her hands clasped in
front of her—for she knew that he would come for her. .

The last thing she had seen had been his eyes, and their
gazes, for an instant, had met.

The Radann Marakas par el'Sol was waiting for her, although
she did not realize this until they collided.