Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (108 page)

Turning, he started to sheathe his swords, but the Lord's
glory was still upon him. In a silence that was warm and not icy, he
crossed the mats to where Isladar stood, waiting.

Without a word of warning, he brought the short sword up and
across in a short, swift arc. Isladar's hand was already out, palm up,
to catch the blade; he moved far too quickly to dodge. But dodging was
not Alesso's intent.

He smiled as he heard the kinlord's grunt and saw the spill of
nightshadow down the sword's edge. "A warning," he told the kinlord,
for he knew that the kinlord had not expected to feel the edge of the
sword at all.

Isladar smiled grimly and twisted his hand. A rain of light
glanced off the ceiling as the blade shattered.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the
General bowed. "Give Lord Assarak my thanks. It has been a long time. I
would offer them myself, but I must retire and prepare for the Festival
of the Sun." He paused for just long enough to catch Cortano's eye.
"Widan."

"General. Most impressive."

The Widan Sendari par di'Marano remained conspicuously silent
until he received the unspoken order to retreat. But he was grateful—to
whom, he did not care to say—that the sword that had been shattered was
not the blade by which Alesso had made his name. Of the two weapons in
his possession, Alesso had chosen to strike with the short sword. A
practical man.

Light, pink and hazy, spread across the sky's lowest edge, the
curtain of day dropping—or the curtain of night burning slowly away.
The Serra Diora di'Marano sat upon the dais that faced the lake, her
hands cupped around a ceremonial goblet; it was cool, a balm to new
skin. The lines of night were hidden beneath white masque powder, and
the posture of graceful attention was one that was almost more natural
to her than breathing, but she knew that Alana, oldest of her father's
wives, saw immediately that something was wrong.

Although it was dawn, she thanked the Lady that the men who
ruled were not as dangerously perceptive as the women who served them.
Holding the goblet, she waited until enough of the sun had crested the
horizon. Then, raising it in a flash of silver and precious stone, she
spoke the Lord's blessing. The Radann kai el'Sol could not see the
expression on her face, for he stood beside her, lifting the goblet's
twin.

Below, at the very edge of the lake, the men who had survived
the first test of the Lord lifted their swords in a silence that was
almost eerie. Long shards of light were cast groundward as they held
their salute. Only when the Radann kai el'Sol lowered his goblet did
they lower their weapons and bow.

"We will meet within the hour upon the plateau. Let all
clansmen who seek to continue the Lord's test meet us there."

They bowed, not to the Radann, but to the Lord's Consort. And
none there held a bow so graceful—or so deep—as the Tyr'agnate Eduardo
kai di'Garrardi.

"Well, Teresa, the world is full of foolish men indeed if the
only ones who attend you are cerdan and seraf."

The cerdan looked up at the approaching visitor, and
straightened themselves out to their full height and full bearing.
Burnished medallions hung at their chests, and their swords gleamed
like their too-bright youth in the early part of the day. The Serra
liked youth, not for its obvious physical beauty—although it had
that—but for its painful idealism, its charming naivete. She rarely had
the chance to indulge in her choice of cerdan, but at this particular
Festival Sendari must be well attended, and his wife, even more so; the
senior cerdan were spoken for.

And the junior cerdan were proud to bear up under the
attention of a Tyr.

Serra Teresa did not need to look up from the fringe of her
fan to know who spoke; she had a gift for voices, and once she'd heard
one, she was unlikely to forget it. And this man had more, beside the
timbre of a deep voice, to recommend him: height, bearing, a gift of
charm and a faded ability to fight and to ride with the best of the
clansmen. He was not known for the quality of his mercy, but his
foibles, when he chose to exercise them, ran toward affection and
loyalty.

"Tyr'agnate," she said properly, bowing her head in a perfect
show of respect.

" 'Tyr'agnate is it?" Jarrani kai di'Lorenza laughed. "It's an
odd Festival. I don't think I've ever seen you so… alone."

"Alone?" At this, she did look up.

"Well, for one you're usually surrounded by Northerners." He
coughed. "If you'll forgive my lack of tact."

"I shall choose," she said sweetly, "not to notice it."

"That's the problem with women. You've no idea whether or not
you've actually behaved well; they don't say a damned thing."

"I am sure," she replied, as sweet in tone as the waters of
the Tor, "that if you truly wished such honesty, you would find
yourself a wife."

He laughed at that, and ruefully. "Marano," he said, to the
young cerdan who seemed to be in charge, "I assure you that I intend
your Serra no disrespect; my own Tyran will vouch for my behavior."

They were not so shiny a group as the cerdan the Serra had
been granted, but they were older and cannier. They were also, she
thought, a trifle bored, but had the training not to show it.

"Ramdan," she said to her personal seraf. It was, of course,
unnecessary; she could see his shadow shrink as he knelt to retrieve
goblets and the appropriate decanter. "I apologize, Tyr'agnate; had I
known that I would have the honor of your company, I would have
attempted to secure a more appropriate pavilion to receive it."

"The only such pavilions are far from the fighting." He stood
a moment, shading his eyes from the rays of the early morning's sun.
"It's been a bloody morn."

"Yes," she said quietly, all archness gone from her voice. "I
don't know why."

"Well," the Tyr'agnate said, drawing the word out into several
syllables worth as he bent his knees and made a show of settling into
the cushions that the seraf provided, "as I have no wife for you to
offend—and none to turn to for guidance—might I ask you your opinion on
a matter or two?"

"You may, of course, always ask. And if I am able, I will
answer. But you are a Tyr'agnate—"

"And you are a woman who does not need to dissemble. If I
wanted a child, I'd have searched for a child."

Her lifted fan hid the smile of momentary pleasure that spread
across her lips, but it did not conceal her eyes. "You have Hectore,"
she said.

"Yes, well. Perhaps another today. On this one he's like a
blade that's too sharp; he'd cut silk as soon as flesh, and probably
with as much vigor. He's in a foul mood."

"Ah. A flaw in a man his age," Serra Teresa said serenely, "to
take a loss so poorly."

"Was it that obvious?"

"Eduardo di'Garrardi is not exactly a graceful winner."

"No." Jarrani frowned. "But speaking of Eduardo, has the wind
taken his sense and dashed it against the cliffs?"

She raised both brows in exaggerated—but quite real— surprise.

He laughed, pleased with himself, and she saw the child in
him—that youth, so bright and shiny, which was so often completely
extinguished in men half his age.

"I am not your wife," she said, a little tartly, "and I will
remind you of that fact. Your Tyran are listening, and they will expect
you to show a proper respect for your peers."

"They'll expect no such thing," he told her. "First, we're too
boring for them; they've half an eye and half a brain on the testing.
Second, if your brothers weren't such tiresome and clingy fools I would
gladly remedy the first complaint in a moment."

She composed her face into perfect neutrality.

"Teresa, don't. You know how I feel about this."

"Adano
is
the kai of Marano."

"Yes, well." He took the water that Ramdan offered without
glancing up. "But about Garrardi."

"If you are asking me why he exposes himself to the danger of
the Lord's test, I cannot answer. He is of an age—and a rank—where such
testing isn't necessary, and is in all probability not advisable. Short
of winning, he will only damage his reputation among the clansmen."

"He's fighting like a demon."

"Jarrani."

"I'm not to profane either?"

"Not a bit." She sipped the waters and then turned her face
toward the plateau as if seeking a cooling breeze. "I would have said
he was being completely foolish—but I would also have ventured to
advise you against allowing Hectore to enter the competition."

"Well, yes." She waited; she was one of the most famous Serras
in the Dominion, and she could outwait the Lord and the Lady when she
so chose. Eventually, he laughed.

"It was the kai's idea, but I didn't discourage it. We're
short a Tyr or two—had he placed well, it would have drawn the
attention of clansmen who are now seeking new masters. Neither of us
expected Garrardi to seek the title.

"And you haven't answered my question."

"Very well, Tyr'agnate, but I answer the question to incur no
favor and would appreciate the asking and the answering to remain a
private act.

"Eduardo di'Garrardi has taken to the plateau in an attempt to
prove himself worthy of the Flower of the Dominion."

He did not laugh, and he should have; he did not deride the
younger man's wisdom. Instead he caught her hand. It was a risky
action. "Teresa," he said, all affection and all joviality gone, as if
they were masks too heavy, for this instant, not to fall. "This
alliance—it is not to my liking."

She did not flinch or blush or pale. Jarrani was a man of
power, but he was, in his fashion, a man of honor; the threat that he
offered he did not offer to her, but through her, and this was wise.

"It is not," she said, extricating her fingers with care not
to draw attention to the gesture, "to her liking either, and I believe
he knows it." The fan's ivory spindles fell open in her lap as she
smoothed them into the perfect crescent. "This is not a matter of
alliance, Jarrani." Her voice was as cold as his, but infinitely more
musical. "To Garrardi, Diora is a creature like Sword's Blood; she is
not attached to Marano—or Marente—excepting only that he requires her
father's permission before he makes his claim known. I am not my
brother's wife, and I am not taken into all of his counsel, so I am, of
course, guessing.

"And as I am guessing, Tyr'agnate—"

"Jarrani."

"—Tyr'agnate, I will say that I think neither my brother nor
the man he serves is fond of the choice made, and you may be surprised
by the Festival's end." Her fan rose, and delicate though it was, it
was a wall.

"And the price for this advice?"

She did not answer.

"Teresa, I did not mean to offend."

"I know. And you did not offend, Tyr'agnate. Rather, you
offered a reminder. No more."

He stared at her face, and the fan that punctuated it, in a
silence of words considered and words rejected. Then he rose. "I would
still pay almost any price for the privilege, Serra Teresa."