Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (112 page)

Her father was Widan. And if not for the General Alesso
di'Marente, he would not have been a
powerful
man. What had he been, before the ascent of the man he called friend?
Widan? No; less than that. Widan-Designate—a man born to power, with no
will to use it. Who had given him the will, and when? When had he
ceased to be—to be what her memory told her he
was
!
When had he become just another dangerous man, another enemy in a pool
of enemies too wide and too deep for the simple Leonne Tyr?

The corner of her lips did not dimple or turn downward; her
face was her best mask and she wore it for the world to see.

He was not a stupid man. He knew that, having chosen this
course, he could not choose another, not now; there could be no turning
back. No backward glance.

Yet she thought she saw his eyes upon her before she lifted
her fan with delicate grace and turned away, finding it easier to watch
the combat for which the clansmen were assembled.

Finding it easier to watch a strange man's death at such a
distance that the blood was just a trick of the light, a blur of color
that might have easily been the workmanship of a weaver. The sun was at
its height; the day was, of the long days in this year, the hottest,
the brightest. The living man stopped a moment, lifting a weapon that
caught the sun in such a flash it might have been pure light.

From the ground, an answering flash, but weaker; the fallen
man was not yet dead, or had not yet accepted the fact. But his
defense—such as it was—was meager, weak on a day when weakness itself
was the worst of sins. Death was the winner's, to grant or to deny.

She knew that Eduardo di'Garrardi stood as the Lord's Chosen
because of the relish with which the death was delivered to the
clansmen who waited.

It was not the outcome that Alesso di'Marente desired. He
turned to the Widan at this side and saw a frown that was, line for
line, his own. It made him chuckle. "Not what we wanted, old friend."

"I fail to see what you find amusing, Alesso. We need Garrardi
as an ally—but a
Tyr'agnate
who has passed the
Lord's test is a threat."

"Yes."

"You do not wear the crown yet. There are those who will try
to acclaim the Tyr'agnate in your place."

"They will fail."

"Perhaps. If I had thought he would win, I would have—"

"Entered yourself? Or entered me?"

"You," was the ill-humored reply. "I saw you this morning,
Alesso. Nothing Garrardi offered on the field could match it."

Sendari par di'Marano spoke with such inflectionless certainty
that he might have been speaking of the weather, or of the harvest the
season in his lands might bring. There was no intent to flatter; it was
not his way. And because of it, Alesso was flattered.

"It is done," he told his oldest friend. "And we will abide by
it. Decide what must be done to collar him if he chooses to rise above
his station."

Sendari turned as the Radann made their way to where Eduardo
kai di'Garrardi stood. Their formal robes wafted in the day's first
strong breeze; it was as if the Lord himself chose to draw breath only
at that moment. "There is a problem," he said, in as carefully neutral
a tone as he used when speaking with the Sword's Edge.

It was the tone that Alesso least liked. "And that?"

"He has gained power today by gaining stature in the eyes of
the clans. If I know Eduardo di'Garrardi, it is now that he will
attempt to claim the prize that he was offered for our alliance."
Before Alesso could speak, Sendari raised a hand. "It is clever,
Alesso, give him that. He will come from the field anointed with the
blood of weaker men, and he will approach the Lord's Consort as
Champion,
as is his right
. Deny him, and he will
take his stand against you before the close of the ceremony."

"Before," Alesso said coolly, "my rulership is confirmed by
the Radann. I understand, old friend."

"Alesso," Sendari said, understanding well what lay beneath
the words, "she is just a woman."

"
You
say that to me?"

The anger was back in the Widan's eyes; a cold flash that
settled into stillness and distance.

"Do not offer me anger, Sendari. What will you say? That I
cannot compare love for the daughter with love for the mother?" He
caught the Widan's clenched fist. "Or will you say instead that what
you had was love, and what I have is desire, that I am incapable of
love?"

"Clansmen," the Widan said coolly, "do not speak of love." But
the anger left his face as he retrieved his hand. "As you well know,
it's a woman's word, and a woman's binding."

"Strong bonds, for all that."

"In the end, you won."

"Because in the end, she died." The sun was too hot, the day's
glare too bright. "Very well, old friend," he said, his face grim and
taut with the effort of this particular speech. "I will accept the
Lord's judgment."

A Serra in the Dominion was no stranger to violence, but the
violence was rarely that of open combat. Another man's blood, spread
like an accident of color or a celebration of death, was almost like a
man's sex; best left for men to boast about or of.

The Serra Diora was not to be so favored. This Festival was a
man's festival, and this test, a man's test. That she sat in the
position of honor was due to a man's choice; that she was finely
adorned, perfectly outfitted, and completely visible, a man's decree.
She could no more turn away from the Lord's Champion than she might
have from her own husband when eyes that were not friendly watched; in
public circumstance, the watcher decreed all by his presence. No matter
that the privacy of the harem protected a different form of
communication, allowed for greater liberty; safety was illusion, after
all.

Where was the Radann kai el'Sol?

"Lady," the Tyr'agnate said, as he approached the Radann who
stood, a slender human wall, before her. They had no choice but to turn
to the side, and they faced each other like well-trained cerdan in the
absolute silence.

"Tyr'agnate," she replied, acknowledging the respect— and the
evident desire—in the single spoken word with a nod of the head.

He chose his ascent, stepping with care upon the manmade
stairs that one had to climb in order to approach anything that the
Lord claimed. His trail was dark, and as he drew near, Diora could see
that not all of the blood was his enemy's. She hid her smile beneath
the perfect fold of her lips.

But when he held out his hand, she very carefully closed her
fan and laid it in his palm. She was rewarded with his smile, and it
was both dark and lovely. The plateau spoke with the hushed approbation
of the clansmen.

She rose, delicate and graceful, carrying the weight of the
Lord's gold; the Lord's Champion offered her the hand that did not
clutch her token. But she would not take it, for it was sticky now with
drying blood and sweat. He grimaced as he looked at his empty hand,
seeing it for the first time as a Tyr of the court and not a combatant.

"Your pardon," he said softly, so softly that it might not
have reached her ears at all. But he came to stand beside her, and as
he did, the hushed murmurs that walled the plateau became shouts. Light
glinted off swords raised in salute; wind gave to the flight of flags
the sound of applause.

The General Alesso di'Marente chose to greet them at this
moment, climbing, as Eduardo had done before him, the steps of the dais
unhindered.

The shouts grew and then dimmed as the significance of his
approach became clear.

Some of the clansmen gathered here had crossed the threshold
of the Tor Leonne proper for the first time; they were in the strength
of their youth, and they had been summoned by Tyrs or Tors who
understood the need for numbers at this Festival. But most had come,
yearly, with their entourage. They had seen many combatants emerge
victorious, and they had seen many Consorts rise to greet them.

But they had never seen, until this day, a clansman who did
not carry the Leonne blood in his veins join them upon the Lord's dais.
Very, very few of the clansmen below did not recognize Alesso
di'Marente, and even those who did not, understood what he attempted to
claim by his presence.

Eduardo di'Garrardi's smile was smooth as steel. "General."

"Tyr'agnate. A most impressive display."

The Tyr's lazy smile was genuine; he was pleased. But flattery
was not the reward that he had fought to receive. Nor was the Lord's
favor. "Is that the Widan I see below?"

Alesso made no game of his response. "It is."

"I would speak with him. Now."

"As you wish. You are the Lord's Champion, Tyr'agnate."

"Yes."

"You will be content with the title and the… Serra."

Silence; Eduardo was heady from his victory, and the cries
from the plateau were close enough that memory and action could not
easily be separated. He did not reply.

The Widan Sendari par di'Marano walked stiffly and silently up
the steps to the platform's height. There he joined the Marente
General, making it clear to any and all where his loyalty lay. Eduardo
could not mistake what the action meant; the Marano clan was known for
their cunning and their caution, but when they chose to ally
themselves, they had examined all avenues, and all foreseeable
possibilities; they were steady; they saw far. A wise man gained much
forsaking old allies at the right moment, and Sendari was a wise
man—but Eduardo did not see the moment at hand that would sway the
Widan.

Did he want to rule? He gazed at the gathered clans, and then
at the General, stiff-lipped and cool under the sun's height. "A
General," he said softly, "never knows the glory of the fight."

He was rewarded with the first smile that Alesso di'Marente
had offered him, which is to say, he was not rewarded at all. "Do not
play this game, Eduardo. Or play it," the General continued, his hand
upon the hilt of his sword, "to its end."

"And you challenge me?"

"I neither challenge," the General said, "nor refuse one, if
it is offered."

Eduardo di'Garrardi met the unblinking gaze of the man who
should have ruled Marente. Alesso was the older of the two, and
although the Tyr'agnate had the advantage of size, he had not passed
the Lord's test unscathed. Still, his hand touched the hilt of his
sword, and he smiled crookedly. The Garrardi sword had history; the
Marente sword, none.

As if aware of the unspoken words, the General said, "Ah yes.
Ventera
is a blade with much history, some of it honorable.
Terra
Feure
is a blade that will
make
history."

"Tyr'agnate. General." The Widan Sendari par di'Marano spoke
quietly—and in a tone that was generally reserved for the young. "If
you will play this game, may I respectfully suggest that you choose a
different time for it?"

"Sendari—"

"Or you may, if you desire, play it
now
.
But the clansmen wait, and they grow impatient. We are already walking
on treacherous ground, and our allies are not those who would
gracefully ignore weakness in our own court." Although he seemed to
pause for breath, the pause was illusory, for both the kai Garrardi and
the par Marente had words to say, but it was the Widan who spoke. "Your
loss would hurt us," he said to Eduardo, "and yours. None here would
benefit by it.

"The war cannot be called today—although it should be. We have
no choice but to wait until the passing of the Festival Moon—and the
Shining Court wishes that practice to end
here;
to disappoint them poses a risk that you should both understand. In
between, we must hold power against any Tyr or Tor who thinks to take
it, and the Dominion, from the men who are best fit to rule it. We may
gather and build our armies; we may build those structures that will
support a long campaign against the Imperials, should it become one.

"Tyr'agnate, for my part I am willing to honor our bargain,
and before the assembled clans, I will declare the Serra Diora
di'Marano the keep of the kai Garrardi, in the Lord's name. More than
that is beyond me; as you well know the rites cannot be performed on
the Lord's Day.

Even suggest it, and the Radann will show you how little tamed
they are.

"Either you will accept this in good faith, or you will not.
We—both of us—do not have the luxury of a leisurely decision."

The Tyr'agnate met the eyes of the Widan before glancing
briefly at the shuttered gaze of the General. Then he turned to the
Serra who stood, in perfect silence, at his side, and for her, he
reserved the brunt of his attention.

"Done," he said at last, and softly. "But you will declare
this thing before the Radann offer the General the Lord's crown."

"Of course," Sendari replied. He offered his daughter his
hand, and she took it without hesitation.

And as she did, he saw them: the three rings. The oath rings.
He froze, and then met her eyes, and he saw in the darkness there a
fire akin to Alesso's fire, a steel as sharp, or sharper. He could not
hold her gaze for long, although her gaze held answers, and he was
Widan.

He had spoken truth: There was little time. His grip was
harsher than he intended, but it was always thus: the things that one
feared or valued—or both—were always clutched
tightly, in caution or care.

She was his perfect daughter; she was Teresa's perfect niece.
She neither noticed the ferocity of his grip, nor cared. The Flower of
the Dominion—the Serra that each and every clansman gathered knew had
once belonged to the kai Leonne—stood as tall as her diminutive height
allowed. That she might be seen.

And that she might, being seen, be known as a worthy Consort
to the Lord of the Sun. A hush followed as the father raised the
daughter's gold-laden hand; a hush that held expectancy, a desire for
the
Tightness
of the moment.