Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (32 page)

"Is this at the behest of the Tyr'agar?"

The Sword's Edge smiled in a fashion that reminded Sendari,
immediately, of his informal title. "No." The finality of the single
syllable stopped the questions that had already begun to follow. "And I
have now told you more than I wished you to know. Give me no cause to
regret it."

It was real.

The offer, its acceptance, its consequence.

She had known it, of course, from the moment the cerdan who
bore her palanquin had crossed beneath the arched gate of the Tor
Leonne proper. Had known it before that, when her father, stiff and
gray as if he'd suffered a fatal wound, came to tell her how proud he
was of the fact that his daughter, above all others in the Dominion,
had been chosen worthy to wed the kai Leonne, his voice all the while
carrying so much anger and apprehension that she thought even one
untalented must be able to hear it.

And the arrival of the golden chains by which she might adorn
herself, the sapphires and the emeralds, the rich, deep red of ruby and
the sheen of opal—these, too, had made the reality of her future more
solid.

It was as if each little detail had become one step in a path
that led to the clan Leonne.

And the dress itself was the edge of the precipice.

She saw it, as if from a great distance; saw it, as if it were
a weighty stone that had been dropped into the center of a deep, still
pool. Or of a deep, still harem. Her father's wives.

They could not believe the fall of the fabric itself, and long
before Diora was allowed to stand—still and perfect upon a pedestal
designed for dressmaking—the harem of Sendari di'Marano was a moving
hush broken by little whispers and the awed gush of breath that knows
the confinement of no words.

Illia spoke first, handling the garment with more care than
she handled a babe. "I have never seen a dress so fine." It was true,
but she spoke again, as if she knew the words were too meager for such
a gift. "Look at the silk, Alana. Look at these—they're pearls. And
here—" Silence again, as she lifted the hem of the dress to the light
that came in from the open screens. That light was trapped by crystal,
and cast against the walls and the mats of this most private room.

"Yes," the Serra Teresa said quietly, and they all turned at
once at the sound of her voice. "They are diamonds from the Northern
mines. A gift from the Imperial hostages to the woman who will one day
be consort to the Tyr'agar himself."

Alana bowed, as did Illana; Illia dipped her body in a
graceful bend at the waist, but she held the dress, and this was not so
public an occasion that its safety was less important than her manners.

Only the Serra Fiona remained distant at the approach of the
Serra Teresa.

"How do you know that they're real?" Illia asked, as much to
break the uncomfortable silence as to satisfy her curiosity.

"I was there when Sendari grudgingly handed them, stone by
stone, to the Radann kai el'Sol." Her smile was less than kind, but not
less than perfect. "And the Radann kai el'Sol has Lambertan blood, even
if he chose to forsake his clan's name to join the priesthood. Those
stones are these stones." She crossed the room gracefully. "I am not
certain which I prefer, the Northern glitter, or the Eastern pearl."

For the first time, the Serra Diora spoke. "You prefer the
diamond," she said gravely, "because it is clear and hard and perfect;
it will not break or crack with time, and in the light of the Lord's
Sun, it shows its heart, and its heart is fire."

The Serra Teresa's dark brows rose in genuine surprise. "And
you, Na'dio?"

"You tell me," she said.

"
Na'dio
." Alana's stern voice was not
unlike the sound of a fist striking wood.

But the Serra Teresa seemed unperturbed by her niece's near
sullen display. "You prefer the pearl, because it comes from the water,
and its sheen is soft as silk; because each pearl comes from its shell,
unique; because the pearl takes its sand and its salt and in the deep
of a water that holds its mysteries from us, it makes a thing of
beauty. You love the pearl because it is delicate."

"Yes."

"And that is the way of your blood, Diora di'Marano. That you
love what is delicate. What you love, and what you are, these are
different things. If you must chose what to
be
,
learn from the diamond; the pearl will avail you nothing."

And then, to Diora's great surprise, the Serra Teresa bowed,
as if in deep respect, and left the room. She did not wait to see the
dress, or to see it fitted.

The General Alesso di'Marente did not trust the Sword of
Knowledge. He trusted the Widan Sendari, but made of him an exception.
Men who wielded the power of the mysteries were men who made of
themselves daggers or blades—and at that, blades without hilts, without
handles, things too dangerous to wield—and too tempting to permanently
destroy.

They could not be tempted with lands and titles; not in the
same way that true clansmen could. Their power, Sendari often said, was
knowledge, and they bartered with it as if it were land. Or water. Or
horses.

This was more true, he thought, of the Sword's Edge than it
was of any other Widan.

But Alesso was curious. And because he was, he had accepted
the offer extended him by Cortano di'Alexes, the man who, in Sendari's
estimation, was the most powerful—and dangerous—of the Widan. To accept
his offer, however, was a grueling affair. The sun was high, and hot,
and there were no awnings beneath which a man might find shade in the
open courtyard. There was also no fount, no water within easy reach, no
cushions or mats upon which to rest.

There were no serafs in the courtyard, and the men who stood
to either side of the open arch were armed only with the ruby-edged
golden sword that marked them clearly as Widan. The man to the left was
scarred by fire's hand, but the man to the right was as tall and proud
as any warrior born; Alesso did not wish to try their temper—or his
patience—by ignoring their decree.

And their decree was, ignobly enough, that he must wait,
without, like any common clansman. He waited, but his patience, such as
it was, was completely destroyed by the exercise, and when at last the
Widan Cortano di'Alexes emerged, in person, to greet him, he offered a
brusque bow and no words at all.

Cortano raised a peppered brow. "It is… good of you to wait,"
he said, his expression completely neutral.

"Yes," was the terse reply.

"I am about to make my rounds of the Tor Leonne, General. I
would appreciate your company."

"You have it," Alesso said evenly, "for as long as your
company interests me."

Not an auspicious beginning.

But the sunlight in the harsh and austere courtyard gave way
to the bower of trees meant to shield the inhabitants of the Tor from
the sun's harsh heat, and as they approached the lake itself, a breeze
blew across it, cool and fresh. The General won his war, and after a
moment, sunlight glittering safely off the surface of rippling water,
he spoke.

"We will, of course, be watched."

"Of course." The Widan shrugged. "But I know the Widan set to
watch us, and I believe he will hear little enough of what is said."

"I see." Pause. "May I ask who that Widan is?"

"You may, but I will not answer. The identity of a single
capable Widan is not of concern to me today. Nor should it be of
concern to you, General Alesso, unless what I have to say does not meet
with your approval."

"A threat. How… unwise."

The Sword's Edge offered the General a rare smile. "I am
seldom called unwise, General. It is almost amusing to hear the word
and realize it is spoken to me." The smile dimmed. "Almost." He knelt,
hiding his expression; his beard fell into the momentary lap his knees
made as his hand reached for, and entered, the lake. He did not rise,
however, but left his hand in the water as if it were a lily or an
anchor.

"If you wished to wage war against the Empire," he said
softly, "And I speak, of course, purely hypothetically, what is the
first step you would take?"

Alesso said nothing for a moment, thinking about the replies
he could make. About the cost of those replies, if this conversation
were, indeed, monitored by a Widan who reported to the Tyr'agar—or
worse, by a Widan who might enable the Tyr'agar to listen. "I do not
think," he said, distantly, "that I would wage war against the Empire."

"The clansmen desire it."

"The clansmen always desire it. For centuries, the demon Kings
have ruled lands that are ours by right. For a decade now, they have
ruled more, at great cost to us. But it was tried once. You must be
aware of it, Cortano; you were a part of the failed mountain
expedition."

"It was not a failure on our part," the Sword's Edge said,
bridling as any clansman might. "But it was costly; the timing was
poor. Many of the Widan perished in the crossing."

"And the Empire's mage-born scholars were a match for the
Sword of Knowledge, battled-honed or no." An insult. A calculated
insult.

The Sword's Edge kept his face turned toward a lake that moved
just a little too much to reflect it. "True enough," he said at last,
but coldly. "I ask you to think on this, then. If you were the
Tyr'agar—if you could reach that high, and hold what you did
reach—could you wage a war and win it?"

"I am not the Tyr'agar," Alesso said softly. "And I would not
be one."

"Ah. Then I fear I have misjudged you. Of the three Generals,
you were the only one that I felt had the steel necessary to replace
the Leonne Tyr as ruler of the Dominion."

The silence that followed was the silence of shock; Alesso
di'Marente held himself rigid a moment, his hand on the hilt of his
half-drawn sword.

"You are not a child, General. Spoken blasphemy carries no
weight unless it is heard, and the Lord of the Sun most certainly will
not pluck the words and carry them to the waiting ear of his vengeful
and petty Tyr." The Widan rose abruptly. "Do you think this is a test
of loyalty? You are beyond those tests here. As am I. Markaso di'Leonne
is a weak man, a weak Tyr; his bloodline has never been so diluted.

"Marente is not a strong clan. It would have been, under your
rule."

"Enough. I've told you—I do not wish to be Tyr'agar." He
paused, weighing his words, weighing the Widan's, coming up with no
balance that could be easily read. At last, grudgingly, he said, "I do
not have the blood."

"You speak of the Sun Sword."

As it wasn't a question, Alesso did not trouble himself to
answer. His hand did not leave his sword.

"Legend has it that the Sword itself will be true to the
bloodline as long as the bloodline exists." It was Cortano's turn to
pause, to weigh words; Alesso thought he saw the gathering of caution
in the older man's face. Until he spoke. "But Leonne is a small clan.
It has been harrowed by its own twice in the last three generations. It
is not widespread, and the sons—there are few enough. Let us be plain,
Alesso: If the clan is obliterated, the Sun Sword will take a new
master."

"And you are certain of this?"

Cortano smiled softly. "The Widan specialize in the knowledge
of the antiquities. I am as certain of this as I am of anything."

The sun across the water had never been so bright; the General
covered his eyes and turned away from the lake. Then, slowly, his hand
grew slack and fell to his side.

"It is not possible," he said. "We could take the Tor, with
the right allies, but the strike would have to be quick and complete."

"It would have to be delivered without warning, yes."

"Let us speak then, in your precious hypotheticals. If we were
to remove Leonne, the most likely outcome is that one of the Tyr'agnati
would step in, after a brief and bloody war, to inherit the waters of
Tor. I am not willing to risk the life I have for the benefit of
another clan."

"No." Cortano shrugged. "And I am not willing to waste the
life I have in the political machinations it would take to ensure your
position over the waters. "I will give you my support should you manage
to secure that title for yourself.

"But I have allies that would be interested in the rulership
of a military man, and it is for that reason alone that I have chosen
to approach you. Of the three Generals, you are the only one who, in my
opinion, has any chance at all of waging a successful war against the
Empire.

"If you would agree to wage such a war, I am certain that
they
would provide you with the political aid you might require." And as he
spoke these words, the Sword's Edge turned to face the General.

His eyes were as sharp and clear as blue diamonds, and as
hard. "Make of this what you will, General Alesso di'Marente. But make
your decision quickly."

"I will," the General replied, "make my decision in my own
time. If I am to be Tyr'agar, I am to be a man who is not beholden to a
Widan, be he Sword's Edge or designate."

Cortano nodded, expressionless.

The sun crept higher into a sky that was bounded by lake and
mountain and endless blue, its light changing the shadows cast by two
powerful men, alone, on the edge of the waters by which the ruler of
the Dominion was known.

Sendari watched his daughter from the distance of years and a
bitter fatigue. He knew her well enough to know that she was not
happy—but happiness, as Alana was wont to say, was for children, and in
a short time, the Serra Diora di'Marano would become the Serra Diora
en'Leonne—the woman emerging from the child like a chrysalis. And what
might he say to her then?

In the heat of the Emperal sun, he thought her fair and dark;
the shape of her face reminded him, like a heart blow, of another face,
on the verge of the same delicate balance between child and woman. Yet
Alora had never seemed a child to him, no matter that she was sweet and
joyful in her quiet, fierce way. He had seen, in his wife, the steel by
which men were made great; it lay beneath the front of her heart, and
it was unbreakable.