Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (54 page)

22nd of Morel, 427
AA
Annagar, The Terrean of Averda,
Callesta

General Baredan kai di'Navarre saw the sun begin its ascent
over the last of his prayers, and rose, unbending his knees. For each
of three days he had wakened in darkness to begin this ritual, beneath
a sky shorn of roof and beam. No one else would bespeak the Lady for
the safe ascent of the Tyr Leonne, and it was clear that the clan now
resided beyond the Lord's reach or care.

All, he thought, save one, Lady be bountiful in her infinite
mercy.

He spilled wine, dark and rich, in a half circle at his feet;
the ground drank it in as he waited. No serafs attended him, but for
the moment, none were wanted. Had they been, there would still be none.
He had left the Tor Leonne in haste enough to preserve his life, but
little else of his fortune. Not since his youthful days as a common
cerdan in the Tyr'agar's armies had he traveled so poorly.

But it was in those days that he had distinguished himself in
the eyes of the kai di'Leonne, and for all the years of his service
thereafter, he served the kai—and then, when the time came, the
Tyr—with pride. With honor.

Markaso. He was younger then; the winds had carried him far
from youth.

When the sun had fully crested the horizon, and not before,
Baredan opened his lips on a different prayer: one for the clan
Navarre. He had thought to do without, and grimaced; it seemed, in dark
times, that there was never an end to prayer.

He'd sent word, of course, once he'd cleared the Tor Leonne;
had it not been for the coming Festival, he would have been found with
his clan. They lived in the heart of the Terrean of Raverra, and there
was no question in Baredan's mind that that Terrean belonged to Alesso.
Let warning only reach them, and he would serve the Lady for life.

As it was, he had escaped by dressing as a seraf, answering
the Tyran's summons to the welcome gate, and racing in search of his
"master" at their behest. He had always been a good lord to those who
served his clan. His wife's advice. He had chosen to take her advice in
such matters—the serafs were, by and large, the concern of the
women—but he had never been so grateful for her wisdom. Ten serafs had
seen him pass in his hasty disguise. Any one of them might have
spoken—and gained much for it.

He hoped they did not lose in equal measure for their silence.

Bardur had been waiting for him with tack and bridle in the
stables. The stables. He grimaced. More than one loss, this war. And it
would be war.

Michaele. His kai.

"General di'Navarre."

He turned, surprised. A respectful distance away, unattended
by even the most trusted of his Tyran, stood the man who had been the
second most powerful in the Dominion. Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai
di'Callesta. His dark hair looked peppered, and the winds had carved
their lines into his brow, the corners of his eyes. But his eyes were
still the hawk's, piercing in their clarity.

He knew the Tyr'agnate on sight; not a man whose care had been
the protection of the Tyr'agar did not. Men in power were always a
threat; they had to be watched.

And who watched the watchers? Bitter thought, that. He was
sorry that the ceremony of placation required so much wine; he had a
sudden thirst for it. "Tyr'agnate kai di'Callesta."

"Call me Ramiro. I have no doubt that you have called me
worse."

"Not in audience," Baredan replied, smiling. It surprised him;
he had not smiled in weeks.

"This is no audience," the Tyr'agnate replied. "It is a chance
meeting of two solitary men who seek the blessing of the Lord of the
Dawn."

Ramiro di'Callesta sought no one's blessing. Again, Baredan
felt his lips tugged up.

"Walk with me."

A command. Baredan nodded; he felt no need to assert his
authority here. He had, after all, very little of it with the passing
of the Tyr. His knees were still damp from the dew, his cloak's edge
wet; what further proof of the day's supplication could be asked for?
And a man who had been on his knees in such a fashion was not a man to
command this Tyr'agnate. If any man was.

The lands of Averda were the richest in the Dominion. Almost
anything could be grown here; there was even an abundance of fruit in
the wild, untended by anything save the sight of the Lord. A man could
grow soft here. Baredan cast a sideways glance at his companion's
profile. It gave nothing away.

He cursed his luck quietly.

Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto was the only man of the Five he
trusted—the only man whose honor was above question. But he was also
known for his hatred of the Essalieyanese, and Baredan di'Navarre
intended to cross the borders between their countries. To ask, although
it galled him, for their aid. He could not do so without the knowledge
of the Tyr whose border he crossed.

And perhaps, knowing that the last di'Leonne might survive in
the foreign court, the Tyr'agnate of Mancorvo would accede to Baredan's
request. But perhaps not—and if not, the flight was over, the war
stillborn. It was too great a risk; Mareo could not be moved once he
had reached his decision.

Mareo, however, was not his concern; this man was. He did not
know Ramiro di'Callesta well. Averda continued to trade and barter with
the foreign merchants and their kin; the roads were kept open, the
taxes paid.

The grasslands stretched out before them as far as the eye
could see, changing only in color and texture in the valley below. A
crop of some sort.

"Do you know your histories, di'Navarre?"

It was not the question he expected. "Military histories, yes."

"Good." He paused, bent down, and lifted a small weed from
beneath his toes. Frowned a moment, before crushing it and letting it
fall back to earth. "Then you know of the clan wars that ended only
with the rise of the clan Leonne."

Baredan nodded. "A bitter time."

"Two clans were razed to the ground. Not even daughters were
spared." Ramiro folded gloved hands behind his back as he came to stand
at the edge of the gentle slope that led valleyward. The sun cast his
shadow, stilettolike, down the slopes. "The villages were burned and
burned again where people were foolish enough to rebuild; the serafs
were slaughtered like pigs."

"It was war," Baredan said.

"Ah, yes. Of course." He lifted his chin slightly. "And your
lands have not known war for a very long time. But mine have; I was
born to it."

"I fought in the Dominion-Imperial wars."

"So you did." Ramiro's smile was an odd one. "As did I. We
were both younger men then. We found our glory."

He fell silent again, as he watched the valley below. Serafs
toiled in the fields, digging and weeding; here and there, children
pushed their way against the tide of stalks that towered over their
heads, bending them wayward in their wake. "I do not want a war,"
Ramiro said at last. "I do not expect you to understand why."

Baredan froze under the heat of the rising sun.

"If I do as you desire, you will take a small cadre of my
men—my Tyran—and you will ride in haste and speed to the court of the
Imperial Kings, holding a writ with my seal and my guarantee."

The General said nothing. He had made no formal request, but
he acknowledged, by his silence, the perception of the Tyr'agnate.

"In the court, if all is as you hope, you will find the lone
member of the Leonne clan still alive. And what will you have when you
find him?" Ramiro turned from the fields below to face Baredan
di'Navarre. "You will have the son of a concubine, raised to full clan
status solely as a sop to the foreigners' idea of acceptable hostages.
He will be no more than seventeen turnings, and over half of them will
have been spent in the courts of the foreign Kings." His gaze was
intent and unblinking. "And what will you do with such a boy?"

"He is less than one year off his manhood," Baredan replied
through clenched teeth.

"Or many. He was not raised in the Dominion. Or are you naive
enough to expect blood to run true?"

"If you are not inclined to aid me, then I ask that you do not
impede."

"Which is why you came to Averda instead of passing through
Mancorvo."

"The Mancorvan border is almost impassable; you know that as
well as I."

"Yes," Ramiro di'Callesta replied. "Or better." There was
anger in the two words, but they did not rise to the surface. Old
wounds, between these two Tyrs. "But you have not answered my question,
Baredan—and I will not answer all of my questions for myself. If you
find the boy, what will you do?"

"We don't even know if he's still alive," Baredan said softly.

"Not an answer, but I will tell you this: The boy, as of a
threeday of hard riding, is still alive." Ramiro's smile was sharp as a
knife's edge. "Although word is slow to escape the Tor Leonne, we have
managed to ascertain one important fact: Alesso di'Marente has not
dared to touch the Sun Sword." The smile was gone as quickly as it had
come. "The boy?"

But Baredan was silent a moment as the full import of the
Tyr's words took root. He had not thought to know the full truth one
way or the other until he reached the foreign court. Hope caught in his
throat a moment; he forced it down, down. Care was needed here. "I will
carry word of the massacre to Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne. By the law of
the Lord of the Sun, he is the Tyr. If he wills it, I will join his
cause, and we will return to the Dominion."

"The army is Alesso's."

Baredan grimaced, but shrugged. "He does not control the whole
of the army."

"The first and the second," Ramiro replied grimly. "The third
was scattered across the Dominion on fool's errands. Those that cannot
be turned will be easy fodder for the rest."

"It is not so easy to break an army as that. They were my men,
and they will remain so."

At that, a brief, sharp smile touched the Tyr's lips. "Very
well. So you think to stand against Alesso di'Marente with some part of
the third?"

"Averda and Mancorvo have their cerdan."

Ramiro of Averda raised a peppered brow, and then, of all
things, laughed. The wind carried the sound of his voice to the valley
below where one or two of the serafs looked up, shielding their eyes
against the rays of the rising sun. Seeing only two lone men, they went
back to their travails without the proper obeisances.

"It may have escaped your attention, kai di'Navarre, but the
cerdan of Averda and Mancorvo spend much of their time fighting each
other. How do you propose to put two such men as Mareo and I upon the
same side? I tell you now, he will not bend." The mirth was slow to
fade, but when it did, it was gone. "No, the time has come for truth,
and I will have it.

"What do you intend, Baredan?"

Say it
, the General thought, staring into
the valley as the wind whispered through the tall stalks below.
He
already knows
. But he found it hard; he had not yet spoken
the words aloud, and they were tainted everywhere with the feel of
treason, of treachery.

No. The treachery was not his alone; the Lord's laws were
clear. Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne awaited him in Essalieyan.

"I will ask the foreign Kings for aid," he said softly, so
softly that he could barely hear the words. "If they offer it, we will
ride to Annagar with an army to rival Alesso di'Marente's."

Ramiro's face was completely neutral as he listened to the
General's quiet words. "You were wise indeed not to attempt such a
passage through Mancorvo. Three days hence, kai di'Navarre, you will
ride North with my personal representative."

The General's eyes widened.

"You do not know the foreigners except by spy and diplomat;
you do not speak their tongue well, and you do not understand their
laws. We have personally negotiated the fees and taxes for the trade
routes between Averda and the Kings' court; they know us, and we, them.
My representatives have their trust—if such a thing is ever given. They
have been," he added, with a slightly edged smile, "as you well know, a
source of Averdan trade."

Baredan knew it; all of Annagar did. It was whispered— or,
after drinking among the unwise, spoken out loud—that Tyr'agnate Ramiro
di'Callesta paid the price of honor for the sake of money—and at that,
foreign gold. "Come. The morning chimes are about to be sounded, and we
are expected."

All things moved at Ramiro di'Callesta's command in the
Terrean of Averda. Breeze carried the sonorous notes of the domo's
silver bells.

Lord's light came in through the clear, clean glass, casting
no obvious shadow. Beneath it, unfettered by the presence of human
hands and human garb, the Sun Sword sat atop a golden bier, a curved
perfect crescent of gleaming light. Layers of metal had been folded and
kneaded together to produce its blade—but which metals, and by what
process, no swordsmith in the Dominion could now say. The hand that had
crafted this sword had crafted it in secrecy, and the secrets of its
making had been taken into the Lady's darkness when he departed the
Lord's dominion.

She knew the last time that she had seen this Sword
worn—remembered clearly the last time that she had seen it drawn. Her
wedding. She'd thought to see it carried, in time, by the children she
would bear.

It was almost too much.

But no; no. She took a breath, a perfect breath. The Sword.
There were always legends, and when they failed, histories. The people
of the Dominion of Annagar knew these two things about the Sun Sword:
that it could not be returned, unblooded, to its scabbard, and that it
would not suffer the touch of one who was not of the clan Leonne while
any son of that clan lived.

Fools believed it wholeheartedly; the wise demurred. But the
Widan cautioned those who would test the truth of old histories to
think carefully before they made their gamble. So other legends rose:
that even the Widan, who crafted the light of the Lord into fire that
could be held and thrown by mortal hands, feared the touch of the Sun
Sword.