Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (60 page)

"Yes, my husband." She placed her hands in her lap, the very
picture of demure silence, for she knew, as well as he, that he could
not return it to this room unblooded.

Lift it, and he was committed to war, no matter how short and
one-sided. Or how long and bloody.

But demure or no, he knew his wife's measure. "And what would
you counsel, my delicate wife? If I am not to go to the Tor Leonne—what
does that leave me?"

She lifted her chin, it was the defining line of a strong
face. "A seventeen-year-old boy with the blood of a Tyr'agar weak
enough to be destroyed in one evening's short work." She paused. "And a
clansman you admire, who will pursue and support that boy to the best
of his ability."

The corded muscles of his arms tightened; the edge of his chin
touched the hollow of his collar. "I am a fool," he said, as his hand
closed.

Light caught the blade; Serra Amara gasped in a voice twenty
years younger than she as he raised it high and spoke a single word:
Callesta
.

Carelo kai di'Callesta was his mother's son in appearance, but
he had his father's youthful impatience and his father's temper. The
last of which, many said quietly, was not so bad a thing. Those who
knew of Serra Amara by hearsay said it because a Tyr'agnate who is too
gentle is merely weak, and a weak Tyr'agnate cannot rule a border
Terrean. Those who knew Serra Amara quite intimately said it because
such a temper was not to be trusted with the wise rule of a border
Terrean. Those in between felt that it was better that the son mirror
the father in as many ways as possible as a matter of principle.

"Kai di'Callesta," Serra Amara said, the formality of the
address a sign that she had grown weary with argument, "the Terrean
cannot be run solely on the basis of your fear of the good opinion of
other clans."

"Serra Amara," he replied, matching her formality with a
stiffness all his own, "I do not intend any insult to the way the Tyr
rules the Terrean. But what you have told me is—"

"What I have told you, I have told you at the behest of the
Tyr," she said, before he could, indeed, insult his father. Although
they were alone in the stone gardens, serafs toiled under the sun of
the Festival season, and how many of those serafs reported directly—and
secretly—to Ramiro, she did not know. But she was certain that there
was at least one, and she did not wish her son to endanger himself by
openly insulting the Tyr. That, Ramiro would not accept without
intervention, whatever he might choose to hear in private.

He understood her warning, and fell silent, but barely. In
that, he was like his father as a youth—and that man, Amara remembered
well, although the years had gentled the memory. "Carelo, before you
decide upon a course of action, know this: I support your father's
decision."

"And what would you have me say?"

"A good question." She rose. "I will leave you with it, but
will add this: There will be war, one way or the other."

"If we went to the Tor Leonne, the war would be with
Mancorvo—and Lamberto would finally be crushed!"

"Lamberto," she said evenly, thinking privately that her son
spent too much time with his riders, and not enough with his wife,
"will be a target for the new Tyr'agar. There is no question of it. But
think: He cannot be more of an enemy to Averda than he already is, and
Mareo di'Lamberto will accept no offers from the Tyr'agar. At worst,
Lamberto will fight two wars, but I think it likely that the raids
between Averda and Mancorvo—should we desire it—will end rather
abruptly."

"Serra Amara—"

"You are too trusting," she said coldly, resuming her seat.

Stung, he flushed.

"The General Alesso di'Marente controls perhaps half of the
armies of the Tyr'agar."

"More, if Baredan di'Navarre is to be believed."

She shrugged delicately. "More, then. Do you think fear of
these armies is enough to have the Tyr'agnati proclaim him Tyr'agar?"

Silence.

"Carelo, you will answer me."

Grudgingly, Carelo shook his young head. He was, Amara
thought, such a striking man. "No."

"No, then." She gestured; a seraf appeared at her side in an
instant with a goblet and a fan. She took the fan herself and sent him
on without speaking a word. "We know, from the reaction of Mareo
di'Lamberto, that Mareo was not one of the Tyr'agnate who supports
Alesso's bid. We know, because we are as surprised by Baredan
di'Navarre's news as Lamberto was, that we are also not one of the
clans upon whom Alesso's success rests. Think," she said, allowing
frustration to texture her tone.

"You think," he said slowly, "that Mancorvo and Averda are to
be among the spoils of the new Tyr's reign."

She almost clapped her hands, but stopped, closing them around
the stem of her goblet instead. Young men could be so headstrong. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, my son, he must have felt confident of the support
of two fourths of the Tyr'agnati—in no other way could he be proclaimed
Tyr'agar; the four would war among themselves for that right." She
paused. "Therefore, it is clear that Oerta and Sorgassa support him."

"But we can't stand for long against the armies of the
Tyr'agar." Here, he showed a glimmer of the pragmatism that had become
his father's strength. Young Alfredo, his brother, was just as likely
to stand against impossible odds with honor as he was to act
intelligently.

"Not if things remain as they are, no."

"Then let us enter our own negotiations with Marente, while
time remains. Averda is the richest of the Terreans. Let him lose one
of the three he holds instead."

"Possible." This time, there was respect in the word.
"However, negotiations rely on two things. One: that we have something
that he wants. Two: that he has something that we want. What do we
have?"

"We have Averda."

"And will we give that to his rule? I think not," she said
softly. "What else do we have?"

"Legitimacy."

"Yes. And it may be that in the months to come he will need
it. If, indeed, he does not choose to field his army the moment the
Festival of the Sun has ended.

"What does he have that we want?"

"Mancorvo."

"Promised, I believe, to someone else."

"Then nothing. We wish to rule our lands as we have, in peace."

"There will be no peace," she said again. "Because in order to
negotiate, two parties must be at equal strength, or at equal
disadvantage. Unless the situation changes, I would say that Alesso
di'Marente does not feel the need to bargain. It is rumored that he
holds the Radann, and they may very well be forced to bless his
rulership at the Festival—which means he does not need legitimacy.

"We have Averda, and he wants it. It is as simple, for the
moment, as that."

Carelo kai di'Callesta bowed his head, this time with genuine
respect.

"Na'care," she said, knowing that he hated the name, but
feeling fond enough to use it anyway. "You should spend more time with
your lovely wife."

He straightened his shoulders, striving to look anything but
the young Tyran. "We should begin to plan. Where is the Tyr' agnate to
be found?"

"He is currently inspecting the defenses along the southern
border."

"Without me?" Carelo bridled. Which was as Amara expected; the
border defenses were, after all, his command.

"Carelo, he left you in charge here. What better way to show
his trust could he have chosen?"

The son had the grace to redden, and when he rose and walked
away, his mother cast her gaze out to the standing rocks in the sparse,
empty space. She was disappointed.

Until she heard his voice again, at her back. "Serra Amara."

"Yes?"

"As we do not intend to negotiate with Marente, you expect
that we will have to face them on the field."

"Astute."

"Then you neglected to tell me how exactly it is that the
Tyr'agnate expects to be able to withstand the General's armies."

"Ah, Na'care, Na'care," she said, unmindful of who might hear
the pride in her voice, "we will make a ruler of you yet."

She did not, of course, expect him to like the answer.

Radann Fredero kai el'Sol,

Please accept our apologies for our inability to
attend the Festival of the Sun this year. The Radann in the Terrean of
Averda have been instructed to perform the proper rituals, and while we
fully understand that these rituals, so far from the Tor Leonne, are no
replacement for your exalted services, we feel in this clime that we
must make do with their lesser grace.

We would, of course, accept your invitation, but it
has come to our attention that Mareo di'Lamberto has not, and it places
us in a delicate situation. As you may be aware, the difficulties
between Lamberto and Callesta have grown ever more bitter; as of late,
we have lost a village, and during this season we cannot afford to lose
another. As Lamberto will remain within his Terrean, we do not have our
traditional guarantee that, for the Festival of the Sun, hostilities
will cease, and we cannot leave our Terrean open to attack by stripping
it of its most able leaders.

We hope that you will understand our difficulty and
speak a word on our behalf to the Lord.

The loss of the Tyr'agar is a blow to Callesta, but
the clan Leonne was small and perhaps not as strong in influence as it
might have been; the Dominion lost much in the wars under the
Tyr'agar's direction
—
Averda knows the truth of
that better than any Terrean. We have no desire to rule the Dominion,
nor would we accept the position were it to be offered to us. Yet we do
not believe that any of the current Tyr'agnati would suit better; if
there is to be a Tyr'agar, it is not from within the four that he is to
be found
.

The Radann have always given wise counsel, and it is
our belief that in such times, their counsel will, of course, continue
to be a wall against the wind. Should you desire it, we would be
pleased to enter into deliberations with regard to the seat of the Tor
Leonne.

—Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai di'Callesta

"Well?" Alesso di'Marente set the scroll aside.

"He's committed it to writing," the Widan Sendari said. He
lifted a goblet and a seraf, a young boy with perhaps too much energy,
filled it.

"Yes. And if it were written to me, I would accept it as an
offer."

Sendari shrugged. "There is no doubt that Baredan di'Navarre
traveled to Averda. Ramiro di'Callesta has never been a stupid man."

"No. Unfortunately."

"He does not choose to expose himself by presenting himself to
you directly at the Festival of the Sun. We both know, in his position,
that we would do the same."

Alesso frowned. "Yes."

Sendari set the goblet aside untouched, and began to stroke
the fine, long line of his beard. "He is no Lamberto, to stand on
points of honor."

"Do you think he would be satisfied to serve me?"

"If his other choice was annihilation, yes." Sendari's smile
was dark. "Alesso, we gambled, and in this case, it failed. We will
still own the Tor; even Ramiro di'Callesta acknowledges as much in the
letter to the Radann. Yes, it would have been better to have killed him
at the height of the Festival. But that was assassination, and this is
combat. You made your name in the latter, and not the former."

"Oh?" was the moody reply. "Tell that to the clan Leonne." He
reached out suddenly and grabbed Sendari's goblet; wine sloshed over
the rim, staining the cushions beneath his crossed legs. "I am not a
patient man, old friend. I see the need to act; I act. But in this—" He
lifted the cup to his lips and upended it.

"Enough, Alesso. Enough. Yes, we should have ridden to war.
And we can, if you judge the armies enough."

"They will not be enough." Alesso lifted the goblet with an
angry wave. It was filled. Quickly. "Oh, we could win a war against two
Terreans that will not stand together. But not without cost. Not
against those two. And after the war, what? You know where Baredan has
gone, old friend. You know what he was seeing." Fingers were as white
as aged silver against the goblet stem. "The sun-scorched child of an
ugly concubine. Legitimized and sent North to be forgotten."

"Yes. Ser Valedan."

They were silent a moment. "The Sun Sword," Alesso said
grimly. "Our cause will be hurt if I cannot wield it. Cannot the Widan—"

"No. And you know it. A blade that can cut through the shadows
that surround the kinlords will not be put off by our magics." His brow
furrowed, for the problem was an old one, and oft-asked. "Perhaps if
the Widan worked in concert—but I believe that we could not keep
knowledge of that from the clansmen, and that will hurt you more."

"Then we've no choice."

Sendari said nothing. It was the prudent course. But he sat
back uneasily against the sky-blue cushions, his throat too dry to
drink.

"Tell Tyran Calevro to make the Tor Leonne ready for the
public execution of the Northern hostages. Tell him to make their
deaths quick but bloody; they must be a insult—worse—to the
Northerners." He rose. "Then set a few of the Northern merchants free.
Let them carry the tale."

"They will slaughter all of the hostages, Alesso."

"That is the plan," was the cool, dry reply.

"The Tyr'agnati will have no choice but to call for blood, and
most certainly the Northerners—"

"The Northerners back away from war like beaten dogs whenever
the opportunity presents itself." He paused. "But of course, when it is
explained that the deaths were caused by a terrible political
unrest—when we send the heads and the rings of those involved—they will
bluster and ask for concessions. The hostages are not blood-kin,
remember."