Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (64 page)

Stealing a glance at his profile, she was chagrined to meet
his piercing gaze. He was a striking man—not the sort of man that she
would have ever guessed would be a servant to anyone else's whim or
desire, be they King or even God. But he had chosen the life of a
domicis, and he fulfilled it, if not graciously, then well.

Jewel, used to this exchange, ignored it. "Yes, I did. Wake
Morretz. Tell him we need to see The Terafin at once."

"We?"

"I."

"Very well."

Jewel sat in the near darkness of mage-light. Amarais
Handernesse ATerafin—The Terafin—sat as well; there was an intimacy in
the setting that spoke of the years of trust between them. Morretz, the
domicis of The Terafin, stood behind her, his brass hair pale in the
shadows, his blue eyes untouched by the darkness. Avandar, the domicis
of Jewel, stood beside' her, arms folded almost lazily, hair dark, eyes
dark, demeanor cool. They were a study in opposites, these two men.

The women ignored them.

"Jewel," The Terafin said. "It is late."

Jewel nodded and drew breath. "The Ten meet in the morning."

"Yes. It was," The Terafin added dryly, "to be a secret
meeting."

"They'll vote to kill the hostages."

The older woman stiffened. "We," she said coldly, "will vote.
This is not a matter open to House Council discussion, Jewel. It is a
decision that I have made, and I favor it."

"Unfavor it," the younger woman said, heated where The Terafin
was cool. Morretz cleared his throat, and Jewel subsided, sitting back
into the rests of her chair without realizing that she'd begun to leave
it. "Terafin," she said, and then, "Amarais."

"This is a seeing."

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"If we kill the hostages, we will lose the war."

Avandar's head swiveled to the side. "You made no mention of
war."

"I didn't have the time."

"It's a long walk from your rooms."

"I don't owe you explanations, Avandar. Or is hearing the
truth at the same time as The Terafin not good enough?"

He said nothing at all, but stepped back, bowing as if the
gesture were a reprimand.

"Do you think the Southerners intend war?" The Terafin waited
a moment and then reached out to the side, gesturing. Morretz nodded,
and the lamps flared eerily, brighter in their burning although the
height and the width of the flames did not increase. In the new light,
the older woman studied the lines of the younger woman's face as they
blended with sweat and strain and certainty. She had come to this house
a young woman of fifteen or sixteen years; she had grown much, in the
intervening seventeen years, both in power and in wisdom. Her temper,
however, had not changed greatly. "You cannot call the vision back."

"No, Terafin." She did not add that she was not certain she
would if it were possible. Was it imagination? Was it more? For she
thought she saw the shadows at The Terafin's back stirring with
unwelcome, unnatural life. "I don't know what the Southerners intend.
At this point, I wouldn't bet money they do. But I do know this: We
can't kill those hostages, or we've already lost."

"Jewel, you're young yet."

"I'm thirty-two."

"Yes." The Terafin rose. "What good are hostages if your enemy
knows, with certainty, that you will never use them?"

"They can't know—"

"They can. And they will, the moment we fail in our resolve.
Those men and women who are now confined in the King's Palace—they came
as both guarantee of peace and sacrifice should the situation change.
Have you read Goderwin's report?"

"Yes."

"Then you know who died, and how."

Jewel, tight-lipped, said nothing.

"This is not savagery, Jewel, it is politics. Every Annagarian
noble within the Tor saw those deaths; it is too close to their
Festival of the Sun for things to unfold otherwise. The Annagarians
respect power and its practice. If we fail in our resolve, there may
well be war, and it will be entered into lightly. By the clansmen."

Jewel rose as well; the two women exchanged a brief glance. It
was the younger who looked away. But as she turned for the door, she
said, "I didn't start out ATerafin; I started out in the twenty-fifth
holding, with no money, no luck, and my den. I love my den. I chose
them. I trained them, and I protected them. But I couldn't protect them
all." Hard lesson to learn, that one. "When Lander died, back then, we
knew it was because of the interference of a rival den, led by a boy
called Carmenta. Have I told you this?"

"I don't believe you have."

"I made sure that Carmenta died for it. Wasn't his fault, in
the end; certainly wasn't the fault of the rest of his den.

"And they died horribly. Probably slowly. There were two
bodies the magisterians couldn't even identify without the help of the
Order's best mages."

"Jewel."

"I told myself, I didn't know. I told myself that it wasn't my
hand that killed them. But I'm seer-born. I knew that a creature that
was masquerading as a friend, even then, was a killer. I knew it. And I
knew that if I told him that Carmenta and his gang were a threat to the
undercity, they'd die."

"These situations aren't the same, Jewel. A den is not a
House."

"No. A den isn't a House. As a denleader, I had the luxury of
being vengeful."

Silence, utter and profound. Amarais was quiet in her anger.

Mirialyn ACormaris stood stiffly in the Hall of the Wise,
listening to the rage in her father's voice. Her father, King Cormalyn,
the god-born son of the Lord of Wisdom, had never once raised his voice
in her living memory. He spoke now with a voice that took the years
from him, and a Wisdom-born man made, at best, an uneasy compromise
with youth. His golden eyes were flashing; she could see their
reflection in the armor of the man he argued with. The gods were here,
in strength and power.

The Queen Marieyan, silver-haired and delicate in seeming,
bent her head a moment, and then lifted it, resolute. She reached out
to touch her daughter's shoulder; her grip was strong. "Do not
interfere," she said quietly. Beside her, standing as ill at ease as
Mirialyn, stood the Queen Siodonay the Fair. Like the Princess, she was
armed as for battle, and like the Princess, she was stricken into a
stillness and silence that was, for her, unusual.

Mirialyn shook her head mutely. Interfere? Between these two?
She could not conceive of such an action as a possibility.

King Reymalyn's face was pale, but his voice was as loud as
her father's, his eyes as bright. "And where is the justice in that?"

"Where is the justice in the slaughter of innocents?"

"These are hostages, brother—or have you forgotten?" He lifted
his sword—his sword, bright and gleaming, lightning with haft—in mailed
fist. "Those who died were our people and our care. We have always
taken steps to ensure that they would not be threatened by our actions.
And how has such peaceful intent been rewarded? They were slaughtered
for sport!"

"I do not deny it, but I—"

"You will do as you agreed—as we both did. Here," he said, and
in his free hand he raised a signed and sealed scroll. The force of his
hand should have crushed it, but such treaties were protected by the
craft of the Order of Knowledge against the ravages of time or
handling. "This is the treaty we signed. Read it."

"I remember it well. I wrote it."

"Then you know that the Annagarians have forfeited their
rights here. A death for a death."

"Has it not occurred to you, brother, that there was a reason
beyond the sport of slaughter for these deaths? Has it not become clear
to you that we have, among these hostages, the one man who can lay
claim to the Tor Leonne?"

"And is the Tor our desire?"

"Reymalyn—"

"No. No, I tell you. This is not a day for politics. Ask
them," he said, throwing his arm wide to take in the vastness of the
city that lay beneath night's cover without, "Ask them what they
desire. They will tell you what they know to be
right
."

"They will tell you," Queen Siodonay said suddenly, her voice
trembling, "what you desire to hear. But it will not necessarily be the
answer to our predicament." As she spoke, her voice grew stronger. "No,
husband, hear me. It is my right.

"This is a dangerous time for the Empire. You and King
Cormalyn have been, and will be, our best defense should defense be
required. But you cannot be seen thus—quarreling like angry children."

Even King Cormalyn was shocked into silence.

Queen Marieyan nodded softly.

"The Ten offered hostages. The Ten have suffered the loss. The
Ten will meet—as you know they will—to discuss the fate of the
Annagarians now confined in the Arannan Halls.

"You are of the gods, and your parents make their demands
known now; in this matter, your blood rules you both too dearly. You
are what the Empire has always needed, almost all of the time. But this
atrocity, my Lords—this atrocity is a matter of men, and for men. Let
The Ten decide as they must."

"Well said, Queen Siodonay." King Cormalyn bowed.

"Reymalyn?"

"They are the injured parties," he said, but it was grudging.

"Yes," she replied softly. "Trust them to make their
decisions. The dead ride them harder than they ride even you."

Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta bowed very low as he entered the
presence of Ser Valedan di'Leonne. He was the only clansman to do so,
and Ser Valedan stared at him uneasily as he exposed the back of his
neck. If Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta was aware of this singular lack of
grace, he did not show it at all. He was the last of the Annagarian
hostages to be escorted into the open-air courtyard; the others—those
sent by Garrardi and Lorenza—had come an hour past, and had gathered in
the corner farthest from both the open arches and the Swords that
waited beyond.

Ser Fillipo was the most important man in the courtyard. He
had six cerdan and ten serafs; he had two wives present and three
children. He was tall, he fought well, and he rode a horse as if two
legs were unnatural. Averda, of all the five Terreans, had taken the
treaty between the Dominion and the Empire very seriously. Ser Fillipo
was the brother of the ruler of Averda, a par. Serra Alina had often
called him the second son of a man who was lucky beyond the whim of
fortune to have one of such caliber, let alone two.

He was, in too many things, all that Valedan was not. Already,
the clansmen were coming from the corners of the courtyard in which
they found refuge, as if Ser Fillipo's presence could bring order,
reason, and safety. Especially safety.

"Ser Valedan," Serra Alina whispered.

Valedan glanced at her, and then realized that Ser Fillipo had
no intention of rising until such permission was granted. He had seen
this posture many times before, during the Festival seasons when the
children of the concubines could wander the Tor Leonne freely, spying
on the clansmen, and joining their children in sports, in song, and in
other less approved of games.

"Rise," he said, and his voice was very quiet—but it was
steady.

Ser Fillipo rose. If the position was natural in seeming, it
was not in truth, and he shed it quickly. "Serra Alina."

"Ser Fillipo."

"Have you had news?"

"I? But I am merely a Serra. Surely the clansmen—"

"Enough. I was considered enough of a danger that I was
detained. I have not had the time, nor do we have it now. Speak."

Her smile was edged as his tone; sharp and hard. "At your
command, Ser Fillipo." She bowed; the bow fell short of perfect grace.
"Mirialyn ACormaris has come twice. She believes—although she will not
say for certain—that The Ten meet on the morrow to decide our fate."
She paused, as if to gather breath, and the simmering anger left her
features, emptying them in a rush. "I was able to obtain, from another
source, a written copy of the report made to The Terafin."

He held out a hand, and she reached into the folds of her
sari. There was no question of etiquette, no subtle struggle, as she
handed him the papers.

Valedan saw Ser Fillipo pale.

His mother began to cry.

Ser Oscari began to shout.

Serra Helena began to wail.

It was too much. This courtyard, with its fountain, its quiet,
open space, its familiar stone walls and unadorned floors had oft been
his retreat. He drew breath, and even the air that filled his lungs
felt stale and dirty.

"ENOUGH!"

Silence descended at his word.

Serra Alina was the first to drop, and she dropped into a
fully executed crouch, knees against what would, in the South, have
been smooth mats, not rough stone, forehead against her knees.

Women held no legal title in the Dominion, but they held a
subtle power; Serra Alina was the most notable woman present. As she,
the other Serras bowed down to the floor, their unadorned hair falling
like scattered strands of shadow.

Ser Valedan di'Leonne turned his gaze to the men.

Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta met the young man's gaze, held it
a moment, and then raised a brow. It was a flicker of expression that
held—of all things—a certain amusement. And then, he spoke a single
word. "Tyr'agar."

The silence became absolute.

"Tyr'agar?" Ser Oscari, sputtering as if he'd been caught
mid-drink with a joke. "Ser Fillipo, surely you jest? Why the boy's—"

The overweight, overfamiliar man gaped a moment, and then, as
Fillipo turned to face him, actually reddened. "Ser Fillipo," he
mumbled. And then, turning, "Tyr'agar." The five cerdan who were
Fillipo's escort found the stones as well, and hugged them almost—but
not quite— as closely as the women.

Ser Mauro di'Garrardi, a young man of Valedan's age, shrugged
a lithe shoulder. His was the acknowledged beauty of the foreign
Annagarian court, and he knew it. He did not flaunt, but he did not
hide; there was nothing false, in either direction, about Mauro.