Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (15 page)

"There should be no question," Devran said. "The boy himself, shorn of those two allies, is less of a threat, but if he can answer the inevitable questions Ramiro di'Callesta will put to him, it will lay our logistic system open for Callestan inspection. The Tyr'agnate can travel in safety to the South; tell the boy that our armies will meet up with the Callestan army when we cross the border."

"I'm afraid," the Eagle said softly, "that it's not that simple."

Duarte AKalakar's gaze was like the Lord's as he met Valedan's unblinking stare. They were separated by more years than Valedan kai di'Leonne had lived, and by vastly more experience, but in the end it was Duarte who looked away. Here, in the privacy of the chambers that served as Valedan's only palace until the campaign in the South was won—or lost—he could afford to do so.

But the Ospreys were restless, and some, driven by memories of the Southern valleys and the slaughter of the compatriots that Duarte himself had chosen—
don't go there, not now, not in front of the kai
—had already begun to circle. There was an intensity to the practice field that spoke— movement for movement, word for word, silence for silence—of death, of killing.

The Ospreys had never been a force comfortable with peace. They were waking now.

And in a place they would never have woken, had they a choice, although it was not as uncomfortable as they feared it might be: as guards for, guardians of, a
Southern
noble.

Duarte AKalakar could no longer afford any sign of weakness. Not only must he expunge all gestures that might make him
appear
weak, he must also expunge the weakness that led to the gesture.

"There are other guards you might choose," he said at last, uncomfortable in the silence. "Certainly," he added, with a touch of grim humor, "more tractable or obedient guards; guards with an understanding of the gravity of your situation—and of your station."

"True," Valedan said, in the tone of voice that indicates conversational placeholder rather than agreement. It was a mannerism of the South, to give the appearance of agreement, rather than its substance. Duarte wondered when Valedan had adopted it.

"But if you choose to retain the Ospreys in the role appointed for them, there is no safe way for us to cross the border without the army."

"The Callestan—"

"Kai Leonne," he said softly, "with all due respect, I must say that you have not spoken with the Tyr'agnate if you can even suggest that we might follow you ahead of the army into
that
territory."

"The Tyr'agnate has control of his forces, surely?"

"Of his forces, yes. And anyone who disobeys his orders will die. But so will my men. And in numbers. We are not… well-loved… in the South. Our colors are known."

"And you would have me accept Callestan Tyran in your place?"

"With all due respect," Duarte said, in a way that might make another man wonder exactly how much respect
was
due, "it's been a long time since you lived in the South. You know how well the Ospreys fare during dress inspection or dress maneuvers. Imagine that your rank and your standing depend on our ability to be perfect."

Valedan's expression shifted; it was a barely perceptible motion.

"If you choose to—"

The doors—the heavy, Northern doors which would be so out of place in the heart of the South—flew open.

Or so it appeared—but instead of spinning on hinges, they
continued
into the room, driven as they were by the force of a very large object.

Two swords were drawn by the time that object gained height and shape, unfurling obsidian limbs—legs and arms that gave it reach, hands whose fingers extended into gleaming, and familiar, blades.

Duarte cursed in a way completely inappropriate to Valedan's station; Valedan, however, did not move.

Something outside in the hall was cursing with the easy inventiveness of someone who does little else. "Gods curse you, Kiriel!
Wait for me
!"

Kiriel di'Ashaf, blade drawn, leaped into the breach of the now doorless entry as if she hadn't heard the words. Judging by the ferocity of her intent, it was a good bet she hadn't.

"Tyr'agar," Duarte said, sliding into the formality that came with so much difficulty to the rest of the Ospreys, "I suggest you stand behind me." He gestured, his hands moving with less grace and less force than Kiriel's sword, as the demon pulled back its arm and let something fly.

Whatever it was, it glanced off the air, skittered groundward, scudding off soft carpet and clattering into stillness against the cool stone.

"A good suggestion," Valedan replied, his words lost to the creature's frustrated roar.

Kiriel di'Ashaf had changed. The first time Duarte had been introduced to her, he had had to battle the urge to look over his shoulder any time he was forced to turn his back, and in truth, he had done all in his power to ensure that it was seldom necessary. But something had happened to her; something that she would not speak of. He was uncertain that she understood it herself.

She had lost some of her speed, some of her edge, all of the sense of menace that could make a man's hair stand on edge when she did nothing at all.

But what she was left with had become, over the course of three months, good enough.

Good enough, at any rate, that she had beaten Auralis through the open door carrying a sword that was heavier than his when he outweighed her by, at best guess, more than half. She charged toward the demon—just as Auralis himself would have done—as if she still possessed all of the terrible strength which none of the Ospreys had forgotten— and all of the Ospreys would have liked to.

But she pulled up at the last minute, her headlong rush trailing into a circling pattern that seemed only slightly slower. Auralis, still cursing, joined her, weaving in the other direction, matching her speed until he came to face her; only then did he shift to match her chosen circle— counterclockwise—his steps short and quick, his sword jumping from hand to hand.

Through the open door, footsteps were caught by the high ceiling and their sound deepened; Duarte was used to this effect and guessed—correctly—that the next person to tumble lightly through the door would be Alexis AKalakar. She came up with a dagger, but she came up near the wall, using the flat expanse of stone surface to guard her back. Sanderton joined the circle that Auralis and Kiriel traced, by step alone, in the carpet; Cook gave him just enough room to safely follow his drawn sword. They were sweating.

Kiriel, Duarte mused, had lost much of her ability, or so she claimed. He did not actually believe it, although he believed that
she
did; her instincts were far, far too good. She had led them; they had followed. And, as usual, she was both right and in time.

The creature was of a type that they had seen before. It roared its fury at Kiriel. She did not roar back. She might have, once, but the single time she had tried it since she had lost some of her strength, the sound had been high and weak. It had had the effect of astonishing the creature— which the Ospreys took immediate advantage of. They weren't proud; they took what they could, when they could, being fond of life. But she had made no other sound during the combat and afterward she had disappeared. Auralis, after cleaning the blood off his sword, disappeared as well, and when he returned, she walked in a grim silence by his side.

Thereafter, when she chose to speak in combat, she used words.

Or, Duarte thought, her sword.

There was, between Kiriel and Auralis, a very odd friendship. Based on instability, fear, and a hatred of the kin, it was bolstered by a competitive streak that had caused the deaths of lesser—and younger—men. Well, men younger than Auralis.

The two understood that the kin were deadly; they understood that the kin were
fast
. They also wanted to land two blows: the first one, and the one that killed the creature. It was a game, but a desperate game, a game that drove them both to dance on a very fine, very sharp edge.

Duarte was amazed that one, or the other, had not yet been killed or maimed, a sure sign that Kalliaris still favored the mad.

Auralis landed the first blow. He often did, to Kiriel's great annoyance. The kin focused on her when she was in the room; it was almost as if they could not conceive of the danger any other mortal represented. If they were capable of mounting a strong offense, she bore the brunt of it; if they were capable of solid, impassable defense, they turned it in her direction. It was a wonder that Auralis was not farther ahead in their contest.

But… to Auralis' great annoyance, it was almost always Kiriel who landed the killing blow, and in this case it happened almost on the heels of Auralis' victory; the creature, circled now by four swords, and watched by Alexis and Duarte, either of whom could offer less obvious means of damage, roared at the bite of the blade. The injury itself was minor.

The mistake of allowing it to be a distraction was not. The creature's attention wavered from Kiriel's blade.

If Kiriel had lost the darkness that had given her a quiet and natural menace, her sword had not; there was something about the blade itself that made any other death seem welcome. There was a tendency to take a step back when the blade was drawn, even if you happened to be engaged in combat at the time it left its sheath.

The only person who seemed immune to the subtlety of its menace was Auralis; twice now, the two Ospreys had crossed swords—without demanding a subsequent trial by combat. Which was good; he was certain that one of them wouldn't survive it, no matter what rules of conduct were laid down before its start.

The blade seemed to lead Kiriel's hands as it bisected the creature from the crook of its neck on the right to the pit of its arm on the left.

Auralis' cursing could be heard
over
the creature's brief scream. It continued as the upper shoulder, arm, and head toppled to the carpet. The circling Ospreys jumped back to avoid the splash of its blood. Something else they'd learned the hard way.

Duarte waited; the body did
not
vanish. His glance met Alexis', briefly. She nodded.

He turned back to the kai Leonne, who was waiting patiently, his hand nowhere near the hilt of his plain but fine sword.

"Tell me again," Valedan said calmly, surveying the fallen, the standing—and the ruined carpet which lay beneath them both—with a calm that Duarte found slightly unnerving, "why you believe anyone else would make a suitable personal guard for my particular circumstance."

Ramiro di'Callesta was impatient.

Had Valedan been any other Tyr, the Callestan Tyr'agnate would have been far away, in the heart of Averda, gathering his men, planning their routes; deciding which of his villages he could afford to sacrifice, and which he was likely to lose regardless. He would have taken his par with him; would have left surrounded by the Tyran that were the most trusted men in the Dominion of Annagar; his blood, his brothers.

But Valedan was Valedan, raised in the Northern Court and therefore surrounded by Northern advisers with their superficial understanding of the South. The only adviser of note that the kai Leonne had was the Serra Alina di'Lamberto—a woman Ramiro felt disinclined to trust, if one ever trusted a woman one did not own or father.

"Tyr'agnate," a man said, and the Callestan Tyr waited the count of three full breaths before he turned to face the General Baredan di'Navarre. At the General's back, sunlight glinted off seawater. Averda was bounded on one side by the vastness of oceans, and the Callestan Tyr, as all Tyrs before him, professed no great love of the sea; men of power in the South were bred by the desert of sand and wind and sun; their endurance was strengthened by heat, their lives were scoured of weakness by the grit of sandstorm, their resolve tested by the screaming howl of the wind, and by the sudden, inexplicable chill of the night, the Lady's cold reception for men who truly served the Lord.

No Tyr would profess any knowledge of, any desire for, the sea; Ramiro understood this well.

And yet he found himself by the seawall often, his men at a remove, both physically and intellectually. Here, he might stare out into the bay, where at any point vessels scudded gently over the lap of waves as they came to harbor, or left it, at the whim of men too foolish to understand the true value of land.

He had made it a point to gain all possible information about these vessels, and he had discovered that the Northerners guarded nothing as jealously as they did their ships. Whole nations, he felt, were almost beside the point to the men who sailed the grandest of these vessels; and upon the water, no matter who their allegiance might in theory be to, they ruled as little kings if they owned small fleets.

He wondered at the word: fleet. It implied speed, and certainly, watching the ships recede, it seemed an appropriate word. Hands behind his back, he would watch the great sails come down, billowing in wind that was the only thing over which these captains could not exert immediate control.

It had not escaped his notice that the number of ships coming into, and leaving, the port city had increased as the time to move the armies South drew near.

Nor had it escaped Baredan's.

No Southerners of their rank had ever been this far North this close to the beginning of a campaign. Curiosity was a poor word for the avid interest he felt but did not openly display; years from now, a better understanding of the movement of armies might give him an advantage that no Southerner had ever had when faced with Imperials at war.

"It is," Baredan said softly, reaching into the folds of his robes and drawing out a scroll, "as expected."

"Indeed."

The General handed the scroll to the Callestan Tyr; Ramiro unfurled it. There, in perfect Torra, was a graceful, even elegantly worded letter. Had it not, in fact,
been
a letter, had it not been committed to words and paper rather than sun and wind, it might have been the work of a Southerner, so exact was the phrasing, so perfect the choice of words. It invited the General to go to the South—where, it conceded, with both grace and economy, his true knowledge and therefore his greatest strength lay, to better prepare the land for the coming of the kai Leonne, and the kai's claim. It further beseeched the General—in terms that a man might use, and not a
true
supplicant—to prove that Valedan was capable of traveling without the Northern army by
introducing
him to the South in the company of his compatriots, and his compatriots
only
.