Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows (16 page)

Ramiro nodded. The letter he had received had been different in only one way: it had been written in Weston, not Torra. Idly, he wondered why; the choice of the language—as the choice of so many things Northern—was no doubt deliberate.

"It is," Baredan said, "well done. We understand each other," he added, as Ramiro handed back the scroll. "Everything Commander Allen has stated here is the truth. To arrive at the head of a Northern army is, in fact, worse than arriving alone. To arrive at my side, or at yours, is already a risk—but the kai Leonne has proved himself capable of withstanding any comparison with his allies."

Ramiro's smile was brief, like a glint of sunlight over the moving surface of the sea. "Indeed," he said softly. "The kai Leonne is young, but he is capable of presenting himself as a leader, rather than a puppet." The Callestan Tyr folded his hands behind his back and turned his face to the salt-laden breeze. The salt was the only thing he disliked, although it had become such a constant presence he wondered if, when it was absent again, he might not miss it.

"And there is a problem."

"Indeed," Baredan said, in a tone of voice that meant serious, rather than logistic, difficulties.

The ships, laden, were low to the water; the poles of great oars broke its surface again and again, gathering sunlight and shedding it, over and over, little rivulets of broken light.

"Have you noticed," he said quietly, "how many of the new ships seemed to be manned by soldiers?"

He could sense Baredan's momentary frown; he did not turn to dignify it with a glance. Had he been Callestan, the General would have understood this minor censure. He was not. "What is the problem?"

"The kai Leonne will not leave the capital without the Ospreys."

The words might have been in a completely foreign tongue, they made so little sense. Ramiro di'Callesta turned and met the General's unblinking gaze, and any suspicion that Baredan had developed a Northern sense of humor during his stay in Essalieyan was destroyed by that meeting of eyes.

Shock, like the eddies beneath the constant lap of waves, moved the Tyr to raise a brow, no more. And then he smiled, and was chagrined to note that in fact, if any man could be accused of the contamination of Northern triviality, it was not the General. "I fear, kai Navarre, that this is no longer our problem."

"Pardon?"

"The Eagle," he said, using the title by which the Commander was known throughout the North and the South, "has no desire to take the kai Leonne with the armies. No doubt, in the future, he fears that the kai Leonne will be an enemy, and not an ally; an enemy and not a pawn. He has no desire to have the… impressive logistics of his army revealed for the inspection of such a man. We have offered a sound strategy to further the Eagle's desire. It has been refused by the man who will be our… lawful… liege lord. Therefore, it would seem to me that we are about to see a test of both will and diplomatic skill on the part of the Eagle."

"You find this amusing."

"Yes."

"May I ask why, Tyr'agnate?"

"Because it is clear to me that we are about to find out what Valedan's role at the head of armies
will
be. The Eagle does not wish his presence along the Northern route, and the Eagle's word, in matters of the army, is law. But the Ospreys cannot be detached from the army without their destruction. And the kai Leonne's, in all probability. They are remembered in the South."

"If the kai Leonne desires to travel with the army, he will either be rebuffed or he will be accepted."

"They could withdraw the Ospreys or replace them."

"They could, yes. But I doubt they will."

"You are saying—"

"Yes. Let us see what the Kings decide. It will tell us much about how the Crowns regard Valedan kai di'Leonne's role."

Baredan was silent a moment, and then he, too, turned to look out at the sea. "I hate this land," he said, his voice mild. "Indeed."

The Princess Mirialyn ACormaris had been summoned to the chambers her father occupied when he was not in session. They were very, very fine; ceilings were carved in stone reliefs around bordered edges of wood that rose from the floor, dark and gleaming with the oils that had protected it from the worst of time's passage. In stone, the divine eagle, its rod elongated and detailed, its ring, overlarge, both clutched in fine, fine claws, stood watch in its frozen flight above the great windows that admitted light into the chamber.

The symbol of Cormaris, Lord of Wisdom.

Her grandfather.

Her father was capable of being informal. She had seen it in her life, although in truth, were it not for the sharpness of her memory, she might have doubted such informality existed; she had seen very, very little of it in the last fifteen years.

"ACormaris," he said, as the Astari who shadowed every door of his hall moved to allow her entry.

She bowed, her form perfect. When she rose, she said, "Your Majesty."

"We find ourselves in a most delicate situation." For just a moment, the corners of his lips twitched slightly. "It seems, as you suggested, that the Tyr'agar does not wish to travel without the protection of the army."

She waited, her hands at her sides—where, in fact, the Astari who now stood at her back could see them clearly.

"Commander Allen does not, for reasons that are obvious, desire the Tyr'agar to accompany the army."

She continued to wait. "But for equally obvious reasons, the Tyr'agar cannot be the lone Southerner to do so, should he indeed do so."

She was silent.

"You understand what is at stake, ACormaris."

"Your Majesty."

"The Tyr'agar was once one of your students; I wish you to speak with him."

She bowed.

Knowing, as perhaps her father knew, that there was one other she would speak with first.

The rooms that had once welcomed her with their combination of understated wealth and Southern austerity were now simply austere. The fine hangings that had adorned both wall and door were nowhere in evidence, and Mirialyn ACormaris, the only Princess of royal blood to be born in generations, wondered if they would ever be seen again. Certainly not in the North. And in the South?

What use did the South have for a woman like Alina?

As if she had heard the question—and she was a master of hearing the nuance of all silences—she appeared, as austere in her fashion as the rooms she was deserting by slow degrees.

"ACormaris," she said softly, as she said all things. Desert night, Northern ice; hard to say which was colder. Her expression was almost nonexistent as she turned her slender face, the severer lines of her hawkish profile diminished by the movement. She was so very graceful, so very perfect.

"You will travel."

"Yes. But we have discussed this."

"Yes." There was a silence she chose not to fill with words. Into that silence, the Serra Alina brought stillness; they waited for a long moment, glances brushing the contours of each other's face, as if seeking familiarity. As if unsurprised to find so little of it.

"Your pardon, Serra Alina," Mirialyn said at last. She offered a perfect Northern bow. "I have to come to ask you to intercede on behalf of… wisdom."

"I assume you refer to the influence you feel I have with the Tyr'agar."

"As always, the Serra Alina is astute." Mirialyn was silent for a full minute, and then she said, "Alina."

The Serra said nothing.

"It is your choice, to leave the North."

"It is your choice, ACormaris, to stay."

"We each have our duties."

"Valedan depended on your advice no less than mine. You will send him to the battle that will decide his fate, should he survive it, in the company of
men
."

"There are women—"

"The Kalakar is a
soldier
."

Mirialyn said quietly, "There is you. No matter how we view our decisions, or each other's, in the end, he takes his most valuable adviser with him."

The Serra Alina di'Lamberto was immune to flattery; as all Southern women before her, she had learned its value as a tool, and cared little for its use. But she understood that in the North, flattery had different faces and spoke in different tongues, and none of these were Mirialyn's. "What would you have me do?"

"I would have you follow your head," was Mirialyn's quiet reply.

A bitter smile swallowed the words, leaving, as always, silence. "Oh?"

"I am not born of, or to, the South. But I recognize the damage that marching at the head of the Northern army will cause. Having our armies cross the border at all in his cause is danger enough; it will damage him, but that damage is unavoidable."

"Yes."

"He must… separate himself in every other possible fashion from the North. If he arrives, the lone Leonne, at the side of the Tyr'agnate of the richest Terrean in the Dominion, and served by the only General canny enough to survive the slaughter, it will serve his cause far better than arriving at the side of the Northern army."

Alina's brow arched; it was the equivalent of a shrug. "If he has no army at all, he will be accorded the respect of men who are not in a position to be of use, no more."

"He has an army," Mirialyn replied. "He has Ser Anton, and Ser Anton's name is
known
. Even here, in the North, it is known."

Alina nodded quietly. "Yes. Known."

"And the fact that Ser Anton chooses to serve him might balance itself against the use of the Northern armies—but not if he comes with them. He will be seen as a puppet, no more; I must assume, as he wishes to pursue this course, that he cannot see the cost clearly."

The smile twisted slightly, and then it was gone. Serra Alina turned away from the open door, both exposing her back and retreating into the rooms she occupied; rooms that were, in their stark and elegant way, the place where battles were devised and discarded. "It is not a wise assumption, but a fair one. I believe that he knows, as you say in the North,
here
," she said, raising a hand to her forehead, "but the reality of what this will mean to him has not made its way
here
." She shrugged; silk rippled and fell, bright shadows cast by the motion. "It is a delicate balance. The
Kialli
come in no predictable fashion. The… Ospreys… have been the most effective force in dealing with their presence." She frowned. "The second most effective force, but I do not believe the Kings would agree to send the Astari South."

For a moment, the Princess of the blood smiled. "There are many noble Houses that would owe a vast debt of gratitude to the young Tyr should he merit such a command on the part of the Kings—but you've met Duvari, no doubt. Even were such an ordered issue, I don't believe he would follow it, or allow it to be followed."

"Indeed. May I offer you water or wine?"

She didn't answer, and that was an answer in itself. Instead, she followed Alina into the central chamber, the meeting room. There, a low, flat table that was perfectly round occupied the room's heart, and upon it, the perfect Southern vessel; delicate clay, worked in a pale blue, and fired by sun's heat. Sunlight cast that slender vessel's shadow against inlay. It rose and fell in the perfect Serra's hands, as it had done countless times in the past. In a different country, in a country where two women of vastly different cultures, unfettered by the responsibility and the complicated joy of children or husbands, might change all rules of etiquette that had bound them to their previous lives, shedding them slowly and shyly at first, as one might shed clothing when in desire of, and terror of, not sex, but intimacy.

She met Alina's gaze, held it a moment, thinking her unkind. Watched her face until she turned back to the task at hand, making an art of service.

"We have argued," she said, over the slow trickle of the wine that Mirialyn seldom drank.

"The Tyr'agar?"

"And I, yes. You are right, of course; I understand exactly what the cost will be. He is… impatient. In that fashion, he is like so many of the Southerners. Were he Ser Kyro's age, his impatience would be… an embarrassment; a liability. He is not—but in youth, lack of malleability shows itself in such a fashion. As the army travels South, he disdains the subterfuge—and the lack of safety— in traveling apart from it."

"There is no subterfuge. If we are to travel, you know as well as I that we must be seen to travel at
his
request; at his behest. If that is to happen, he must meet the Tyr's people, and he must—if at all possible—be seen by the men and women in the Terrean of Averda as a man who rules."

"And of Mancorvo?" the Serra said, her voice as smooth as a dagger's flat.

"That war is yours to fight," the Princess answered softly. "But, yes, he needs Mancorvo. He needs the
Lambertans
, and their approval, if he is to have any chance of holding what we hope to win. You know what the reputation of the Lambertans is among the clans. Even among the Callestans, whose enmity is so bitter, there is a grudging respect for your brothers."

"Yes. Among the Callestans of little account and little power. The Lambertan men are not known for their canniness."

"Honesty and a lack of canniness do not go hand in glove, Serra; if the Lambertans were truly without guile, they would never have held Mancorvo. I know it; you know it. It is enough.

"But that is beside the point; it is the men of little account and little power who will, like grains of sand, be the storm upon which Valedan will ride. You know as well as I that it is those hearts and minds he must capture."

"And you know as well as I that he must survive to do so."

"Alina—"

Yes, I know
. No words now, just a momentary grimace; a ripple that crossed the line between amusement and anger, wavering, or perhaps touching either side in equal measure. She let that ambivalence be seen because, in the end, they had been as open with each other as two women of power could be. "It is not the army," she said at last, "that draws him, although he is very curious about the logistics."

"Logistics?"

"He has never traveled with a large body of armed men before. He has not had to see to their needs; to see that they're fed; to see what price their passage demands of the countryside."