Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (100 page)

"See? The circle is cracked."

"It's old," Jewel said. "But I'd've missed it."

Teresa looked up. "Yes," she said at last. There was about the word a vague air of disapproval. "We must heal it." She rose, pushing herself up with the flat of her palms. "Or cause it to be healed."

"Cause it to be healed?"

The woman waited patiently. Very patiently. Jewel frowned. And then she smacked herself in the forehead. "That old witch knows everything, doesn't she?"

Teresa raised a dark brow. "Everything? No. But enough. She knows that he serves you, and that his skill will serve us if you request it."

And she turned to look at Avandar, who had not moved, but who had clearly listened intently to all that had passed between them. "Can you fix the circle?"

"With ease," he replied, no trace of pride or hubris in the two words.

"Then, please—fix it. I'm tired. I want to go back to camp. I want to go to sleep someplace where I can remember the before and the after."

"You won't forget," he said quietly. "You have… accomplished something, Jewel ATerafin. But as in many such journeys, the world you left and the world you returned to are the same; it is you who are altered."

"Humor me."

His smile was so faint she wasn't certain she'd seen it. But his bow was exaggerated and obnoxious.

She found it oddly reassuring. He knelt by the circle. "Do you understand what this does?" he asked Jewel quietly when she finally understood that he meant for her to bear closer witness.

"No."

"It encloses the Fount."

She rolled her eyes.

"The Founts were meant to stand at four very specific points," he said softly. "This city was planned as a… shadow… of older cities."

"A what?"

"These were designed as a way of keeping enemies out."

She gave him a look that could best be described as skeptical. If one were being polite.

"Trust me," he said.

"I do," she replied. And then she knew she was in trouble. Because she meant it.

He knelt beside the Serra, and she quietly watched as he laid hands on the circle. He spoke a word. Two words. Three. Then he smiled.

From beneath the flat of his palms, Jewel could see light. She was used to seeing magic as light; she had learned, with practice, to discern the general nature of the spell being cast by the color of that light. But it had been a long time since she had seen that particular light, and she didn't like it.

Gold.

The Summer color.

It spread from his hands in a circle, following, she realized, the circle embedded in the stone. "Avandar?"

He did not speak. He did not, in fact, seem to know that she was there at all; the light that left his hands seem to be fleeing him, and with it, his awareness of the world. She had seen him cast spells before, but he had never been quite like this: deliberate, almost contemplative. His spells were cast either with a precise energy and motion—which was usually necessary since when he used his magic it was often in her defense—or a nonchalance that was a grating part of his natural arrogance. But this… this was different.

She looked over her shoulder; Kallandras was still singing, his voice sweeter than the spill of golden light around the Northern Fount.

Avandar rose. He was pale.

"Come," he said quietly. "We are done here."

She frowned, and then saw that the Serra Teresa had indeed finished stoppering the crystal decanter and the small clay vessel that contained ash and death. She said, "I'm not sure Kallandras has finished."

"He hasn't," the Serra said quietly. "But he will, and he will join us. We should return, ATerafin. Tomorrow we must complete this task, and it is already late. See? The sky is slowly paling."

It was true.

Jewel nodded, and together, they left the city. Only later would she remember that the Serra had waited, as Avandar did, upon her nod. As if she were the one in charge.

21st of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

"Very well," Alesso said, lifting one hand.

Sendari di'Sendari and Mikalis di'Arretta did not appear to hear him the first time. He had, having witnessed the peculiar and boring discussions of the Widan over the minutiae of their studies, expected this level of attention, and had taken it upon himself to preserve both his dignity and the lives of either the two men or any seraf who might witness their lack of paid respect. He had summoned them to his personal chambers, had seen that those chambers, fitted for dignitaries, were well supplied with both food and cushions, had ordered warm water and the towels that were used to sponge and refresh oneself before either food or discourse in an informal setting, and had sent the serafs away.

Sendari and Mikalis had been late.

A bad sign.

They were studiously avoiding each other's gazes, which he considered a worse one. They swept the room, each man taking a side, as they searched for magic, or the traces by which magic might be recognized; they found nothing, although a small out-burst about methodology occurred there. Alesso did not know whether to be amused or surprised; he had literally never seen Sendari so… imperfect in his manner or his presentation. Mikalis came from a poorer family; Alesso expected neither elegance nor grace from him; obedience and respect was enough.

But while obedience was offered perfectly, respect was sadly lacking, at least for each other. The men were arguing about the exact meaning of their discovery, and using words that Alesso imagined would only make sense to other Widan, if that. As Tyr, and as General before that, he had done much to learn about the Widan's art—but this esoterica, this type of discussion, had always lost his interest, to Sendari's abiding regret.

"
Gentlemen
," Alesso said, lifting his hand for a third and final time. He settled upon amusement at the lack of attention paid his first two attempts, but it was a thin veneer; it would not survive a third.

They turned.

"From what little I consider to be intelligible in what is clearly too heated to be a discussion," he said softly, and Sendari had the grace to flinch and then straighten up, adopting his usual posture, his familiar neutrality, "You are saying that the nature of these masks is to reveal, yes?"

"Yes," they said, as one person. Mikalis threw a glance at the side of Sendari's face, but having been reprimanded in this fashion, Sendari chose to exercise his control, which was—or could be— considerable.

"But you have not yet decided why this ability—unmanning as it appears to be—will actually be
useful
."

Silence. Sendari spoke; Mikalis hiccuped half a word into the flow of Sendari's sentence and then, as if only just realizing where they both stood, fell silent. Which was good. The Festival Night— the night they now feared was the significant night—was one day away. And these two men, and their kind, were all that stood between the unknown plans of the
Kialli
and the Tor Leonne.

"No, Tyr'agar, we have not. You have posited, and we have considered, that the Lake itself must be significant; but we have also taken into consideration that this is, regardless, the seat of power in the Dominion, and as we understand the society of the
Kialli
, were it a barren rock, it would still be of interest to them for that reason alone."

"Trust my instinct, old friend." It was not a request.

"Regardless," Mikalis said, not quite taking the hint, "we cannot understand the use of masks or the way they will harm the Lake." He bowed. "We posit that the demons themselves, in old texts, are known by, and to an extent, controlled by the nature of their name and their naming. Perhaps they so little understand the nature of mortals, they have crafted a weapon against which a demon would have little recourse. Perhaps this is a way of making a
name
known."

Alesso stood. He found the cushions confining, and the necessity of privacy meant that there was no easy egress to the outer world. Everything about this discussion, this dilemma, was interior. He paced, pausing only to lift a fine glass that contained the water of the Lake which had made the Tor the chosen seat of power in the Dominion.

"Having seen the effect of the mask itself," Sendari said quietly, "I would concur."

"And you were… discussing?"

"How that would be useful. I believe that with judicious use of the masks we might, ourselves, gain power if a demon were forced to wear one under the correct circumstance."

"An idea, Sendari. A good one. Do not destroy them all."

"No."

"Tyr'agar," Mikalis broke in, and Alesso understood at once' the nature of the argument, "I believe it unwise. There are forces which we do not understand; with imperfect understanding, we cannot control them. They will control us. Our enemies will find egress into our private spheres of magic should we attempt to avail ourselves of theirs."

"Oh? Sendari?"

Sendari's shrug was dismissive. "There is a danger," he said, although the acknowledgment was at best theoretical; it was certainly not conveyed in the tone of voice that he chose.

"And that danger?"

"Is, in my opinion, purely theoretical."

"You have done
no
studying of the arts you think to use," Mikalis broke in. "I have done very little—but enough to be granted some recognition. I am not a half-wit Designate, Sendari—I am fully Widan, and I know of what I speak." He turned before Sendari could reply—and it seemed, to Alesso's admittedly familiar eye, that he was about to, and addressed the Tyr'agar directly. "Magic," he said, "is like armor, but there is a personal element to it. When two Widan struggle in a contest of magic and power, they reveal much about themselves to each other
unless
one of the two is much more powerful, in which case he has the magical resources available to conceal some part of his own talent or ability. The Sword's Edge is such a Widan. I, and, I believe, the Widan Sendari are not.

"And the Sword's Edge is not here."

"You would take this risk, if he were available?"

"No," Mikalis replied.

"And that is the point. He has said himself—"

"I said that between
two Widan
—"

"
Gentlemen
." They quieted. "I will think on what you have said. It is of interest. But it is not of as much interest as the use of the weapon itself. Is it sword? Is it bow? Is it garrotte? What is its function?"

To that, they had no answer.

"Mikalis, understand: We do not throw away any weapon we are offered. Your objections have been heard, and they will be considered. They will not, however, be repeated. Do you understand?"

He bowed immediately.

"Good. Find Out what they will do. Speak with the kai el'Sol."

"But—"

"Do it. The Lake and the Sword have been their purview for centuries; perhaps it is time that they showed us the deeper understanding expected of their position." He paused. "No, Sendari, not you. You are to retire to your chambers."

Sendari let the mask fall. Only then did Alesso realize exactly how
much
control his friend had been exerting. He was impressed; he did not embarrass his friend by openly admiring the restraint shown previously; there was no way to do it without pointing out its loss.

"The… demon took much out of me," he said quietly.

"Understood. Let Mikalis talk to—"

"He does not maintain the proper perspective."

"He will have to do. Sendari, do not mistake me. That was not a request. It was a command."

"Tyr'agar."

20th of Scaral, 427 AA

The Shining Palace, The Northern
Wastes

The Sword's Edge had left word that his return to the Tor Leonne was imminent before he received word that it was also forbidden.

The first words were a use of power that was not, given the distance between the Tor and the Shining Palace, trivial. The second, however, were far more costly; they were not his, and he was not a man to suborn his will to another's with grace or ease.

But Lady Sariyel had brought the word, white and trembling, to his doors, and she loitered in them, waiting for his reaction. More significant, she had been used indirectly as a messenger from the Lord of the Shining Court.

"Are you," he said at last, "to carry word back? The nature of your statement did not seem to imply a request on the part of the Lord."

"No," she replied. "I—I'm not to carry word back. But do you—" She gazed to the side; the gaze was furtive. They were not protected here. To cast the magics necessary to truly ward a conversation from prying ears was almost to draw attention to it, the
Kialli
were so sensitive to magic. She swallowed. The Northerners were always vastly more expressive when upset than the Southerners.

Expressive enough that he understood that she was about to take him into her confidence. They were not friends; he found her almost offensively forward, graceless for a woman, displeasingly bold for
a. person
. But he was willing to acknowledge—here, outside of the Dominion, where neutrality was the law—that her actual power was substantial and worthy of respect.

Had she been Annagarian, he would have had her killed, or perhaps have killed her himself. She was not.

She stood before him, hands bunching in the skirts that were so oddly functional in the North, the furs settled round her shoulders and face, framing the delicate paleness of her skin. The garish color of her lips, the bruised look of her eyes. This was, he supposed, attractive to someone. Certainly it had been many years ago to the unfortunate Lord Sariyel.

He found that with Lady Sariyel, in a certain situation, one could use silence as a weapon; he used it now. Subtlety was not a shield that she could use in defense. The waiting stretched; he watched her expression shift, and shift again; fear fought with fear. The silence worked its way inward until she felt forced to expel or break it. She was so terribly obvious.

Yet he could not offend her completely; not now. For she had carried an order that forbid travel to any of the human mages now within the confines of the Shining Palace. He did not think that, should the Lord desire their deaths, they had any hope of avoiding them.