Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (101 page)

"Widan," she said softly, "you came to the Court with word that Anya a'Cooper had traveled South."

"Indeed." It was not the expected subject of discussion; he segued smoothly, forcing even the faintest trace of frown from the lines of his brow. "Lord Ishavriel, I have been assured, is in the act of containing her."

Lady Sariyel was silent a moment. "Containing her?" she asked at last, "or returning her?"

"Lady," he replied, with the exaggerated politeness that would have been recognized for sarcasm in the South, "You have no doubt a much better acquaintance with Anya a'Cooper than any of us."

She stiffened. "She does not, as you must know, reside with the humans; she is Ishavriel's curiosity and pet; she resides with him."

"And she is his responsibility." He measured the silence, trying to discern which outcome would please her least; which would encourage fear, and therefore a further exchange of information. It was difficult. She had never particularly liked him, and he had never desired a change in that state of affairs. He did not desire it now. He watched; she waited; he made his decision.

"But she eludes him and we suspect she will continue to do so; our only concern," he added smoothly, "is that she not interrupt our plans for the Festival Night."

Apparently the decision he had chosen to make was a wise one. She sagged visibly; her breath literally stopped. She could not, and some part of him found this vastly amusing, speak. He almost wished that Alesso di'Marente were by his side for the sheer pleasure of her momentary silence. But she recovered. That was the interesting thing about the Lady Sariyel. She always survived. He did not therefore dismiss her now.

"If she is not found," Lady Sariyel said, "then you will
personally
have far more to lose then the convenience of a successful plan in the Tor Leonne."

"Oh?"

"Why do you think we have been forbidden travel?"

"I have," he replied, with complete honesty, "no idea."

Again, the furtive glance to the door. Then, after a moment, she reached a decision; she stepped into the room and pulled the door closed at her back.

It was his nature to be suspicious; it was as natural as breathing. But the very subtle magic he used was repulsed by her easily, and her expression shifted a moment, her hand hovering behind the fall of brocade near the door's handle. The situation was obviously dire; she let her hand fall. "I am here under orders, yes, but what I tell you now is no part of that errand." She leaned forward, as if secrecy and intimacy were entwined. He did not step back, but it was an effort.

"We did not desire to distract you," she said quietly, "but there were reasons for choosing the Northern Wastes as the citadel from which our Lord might plan His victory over the Empire and the Dominion."

"You did not desire to… distract us." The man who had lived with the sun and sand at the edge of civilization all his life had learned how to imbue his voice with Northern ice. "How… considerate."

She flushed, and then drew herself up. "And you," she said coldly, "you have bothered us with every detail of plans which do not concern
us
."

"And this plan does not concern us?"

She shrugged. "No. If you truly serve the Lord and depend upon His ascendancy, it does not. It is another step, no more." She turned. Turned back. He was reminded of trapped or restless children who expect—but are not certain they will receive—a beating.

"And this step?"

"You know that He has been building the gate between our worlds."

"Yes."

"You know that many of His own generals and lieutenants have come through, but that the passage is not instantaneous."

"Indeed."

"You know," she continued, and he found it both fascinating and mildly insulting, "that He had a way of anchoring the gate to this world so that they exist in some fashion in the same space and time?"

He stopped finding her babble mildly insulting. "No." His mind raced. "We—Lord Sariyel and I—had discussed this possibility briefly a long while ago; but it was theoretical."

She nodded quietly. "I saw his notes. It was theoretically possible under very special conditions. First, whatever power the god contributed to the casting of the spell had to be met by a matching power that was anchored in this world. Second—"

"That power had to exist in the same vessel as the matching power, an echo of the magical melding He wished to accomplish. And third—and the most problematic of the triad—that the ground upon which such a spell was cast must already have the properties He wished to cement: they must exist in a realm outside of this one, but be part of it."

She looked at him expectantly. "Scarran," she said, and when his silence grew impenetrable she added, "The Dark Conjunction."

"If it were simply a matter of Scarran," he replied, "the Lord would have cast His spell years ago."

"He did not have a mage of requisite power until a handful of years ago."

Understanding, then. "Anya."

"Anya. Understand that her absence has already cost Lord Ishavriel two of his most powerful lieutenants."

But it still did not make sense. "No," he said at last. "Even with Anya, the advent of Scarran does not guarantee him any purchase between the worlds. You are speaking, I assume, of the old roads? They barely exist, and they exist only when the Firstborn choose to use them."

"No," she replied quietly. "That was our misunderstanding, our misreading of the signs."

"Our?"

"My Lord Sariyel's," she said, meeting his eyes in a way that men would not have dared to in the Dominion, given the differences between their ranks. "And my own. Or did you think that I merely amused him sexually while he worked?"

"There is nothing mere about you, Lady Sariyel. You have chosen to play your role; I have chosen mine. But we mask power in our own efficient ways." He started. Stopped. Took another risk. "I have underestimated you in a fashion that you are no doubt aware of. I had assumed—Lord Sariyel let it be assumed— that the work, indeed, was his."

She lifted her shoulder and let it fall in a delicate shrug. Or as delicate as a shrug could be in the rustle of heavy and coarse brocade. He was not certain if that inelegant gesture was a Northern acceptance of a tacitly worded apology; he was certain that she did not understand the personal significance or cost to himself to make it.

But she continued, staring now at a point beyond his shoulder. "The old roads exist; we are certain of it. There has been evidence gathered—firsthand—by some of the previous servitors of the Lord in their summoned state, that those roads and the barriers that divide the two worlds are remarkably thin on Scarran— but although we chose the Northern Wastes, and the basin, because it was once a seat of power along the hidden way, we have personally found no sign.

"And then, we felt it; seven years ago; a resurgence of the power along the way. And because Lord Isladar was present, he was able to tell us something that we ourselves could not discern: The horns were being winded."

"Horns?"

"When the Hunt rides," she said softy, "the Queen of the Hunt takes to the road. They are her roads, and when she walks them, they… respond to her presence. But she hunts infrequently. We do not understand the old roads clearly; the
Kialli
are unwilling to discuss what happened before the gods left our .world; but it is conceded that the Queen of the Hunt—whoever she is—is one of the godlings left behind."

"Godlings?"

"The gods were very corporeal at one time. The Northern gods," she added. For just a moment, her lips curved up in a full, and a very lewd smile. But it faltered as it met the stone of his gaze. "You are so very, very cold," she said plaintively. But her eyes were as cold as his demeanor. "The gods, however, were not. They coupled," she continued. "And they had children. Let me assume that you understand the mechanics." She walked away from the door and began to pace the perimeter of his rectangular carpet. Carpets here were thick and heavy—but they were necessary. Nothing about the Shining Palace exuded warmth.

"Those children are—we believe—called the Firstborn. They were many initially, but they warred; there were few in the end, and the few that remained were either powerful, reclusive, or both. The Queen of the Hunt was most certainly the former. We believe she is the oldest of the Firstborn, but again, the
Kialli
will not discuss what they know with the merely mortal. This is conjecture.

"Conjecture is dangerous in its fashion." She shrugged. "But when the Queen of the Hunt is mentioned, the
Kialli
tense. I believe that she and they were not friendly; that they warred in some fashion. Sor na Shannen, a kinlord in her own right and one of the few of her phylum to rise so high, encountered the Hunt on the Scarran—or the Winter—road. They fought; she escaped.

"But that year, that year there was also the tangible sense of a meeting of worlds."

"But Sor na Shannen was in the Empire."

"Indeed. That is when we realized the geographic distance means nothing; the road is like a single body, a living thing. The Queen Hunts or she does not.

"However, having said that, it took us time to understand that the solidity of the path is provided not only by the Queen but also by the victim she chooses. When the
Kialli
and Queen met in combat, we believe the old road was eclipsed again." She paused.

He was not a slow man; he absorbed her words, examined them, toyed with pretending to be slow to understand. But pretense was all he had to offer, and he wished some confirmation; he also wished to see the notes she had taken and the path she walked to reach the conclusions that she had.

"It was Lord Ishavriel," she said, after he nodded, "who pointed out that the points that drew the old road and the old world together were both elements of the Hunt: the immortal and the mortal. He posited that if the host hunted, and in greater number, we might see such a grounding of the road as we had never seen, and take advantage of it.

"It was also Lord Ishavriel and the
Kialli
craftsmen who created the masks that were sent to the Tor Leonne." Her glance slid from his face. She swallowed.

"The masks?"

"The Tor is a special place. The Lake is—according to the oldest and most powerful of the
Kialli
lords—an artifact left by the Queen of the Hunt for her loyal subjects in their battle against her chosen enemies."

Cortano grimaced. "That is not our telling of the tale."

"No." Again, her expression hardened. "But even you do not believe the Southern telling of the tale."

He brought hand to beard. "Perhaps. The Lake is significant?"

"Yes. Because it exists in our world no matter what the time or season, and not in hers—yet it retains some elements of her gift and power." She swallowed. "I believe that it indicates that when the Queen of the Hunt roamed freely, she returned there, to the heartlands of the South; that some residual element of her power resides there still—and that, with the right tools, she can—like the
Kialli
—be summoned."

He understood, then. "The masks."

"Yes."

And he wanted to kill her. He almost did.

"If the masks summon the Hunt, they will Hunt in the Tor?"

"The Tor, if we guess correctly, will
become
a part of the road that she travels; neither here nor there, but both. It will be the strongest anchoring of that path in this world since
our
tenure here began in earnest.

"And on such a platform, the Lord might build His throne; might sit without being forced to devour the scraps that his demons bring him from the towns or the kingdoms where they might be little missed."

"Very well. And our tenure here?"

She frowned. "Do not play games with me, Widan. You understand the significance of what I have said."

He did. He nodded, fingers stroking beard. "Anya a'Cooper is acknowledged as a power without parallel. She has no mind, of course. But she has power. She was to be the vessel?"

"She was."

"Would she have survived it?"

"Does it matter? If you mean would it have killed her? I think it unlikely. Would it have damaged her mind further? How would we be able to tell?"

He understood all. All.

"If she is not found,
we
are to take her place."

"Yes. And there are few of us; most of the talent-born are scattered across the North and West. You are here, and I; there is one other."

Three. Three fully trained mages. "And you are concerned? Lady Sariyel, just
how
powerful is Anya a'Cooper?"

She looked up at him through wide, darkening eyes.

"What will happen to us if we are forced to take her place in the ceremony?"

She didn't answer that question directly. But she said, "Cortano, she must be found."

"I will… do my best to make certain that she is. Anya… leaves a trail. It is not hard to follow."

"We have very, very little time. The Lord plans, and this is the only time that we will have this opportunity."

"The ceremony can wait a year, surely?"

"No. We believe that if the Queen of the Hunt Hunts in the Tor, when she leaves, the power of the artifact will leave with her."

"The artifact?"

"The Lake. The waters of the Tor will no longer be blessed by her and left by her; they will once again become part of her world when the Hunt is withdrawn."

"What?"

"Lord Ishavriel believes that the power of the Lake will be reclaimed by the Queen of the Hunt when she withdraws at the end of the Dark Conjunction; it will become ordinary; we will therefore have no way to summon her again, because there will be no focal point for her power; no beacon."

"I… see." He did not smile. He knew that he had lost color, and he knew that she would assume it was for the same reason that she had. "I… thank you for this information. I… will converse with Alesso at once about the urgent nature of our business.

"Where is Ishavriel?"

"He is supposed to find her." She frowned. "He did not seem concerned."