Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (108 page)

"But—"

She readjusted her hair, and confined it again with a small smile. "No buts. We know the city; you do not. Allow us our small display of hospitality."

Jewel was hungry, and she found it very difficult to argue with the Serra Teresa. She nodded, and together, the Serra and the seraf left them in a room full of food.

"Jewel," Avandar said.

"What? It'll just go bad if we leave it."

But by moon's full height, they had not returned.

He heard the singing in the Tor, and in the procession that led to the Lake. It was a thinner procession than the Tyr'agar would have liked, but a vastly larger one than would have appeared had it not been for the intervention of the Radann. Already, the tales of their prowess had spread, enlarged and made almost ridiculous, through the city streets. It worked to Alesso's advantage.

There were six dead demons.

The Radann Samadar par el'Sol had sustained a severe injury, but it did not seem to slow him; the Radann Marakas par el'Sol had sustained only minor damage, although he had destroyed, by day's end, two of the expensive surcoats that the Radann had been gifted with. The Radann Samiel par el'Sol was bemoaning—in a stately and elegant fashion that still made him sound like a man twenty years younger than his apparent age—the unfairness of his lot, for he had seen none of the kin in his patrols along the crowded route.

"It is because," Marakas par el'Sol said, "your reputation precedes you, as ours does us. They are simply afraid to approach."

Samiel snorted. It was also uncharacteristic; the Radann, as a whole were very changed men. Even the politically shrewd and astute kai el'Sol seemed momentarily pained at the loss of opportunity his role in the Tor had necessitated. Alesso could feel it; this brotherhood that had been cemented by fire and death, by demon, by an enemy so large that politics could be cast aside.

He wondered—if they survived—how they would fall back into their old roles. Because when the battle ended, if they were left standing, that is all that would be left them. He had discovered that, with some bitterness, many years ago. But so, he thought, had these men.

Not for the first time, but for very different reasons, Alesso regretted his inability to wield the Sun Sword in the battle for which it had been forged.

"Gentlemen," he said, rising. "The moon is full. The night has come, and the clansmen are waiting. Let us take our positions again in the darkness."

They drank from the Lady's Lake; they finished the meal— sparse and perfect—that had been prepared for them. Then they rose. "It will be a long night," Alesso said quietly, his hand upon his own sword hilt. "But not as long, I think, as the night of the Festival Moon." He bowed to the Radann; it was both dismissal and thanks, for it was a very deep bow.

21st of Scaral, 427 AA

Shining Palace, Northern Wastes

Cortano di'Alexes watched from the windswept balcony that rested between the narrow spread of diving dragon's wings. The air was very cold; the night as clear a night as any the South could hope to see. Beneath the Shining Palace's height, the city, such as it was, was slowly coming to life. He could see the scuttling movement of creatures who carried long, rough poles with carefully made cressets into which a burning substance had been placed. Not wood, he thought, judging by the light—but what it was, at this distance, was not clear. He wondered if the demons needed the light to see by; there had been no evidence from past behavior to suggest it.

Ritual, then. Ceremony. These things defied sense and logic.

"What—what do they do?" Lady Sariyel's voice was quiet. Steady.

"They line the way," Cortano replied.

The Lady started to speak, and the great beasts roared. She lost all words, and all ability to speak; they seemed to drain from her along with all color. Cortano's hand tugged beard; he did not speak until the shaking of the balcony had passed.

She closed her eyes. "You do not fear them," she said softly.

"I? Any sane man would fear them, Lady Sariyel. And were I to be fed to the great beasts of the Hells, I would certainly… show fear." He shrugged. "Perhaps, for the first time since the Lord built this Palace, He will let the beasts rampage. But I believe He will let them go in the streets below, and not within the Court. We, you and I, are too valuable."

The trace of bitterness in the words did not escape her notice.

A knock came at the door. A third man joined them. His hair was dark with white streaks, his face as pale as Lady Sariyel's. "Sword's Edge," he said, bowing in a passable imitation of Southern grace. "Lady."

"Are we summoned?"

"Merely to dine," the man said.

"Krysanthos—I do not think I am hungry."

"Very well. But I would suggest that we eat. Remember, Lady Sariyel, where we are, and who watches. Our fate is not sealed until the Full Moon rises on the morrow." Krysanthos bowed. "I would be honored to be your escort. Sword's Edge?"

"Indeed," Cortano returned the very polite bow. They were not friends, but that was the nature of the Court; friendship could be a costly luxury when this much power was involved. But if they were not friends, they were, at the moment, compatriots by the very grim circumstance in which they found themselves.

"Have any others returned to the Court?"

"No. I believe the summons has gone out—but extricating themselves from their positions would place them in jeopardy, and I believe the Lord is unwilling to expend his power in the opening of the portals necessary to bring them here.

"There are, as you know, very few who can travel as you travel, Widan."

Cortano shrugged off the compliment. "It is unfortunate. Come. Let us eat."

They did not make it out of the room before Krysanthos said, "You have had no word?"

The Sword's Edge smiled grimly. "Yes," he said coldly, "but none that will please any of us. Let us eat. I believe on the morrow we will be… summoned. There is an anointing ceremony that is to take place before we can be adequate vessels in the Lord's service."

21st of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

Ramdan watched the Serra Teresa in silence. It was a familiar perspective in many ways. He looked at the line of her nose as he watched her bend her face to her hands a moment beneath the clear sky over which the moon reigned.

"Will they forgive me, do you think?"

He did not answer, and after a long moment, she said, "Or is forgiveness, as usual, a thing one can only grant oneself?"

His bow was enough of an answer; her lips curved up in a smile. But she heard an answer, and she rose at once at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Serra," Kallandras of Senniel College said, offering her the most exquisite bow a woman of her station—her previous station— could hope for. "I do not think they will question you, or even notice the slight deception."

She looked up. In the moonlight she could see blood on his shirt. He did not however seem willing to acknowledge injury or wound, and she was, as his bow reminded her, the Serra Teresa di'Marano. She did not ask.

They were silent as they stood together; it was easy to be silent. The crowd—thinned but not nonexistent—was emboldened by wine and Festival, and they filled the cracks between words with their unhurried noises.

After a few minutes Kallandras said, "The Tyr'agar has generously announced his intent to allow revelers upon the plateau during the actual evening of the Festival Moon."

"Yes," she said softly.

He smiled; the smile was very gentle. "Tell her, Serra."

"Tell her?"

"Tell the Serra Diora to be ready when you arrive."

She closed her eyes; he understood the nature of the deception in its entirety, and he accepted it. Nothing she had done had been done for the approval of anyone save perhaps one dead woman who slept restlessly in every memory that contained her. But she felt her throat close over the words that she might have spoken; pretty words, empty words meant to soothe or dull.

He offered her a hand, and she accepted it, dressed as she was. "I must keep watch," he said quietly. "But find what you purported to seek, and return before the ATerafin panics and sends Avandar, or worse, chooses to travel on her own. It is late enough now that they will not seek camp; they will stay in the Tor and they will travel with you at the appointed hour."

She said, "Thank you."

And because she spoke to Kallandras alone, and in a language that only he would hear and understand, she knew that he heard her; but he did not acknowledge the words in any obvious way.

22nd of Scaral, 427 AA

Arkosan Camp

Dawn. Margret woke to the sound of a distant argument; she listened with one eyelid open in the darkened wagon, heard a few telltale phrases—about food and time and marriage—and turned over on her side again. That type of argument no one smart interfered with; in the end, the shouter and the shoutee—both women—would make up and forgive each other, but at least one, if not both, would be angry at your interference for the next ten years.

Men could get that wrong on occasion. Some leeway was granted them.

"'Gret!"

No leeway, on the other hand, was granted the Matriarch.

"Go away!"

Light flooded the wagon. "I'm sorry you were too tense to sleep last night," 'Lena said, without any trace of sincerity, "but you can't make up for it this morning. The old witch is after all of us, and I'm not saying no to her. You want to tell her to piss off, you can do it in person."

"If I tell her in person," Margret said, trying—and failing—to cover herself with blankets faster than 'Lena was tossing them aside, "it would kind of defeat the point; I'd have to get up."

"Well, then, I guess you suffer."

Margret glared at her cousin; her cousin laughed. This much was ritual. But there was an edge to 'Lena's laughter that Margret had never heard before, and the circles under her cousin's eyes were very dark. "Didn't you sleep at all?"

"Yeah. Like a rock."

"Great." Margret shrugged herself into clothing while 'Lena waited. "So we can
both
fall asleep during the most important night of our lives."

Elena laughed. "Every time I fell asleep, I started dreaming, 'Gret. Every time."

"Me too." Margret struggled with her boots and then gave up and let Elena put them on. "I dreamed that people were standing over my coffin and they didn't bloody well listen while I screamed myself hoarse."

"Screamed?"

"I wasn't dead, but it escaped their notice." She forced herself to laugh. It felt… fake. Lady, she was tired. "What about you?"

"I dreamed about Nicu."

"I think," Margret said, not meeting 'Lena's eyes, "I'd rather dream about being buried alive."

"You would," 'Lena replied, lifting the back of her hands to rub the sleep out of her eyes. "And we'd both rather have the dreams we had than be late to meet Yollana; come on. Donatella made us food—"

"But she's feeding the children!"

"She says, today, feeding us
is
feeding the children, because if we don't… because."