Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (12 page)

6th of Scaral, 427 AA

The Shining City, The Northern Wastes

The
Kialli
understood power, and they understood it well. When they had walked the face of this world last, they had served the Lord of Shadows in all his glory; he alone had had the strength to defy the greater gods combined. But they had been born, then; it was in rebirth, in the Hells of Allasakar, that they had been freed from all the folly that came with a life of earth and water and sky and flesh.

The fires burned it away, renewing them.

Garrak remembered the burning, and he shuddered, his body rippling beneath him as if it were an unknown and roughly made piece of clothing. He listened, waiting for the peace that often came with stillness; he stood, testing the charnel winds, trembling a moment with a desire that spoke of his long choice.

Emptiness.

He would not, he thought, become accustomed to the accursed
silence
of this place.

For in the Hells, it was not silence that reigned; the screams of Those Who Have Chosen were the winds' roar and whisper, the chill edge of morn and the arid heat of midday, the rush of the blood rivers and the ripple of the still ponds. When the Lord called forth more of his host, an echo of the damned touched the ears of all who listened—and Garrak had been one of the first summoned; he listened well indeed. It was his only thirst.

There were those among the
Kialli
who found their return to this place of blue sky and gray rock and white, snow-capped crest of mountain fascinating. He was willing to watch them in their folly; if it weakened them, they would be his, and he would rule.

That
was
the law of the Hells. That, and the guardianship of the souls of those who had fully, and finally, earned the judgment of Mandaros through their many, many lives.

When
, the kin said, in sullen, muted whispers,
can we hunt
? And the Lord said,
Wait
.

He slid between the towering pillars that carried a great, curved ceiling the long-dead giants of the Northern realm—the Northern Wastes, in this diminished land—would have been dwarfed by. He paused a moment, but only a moment, before the guardians of the halls in which the human Lords lived. Their attention flickered off his ebon skin, measuring and dismissing the threat he might present.

Against these two, he would not test his power, not yet. But sooner or later, in the stretch of endless time, he would measure it against all of his brothers and sisters; measure and be victorious.

That, too, was the law of the Hells.

"Garrak ad'Ishavriel."

He paused and then nodded, bowing low enough to show his respect for a foreign Lord's power, but not so low that it embarrassed the Lord he served. The Lord he served, after all, was among the Five that the Lord of Night had chosen to serve Him personally upon the field of battle. Of battle. "Lord Lissar."

"It amuses me to tell you that the young human woman, Anya a'Cooper, is alone in her room. The Lord Ishavriel has been summoned to a meeting of the Lord's Fist."

Garrak smiled, but the smile was a cool one. Anya a'Cooper was the lone human who did not choose to dwell in the human Court. "You know much of my Lord's activities."

"Indeed. But you will forgive us if we watch closely a Lord of the Hells who chooses to elevate a mere human over one of the kin."

It was meant as an insult; it was received as an insult. Thus did the strong treat the weaker.

It was the law.

And the weaker bided their time, waiting. Centuries could pass before the result of such an exchange might, at last, become final in one manner or another.

That, too, was the law.

Anya a'Cooper sat upon the throne she had carved out of the mountain's ancient rock. The act had shaken the Northern wall

of the Shining Palace, which happened to
be
that rock; had, in fact, shaken the twin towers in which the Lord of the Shining Palace, and his daughter, singly dwelled. Here and there, in the surface of the stone beneath her feet, she could, should she so choose, see the welter of tiny fractures that spoke of the casting.

The Lord had been less than well-pleased.

She had thought the Lord might kill her then and undo all her plans, all those things that burned inside her, hot as molten rock, or hotter still, but hidden from sight. It had been interesting to see Him cloaked in all His power, the edges of his wrath shining like the deep shadow from which there was no return.

More interesting still was the effect he had upon the
Kialli;
they dropped to the ground like imps, cowering in absolute silence. Even Ishavriel. Even her master.

She was careful, now, not to speak His name, but his voice returned to her, carried in the shadows which pooled at her feet like a familiar—an overfamiliar—cat.

His voice, she thought, was deeper and more sudden than the voice of the thunder itself; certainly as beautiful, in its wild, unconquered way. Even in anger, especially in anger. She loved the taste and she loved the sound of it, for it had depths of strength and power that the
Kialli—
that she herself—could only dream of, if her imagination was rich and dark and deep enough.

She thought it was. And besides, she wanted a big chair of her own.

She had carved here, taking care not to heat the interior of the rock so quickly that it shattered the whole. She wasn't certain why, but she knew that heat, applied too unevenly to rock—and marble, come to think of it—often had that effect.

And she had so wanted her
own
throne she chose to be careful. Her arms and her throat were scored with the shining white lines that spoke of her first attempt to melt rock. Lord Ishavriel had protected her from the worst of the scattering—but he was, and had been, slow to call his power. Slower than Anya, his pupil.

You know no fear, little Anya; you have no caution
. Her parents had once said just that to her, but without her Lord's pleasure and irritation.

Thinking of her parents always brought back the edges of wildness, of anger—because to think of them was to think of
him
. And to think of him was like fire itself.

No one had ever betrayed her as he had done, and he had promised everything.

You're known by your word, Anya a'Cooper, and when you give it, you make certain there's no call, ever, to break it. You break a part of yourself when you do, child. Mind me.

Her father's voice. Father's truth, in a world so different from this one, it might have been nightmare. She could smell his voice, now; see the color of it, the richness of brown and green.

But her father had been wrong. He was wrong about a lot of things.

After all, how had
he
been broken? He ran;
she
suffered. But he was alive; she was certain that he was alive, although he had never once attempted to come to her. He was burning the insides of her; his memory was blue and purple and red, red rage, and since she had given him her heart, since she had
told
him that he was the only reason it still beat, she was certain she would know if he died.

No one had learned to live without a heart yet, or so she'd been told. She'd experimented on the odd animal she could catch, but there were so very few in the Northern Wastes, she'd never managed to prove her master wrong.

The Lord Ishavriel disliked it when she thought of
him
. It angered and displeased the only friend that she had in this world, but even so, what of it? The throne had angered him, and she'd wanted it a hundred times more weakly than she wanted this: Justice.

Without a word, the heavily warded doors to her throne room flew open, winged by her power and her devouring, her just, anger. Anya a'Cooper was angry and bored.

She was tired of caution, and tired of remaining in the darkness, waiting on her master. If he was too busy in his councils, why should it be left to her to suffer? And what were his councils about, anyway?

A stupid boy, raised half-slave and freed only to be tossed away—or so Cortano said, and she probably ought not to believe him as he wasn't a very friendly man except for his beard, which spoke to her sometimes in a glint of color and light—a stupid boy, one that Etridian had tried, and failed, to kill.

Now she remembered what she'd been about: She wanted answers, and the Lords would give her none. None. As if their answers were too precious to part with. They were all powerful, and she understood that well enough; she didn't particularly want them to overpower and hurt her. That had happened before, just the once, but the scars there were deep enough that she could still close her eyes and feel the getting of them, over and over. She did not relinquish them, and would not until
he
was dead.

In anger, she blazed a little trail of fire into the floor, melting it. She thought of killing the imps, but they were suddenly gone, absorbed by the lightless shadows in all directions. Imps.

But the imps had never hurt her, had rarely even tried. No, no—it wouldn't do. She was
very
angry. It had to be something
bigger
.

And what else but the demons themselves? They thought they were so very powerful. They thought that, if she turned her back on them, they might catch her. And hurt her. She'd been hurt before.

This was why she didn't choose to live in the middle of the human Court. None of the demons dared to attack her
there
, and if they didn't attack her first, Lord Ishavriel was always angry when she destroyed them. He was one of her only friends, and she didn't
like
it when he was angry.

She frowned. He
had
told her not to kill any more of his followers—not that she could really tell the difference between the demons that followed one finger of the Lord's Fist and the demons that followed another—and that was a little more
tricky
.

But he always told her she could defend herself. Yes, of course. And he said it was good to learn things. So she would go and try to learn something new, and defend herself when the stupid demon didn't want to tell her what she wanted to know.

She laughed.

The colors of laughter, that day, were a brilliant blue, a brilliant orange, and a streak of rippling red.

The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was not amused. He had used his personal power to traverse the distance between the lands of desert sand and the lands of desert ice. It was a power he was not comfortable expending before he reached the Court, but he had little choice; he was not expected to entertain the council with his wisdom for at least another three days, and the summoning spell that would draw upon the Lord's power, and not his own, could therefore not be invoked.

The use of his power, however, did not bow him; he was not so foolish as that. Not here.

But he did not maintain personal quarters within the Palace. His early arrival meant that no rooms had been readied for his use. There was, therefore, no opportunity to recover. It irritated him, but much about the Court did; the Northerners were more firmly entrenched in the Lord's favor than the Southerners. That would change, with time, and with the coming war.

"Is that Cortano?" a familiar voice asked softly.

"It is indeed, Lady Sariyel," he said, bowing in the Northern style, his robes somewhat ungainly for such a maneuver. She offered him her hand, and he accepted it, bringing the pale line of her knuckles to his lips. It was not an art he was comfortable with, but she did him the courtesy of not turning her full attention upon him; if she had a natural prey among the human Court, it was Alesso di'Marente, a man who was both amused by and immune to her charms.

They were not inconsiderable; she was not old, but she had a power about her that would one day rival his own—if she survived that long. Her hair was still untarnished by time, her skin untouched by sun; her eyes were a blue that was pale enough to be as cold as Northern skies.

She had been brought to the Court as both apprentice and paramour, and her Lord had died early in her tenure; by attaching herself—momentarily and conveniently—to another, she had purchased her survival. Many of the lovers who had made their way—willing or no—to the Shining Palace found their way in the end to the sections of tower that only the demons called home. Not Lady Sariyel. Privately, Cortano wondered how she would have measured up against one of the Hells spawn—but very privately. Her temper was like the Northern wind.

She had been, and was, voracious; a student that he might have been proud of had he not found the prospect of teaching a young woman to behave like a man so disgusting.

And why
, he mused,
do we waste power so conveniently? How many wars might we have won, how many lands might we have conquered, had we chosen to follow the Northern course
?

Then, because he was not Northern, he added,
And how many women might have brought down whole Tors in the wake of their duplicity and vengeance? Better as it is
.

"We were not informed that you would be summoned today."

"An oversight, Lady Sariyel; I am sure that you might confer with Lord Ishavriel if such an omission is of concern." Woman or no, Cortano did not play by the rules of the Hells; he hid his power, always, behind beard and mask, unveiling it to his advantage. Even here, certain that she was aware that the art of distance-traveling was his, he could not bring himself to share that knowledge. He bowed again.

"Enchanted as I am by your company, Lady, I fear that my summons here is of a nature that will not wait."

"No, indeed," she said, her dark, hard lips curving a moment in what might have been a smile had she been a cat, "one does not dare the wrath of the Fist of the Lord. But, Cortano," she added, as he turned, "you might give my regards to the General; he has been away from Court far too long."

"Indeed, as you say."

He left; he did not bother to cloak his exit in magics. She would trace them, and find him, with ease should she so desire.