Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (17 page)

"Nicu, we are not having this discussion. Not now." Elena stopped short, pulled handfuls of thick, auburn hair out of her eyes, and rolled it all back into the kerchief that perched so precariously on her head. She rarely wore pins and nets—those were too severe for her, too restrictive—and suffered in the heat for the lack.

The heat today was combined with the job of carrying items of family value—and merchant curiosity—to safety. Their train had been noted; neither she nor Margret had any doubt of it. They had to move quickly.

And quickly didn't allow her the luxury of dealing well with anyone's ego. Not that it was one of her strong points to begin with.

"You had time to flirt with Peter and Adam—"

"Lady's blood, Nicu—Adam is a
boy
!" A wiser man than Nicu of the Arkosan Voyani would have seen the flush in Elena's cheeks for exactly what it was. She turned her glare a moment in his direction, and saw him: Handsome, in a pretty way, with wide, dark eyes, high cheekbones, a face neither too squat nor too thin. Unfortunately, handsome and petulant mixed poorly for a woman of Elena's temperament. She wanted to smack him.

Instead, gritting her teeth, she walked past him, her arms barely containing a bundle of silk cloth that was just that little bit too valuable to easily leave behind. White, with gold thread embroidery, and edged on either side by the deepest of blue.

Nicu grabbed her arm.

She gave him a face full of bolt for his trouble, and if the silk was soft, the weight of the whole was not.

He scrambled to his feet, his eyes wide. "Elena, I'm sorry—I just want you to listen to me for five minutes—I didn't mean—"

But the color had reached the height of her forehead. "How
dare
you?"

No rule stronger than this: You don't touch a Voyani woman without her leave. Not unless she's got no relatives, no temper, and no ability to defend herself if she's annoyed.

None of which applied to Elena.

"Elena, don't you understand? Can't you understand? I'm half-crazy about you, you know that. I only want to be able to tell you—"

"Nicu,
not now
." Fortunately for Nicu, he
was
one of those relatives; a cousin. And Elena was fond enough of his mother— her mother's cousin—not to want to kill him or humiliate him publicly. She was certain, given the wide-eyed prurience of the Voyani, that this… altercation… would make its way back to Donatella, his mother, before he'd managed to finish rubbing his cheek.

And
then
he'd pay.

"Not now, not now, not now! It's always
not now
!"

"We're in the middle of moving what's left of the caravan, Nicu," Elena said, forcing a softness she didn't feel at all into her words, "And that takes precedence over everything else. It's easy enough to flirt with Peter. It takes two seconds, and there's nothing at all to it. But the discussion you want is bigger, longer, more serious. Let it go. We'll get there when we're safe. Yes?"

He was not mollified. But he was no longer mortified.

"Didn't Margret give you the task of guarding the periphery?"

"There are lots of guards."

She wanted to smack him again. But she was afraid she wouldn't stop. "And none of them are as closely related to Margret as you are. You're needed out there. I'm needed in here. Later, all right? Nicu, later?"

"Later, then." He stalked off, his face set in petulant agony.

She was going to have to talk with Margret about him. Either that or kill him and put them both out of his misery.

The worst part was this: In this mood, Nicu was a terrible guard; he took everything personally and was therefore likely to start a fight only his wounded ego could believe he'd win. They'd lost men before to just such a fight.

But Nicu was popular among the men; well-liked, well-supported. He had about him Margret's look, Margret's dark attractiveness—things, in fact, that Elena didn't like to think of at all. And, damn him, she was.

He watched. Unnamed, unnoticed, his arms folded casually across his chest in a mimicry of humanity that was completely unnecessary, he watched.

The Shining Palace was his home, but it was not the only home he craved; the world was larger than he remembered, but becoming smaller. Here, in this city that men deemed ancient, he might at last flex his muscles; here he might move small hills with the force of his Lord's gathering magic. Ah, the gathering was slow, but it was inevitable, and time had no meaning at all to the
Kialli
.

Power, as always, was the constant.

Lord Ishavriel watched quietly as the young man strode out of the busy encampment, seeking danger, nursing anger and pride. He was, as far as humans go, handsome in his fashion, burning with the pride and the folly, the light and the exuberance, of a youth he would never appreciate fully. Not as the
Kialli
might once have, in a different time.

That one, he thought, would do. They had waited upon Lord Isladar's efforts with the Voyani—and nothing at all had come to light. Not surprising; Isladar was a Lord even the cleverest among them did not quite understand. He exposed very little of his power, survived everything, and stood by his Lord's side almost as a monument, a thing that the
Kialli
drive for power and the wrath of God could not combine to destroy.

But his influence had become weaker once the little half-god Kiriel had disappeared. It had become weaker still when she had arrived in force upon the side of their enemies, although in truth her attacks seemed aimed at Etridian, perhaps Isladar himself, and not the Lord of Night.

No matter. It was weakness.

Weakness was there for only one reason: Exploitation.

Ah, did they notice the sun, these little mortals? Did they feel its heat, and the luster it added to the beads of sweat on their aging, dying skin? Did they feel the dry, dry breeze? Did they understand how close to death they stood?

Not yet. Not yet. He lifted a hand—and the woman to whom his chosen vessel had spoken glanced up suddenly at the shadows that surrounded him. Her eyes narrowed into green-flecked brown, and the sun brought out fire in the brown of her hair. She stood straight as steel, strong as it, as unlike the man as day from night. How appropriate, here.

But her blood, he thought, was weak; all of their blood was weak. Only the so-called Matriarchs were a threat, and Lord Ishavriel knew well how to deal with them: Was this not, after all, the Dominion of Annagar? Was this not the land where women ruled nothing? Only the Voyani chose a different course.

Lord Ishavriel had once possessed the power to move rivers in their beds. His smile was a thing of perfect beauty and grace, where none at all might witness it.

The woman shivered, made a shaking sign with her hands, and moved away, shouldering her burden.

The Radann kai el'Sol had heard the news. It was clear from his expression—cautious, neutral, even friendly—that word had already traveled. Alesso di'Marente was beyond wondering how. The Voyani might have heard it, the serafs, the wives of Sendari— whom he could not quite bring himself to dispose of, for reasons of old friendship—and any of these would have carried word, eventually, to the Radann, or to those who served him.

No serafs among the Radann, of course. The Lord did not accept the service of men who lived on their knees. But the Lord also rewarded power, no matter what title it took.

Peder kai el'Sol had reached the pinnacle of his power; from here, it was only a matter of time until the next rival, the next ally, was cunning enough to take his place. But Alesso had been carefully observing the Hand of God, and it was clear that this particular formation was allied not against Peder, but against the coming night in the Tor Leonne.

He counted on it. It had been a dangerous play, all the way through, and the demons made it harder and harder to move. But he was—had been—the best of the Generals the Tor Leonne had produced in generations; he thought it without pride but with certain knowledge. He understood strategy, and he stared in the face of one of the most dangerous of his divisions.

Hard to utilize it now; he had hoped to hold it until the timing was more appropriate. But he now had the choice of putting it into play or losing it entirely. He was not a man to take a loss where the chance of a victory existed.

The serafs he dismissed the moment the kai el'Sol crossed the threshold. They were well-trained; well enough trained that he thought he detected the hand of Marano in their grace and movement. They had already brought the waters of the Tor Leonne itself, and had gracefully arranged those fruits which were in perfect season for the repose of their master and his guest. They left strategic fans, large and in keeping with the sparse decor of the General's preferred rooms, and they made certain the cushions against the hard mats were artfully arranged.

But they left when he ordered it, although the order was the merest gesture.

Which left the room to two powerful men, the two who best served the interests of the Lord, the two who were allowed the full sun in ascendance as personal crest.

"Tyr'agar," the kai el'Sol said, bowing.

"Kai el'Sol." He returned the bow, giving it the weight of his respect. "I have taken the precaution of insuring that these rooms will keep a conversation private. If you wish to have your own people inspect them, I will understand."

That caught the Radann kai el'Sol off guard; it was as open an admission of magic's use—and of the fact that the Tyr'agar also assumed the use of magic on the part of the Radann—as Alesso had ever made in his dealing with the former par el'Sol.

"I am confident," Peder kai el'Sol replied, "that what you say is true. You summoned me in haste, and I came in haste; I will not waste your time by returning for an aide."

"My time or your own?"

At that, the kai el'Sol did smile.

"Be seated; it is my belief that we will be here several hours. Take your ease, and if it pleases you, take the waters of the Tor Leonne and drink them. I find they ease me in times of darkness."

Peder frowned slightly, as if listening to the echo of the Tyr'agar's words. After a moment, he spoke. "We are being watched, but not listened to?"

"That is my suspicion, yes. I do not have time to have it confirmed."

The Radann bowed again; the bow was deep. When he rose, his face was a constructed mask of geniality and ease, even of self-indulgence. It was an unusual expression on the face of the Radann, although Alesso saw it often on the faces of lesser men.

He sat, taking characteristic care to arrange his swords. Alesso joined him.

"We have," he said softly, "been betrayed."

The Radann kai el'Sol did not waiver; he reached for the goblet that held the waters of the Tor Leonne. They were a miracle, one of the few that the Tor Leonne consistently boasted: they had healing properties, and they were always sparkling, even given the absence of direct sunlight, and always cool; they quenched a thirst no matter how fierce, and calmed hunger. Even madness was put at bay for hours at a time—or so it was said; the last had not been tested in years.

"Continue."

Alesso was struck by the composure of the man; struck and momentarily annoyed. But he had called for it. He accepted it with as much grace as he accepted anything that did not please him in time of war: as part of the terrain.

"Our allies have decided to impose on us a set of tasks and a set of creatures that we cannot accept."

Silence.

"We will not, of course, accede to the demands that they've made."

He watched; the lines of the kai el'Sol's face hardened slightly. Hardened and relaxed, as if at one and the same time the man were becoming the Sword of God and dispensing with pretense that would have irked the man who last held the title. "There were rumors," Peder kai el'Sol said, neutrally.

"As many rumors, they bear some grain of truth, no more."

"Why have you summoned
me
, Tyr'agar? Why have you not summoned the Sword of Knowledge? They seem to hold more of your regard and your favor than the Radann."

"A good question," Alesso replied, taking up his own goblet having made his opening move. "The answer is simple: If we do not accede to the demand for a Consort to sit by the Lady's side—as if a Lord could sit by the Lady's side and not rule—they will send the Greater Servants of the Lord of Night into the streets of the Tor Leonne."

"I see." The Radann kai el'Sol was pale now, bleached of the sun's harsh touch. "It was to be expected."

"Perhaps. It is not the ideal situation, however; I thought to have more time in which to plan."

Silence. "You would have us deal with this threat?"

"Yes. I would have Radann deal with it—in a manner that befits both themselves and the Lord of the Sun."

"And the new Tyr'agar."

"Of course. I will be judged by the theater that unfolds in the city below. If the Lord of Night returns to the Festival of the Moon, if the worship of Lady is lost due to the fear of the death he brings, they will think, they will speak, only of Leonne."

"The Tyr Leonne could have no more handled such an invasion than you."

It was flattering, and Alesso di'Alesso had no time for flattery. "You do not say all that you think, and I choose not to hear what you are wise enough not to say." He rose, although it was unwise, and took the water with him. "But
I
will say it, kai el'Sol: that Markaso kai di'Leonne, weak and incapable though he was, had the single advantage in a night such as the coming night that I do not possess.

"The Sun Sword."

Peder kai el'Sol bowed his head.

"The Radann were chosen the Hand of God. I am no servitor— no servant of anyone but my own interests, as men of the Lord must be. But even I have heard that the Hand of God was granted, in lesser measure, some of the gift Leonne was granted in greater. You have the five swords," he said quietly. "And the vision with which to use them.

"We have not always seen with the same eyes, and we will not; that is the way of men with power. But in this, I believe our needs and our goals coincide, and to that end, I will direct all aid and obedience to you."