Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (51 page)

"You haven't answered my question."

"I have." He walked to the desk that adorned her wall less usefully than the mirror did. Placed his hands, palms flat, against its surface. "Those leaves," he said softly, "are part of his domain. And all that
he
was, was granted by her. Her power demands its price. You have taken something from her lands. I seek to protect you from that theft."

"It was hardly theft."

"You do not understand the Firstborn," he said coldly. "But I am your domicis, I will do as you command."

"The Summer Queen?"

"
Yes
," he said, spitting the word out as if he could no longer abide its taste. "Yes, it would aid us and our cause."

"Then let's take the leaves. I have a feeling that we'll find our way out now. You said—you said we couldn't leave because it was
me
you worried about. I don't think, if there's some bar on some gate or some door, it will stay closed against me. He wants her attention."

"Yes, and you propose to draw it how?"

"By going to the Tor Leonne," she replied.

He closed his eyes.

And she, standing in front of the door, slumped against it, mouth suddenly dry. "I didn't—I didn't mean to say that." But her dream was there. The strange, compelling woman riding at the head of a host.

He opened his eyes, met hers. "Jewel," he said, and for a moment the ice melted slightly. "I
am
sorry."

"The war." She spoke as if she hadn't heard him; as if the vision was as clear and detailed as a solid tapestry before her eyes. "Is about to start in earnest."

"Yes," he replied, lifting his hands from the desk's surface. "And the most bitter thing about those words is that you don't even know what they mean."

12th of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

The masks were very good.

Alesso inspected them carefully as they were offered to him, their makers kneeling into the hardwood of his audience chamber, heads bent so firmly into ground they might leave indentations. These men were not the finest of craftsmen, and it was obvious their gifts were seldom used at the request of the high clansmen; he could smell the sweat and dirt of the day's labor. No scented oils, no musky perfumes, no clothing pressed and preserved for a meeting of this nature, and
only
this nature.

Still, they were dressed well for poorer men; their presentation was a product of their class and not their respect for his station. To make certain that any of the watching clansmen appreciated this fact, he let the maskmakers kneel against the wood while he turned the product of their labor over in his hands, examining it. It was a very plain, very elegant mask, its surface not quite as smooth as he would have liked, but its features otherwise in every way the same as the first of the four masks the
Kialli
had offered— and ordered—for his people.

He seldom conducted any business of import in these chambers. Or rather, he had seldom done so. But today, in the full white and gold of his station, his hair drawn back and pulled in a tight warrior's knot, the line of his brow broken by crown, he did just that. Six months had passed since the crown of the Tor had been placed upon his brow, but he was still under constant inspection. That would stop only when he won his war—the war that Markaso kai di'Leonne had lost all face, and arguably his -life, losing.

It was close enough to the night of the Festival Moon that the high clansmen, Tor and Tyrs all, had, with few exceptions, arrived at the Tor Leonne. They were given leave to hunt—by hawk or falcon, of course—within the grounds; they were given leave to practice their weapons skill, to ride, and to partake of the hospitality of the Tor itself.

They were also given leave to litter the sides of the audience chamber in which minor matters of governance were decided, and Alesso had been four days without opening those chambers. Sendari had—as he often did—brought this oversight to his attention, and they had argued full into Lady's shadow. In this case,

Sendari had been able to persuade the General that his position was correct: Hospitality required a convening of the court. Hospitality and the need to show all in attendance that his court was as fine, as important, as significant, as the court of his predecessor.

Alesso desired a change in that particular overture of hospitality, but too much had already changed; he would not slight or offend men whose alliance he might need over the simple dignity of craftsmen such as those who now knelt perfectly at his feet.

He handed the mask back to Sendari; Sendari handed it to the Widan Mikalis di'Arretta, a man Alesso did not quite trust. There was something about him, a nervousness or a fear, that spoke of risk. He could ill afford risk at this time.

But he could afford ignorance even less.

"Sendari?"

Sendari di'Sendari turned away a moment from his magically silent speech. "Tyr'agar?" he responded, offering so perfect a bow no one watching—Tors and Tyrs all—could fail to note it, or its significance.

"The masks?"

"They are, in Mikalis' opinion, flawed."

"That was our intention, was it not?"

"Indeed. He wishes to speak a moment with the craftsmen when you have finished to ascertain that they used the correct materials in constructing the masks."

"Done. Gentlemen, I will accept your generous gift with appreciation." Alesso turned from his adviser to the rough silk of merchant craftsmen's bent backs, the gleam of their dark hair. Only the oldest of the men had been colored by the white of wisdom, but it was he who lifted his head and shoulders first when the Tyr'agar granted them permission to speak.

"You honor us, Tyr'agar," he said. He rose gracefully, graciously, the motion belying his age and his apparent rank. His beard brushed the ground as he sat straight-backed, knees bent beneath him in the second half of the subordinate posture. His apprentices had little grace, they rose clumsily, their movements full of youth and strength. It did not matter; they had shown that they could bend. "Stay a moment," he said, tendering the dismissal that would allow them to rise from the ground. "My adviser wishes to speak with you."

"Tyr'agar."

But he was no longer concerned with masks, with the makers of masks, with the obeisance, correct but of poor quality, that those craftsmen displayed.

The Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi had entered the room, with four of his Tyran.

By Tyrian law he was allowed four Tyran, but by custom a clansman entered the presence of his Tyr with half that complement. It was a public gesture of trust in the liege of one's choosing, and although there was never any trust between two men of power, the appearance was—as all appearances were—important. Eduardo di'Garrardi was not a man concerned with the import of appearance. He was allowed his swords in the Tyr's presence in
this
room, and he wore both openly. This was not a slight. What was: his sheaths were war sheaths, simple and unadorned.

"Alesso," Sendari said as he began to rise.

He stopped. For a moment—just a moment—he understood Cortano's anger, Cortano's vast impatience, with men whose passions were invoked by mere women.

"My apologies, Ser Sendari," he said, too softly for any but his friend to hear. "Tend to the maskmakers; I understand their task is the task of import. I will see to the Tyr'agnate."

Sendari's bow was perfect, instant, and stiff as steel. "That," he said quietly, "is what I fear."

Alesso made no reply.

"Tyr'agar," the kai Garrardi said, surprising him slightly. Flanked by his Tyran, he approached the room's only chair, the curved half circle with a high back graced by the gold of the sun's rays. It had the advantage of serving as throne. It had the disadvantage of forcing its occupant to sit.

Alesso was immediately on his guard. He was, as a matter of course, armed. Hard to be ready for combat from the curved seat of a chair, a throne. But not—never, for a man like Alesso— impossible.

The Tyr'agnate of Oerta did not bow, although he inclined his head.

Alesso acknowledged the lack of respect with a very slight smile. It was a smile that Sendari would have recognized had he not been involved with the matter of masks; men had died on its edge. Sendari might have tried to blunt it.

Alesso did not particularly regret his absence. "Kai Garrardi," he replied.

* * *

When Sendari heard the two words side by side, he stopped speaking. The sentence he had been in the middle of dangled a moment, like a display of ill-temper, before the man listening realized it would not be finished.

He lifted a brow in curiosity, in confusion. As a craftsman from a humble clan, he was not conversant with the nuances of the court.

"Ser Sendari?"

In reply, the Widan lifted a hand; ruby caught sunlight the Lake had released, glimmering there. The merchant began to speak again, but his lips stopped before the words left them. A good sign.

Sendari turned. From his vantage, he could see the profiles of the man who ruled the Dominion and the man who ruled Oerta. Their faces could have been chiseled by the same stonemason.

There was, about the two men, a power that could not be ignored; it drew the attention, and held it. Alesso di'Alesso had taken the Lake of the Tor Leonne. Crown and Sword were symbols—but the Lake was the Tyr's heart. He held it.

Eduardo di'Garrardi held Oerta. That in itself made him notable; he was one of the four Tyr'agnati. What made him remarkable was the fact that he had taken the Lord's title at the last Festival of the Sun, killing several of his opponents so that he might win his way to the side of the Lord's Consort. That he wanted her was not in question. Eduardo di'Garrardi's passions were ill-concealed, and once revealed, they were followed. Had he not sold an entire village, and more, for the purchase of a single stallion? Sword's Blood.

But it was acknowledged that Sword's Blood had no peer. It had been acknowledged that the Serra Diora di'Marano likewise had no peer. Had his rival been any man other than Alesso, there would have been no question of the outcome.

It comes
, Sendari thought bleakly. He had watched and waited, thinking Eduardo kai di'Garrardi far more patient than his reputation implied. Thinking Alesso di'Marente more of a fool.

And thinking that, no matter what, his daughter, his treacherous, beautiful daughter, would be one man's downfall and the other's prize. He did not want her to go to Eduardo for her own sake, although Eduardo was not so foolish a man to claim such a prize and destroy it. But he did not want Alesso to win her either, for although Sendari bore none of Diora's cursed gift, he could hear the death in her voice.

For Alesso.

For Cortano.

For himself.

Alesso and Eduardo were both the Lord's men.

They had been allies, but in six months that alliance had become something dangerously close to a sword dance. No one doubted that they would see the end of it—the only question was in what circumstances. Armies had been gathered for less.

For a woman.

For his daughter.

He had not thought of her mother for months.
Alora
. She had given him no sons, and for that lack alone he might have replaced her without fear had he been a different man. Could he criticize either Eduardo or Alesso? He had almost given up his destiny— he
had
given up his power—for her sake, merely because she had asked it.

And in return she had given him a daughter, and that daughter had grown thorns, like all roses do: She had become the Flower of the Dominion. The Lily. The wife of the ill-fated heir. He had adored her at birth; he had adored her when she became wife, then widow. He had adored her until the moment she spoke with Teresa's cursed gift, to wound them all, in the hearing of every clansman of import in the Dominion who had not yet decided against them.

Ah, she had shown herself to be his daughter, then; to be Teresa's niece. Alora's ferocity had never turned to treachery. He had thought to kill her, but the rage had guttered. The pain had not. Now he thought to see her die.

He had done so much to prevent that.

A lesson, he thought bleakly. What was love in the end but foolishness and loss? He had learned this lesson once, but obviously, demonstrably, he had taken so little out of it that he would be forced to learn it again

Diora.

"Ser Sendari?" the maskmaker said, touching his sleeve.

He pulled away immediately, drawing himself up to his full height—which was considerable, but not obvious until he so chose.

"The Tyr'agar asked you a question."

And how much easier it would be to finally,
finally
, have an end to it. To have nothing left to lose but the game itself. The pause between question and answer would mean much to the watching court. What was infinitely worse was the fact that he had not heard the question. He bowed to Alesso, catching his eye before he fell into the proper posture.

"The request," the Tyr' agnate said, breaking the silence with his usual intemperate tone, "is not unreasonable. I am a Tyr; she is the daughter you have promised me as a bride. But you have been… elusive, Ser Sendari; too often my messages find no one to receive them. My apologies," he added, with brittle insincerity, "for bringing this matter to the Tyr'agar."

"My apologies, Tyr'agnate," Ser Sendari replied immediately, and far more gracefully than Eduardo's sullen temper warranted, "for being unavailable. I am, as you have no doubt heard, fond of my daughter. But I have undertaken the responsibility of counselor to the Tyr'agar at a time of great changes; his fate has taken precedence over hers."

"Indeed."

Sendari had seen ice form. The experience was rare enough that he remembered it clearly; he had, after all, sought it out. But he might have saved himself the time and his father's expense; he watched it again on the living countenance of the ruler of Oerta.

"Then let me trouble you no longer with such a petty request. Tend to your matters of state. I will guard my own interests."