Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (72 page)

But at least here, she could loose the bindings across her breasts.

Ramdan, as always, was there before she had begun her task. She lifted her arms, and he helped her raise the shirt, taking care to keep the folds of silk from her hair. It was habit, not necessity, that guided that action.

"This will be a different life," she said softly. It was as much a plea as she could make.

He put his hands upon her shoulders and massaged muscles that were stiff with the tension of both riding and disquiet. His answer.

The sun paled the sky; the moon's light dimmed; the shadows— all but those cast by Teresa and the only man she had ever, and could ever, completely trust—withdrew. She wanted to know what he was thinking; she had often wanted to know what he was thinking.

But that conversation was not for a Serra and a seraf, and she knew that even if she could offer him his freedom, he would not take it. He was a seraf at heart: the Lady's chosen seraf, the man whose service was perfect.

He surprised her, as he sometimes did. "The Lady," he said quietly, "has been kind to me. She has given me a master who makes a serafs life an honor, not a burden."

Morning, the edge of it so wide Sendari and Mikalis di'Arretta could ignore its slow arrival, for its arrival meant the lessening of their time by one precious day.

The sun was an unwelcome sight, but it was glorious nonetheless. Had they been successful, had they been closer to understanding the scope, or the nature, of the spell the masks were a part of, neither man would have noticed; they were Widan after all.

But if they did not have success, they would take a moment to have beauty, to find some small solace in the fact that the sun rose at all.

17th of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

The sun was low, but it was present; the Lord, in pursuit of the Lady, had given in to gaudy display. Only at dawn and at dusk, when the Lady bore witness, did He clothe Himself in colors: radiant pinks, deep oranges, pale purples. The Lady was unimpressed, or so the story went, but this one evening, dusk seemed to last forever, lingering like the grains of sand that cling to an hourglass.

The day had been long, and only partially fruitful.

His cerdan, spread thinly through the city streets, were searching for the masks -that had been the gift of the Shining Court. Twice now, the Court had undermined his efforts to keep the masks where they might be safe.

There would be no third time. Safe or no, he had made the decision to have them destroyed. The masks were, in Cortano's estimation—and in this, the Tyr'agar trusted the Sword's Edge— Ishavriel's purview; they served the kinlord's ends, and not his Lord's.

Or so Alesso di'Alesso now hoped.

Choose caution when dealing with the masks. You do not wish to offend the Lord of the Shining Court.

He will be offended, in time.

He will be offended
, Cortano had replied, unruffled by the heat of Alesso's tone,
in a time of our choosing, when our allies have substantially changed. Be wary of forcing His hand; it may be that the masks serve that goal, and no more. Ishavriel is cunning
.

Does it matter? A man is cautious as circumstances dictate, and I have been cautious. I will not be fearful.

He would destroy the masks. If they could be found.

He sat by the Lake's edge, upon the Pavilion of the Dawn, the cushions beneath him a scattered fan of colors that matched the grace of dawn's light; about him, nattering like cast-off harem wives, the peripheral members of the court he had risked all to rule.

They, like the cushions beneath him, were brilliant in their display. Cool, calm, arrogant, they had the demeanor of men who knew they lacked power, but desired it nonetheless. Such men as these did not define the Tyr, but they bolstered him, for by their sycophantic behavior, they showed others where true power lay.

The waters of the Tor Leonne were legend. They were also a weapon. At the Radann kai el'Sol's suggestion, he had begun to serve the water to
all
of his guests, great and small. Only one guest had refused to drink. Not even the ashes of his clothing remained, and the Shining Court had one less spy in the Annagarian court. Satisfying, that; so little else was.

Other information had filtered in, where the masks had proved elusive. The most telling, of course, was this: No other city had been so gifted with the work of
Kialli
craftsmen. The masks had come to the Tor alone.

There were two possible reasons to account for this lack. The first, and least likely, was that the distribution of such masks required the cooperation of the Tyr or Tor who ruled the city, and the
Kialli
could be certain of no such cooperation.

The second, and more likely, was that the Tor Leonne itself was significant.

A seraf appeared, noticeable as the flickering of a shadow that the light couldn't quite cast, and refilled his goblet. He allowed this, but lifted a hand when the seraf offered—by gesture alone—the wide, colorful fans that were used to add movement to the stillness of humid air. The serafs disappeared, reappearing at the side of the dignitaries who had chosen to grace the pavilion. Had any of them been tolerable, Alesso would not have sought the special isolation that comes only within a crowd.

"There are no women here." The words drifted to him. Had another man spoken them, he would have been certain they were meant to be heard. This, this was just laziness, stupidity, or the very fine wine that was imbibed freely by men whose means might otherwise have forced them to abstinence.

No women. No grave and graceful presence, none of the cool, soft beauty that were the marks of a great man's harem.
I have had no time
, he thought, rehearsing the argument. It was a poor rehearsal, but men in power did not require perfection in such minor matters. Less minor was the fact that he had been offered concubines by any of the great clans, and had demurred.

He waited, he told them, for a wife who could see to the details of such a portion of his life; war was the only mistress he chose to dally with at the moment.

Had it amused the offerers? Jarrani kai di'Lorenza, certainly. His kai, Hectore, certainly not. Perhaps they knew the wife he waited on. And he did not wish to think of that here; war was the more comfortable of the two.

He therefore turned back to war, to the waters of the Lake itself. Because the
Kialli
defined arrogance, and they had no use for human titles, human geography. They would therefore not consider the Tor Leonne significant because it was the seat of power in the Dominion; that title counted for far too little.

No; there was only one thing of significance in the Tor, but that one thing made the Tor unique.

They chose my city
, he thought, his gaze absorbed by the beauty of light broken by water, its harshness softened only by the round, white flowers of the lilies that seemed to have, and know, no season.

Of course.

He rose; at once, a dozen men rose as well; they cast unpleasant shadows against exposed wood grain and silk. "Gentlemen," he said softly. "The Lord's face has changed; 1 am called. Please continue without me; I will find you by the Lake at the platform of the Lord." He did not bow; it was not required, and the gesture no longer came naturally to him. So soon, he had excised it from his life.

He sought the man whose friendship—inexplicable and unquestioned—had seen him from captaincy to Tyr. He found him. There was really only one place that could contain him at the moment.

But the Sword of Knowledge had drawn blood in the past few days; Sendari's face looked as if it had never been graced by sun's light. His back was bent; his knees and feet were pressed into the carefully cultivated moss that adorned the rock gardens. He cast a long shadow; in it, another man toiled at his side, mixing something in a small urn. Mikalis di'Arretta. The Sword's Edge was nowhere in sight.

A warrior could not be approached by a man—any man— without being aware of his presence; even if he chose not to acknowledge the visitor, little signs of his sudden attention were evident to one who knew how to look. A slight stiffening of back, a straightening in the line of shoulder, a minute change in the tilt of chin.

These two were not, and had never been, warriors. Not until his shadow passed over the face of the closest man did one frown and look up.

Sendari di'Marano squinted at the sun's edge, lifting a hand to his eyes. It was not a particularly graceful movement; certainly not a powerful one. Alesso found it disturbing; he had seldom seen Sendari look so much at the mercy of age as he did at this moment.

"You need the Lady's water," he said carelessly, speaking as one spoke not only to friend but to blood.

"And you," Sendari replied, his eyes narrowing enough to hint at irritation, "need answers. Shall we sacrifice your needs for our own?"

Alesso laughed. "Well put, old friend."

If possible, Sendari's eyes narrowed further. He put a hand on Mikalis di'Arretta's shoulder; the mage started and looked up. Alesso seldom observed the Widan at work; it still surprised him that anyone could be so firmly entrenched in their study that they could not be moved without physical contact.

It was amusing to see the Widan's eyes grow larger as he all but dropped the slender pestle in his hands. He found the proper posture quickly enough, his mortification adding to the length and depth of his bow.

Sendari offered the gesture without the mortification—observing form for the Widan's sake, and not the Tyr'agar's. In privacy, between these two men, gestures of formality were used as rebukes. In public, not even children failed to observe protocol in the presence of their fathers, if their fathers were men of power and influence; it demeaned the father.

"I believe," Alesso said quietly, when both men had risen, "our concentration has been too narrow."

"Oh?"

"We still do not understand the purpose of the masks." The question was in the words; Sendari heard it and shook his head. "But let us understand their target instead."

Both men frowned, and the frown was similar; it lent a furrow to brow and a sudden, particular absence to expression. They glanced at each other. Glanced at the mask. Glanced at the urn. There was a delicate ceremony in the silence of their questions.

Surprisingly enough, it was Mikalis who broke it.

"Need there be a target?"

Alesso frowned.

"We are dealing with the
Kialli
, and if the Voyani lore is correct—if our own lore is correct—the amusement of death and confusion is a goal in and of itself."

"If they sought merely death and confusion, they would have an easier time of it in the small villages of lesser Tors. They have chosen the Tor Leonne."

"Indeed," Sendari said, speaking for the first time. "I would therefore add humiliation and assertion of the superiority of their power to Mikalis' goal."

His tone of voice implied all previous discussions. "Sendari," Alesso said quietly, "seek the Lady's grace this eve."