The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (20 page)

“As you say.”

“The Tyr’agnate?”

“The Serra Donna en’Lamberto received a letter,” his brother replied. “Or so she said to one of my wives.”

“And its contents?” Sendari’s hand rose to his beard; Adano smiled in spite of the formality of his stance.

“It was a letter written to a Serra, by a Serra.”

“Ah. And your wife?”

“She is well. She has hope that we will be spared the rigors of war in the future.”

Sendari was weary.

Adano knew it; he wore the same lack of ease.

“You know the Tyr’agnate better than I,” Sendari said quietly, hands idly brushing the strands of his beard. “You have served him well since ascending to our father’s rank.

“What do you think he will do in the coming conflict?”

“It depends on the actions of Ser Alesso. The taking of the Tor Leonne occurred with no warning—none, at least, to the Lambertans. Mareo di’Lamberto is a man bound by honor, but he is not blinded by it. He is aware that Oerta and Sorgassa have fielded armies in service to Ser Alesso. That did not come without negotiation.”

“Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto would never have condoned what occurred.”

“And you expect him to do so now?”

“I expect nothing.”

“Ah.”

Ser Adano bowed. “Understand,” he said, his tone a match for his brother’s, “that I have sworn an oath to Lamberto.”

“Indeed. As Tor’agar you could do little else.”

“He is a man worthy of such an oath, Sendari.”

“And Alesso
di’Alesso
is not?”

Adano met his brother’s eyes. “Sendari.” He raised a hand.

Sendari subsided.

“I am the kai,” Adano told his brother. “I have, as I can, aided you. I sent Teresa to the Tor at your request. I sent information about the events in Mancorvo as it was politic. I will
not
order you not to serve Ser Alesso. No man who fought in the war almost thirteen years ago would.

“But I will not be forsworn.” His gaze was now unwavering. “Mareo di’Lamberto was neutral to your cause.”

“Neutrality was prudent.”

“Yes. And Mareo di’Lamberto is prudent. But it was not merely a matter of prudence. Now he is torn.”

“He owes no loyalty to the clan Leonne.”

“None. And when the last member of that clan comes at the head of the Northern armies, he owes less than none.”

“The Northern armies have moved, and in number. They are almost certainly amassing—if they have not already done so—within the borders of Averda.”

“In what numbers?”

“We believe they have traveled with not less than twenty-five thousand men.”

Adano’s silence was gratifying. It did not, however, last.

“Mancorvo and Averda were not meant to survive the new Tyr’s rule under their current rulers.”

Sendari offered no reply; there was none that could be offered without insult.

Adano’s lips thinned. His smile held no mirth whatsoever. “Rethink that strategy.”

“The strategy is not mine.”

“No. But Alesso values your counsel.”

“And Mareo di’Lamberto values yours, does he not?”

“Yes. But he values it less than he values his clan. Less,” he added, “than he valued his brother. When Ser Alesso can draw and wield the Sun Sword, the Tyr’agnate will offer his oath and his services.”

“And until then?”

“I . . . believe that he will not move against you.”

“That is all that we desire at the moment.”

“Will you withdraw your troops?”

“They are not mine to withdraw.”

“They are amassed between the border of Averda and Mancorvo. It seems—to those with no information to counter it—that Alesso has not yet decided which Terrean he seeks to invade.”

“In the end, Brother, he will invade only what he is not offered. He is the Lord’s man.”

“Which Lord, Sendari?”

Ah, it was out in the open. Sendari did not hesitate. “The Lord of Day.”

“Then the Lord will judge.”

Sendari bowed. He reached into the folds of his robes, and pulled from it two things. A letter, in a coded tube, and an oath medallion.

Its wood had been broken by the edge of a sword’s single strike. “This is the mark of
Terra Fuerre
,” he said, his fingers brushing the rough runnel. “Tell the kai Lamberto that we will avenge what Mareo di’Lamberto himself could not avenge.”

Adano took both scroll and medallion.

“If Ser Alesso chose to travel, he might bear word himself.”

“He is,” Sendari said, composed now, “occupied.”

“And Lamberto,” Adano replied, “is not.”

That drew a smile from Sendari.

“Did you write the letter?”

“I? No.”

“But you know its contents.”

“Indeed.”

“I will carry it for you.” The Tor’agar Adano kai di’Marano turned to leave. Without looking back, he said, “Do not offer me safety, Brother. If, in the end, the man who styles himself Tyr’agar sees reason to invade, I will fight and fall with my liege lord.” He took another step, and then spoke again, the words drifting in the breeze of the plains.

“And if, in the end, this comes to pass, I will acknowledge that you are Sendari
di’Sendari
; you are a clan in your own right.”

If he had been a younger man—if he had been his younger self—Sendari would have spoken, then. But the enormity of the acknowledged gift was daunting, and he retreated, as men do, into silence, losing the moment.

28th of Misteral, 427 AA

Terrean of Averda

Commander Bruce Allen surveyed the mouth of the straits. There were boats moored among the docks that his soldiers had spent a week constructing; there was not a Southern ship among them. The trees that lined the river did so at a distance; those that had had the misfortune to grow where the army built its encampments had been cleared.

In another four days, the last of the ships would arrive, and their cargo—men and supplies—would be left upon these wooden docks, their reflections broken by the rush of moving water. Nothing was still in the South.

He shook his head. Nothing stayed still in the North either. Turning to the younger man who waited ten yards away, he gestured.

The man turned instantly and began to cover the distance between them; the light of the medallion of the Order of Knowledge was a brief, bright flash as he moved.

Commander Allen had worked with his share of magi in the past, and he could count on one hand the times that he had not found it frustrating. They were not military men; when inducted into the army for fieldwork, they responded as Members of the Order of Knowledge and not as soldiers in the Kings’ armies. They could be obdurate men, and when they felt that they dealt with inferior intellects—which, in the case of most magi, was almost always—they were curt when they tendered what they felt was due obedience.

Gyrrick of the Order was therefore a surprise to him; a man who seemed to understand the chain of command, at least as far as it extended between himself and the Commanders he served. He spoke little, and when he chose to speak, he tendered replies that were brief and to the point without bordering on rudeness.

It should have been comforting.

Commander Allen found it mildly disturbing. And that made him smile ruefully. He let the smile linger as the man reached his side.

“Member Gyrrick.”

Gyrrick bowed. “Commander Allen.”

“I wish a message to be delivered to Commander Berriliya.”

Gyrrick nodded. His eyes, rather than closing, became glassy; his face lost all expression. The Commander waited.

“Commander Berriliya is present,” Gyrrick said, speaking as if speech itself were foreign to him. “The Member Aldraed asks me to tell you that he has spent much effort purifying drinking water for the three vessels today; the communication—unless of course it is urgent—should be brief.”

“Tell him that his warning is appreciated. I merely wish to know where the ships are.”

“They have reached the Ocean of Omaras. They are on schedule. The weather is calm at the moment.”

“Good. Tell the Commander that we will expect him in four days. We have received word from Callesta, and we are expected to travel there in haste.”

“Commander Berriliya wishes to know if we will travel by land or by water.”

Commander Allen gazed at the turbulence of the river in the distant west. “By land,” he said at last. “The horses have had enough of the water.”

“Commander Berriliya asks if Captain Duarte AKalakar has sent word from Callesta.”

“Only that.”

Gyrrick’s eyes snapped shut.

But he had not finished speaking. “Member Aldraed has one message to add.”

“What message?”

“Meralonne APhaniel of the Council of the Magi will be joining us directly.”

“When?”

The younger man’s eyes snapped open, his lids jerking up in a curl of dark lash. He turned swiftly, his face shedding neutrality and stiffness. He did not waste words; they were unnecessary.

Commander Allen could hear the sudden cry of his men; could hear the clang of swords hastily leaving their sheathes in the encampment below the riverbank. He leaped from the peaceful lee of water’s edge, his voice raised in command.

Damn these mages, he thought. He heard the arc of an arrow’s flight. Saw it as it paused in midair, trembled a moment, and fell, deprived of momentum.

No others joined it.

In the middle of the clearing that housed the command center, arms folded, hair streaming loose down his back, stood the Member of the Council of the Magi. He raised a pale brow as Bruce Allen strode between the armed men who served as his personal guard.

“At ease.”

Simonson had already brought the men to order; he had not, however, given them orders to sheathe their swords. “Commander Allen,” he said, drawing his arm up and across his chest in the sharpest of salutes. It was, strictly speaking, unnecessary—but it was also his way of reminding the magi who ruled here.

“Member APhaniel.”

“Commander Allen.”

“We received very little warning of your arrival.”

“Ah.” He lifted his shoulder in a shrug that was in itself an act of monumental arrogance. This, this was what the army was accustomed to dealing with when they traveled with the magi. “I see that things have changed little in twelve years.”

“Very little. Why are you here?”

“I was sent,” he replied, “at the behest of the Kings.” He gestured; a scroll materialized in the air between them. “In light of the present difficulties, my expertise was considered of value to the army.”

Commander Allen nodded brusquely; Simonson plucked the missive out of the air without any visible hesitation. He placed it carefully—and quickly—into Commander Allen’s upturned palm and stepped to the side.

The Commander nodded. “Join me,” he said curtly.

The tent was large. It housed a desk, chairs, and a large table. The table was covered with maps. They were not Northern in manufacture; they were Southern, a gift of the Callestan Tyr.

As such, they were considered to be incomplete. Commander Allen had his own men—those who were skilled in surveys—in the field gathering information; what they brought him would determine how incomplete the maps were.

Simonson entered the tent; the men who had been selected as the Commander’s personal guard cast shadows against the fabric. They did not, however, enter.

Bruce Allen broke the seal upon the scroll. He unrolled it, and noted that it contained not one, but two, pieces of paper. The second, seal broken, was of more relevance than the first; the first was a simple confirmation—if it were needed—of the magi’s claim to legitimacy.

We regret to inform you that Jewel ATerafin is unavailable at this present time. When she has returned to the House Terafin, she will be sent in haste
—
at the expense of House Terafin
—
to any location deemed safe and accessible
.

It was signed by The Terafin.

He looked up.

Member APhaniel waited.

“Where is she?”

“I am not a member of the Terafin House Council,” the mage replied coolly. “And she is not a member of the Order of Knowledge.”

“She was given leave to travel?”

“As she is not a member of the Kings’ army, or the Astari, she is not considered to be under the direct command of the Kings.”

“She was to be seconded to the army.”

“Indeed, that is my understanding. It was not, apparently, the understanding of House Terafin.”

The Commander raised a brow; he spoke after a pause. Those who knew him would understand the significance of such a pause.

Clearly, the mage was not among them.

“Has she been seen since the attack on the Common?”