Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  EPILOGUE

  The Voyani

  In the Voyani clans, the men will often use their name and their clan's name as identifiers (i.e. Nicu would be Nicu of the Arkosan Voyani or Nicu Arkosa.)

  ARKOSA

  Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani—The woman who ruled the Voyani clan. She is/was seerborn. Dark-haired, dark-eyed; died at Diora's hand, a mercy killing.

  Margret of the Arkosa Voyani—The new, untested Matriarch of the Arkosan Voyani. Dark-haired and dark-eyed like her mother; she is not seerborn.

  Adam—Evallen's boy, the light of her life, and much indulged.Charming, easily charmed, he is also very perceptive, very sharp of wit; he keeps it to himself, for the most part.

  Nicu—Bearded, broad shouldered; cousin in his early twenties. Son of Evallen's cousin. Looks older.

  Carmello—Darker in coloring than Nicu, dark-haired, dark-eyed, one year his senior. They're friends, sword-mates.

  Andreas—Shorter than either Nicu or Carmello, but dark as the Voyani are dark; stocky and barrel-chested; one of Carmello's and Nicu's supporters.

  Donatella—Nicu's mother. Evallen's cousin once removed; Margret (and Elena's) second cousin.

  Stavos—Margret's uncle, much loved and crusty; gray beard, broad belly, laughs like a bear.

  Tatia—Stavos' wife. Wide as well, but hardened by the sun and wind. Hair gray and long, eyes cutting and dark.

  Elena—Margret's cousin; the heir to the Matriarchy should Margret perish without a daughter. They are both close and rivals, Margret and Elena, and it is Elena that Nicu loves. Elena is a firebrand in most senses of the word; her hair is auburn red, her skin sun-bronzed, her eyes brown with green highlights.

  Tamara—Margret's aunt. Bent at the back, older in appearance than her older (and now dead) sister, she is Margret's support and strength, although she nags rather a lot. Closer than kin. She is Elena's mother.

  HAVALLA

  Yollana of the Havalla Voyani—Peppered, dark curls, almost black eyes. She is in her forties, healthy, wiry.

  CORRONA

  Elsarre of the Corrona Voyani—Long, straight hair, dark with streaks of white. She was, until the death of Evallen, the youngest of the matriarchs at the age of 36.

  Dani—Slender, of medium height. His hair is long, thick and is always pulled back in a single braid. His beard is small, his face long, his eyes (as most Voyani eyes) are dark. He is Elsarre's Shadow; Elsarre has no brothers, and no cousins she chooses to trust with her life.

  LYSERRA

  Maria of the Lyserra Voyani—Hair white as northern snow, eyes blue as Lord's sky, she is slender and silent much of the time. She has the grace of gesture Serra Teresa possesses, and for this reason is less trusted than the other Matriarchs. Her husband is the kai of the clan Jedera; Ser Tallos kai di'Jedera. They have four children:

  Mika—Mika is broad-shouldered, dark-haired, dark-eyed as all clansmen; clean-shaven, as the Voyani are not.

  Jonni—Jonni is quiet; large-eyed, clear-skinned; he wears a beard.

  Aviana—The Matriarch's heir; she shelters with, and lives with her mother's kin in preparation for her eventual role. She loves her brothers fiercely, even if they are of the clans.

  Lorra—The family baby. Beautiful, but fair-skinned, she lives with her sister, and her mother's people.

  PROLOGUE

  I.

  6th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Averalaan Aramarelas, the Common

  They were gone.

  He had lost them.

  His memory was perfect, precise; it was his comprehension that was flawed. He had seen them, standing beneath the splintered bower of fallen trees, framed on one side by the shattered street, and on the other by the buildings that, thin as dry wood, had failed to stand against the least direct of the magical attacks the Kialli brought to bear. Behind them lay bodies; ahead, bodies as well. None of the fallen were Kialli.

  He had seen the expression transform the Warlord's face as the pathetic demeanor of mortality fell away; had experienced the sharp anticipation that comes before battle. He had even seen the signature of ancient power as it cut across the pale insignificance of unadorned day—the mark of the Warlord's magic.

  What had happened?

  Between that moment and this, the Warlord had glanced at the only mortal left standing in the square—an insignificant mortal woman—and then, between the falling of a stall and the rising of the earth, he had vanished.

  The Warlord did not flee battle. He left the field—if he so chose—when he had broken the forces of his enemies; when they fled, or fell. He left the field when the field had no suitable challenge to offer; when, among the fallen, the bodies of the Kialli could be counted before they were claimed by the elements. Or, on one or two occasions, he left the field when he destroyed it.

  But he had fled.

  A power such as his could not be concealed with ease if there were witnesses. Verdazan was not a seeker. Seekers were like mortal dogs—with the single exception of Lord Ishavriel, a lord Verdazan neither served nor crossed. But there was a seeker present. Verdazan growled his name, and he appeared, hands red with blood, eyes glistening.

  "What have you been doing, you fool?"

  "Hunting," the creature replied, all ability to dissemble gone.

  "Hunt later. There is work for you to do."

  "Hunt later." Black eyes were clear as day as Verdazan met them; the words were a hiss, like water spread thinly over an unbanked flame. "When would that later be? The Lord has forbidden us all hunting; he has forbidden us all reaving. It is only when he feeds himself that we are permitted to see what we cannot touch."

  "And do you intend to live here, hunting? You will not live long. Either they will kill you—"

  "These?"

  "Or the Lord will."

  But the light in Kialli eyes was there to stay. Verdazan knew that there was only one way to quench the flame. "Where is the Warlord?"

  "The Warlord?"

  "Sargathan," the Kialli lord growled, as another of the kin swept the roof off a quaint, fragile building.

  Sargathan froze. His hands came up, curled into slender, slick fists. "L-lord." Dry word. Dry sound. He struggled against the binding of his name. Had he not been necessary, Verdazan would have killed him instantly for the insult.

  And yet…

  And yet, beyond them both, roof having been peeled from a nearby insubstantial building, the occupants were riven from their illusion of safety, and then from the illusion of life in all its brief and fierce vib
rancy. Their screams were short and sweet. Too short. And too sweet by far. Had it been that long?

  No. Surely not. They had lived in the Hells for millennia; they had lived on the surface of the world for mere decades. The world could not exert so strong an influence that the Kialli themselves could be driven like hungry, lumbering beasts to feed at random, to feed in the heart of their enemies' stronghold.

  "Where is the Warlord?"

  Sargathan's lips pulled back slowly, as if the skin were being shed, to reveal teeth the length of his hands. Battle, like storm, was building in the air; in the crackle of electricity gathered but not yet released. He wanted it.

  He wanted what the others wanted.

  Instead he forced himself to listen to Sargathan's reply. "The Warlord is… gone."

  "Gone? Gone where?"

  Sargathan's laugh was bitter, but the madness had momentarily left it. "Where does the Warlord go when he tires of battle? If any of the seekers in the history of our Lord's War could have answered that question, he would be ours now. Or dead."

  "The legends say he cannot be killed."

  "Yes. And when his god existed, perhaps they were even true." The teeth and lips blended in smile. "Verdazan…"

  A request. There were too many mortals here; too many Kialli. And no battle; no battle to sustain them.

  "Our enemies will come."

  "Yes."

  "But your presence here has already been noted. Yes. Go."

  The wild music was in the air. The smell of blood, the sharp tang of old wood that, when snapped, released the hidden scent of its pale center. Stone, dust, the fruits of the mortal market. And the trees, towering, ancient.

  The trees.

  He smiled. Gave himself to the fight, or to the fight he thought might follow. There were so few mortals with power, and to that handful, word would travel slowly.

  6th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Averalaan Aramarelas, Order of Knowledge

  The city was burning.

  Across the narrow stretch of bay, broken only by slender bridge, booth, and the guards chosen by the Kings' deputies, black smoke scudded like angry cloud through a flawless sky. Averalaan in winter.

  Light glinted off his silvered hair; he stood in the stillness above water and wave, a living statue, pale and clothed in the drab colors of the Order. He almost turned away from what he saw, but he found that he could not; the tower that contained him had a balcony of stone, and the stone rails had become attached to his hand in such a way that he was forced to bear witness.

  He heard the screaming.

  Meralonne APhaniel, member of the Order of Knowledge, had heard so many screams in his life they did not affect him as they did others; they were but some of many sounds, and each told its own story. But when the first of the ancient trees fell, motion returned to the tower.

  Sigurne Mellifas stood in the parting of door and frame, her pale hair drawn back in a way that made her face reveal the truth that few accepted: she was aged, polite, politic— and ruthless in pursuit of her chosen goals. Her principles were among those valued goals. Were they not, many men would lie dead who might present a danger to her. He was keenly aware that he was one. The awareness made him prize her more highly, not less, and he wondered, as he often did, why beauty was defined as youth in the eyes of so many. She was beautiful, scarred as she was by experience.

  She was also angry.

  His hand left the rail. He bowed, aware of the mollifying effect of manners.

  "Did you think I wouldn't find out before you departed?"

  He raised a brow. Then he turned briefly to the cloudless sky. She did not look at the fire that burned in the heart of the Common.

  "No, Sigurne. You would never disappoint me in such a fashion."

  "When you offer flattery in that grave a voice, I know I won't be happy with what you intend. You have summoned—your students."

  "Yes."

  She was silent.

  "Understand that they share two traits. For the mageborn, they are young."

  "And powerful," she said softly. Only Sigurne could make those words an accusation.

  "We face old enemies, and we are older ourselves; we must train the next generation," he said, surprising himself by the softness of his tone. "And while we have never spoken openly of it, you know better than any what the extent of that danger is; what the cost of failure will be."

  "I know better than any save yourself."

  "Save perhaps myself; I am less certain that it is your knowledge that is the inferior. But we speak of the city, Sigurne."

  "Yes."

  "And if we are to prove our ability to wage this war, if we are indeed to stand against the Kialli, and the return of even worse danger, we must be prepared to wield power. We were not always so weak a people. The power is there if we are willing to use it." An old, old argument. No matter what their intent, they returned to it; it lay at the heart both of who they had once been and what it had made them.

  "And at what cost? Were it not for the ambition of 'men of power', I am almost certain we would not need to train the young to death and death's arts."

  "It is not to death's art that I train them," he said softly. "Men were the only mortal creatures who stood unbowed in the face of the gods, when they walked these lands. We have forgotten," he added quietly, "but the potential still resides within us."

  "You will turn them into weapons."

  "I will turn them into men who are capable of wielding true weapons. It is not the same."

  "And when we stood against the gods in these lands, when we stood shoulder to shoulder with the wild and ancient powers, what were we, Meralonne?" Her eyes were wide, unblinking, but the shadows cast by the door's frame robbed them of color. "Did the Twin Kings stand as well? Did they demand justice for those too weak, or too insignificant, to be counted among the great?"

  His smile was brittle. He did not answer.

  "I would not see them turned from the path the Twin Kings have carved for the Empire. I will not see them judge worth by power alone. They have power, but I do not wish them to become that power, and nothing more."

  "Then make a spell, Sigurne Mellifas, that will somehow ascertain ambition at birth and kill all those who possess it."

  She did not move or flinch at the heat of his tone, and the anger deserted him. He was left with the knowledge that truth, like an oily merchant, had two faces, two edges. "But understand that some ambitions are born of fire." The streets were now burning with the fire of which he spoke. "What is forged in that fire will endure in a way that youthful intention seldom does. These men are not boys, Sigurne. They are not born of the streets; they have never struggled for their own survival above all else. That much you have taught them. And I…" His smile was odd, almost devoid of amusement. "Against my better judgment, I have chosen to uphold what you value."

  "What I value, Member APhaniel? Surely you mean what we value."

  "Indeed."

  Her gaze broke. "I would not have chosen this life."

  He understood exactly what she meant. "No one chooses the course of their life. You have risen from painful obscurity to the mastery of the First Circle of the Magi, yet I believe that if you had more faith in the competence of the Council of the Magi, you would return to obscurity. That is the miracle of you. Yet you have lived the life that you did not choose well, regardless." He raised his head to look beyond her shoulder. "They come."

  She listened for the sound of footsteps; they were both distant and heavy. There was no mistaking their direction. "Have you ever questioned the value of what you've built?"

  "I rarely question my decisions, once made."

  She said, "They will die."

  "Not all of them."

  The first of the warrior-adepts came through the open arch. He marched past Sigurne Mellifas, hesitation marring the timing of his very military step. It was clear that he knew who she was; clear also that he knew that paying the respect due her station would compromi
se the efficiency of the unit's arrival; the tower was not designed for the comfortable gathering of large numbers of men. It had been one of the qualities Meralonne valued in a residence, and he was certain, circumstance aside, that it was a quality that he would continue to value.

  The fledgling group of warrior-adepts assembled on this balcony would be winnowed; some would survive this first flight, and some would falter and perish.

  In minutes.

  Another tree fell.

  "I have summoned you here," Meralonne said, into a calm he forced from the wind, "to fulfill your oath. Your sworn duty is to use the gifts granted you by the gods in defense of those less privileged. Across the bay, in the old city proper, the enemy waits, unaware of your existence. They destroy with ease those they feel cannot fight back.

  "You have practiced and trained for this day; prove them wrong."

  He turned his back, his simply robed back, upon them and lifted his arms. The men he had called students were silent, but one breath, short and sharp, was drawn; he did not look back; he knew whose. The elbows of his sleeves rippled; the edges of his cloak skittered above the stones. His hair was braided, but strands framed his face and rose, as if he had summoned lightning, and waited merely for its strike.

  No lightning came.

  Instead, infinitely more subtle, more dangerous, the elemental air, the wild wind.

  "We cannot walk," he said, and added dryly, "and there are no horses within the Order's grounds that would carry us into that danger."

  The few who had come from patrician homes chuckled. He let that noise ease those who had not before he spoke again.

  "I have been your master and your teacher; I know your measure. I trust it. Now, I must ask a single question. You will know how to answer it.

  "Do you trust me?" Without looking back, Meralonne APhaniel stepped up, onto the balcony's railing. The wind swept him off.

  Now he heard their voices, the words muted and merged into a single noise. As they understood what they saw, the current driving those murmurs changed. Meralonne APhaniel stood, buffeted and untouched, a hundred feet— more—above the ground.

  "Join me," he said.

  They paused.