Michelle West - Sun Sword 04 - Sea of Sorrows Read online

  "What will you do, Tyr'agar?"

  Valedan stiffened slightly. To come from the breadth of a circle in which Ser Anton was undisputed master, and he student, and oft-bruised student at that, to this courtyard in the Arannan Halls, in which a fountain stood in solemn expectation, was often a difficult transition.

  He wanted advice. He wanted, in truth, the same near wordless but effective counsel that Ser Anton granted him when he held a naked sword beneath the Lord's gaze. Things were clean, there; stark and easily realized.

  Outside of the circle, he was, again, the uncrowned Tyr; the man who had claimed a throne and a sword that he had seen only a handful of times in his life—all of them before he had reached his eighth year; a sword he had never held. A man who intended to lead a Northern army into lands in which the North was hated and despised, and to somehow shed little blood and come out, as the Ospreys said, on top.

  He had no idea how to achieve this.

  And to be asked was… awkward.

  The water trickled in the wordless pause between question and answer. Valedan, as Tyr, was not obligated to answer, but here Ser Anton's position held sway. Ser Anton had fallen into a dangerous shadow, and having survived it, having learned from it all that he needed to know about his basest of impulses, had stepped into the light again a changed man; a man Valedan had accepted, without question, as swordmaster.

  To the swordmaster to the man who wielded—or would—the Sun Sword by right of birth was an honor, an honorable position.

  Made so, in fact if not by custom, by Ser Anton di'Guivera.

  "I don't know," Valedan said at last, when the silence dwarfed the words.

  "What have I taught you, Tyr'agar?"

  The young Tyr's hand fell to the hilt of his sword and rested there, as if he derived strength and comfort from the connection with his weapon. He didn't, not now, but it was an important posture.

  "That it is better to make the wrong choice and deal with the consequences than to make no choice."

  Ser Anton's nod was almost genial.

  "Every action, every decision, every movement that takes me closer to the South, involves wrong choices. I was hoping that, with the passage of time and the… education… that I've received from both yourself and indirectly, the ACormaris, a right choice would present itself."

  Ser Anton said nothing, but he was still. The water spoke for both of them until Valedan at last turned to fully face this man, his master and his most famous vassal.

  "There are no right choices."

  Ser Anton's smile was slight, but it was present. "You are learning, Valedan. And you are correct." He bowed, slightly, toward the kai Leonne. But beyond the man who had undertaken the rule of the Dominion, the statue that bore such a difficult name also received the meager depth of his bow: Southern Justice. That statue, of a young seraf, blindfolded and in chains, was accusation and truth, neither of which was easily accessible to men born and bred in the North.

  "There is no right choice. Make one of the wrong choices instead, and make it decisively. Against Alesso di'Marente, in the end, you must be decisive."

  "I will have the Commanders."

  "Yes."

  "They have bested the General in battle before."

  "Ah." Ser Anton slid his hands behind his back; a bad sign. Then he turned to face Valedan, his dark eyes somehow darker, although the alcove contained little shadow at the height of day unless one deliberately sought the shade. "Let me make this perfectly clear: They bested the General in battle because he was hampered by the dictates of a weak and foolish Tyr. Commander Allen was only slightly compromised by the orders of his Kings; the field was his to lose, and he is not a man who is accustomed to giving away any advantage. He will not have the luxury of a weak Tyr when he meets Alesso di'Marente again: Alesso takes his orders from no man save himself."

  "But—but—"

  "Yes?"

  "Is he not beholden to the allies he has made?" Neither man spoke of the Kialli by name; it was unnecessary, even if their silence seemed a tacit acceptance of the suspicion that names, once acknowledged, give power.

  Ser Anton's smile was brief, fierce; it was the smile of a man who appreciates a work for its superb artistry even when the subject matter might otherwise weaken him. "Trust me in this, if in nothing else. Understand what I say now, kai Leonne, and you will understand the man far better than the allies that we shun mention of. This, this is the test of a man; this is the test that Alesso di'Marente was born to pass or to fail. When the General takes to the field of battle, he will be beholden to no one."

  "You think—you think he might win this?"

  "You ask me what I think? Let me answer, but let me also remind you that you must never ask me this question where anyone other than Ser Andaro can hear it. I think that we must allow for that possibility, yes—but if it happens, it will not matter. The Lord will judge our corpses."

  19th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Avantari, Hall of Wise Counsel

  "No."

  The word, said as it was in a unison that was almost unheard of, echoed in the curves of stone architecture that had stood for longer than the men and the woman beneath it had lived. Cumulatively.

  The Berriliya did not flinch, or waver, or in fact deign to notice the odd harmony the single word produced. His profile, hawkish, did not change at all; he might have been chiseled from the same stone that had trapped the single word. Or from ice, although ice rarely formed this far from the North.

  The Kalakar's pale brow rose, however, and she turned, her gaze glancing off the face of the man who was both Commander and House ruler like an ineffectual blow. She was, in every possible way, his equal—and certain proof that equality and uniformity were two very different concepts. The Berriliya chose to encase his disapproval in Northern chill, The Kalakar, in the motion of fingers against the perfect sheen of well-kept tabletop.

  "The boy cannot travel to Annagar with the army."

  Commander Bruce Allen had wondered, briefly, if she would rescind her refusal in the wake of The Berriliya's, but it was idle curiosity of a type that is born—and dies— in the awkward silence between a single inconvenient word and any reaction to it. In truth, the man known to the vast majority of the Kings' armies as the Eagle felt a great deal of sympathy for the position The Berriliya and The Kalakar had chosen to take.

  He rose, however, forsaking the comfort of chair and gaining the authority of height and motion. Neither the Hawk nor the Kestrel chose to join him in flight; they watched him, as they always had, for some sign of weakness.

  "It can't have escaped your notice," he said dryly, speaking to them both but looking toward Devran, whose glacial stare was the more aggressively displayed hostility, "that the boy is the only legitimate reason we have to take the armies South."

  Devran didn't shrug; Ellora did, her lips twisting a moment in a wry grimace. "Tell the Kings' spies to find a different reason, then; that's what they're paid for."

  If possible, Devran's expression grew distinctly more chilly.

  "But one way or the other, Bruce, we won't expose the army to the risk of taking the boy."

  "The boy—"

  "If we succeed, the boy will rule in the South. There is an advantage to having, as the Dominion's ruler, a man who has lived in a land where power, strictly speaking, is not the only law."

  "Careful," Bruce said quietly. "We each have old habits, born of earlier wars, that it would be unwise to indulge. Yes. Of course there is an advantage to having Valedan kai di'Leonne as ruler."

  "But the advantage," The Berriliya said coldly, "is merely a weapon, like any other; what we can use from a distance with difficulty, our enemies can use, at his side, with ease."

  "They don't understand the North well enough to make use of him," Ellora snapped, more comfortable in disagreement with Devran than in agreement. They wore their rivalry with the same intimacy that most wore friendship that had been tested—successfully—in every possible circumstance. br />
  "It is not in the North that he will rule," Devran snapped back. "But in the South, and because of that, he will need the advice of men who have managed to retain their hold on power."

  They turned to the Eagle, because once again they had reached the heart of the argument. "Callesta," The Kalakar said, as if the word were profanity. "And Navarre."

  Commander Allen nodded, the movement an almost imperceptible tilt of chin. "Understand," he said at last, "that our role here is advisory." His smile was grim and brief, but it was genuine. "And that the Kings themselves are locked at the moment in dispute over the question we address now."

  "There should be no question," Devran said. "The boy himself, shorn of those two allies, is less of a threat, but if he can answer the inevitable questions Ramiro di'Callesta will put to him, it will lay our logistic system open for Callestan inspection. The Tyr'agnate can travel in safety to the South; tell the boy that our armies will meet up with the Callestan army when we cross the border."

  "I'm afraid," the Eagle said softly, "that it's not that simple."

  Duarte AKalakar's gaze was like the Lord's as he met Valedan's unblinking stare. They were separated by more years than Valedan kai di'Leonne had lived, and by vastly more experience, but in the end it was Duarte who looked away. Here, in the privacy of the chambers that served as Valedan's only palace until the campaign in the South was won—or lost—he could afford to do so.

  But the Ospreys were restless, and some, driven by memories of the Southern valleys and the slaughter of the compatriots that Duarte himself had chosen—don't go there, not now, not in front of the kai—had already begun to circle. There was an intensity to the practice field that spoke— movement for movement, word for word, silence for silence—of death, of killing.

  The Ospreys had never been a force comfortable with peace. They were waking now.

  And in a place they would never have woken, had they a choice, although it was not as uncomfortable as they feared it might be: as guards for, guardians of, a Southern noble.

  Duarte AKalakar could no longer afford any sign of weakness. Not only must he expunge all gestures that might make him appear weak, he must also expunge the weakness that led to the gesture.

  "There are other guards you might choose," he said at last, uncomfortable in the silence. "Certainly," he added, with a touch of grim humor, "more tractable or obedient guards; guards with an understanding of the gravity of your situation—and of your station."

  "True," Valedan said, in the tone of voice that indicates conversational placeholder rather than agreement. It was a mannerism of the South, to give the appearance of agreement, rather than its substance. Duarte wondered when Valedan had adopted it.

  "But if you choose to retain the Ospreys in the role appointed for them, there is no safe way for us to cross the border without the army."

  "The Callestan—"

  "Kai Leonne," he said softly, "with all due respect, I must say that you have not spoken with the Tyr'agnate if you can even suggest that we might follow you ahead of the army into that territory."

  "The Tyr'agnate has control of his forces, surely?"

  "Of his forces, yes. And anyone who disobeys his orders will die. But so will my men. And in numbers. We are not… well-loved… in the South. Our colors are known."

  "And you would have me accept Callestan Tyran in your place?"

  "With all due respect," Duarte said, in a way that might make another man wonder exactly how much respect was due, "it's been a long time since you lived in the South. You know how well the Ospreys fare during dress inspection or dress maneuvers. Imagine that your rank and your standing depend on our ability to be perfect."

  Valedan's expression shifted; it was a barely perceptible motion.

  "If you choose to—"

  The doors—the heavy, Northern doors which would be so out of place in the heart of the South—flew open.

  Or so it appeared—but instead of spinning on hinges, they continued into the room, driven as they were by the force of a very large object.

  Two swords were drawn by the time that object gained height and shape, unfurling obsidian limbs—legs and arms that gave it reach, hands whose fingers extended into gleaming, and familiar, blades.

  Duarte cursed in a way completely inappropriate to Valedan's station; Valedan, however, did not move.

  Something outside in the hall was cursing with the easy inventiveness of someone who does little else. "Gods curse you, Kiriel! Wait for me!"

  Kiriel di'Ashaf, blade drawn, leaped into the breach of the now doorless entry as if she hadn't heard the words. Judging by the ferocity of her intent, it was a good bet she hadn't.

  "Tyr'agar," Duarte said, sliding into the formality that came with so much difficulty to the rest of the Ospreys, "I suggest you stand behind me." He gestured, his hands moving with less grace and less force than Kiriel's sword, as the demon pulled back its arm and let something fly.

  Whatever it was, it glanced off the air, skittered groundward, scudding off soft carpet and clattering into stillness against the cool stone.

  "A good suggestion," Valedan replied, his words lost to the creature's frustrated roar.

  Kiriel di'Ashaf had changed. The first time Duarte had been introduced to her, he had had to battle the urge to look over his shoulder any time he was forced to turn his back, and in truth, he had done all in his power to ensure that it was seldom necessary. But something had happened to her; something that she would not speak of. He was uncertain that she understood it herself.

  She had lost some of her speed, some of her edge, all of the sense of menace that could make a man's hair stand on edge when she did nothing at all.

  But what she was left with had become, over the course of three months, good enough.

  Good enough, at any rate, that she had beaten Auralis through the open door carrying a sword that was heavier than his when he outweighed her by, at best guess, more than half. She charged toward the demon—just as Auralis himself would have done—as if she still possessed all of the terrible strength which none of the Ospreys had forgotten— and all of the Ospreys would have liked to.

  But she pulled up at the last minute, her headlong rush trailing into a circling pattern that seemed only slightly slower. Auralis, still cursing, joined her, weaving in the other direction, matching her speed until he came to face her; only then did he shift to match her chosen circle— counterclockwise—his steps short and quick, his sword jumping from hand to hand.

  Through the open door, footsteps were caught by the high ceiling and their sound deepened; Duarte was used to this effect and guessed—correctly—that the next person to tumble lightly through the door would be Alexis AKalakar. She came up with a dagger, but she came up near the wall, using the flat expanse of stone surface to guard her back. Sanderton joined the circle that Auralis and Kiriel traced, by step alone, in the carpet; Cook gave him just enough room to safely follow his drawn sword. They were sweating.

  Kiriel, Duarte mused, had lost much of her ability, or so she claimed. He did not actually believe it, although he believed that she did; her instincts were far, far too good. She had led them; they had followed. And, as usual, she was both right and in time.

  The creature was of a type that they had seen before. It roared its fury at Kiriel. She did not roar back. She might have, once, but the single time she had tried it since she had lost some of her strength, the sound had been high and weak. It had had the effect of astonishing the creature— which the Ospreys took immediate advantage of. They weren't proud; they took what they could, when they could, being fond of life. But she had made no other sound during the combat and afterward she had disappeared. Auralis, after cleaning the blood off his sword, disappeared as well, and when he returned, she walked in a grim silence by his side.

  Thereafter, when she chose to speak in combat, she used words.

  Or, Duarte thought, her sword.

  There was, between Kiriel and Auralis, a very odd friend
ship. Based on instability, fear, and a hatred of the kin, it was bolstered by a competitive streak that had caused the deaths of lesser—and younger—men. Well, men younger than Auralis.

  The two understood that the kin were deadly; they understood that the kin were fast. They also wanted to land two blows: the first one, and the one that killed the creature. It was a game, but a desperate game, a game that drove them both to dance on a very fine, very sharp edge.

  Duarte was amazed that one, or the other, had not yet been killed or maimed, a sure sign that Kalliaris still favored the mad.

  Auralis landed the first blow. He often did, to Kiriel's great annoyance. The kin focused on her when she was in the room; it was almost as if they could not conceive of the danger any other mortal represented. If they were capable of mounting a strong offense, she bore the brunt of it; if they were capable of solid, impassable defense, they turned it in her direction. It was a wonder that Auralis was not farther ahead in their contest.

  But… to Auralis' great annoyance, it was almost always Kiriel who landed the killing blow, and in this case it happened almost on the heels of Auralis' victory; the creature, circled now by four swords, and watched by Alexis and Duarte, either of whom could offer less obvious means of damage, roared at the bite of the blade. The injury itself was minor.

  The mistake of allowing it to be a distraction was not. The creature's attention wavered from Kiriel's blade.

  If Kiriel had lost the darkness that had given her a quiet and natural menace, her sword had not; there was something about the blade itself that made any other death seem welcome. There was a tendency to take a step back when the blade was drawn, even if you happened to be engaged in combat at the time it left its sheath.

  The only person who seemed immune to the subtlety of its menace was Auralis; twice now, the two Ospreys had crossed swords—without demanding a subsequent trial by combat. Which was good; he was certain that one of them wouldn't survive it, no matter what rules of conduct were laid down before its start.

  The blade seemed to lead Kiriel's hands as it bisected the creature from the crook of its neck on the right to the pit of its arm on the left.