The Uncrowned King

by Michelle West

  “She will call Council in three weeks. And the matter of an heir will be raised, for she has chosen none.”

  “I know.”

  He laughed. “You are lying, but I accept it. I always accept a lie when it’s an honest one.”

  “What the Hells is that supposed to mean?” she said, her voice far too sharp and high, to the empty air.

  Air answered. “A lie is honest when you tell it to yourself so strongly that you believe it to be the truth.”

  He was gone. And she, who had come seeking strength and solace, was no more comforted than she had been when nightmare’s grip had been the strongest and Terafin itself was burning into desert heat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  11th of Lattan, 427 AA

  Averalaan Aramarelas, Avantari

  The sun traced a slow arc above two men. Rays glinted off armor joints and helm, becoming such a consistent source of light an onlooker might be forgiven for ignoring it entirely. What caught the eye with its lightplay was the sword-work; it made of the two men proud gods with forks of lightning in play.

  Flash, strike, the ringing of metallic thunder.

  Clearly, as one drew closer, one could see that of these men one was larger, muscled in a way that extreme youth did not allow for. He was also, this older man, more experienced; his attacks were not wild—not yet—and not poorly planned. Yet if he gained ground, it was a slow process.

  His opponent was younger, slender in the way that youth is that still knows strength. He was, of the two, the taller, and his blade the heavier and the one with longer reach—but where the older man’s blade was straight and double-edged, the younger man’s was curved—and the older man used the interchangeability of edge to his advantage, as he used all else.

  Not terrain, though; the terrain was even, flat, and quite lifeless. And Kiriel was used to that lack of life: it was the footpaths, here, that were still almost paralyzing in their scent, their profusion of color and motion.

  It was not as hard for her to watch as she imagined it would be. This was not a fight—not in a way that she understood it—but she had been trained to observe, in a fashion, by a creature she had promised herself she would never again grant the dignity of a name. That creature had trained her in the arts of war, and Ashaf—

  Ashaf.

  Breathe. What harm was there, in invoking an old woman’s name? It wasn’t a name, after all; it was a human conceit, a thing with no power. The sun was cold a moment as she smiled bitterly at the lie she was only beginning to accept for what it was: a lie. The speaking of Ashaf’s Southern name caused her more pain than anything in her life save her unnamed teacher. And why?

  Flash. Clang. Curse. Lightning against the wall and the ground; the older man used his strength as leverage to half-throw the younger almost out of the field of play. He stumbled. Righted himself as the older man seized the opportunity to unbalance him with a series of quick, short swings, side to side.

  Wild tactic; too wild for the young man.

  These people, they would have liked Ashaf. In her turn, she might have grown to like them as well, although she never trusted men much. Kiriel rose, restive, and touched the hilt of her sword—but it was no defense against Ashaf’s memory.

  She almost thought that Ashaf had trained her in the arts of peace—but what peace was there now? She, as the two men below, could feel the war that gathered, like storm, like the breath of the Lord of Darkness himself, on the horizon to the South. But only she willed it, waited for it, yearned for it.

  She saw, in the older man’s heaving motions, his coming exhaustion. They had been working thus, young man and older, in the sun, a long time.

  With a neutral eye, she watched them both and knew that the young man was better, far better, than even the Ospreys understood. He fought as if driven—no, better, he fought as if what drove him were a force that could be taken, whole, and used, as if it were power. In that, she thought that Valedan kai di’Leonne and Kiriel di’Ashaf were similar. That, and coloring; for they were pale of feature but dark of hair and eye.

  In all else, Valedan was gray and light, a thing of distant beauty Kiriel di’Ashaf grimaced, seeing in him what only demons could see: the choice of his soul. But she was no demon, no Kialli; what she saw, she could not twist or take. It would have been simpler if she could.

  Commander Sivari’s spirit was paler than Valedan’s, almost luminescent. He was at the waning of his life, not the waxing, when the soul itself was often fatigued by the life a human led—although how a soul grew weary, when the life it cloaked itself in was so short, Kiriel did not understand—but he was a man at peace with himself, and secretly, Kiriel hated him for it. And it was hard to hate the Commander.

  She heard footsteps; familiar fall of feet against stone—a step too light for a woman, although it was, indeed, a woman who claimed it, who owned it.

  “How long have they been at it?”

  She turned to face the curiosity in the eyes of the Princess Mirialyn ACormaris. Those eyes were such an odd shade; not golden, not like Kiriel’s—or, for that matter, her father’s, the King—but not quite brown either. Her hair was the color of new brass, a thing that was at once rich and pale; it reminded Kiriel of Auralis’ skin.

  “They’ve been ‘at it’ for almost an hour.”

  “They’re insane.”

  “Yes.”

  The two women exchanged a rare smile. It was hard for Kiriel not to smile at the Princess, for Mirialyn was in all ways a thing of beauty, a thing of grace. More than once, Kiriel had found herself reaching out to touch the older woman, the Princess Royal. But she was used to control, to the necessity of control; she could freeze in an instant, but subtly enough that the sudden lack of motion was not noted.

  Kiriel, listen well. I know the dangers of the gray that is almost white; I, too, have seen it. But I do not care for the light, and I do not love it.

  Cleave to the darkness, love it, serve it. For the light is ephemeral and fleeting; you might touch it, but you will never hold it; when the body is gone, so, too, is the soul. The darkness, the darkness you need never mourn the loss of; it can be Taken and claimed for you, and you will have it always.

  She bit her tongue; it bled freely. The taste of blood distracted her. She could control all motion, should she so choose; she could control the rate of her breath, the rise and fall of her chest, the nuance of gesture. But her thoughts were not so well-leashed, and his voice returned to her here, as it often did.

  Had he not been one of only two true teachers?

  “Kiriel?”

  She nodded.

  “I think you’d better have them stop. If this doesn’t kill Valedan, it most certainly isn’t doing anything for Sivari, and we’re going to need them both.”

  Kiriel frowned slightly.

  “What concerns you?”

  “I have been watching. Not just Valedan, but the men who have come from the South,”

  “On orders?”

  “Primus Duarte’s.”

  “Good. And?”

  “They train and they . . . spar . . . I think.”

  “Spar is the right word, yes. And?”

  “Valedan must defeat these men?”

  The daughter of the wisdom-born King said nothing for a moment; the moment stretched. At last, she said, “Yes. But it is more than just that.”

  “You think he needs to win.”

  “I think, having entered the Challenge, he needs to win. It has not yet begun.”

  “Will he win?”

  “What do you think?”

  “He is not what I am . . . accustomed to. In my own lands, none of you would last the fight.”

  Mirialyn raised a brow and then shrugged. “He can outride any of the Northerners, and probably half of the South; in s
wordplay he can hold his own against all but the top ten. The javelin, I think, will be the weakest of his skills. But he has the advantage over his distant kin; he can swim, and well. Between us, Kiriel, the one thing that Valedan has is the tenacity of endurance, the ability—and this is so rare in youth—to wait. To persevere. He will swim at the top of his form, and he will run well.” She paused. “I do not know if he will run quickly, but in the marathon, there is no question that he will take the stand. But in what position, only the gods can say.

  “Pole-vaulting favors his build and his coordination. But archery is the sport at which he excels, and it is not considered a man’s sport in Annagar; it will avail him little there, although it will move him to the crown.

  “He does not have to win every event to win the crown,” she added, as if uncertain as to how much Kiriel understood of this odd festival, “but he must win three of eight to have any chance at all.”

  “Have you seen the others?”

  “Not all of them. Some choose to train upon the fields that we provide, and some refuse the opportunity, holding their strengths to themselves until the actual moment.”

  “And?”

  The Princess shook her head softly. “The Challenge has not yet begun. If he can be turned from his course, I think it wisest.”

  She was the granddaughter of the Lord of Wisdom, the daughter of the Lord of Wise Counsel. Kiriel understood the weight of her words from the way she ended them.

  11th of Lattan, 427 AA

  Averalaan Aramarelas, Terafin Manse

  She thought, when she heard the knock at the door, that she might as well not have bothered to sleep at all, for all the good it had done her. There were accounts, after all, to be kept, and reports to be taken; she had been given, in her tenure with Terafin, the running of two of the smaller merchant routes. They were safe routes, to be sure; they sold pearls from the bay and jewels from the Menorans both to the West of the mountain chains and to the South. Trade in the South had diminished at her command, but the men who actually traveled the route were anxious to be off, and she often put faith in the men who did the real work while she sat behind a too-large desk playing with inkwells.

  Inkwells.

  The knock was louder.

  “I’m coming!” she shouted, and sank a bit farther back into the bed. The last of the dream had left her, but the visit with the spirit of Terafin now carried a greater, a more terrible, weight.

  The door opened. It was Finch. “Yeah. Right.” She marched into the room, as officious in her own way as Avandar, and threw off the light covers. Jewel didn’t like to sleep without covers, even at the height of summer. A remnant of a childhood belief that if, in bed, she was covered from toe to chin, the monsters that only materialized in the dark of a bedroom—and obviously, only preyed on young children—couldn’t get her. “Get up!”

  “Finch—”

  “Or have you forgotten that you told me to make an appointment with The Terafin when you woke us all up in the middle of the night?”

  She had forgotten.

  “And you know you’ve still got to talk with the Commanders, right?”

  “When?”

  “If you get dressed, you can breakfast with The Terafin; the Commanders are coming here, after all. I think The Terafin wants to feed them, so you’ll have some time between her and them to sleep if you need it.” Her expression made clear that whatever Jewel thought, Finch thought she needed it. “I brought clothes.”

  “Avandar’s supposed to do that.”

  Finch shrugged. “I guess he trusts me.”

  “Hardly.”

  Avandar stood in the doorway. He held out his arms, and Finch placed the carefully made bundle of day’s clothing into them. There was no point arguing with—or making fun of—Avandar. “She’s your responsibility,” the younger woman said, brushing pale brown strands of hair from her face. “Get her there on time.”

  “Why, thank you,” Avandar replied, “for reminding me of duties that are obviously so often forgotten.” His sarcasm, even at this time in the morning, was unpleasant.

  No, change that. Especially at this time in the morning. “Does it meet with your approval?”

  He offered her a very rare smile. “All of the clothing that young Finch has easy access to does. I chose it, remember?”

  Whenever he tried to be too friendly, he expected it to be a bad day. She nodded, swung her legs off the bed’s side, and shed her nightclothing in one easy pull of flannel over head and shoulders. He offered her her underclothing and she slid into it, hating it in the summer’s heat. It was, she thought, going to be a hot day.

  “Tell me,” she said, as he handed her the pale blue dress that made her feel so insipid—it had a silly neckline and a slightly pinched waist—“what we’re going to do about Rymark.”

  “Any suggestion I have,” he replied, his voice light, his smile thin, “would cost rather more money than we could divert without suspicion.”

  “Oh, ho ho ho. Look, I’m being serious. Here, hook me in.”

  “I was being half serious. If we were discussing Haerrad, there would be no half about it.” He stepped behind her, to the back of the ridiculous dress, and deftly made it tight. Jewel could safely and easily say that this particular year’s fashions were meant for young pretty women whose job it was to look, well, young and pretty. She was falling off the edge of young real fast, and she’d never, in her own mind, been up to pretty.

  She held out her hand and he plunked a necklace into it—pearls, a show of solidarity with the merchants who mined, in a fashion, the sea’s gems. “Good. Let’s—”

  “Hair.”

  The part she least liked. “Avandar, it’s only The Terafin. It’s not like she hasn’t seen me—”

  “Straight from The Terafin into the meeting with the Commanders. Your hair.”

  “Look, if I’m late again, I’m going to be cleaning the balconies the pigeons live above. And you’re going to be right there beside me.” She knew, by his expression, that it didn’t much matter. “All right, but hurry.”

  There were fairly strict unspoken edicts about who could run down the wide halls of the Terafin manse, and who could not. Jewel Markess ATerafin was definitely and without question in the class of those who could not. She reasoned, however, as she walked perhaps a little too quickly that there was a difference between, say, a canter and a gallop. Which of course applied to horses, not Terafins, but it was a thought.

  The skirts of this season’s wear were wide—praise the Mother—enough so that she could take the steps three at a time. She did, but even over the sound of her too heavy footfalls and her slightly labored breathing, the Terafin manse being a large area to cover in the very short time remaining her, she swore she could hear Avandar’s teeth grinding.

  Jewel did not have to clean the balconies.

  But while she did not care for the grand or dignified entrance that seemed so important to so many ATerafin—and to Avandar, if she were honest—he did. It wasn’t that it didn’t impress The Terafin; Avandar often showed a remarkable nonchalance when it came to the perfect good opinion of The Terafin herself. No, it was rather that it showed some sort of imagined flaw or weakness to The Terafin’s domicis, Morretz.

  One day, she thought, as she watched them both, and saw the peculiar tensing of either man’s jaw, I’m going to find out just what in the Hells it was that made you hate each other so much. She’d had no luck so far, and it had been well over a decade.

  One day—and then, she felt it, and she knew that what she had just said to herself was the truth. And instead of feeling comforted by it, she felt chilled. Cold, although the heat of the day was already notable.

  “Jewel?”

  She shook her head and smiled weakly at the woman who had given her her name, her life, and the time
to develop the talent she’d been born to. “It’s been a long night.”

  “So I gathered. I received an urgent request from young Finch.”

  She took a seat at a small table in the room just off the library, following with some speed The Terafin’s unspoken command. Food filled a room too small for it with its aroma; Jewel realized, with a pang, just how hungry she was. She hoped it wasn’t obvious—not so much because Amarais would dislike it, but because Avandar would kill her. Well, no, not kill her, but make himself unpleasant enough that she’d wish he’d just put her out of her misery.

  “You’re unusually expressive this morning,” The Terafin said softly as she took the seat Morretz had, without remark, pulled out for her use. Before Jewel could respond, The Terafin carried the morning’s conversation in the direction she meant it to take.

  “Finch took it upon herself to send me this.” She held out one ringless hand, and Morretz very carefully handed her two pieces—no, three—of curling paper. She set it down upon the table where Jewel might see it more clearly.

  Finch’s writing.

  Jewel’s dream.

  Silence surrounded them, permeated with the smell of a morning meal; a summer meal, fruits, cool water, cold breads, early wine.

  Neither woman touched what had been set out before them. Morretz gestured, almost unnoticed; but what was not unnoticed, not by Jewel—and she bet not by Avandar either—was the spark of light, of orange heat, that fled his fingers in a fine, delicate web, fading almost at once into the colors of the dawn.

  “Jewel,” The Terafin said quietly.

  Hunger dissolved into ash. Into the memory of ash and sand. “Last night,” Jewel answered.

  The Terafin looked out, out into the bay that the windows faced. Boats flecked the seascape in the distance, and beyond it, the curve of the old city, the hundred holdings, cathedrals to the gods who were not part of the triumvirate reaching up and pulling the eye with them. At last, she said, “I’ve been to the shrine.”

  “Me, too.”

  “He offered me a warning,” The Terafin said, delicately. She reached out for a glass, thin-stemmed and empty; Morretz moved at once to fill it. The wine was almost clear, it was so pale.