She wanted to shout at him, to tell him that it wasn’t true.
But she wasn’t a good liar. Had never been one. She felt the words sink into her as if they were her own, and she’d swallowed them, and they were never going to be released again. “Alowan—”
He was serene, as if, having said this, the turmoil had been given over to one who could better deal with it.
“I am an old man, Jewel. If not for my gift, I would have died twenty years ago, maybe a bit less. I am weary of this; I should have died before Alea’s body crossed my threshold. Alea was one of three people that Amarais trusted on the Council. Gabriel was another, but he is . . . compromised. Rymark is his blood son. I never considered the appointment of that one to be wise, for just that reason.”
“This is a House, Alowan. Blood counts for nothing.”
“You say that as if you believe it, and I believe, given your background, you probably do. But there’s a reason that we swear blood oaths, that we become blood brothers, or brothers under the blood. And there is a reason that, from the dawn of time to now, parents have let kingdoms fall to preserve the lives of their children. A reason, young Jewel, that the Kings are born to the gods, and not to men.
“Enough. I have not asked you in to debate this with you. The Terafin trusted Alea, and Alea, trusting and foolish, is dead. She trusted Gabriel, but he is involved, and distant because of it. There is only one person that The Terafin can trust.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I don’t think that you want to think about it yourself. Do.” He turned to look out the window. “I am not the only person who will not survive this war.”
She sat too still.
“I will not heal for Haerrad or his faction,” Alowan said softly. “I will put the word out. I will not heal for Haerrad, or for anyone who contests the heir The Terafin chooses.”
“You know,” she said, “who The Terafin will choose?”
“No. But I know that under no circumstance will she choose Haerrad.”
He rose. “I am tired, Jewel Markess ATerafin. I would sleep. Think on what I have said.”
CHAPTER SIX
They watched the boy spar, and not only because so much of their future—and, worse, the future of their bloodlines—depended on it.
Not, of course, that they watched for the same reasons, if compelled by things other than survival; these two men, Ramiro di’Callesta and Baredan di’Navarre, had lived under the same sun, but within the force of different gales, different winds; they were alike to those who did not know the Dominion, and as unlike as two men could be who still professed to understand the value of honor.
Baredan watched Valedan with a surprise that dispassionate assessment could not—quite—subdue. He had watched the boy spar from time to time, but never like this: Flash of blade, of forged, heavy steel, twist of torso, shift of leg, of knee, dip of shoulder, all of these a part of the dance, as if, indeed, this session were a blade-dance, and he, one half of the partnering of trust and skill that such a dance required.
He was simply not there when his opponent struck, and he parried by diverting the weight and the thrust of his opponent’s lunge, as if some subtle sense, some voice of the capricious wind, told him where it would fall.
“How long?” he asked, his voice much softer than he would have liked it to be when speaking with a woman, even this one.
“An hour,” she answered, in a tone as respectful as his; as awed, even. He thought that he liked this foreign Princess, this noblewoman who was the only one to be born of the blood of Kings. This is how the golden-eyed—or their descendants, set their traps; not by force or display of power, but by the seductive expedient of being honorable, and of honor worthy. “An hour,” she said again. “I think he’s found his stride.”
Baredan nodded. “Have you?”
“Twice,” she said, her hand touching the hilt of the sword she almost always wore. “Only twice in all the years I’ve been a competent swordsman. You?”
He laughed. “Once,” he said. “But I do not think that this is that moment of transcendence for Valedan.”
“No, nor I.”
He hesitated a moment, his eyes still upon the boy and his opponent. At last he whispered a benediction, to the open sky, to the Lord of the Sun.
Ramiro di’Callesta, beside him, frowned.
The sea breeze had a saltiness to it that he, as Tyr’agnate of Averda, was familiar with, if not accustomed to, but he found it unpleasant in the languid heat of an afternoon sun that, if not at its height, still shortened his shadow, made of it something squat and unattractive. Certainly unpowerful.
He watched the contest, but he watched it, his eyes on the man who had once been Kings’ Champion. Commander Sivari. Impressed by the man, impressed that he was so certain of himself he allowed two Southerners to stand here, in this private place, to watch the work of the Northern man-at-arms.
For without question Valedan di’Leonne was a student of the master; in no other way could such a young man have become so proficient. Ramiro di’Callesta made it his business to know and understand the workings of the Empire; they were his enemies, and even in time of peace, they gathered their strength and waited until some fool of a Tyr gave them the excuse they needed to cross the border.
Or so it often appeared. He confessed, in the privacy a man has with his thoughts, that he did not understand these men and women half as well as he would have liked. They were not uniform in their behavior, although they accepted one law—and that law, with the minor, minor exceptions the Houses managed to obtain—applied equally to both the lowest of common thieves and the Princes of the realm; they had power, but they had no serafs; indeed, the closest they came to serafs were men who sold their time and their allegiance, by contract, to masters of their own choosing: domicis.
He did not have Baredan’s difficulty with armed women, women of danger; he was not so naive not to understand just how powerful the powerless could be.
Just how powerless the powerful could be.
Because he stood, beneath the open sky, under the Lord’s gaze, watching a man who could be his enemy train a boy who would be—will be—his only master.
Baredan, he thought, as his hand strayed, almost with the exact motion the woman’s had, to his sword hilt. What are we witnessing?
The moment was profound. Uncomfortable.
He could see, in the boy, the wind, the sun, the grace that legend lent to the Leonne clan. For a moment, he could see the Kings’ Challenge as a springboard for the young man. But only for a moment, and that moment became insubstantial, inconsequential. Because he could see the Northern hand in the forging of the Southern weapon, and he did not know what the weapon’s temper was.
Northerner.
Yes, the Northern Imperials could wage war against the South, and yes, they could win it; he had always acknowledged self-evident truths. But could a Northerner rule what he had taken?
And if he could not, would it be of benefit to Callesta in the long run? To Averda?
The sun was hot and merciless, as always; the wind was too humid. Ramiro di’Callesta watched the boy who looked like a blade-dancer in his grace and his focus. In a moment of doubt, Ramiro had traveled to the Callestan Swordhaven, seeking an answer to Baredan di’Navarre’s fate in the only constant—besides blood—of his clan. In a moment of folly, he had made his decision; he accepted both that folly and the decision that came of it.
Decades of politics and pragmatism, dashed in a single gesture. It would haunt him. And cost. The Tyr’agnate of the Terrean of Averda took a deep breath, an even breath, a long one.
We have left him to you for far too long, he thought, drawing the Sword of Callesta.
Light caught the blade; noise carried the slight sound of steel against steel, the
scrape of blade’s flat against scabbard’s mouth.
Baredan di’Navarre turned, mouth slightly open, to face the unsheathed sword. Bloodhame. “What,” he said, his voice as steady as he could make it, “are you doing?”
“I am testing the temper of a sword,” Ramiro replied, distantly.
“Not that sword.”
“This sword?” The Tyr’agnate’s voice was soft and momentarily chill. “No. I know this sword better than I know my kin.” He raised the weapon, pointing it as if it were an extension of his hand, his arm. “That one.”
The boy. Valedan. Baredan was no fool.
“Ramiro, let it be. What the Commander cannot teach him, we cannot; there are three scant days before the gauntlet is run.”
“What do you see when you see him?”
“A man. A Leonne. My Tyr.”
“I see what you see, but more. I am an old man; it should not be so much of a challenge.”
Because the Princess was with them, Baredan did not snort. “You are one of the finest swordsmen in all of Averda.”
The Tyr’agnate’s smile was sharper than Bloodhame. “The sword,” Ramiro said, stepping forward, “is drawn.”
“Tyr’agnate,” Mirialyn ACormaris said, her voice smooth as steel, and just as soft.
“ACormaris.”
“If I am not mistaken, that sword is the Callestan clan sword.”
“You are not mistaken.”
“And if my memory serves, once drawn, it is not returned to its scabbard unblooded.”
“Your memory,” Ramiro kai di’Callesta said, “is the memory of Cormaris, lady.”
The argument caught their attention. It was loud, and inasmuch as they could be, they stood downwind of the play of words among three voices: two men and a woman.
They broke at once, drawing out of the invisible circle that bound all their movements, all of their attacks and defenses, their thrusts and swings, counters, parries. Shadows which fell short against the ground became two things, not one; they turned, almost as a man, to the spectators that they had been, at best, peripherally aware of.
Valedan would have recognized the woman’s voice anywhere. He lifted the lip of his helm, squinting through bright light to shadow, the shade of bowers above the open courtyard.
“Valedan,” Sivari said, letting the name carry the full force of his voice.
Valedan nodded. They both looked to the naked blade of the Tyr’agnate of Averda. “Treachery?”
Sivari’s laugh was brief; it held both amusement and a trace of bitterness. “Always. He is of Annagar. But if you’re asking me if I think he means to kill you, then no; it is his vanity and not his sense of safety, that has been somehow pricked. Stand ready.”
Valedan shrugged; metal joints clanked slightly as his shoulder rose and fell. Without another word, he crossed the stones, holding his sword, unsheathed, by his side.
“Tyr’agnate,” he said, nodding.
“Tyr’agar.” The Callestan Tyr brought his sword up, as if it were weightless. “You are better with your weapon than I thought you would be.”
Valedan fought to keep the smile from his lips; to keep his pleasure from showing. To show pride is necessary. To show pleasure in praise is not—not when your allies are men such as the Tyr’agnate. It will make him question your youth; it will make of you, in his eyes, a boy. Men accept praise as their due when it is their due. You will be his Tyr.
Do not forget this.
“I am not a young man, Tyr’agar. I would be honored if you would allow me to take the Commander’s place for the remainder of this session. I seldom have cause to practice, and I would be in your debt.”
“It is not a—”
Valedan raised a hand, asking for silence from the Princess Royal. Receiving it.
“As you can see, I am armored; there will be no delay. We had cause to venture into territory that might have proved . . . inhospitable before we returned to Avantari.”
“If the Commander wishes to cede his place,” Valedan said softly, “I would be honored.”
Both men—the younger gleaming with the effects of the session’s exertion—turned to look at Sivari. He lifted his helm.
“I will cede my place,” he said. “But with your permission, I will watch.” His tone of voice made of the request a command; his eyes were blue as sky, unblinking, as he stared past Valedan at his challenger. As if he were suddenly dangerous. Or as if Sivari were finally willing to acknowledge that he was a danger.
“Granted,” Valedan said, before Ramiro could reply. “Tyr’agnate?”
“I am ready.”
They circled each other like wary animals, two of a kind. Swords glinted in sunlight as one or the other shifted his stance minutely.
“What is he doing, Baredan?”
The General shrugged. “What the Tyr’agar has accepted.” It was clear that he was not pleased by either challenge or acceptance; clear, also, that he was fascinated by it, by the movement of two men, one still slender with youth and the other—the other fettered by power and power’s rein.
Soon, he thought, as he watched the Callestan Tyr. The boy has stamina. He bides his time.
In matters of war they were not so different as all that, the General and the Tyr; they noticed the same things, fought many of the same fights. Ramiro di’Callesta struck before Baredan’s words fell into memory, stepping in with his left leg and swinging with his right arm. Neither man had chosen to carry a shield; their skill served in its stead.
And the shield was a Northern style for a combat such as this.
He watched; the sun was lower now, but it cleared the trees and the heights of all buildings save those the cursed god-born ruled. The shadows it cast lengthened, blending as boy and man clashed, as curved swords glanced and slid and separated.
The boy was tired. The man was not—quite—up to his edge. Even so, they should not have been evenly matched. Death changed a man, and killing more so; Ramiro di’Callesta was blooded in both ways. Valedan, in neither.
He drew breath, but did not release it.
Circle. Strike, parry, strike strike strike—pressing the advantage Valedan’s exhaustion gave him, pressing it as hard as he could. The boy gave way, but he gave ground slowly, holding his own.
Witness, Lord, Baredan thought, his hand a fist atop the pommel of his sheathed sword. Witness. Grant us a sign.
And it came.
Valedan broke, at last, coming out of the circle, foot upon the interlocked brickwork that led into the footpath’s menage of life. Ramiro pressed him, hard. Pursuing, Baredan thought, a little quickly. A Northern combat would be over, but by unspoken consent the two who sparred did not follow the Northern convention of the circle’s boundaries. Still, if Valedan left the training ground, he would be expected to end his combat, declaring it a victory for the Tyr’agnate.
A victory without the proof of blood Bloodhame required.
The Callestan Tyr came on and Valedan stopped, suddenly freezing in place, his sword up and across his chest, his hand on the back of the blade. He pushed, and then drew the blade across air as if it were weightless, as if it were the steel, and not the man, that guided the movement.
Sunlight flashing.
Blood.
Ramiro di’Callesta stood beneath the eye of the Lord in the courtyard of the foreign Kings, the fight over. He raised a gloved hand to his cheek, touching the cut that the tip of Valedan’s blade had left there.
He spoke, but the winds carried his words away from Baredan’s ears; Valedan bowed his head slightly and walked back to the circle’s far edge, where he lifted a cloth. There, he wiped the blood—and there was little enough of it—from the blade’s sharp edge. His hands were trembling; not a good sign, but still, one that could be overlooked for this da
y.
Lord, Baredan thought. Your servants bear witness.
The Tyr’agnate joined the boy by the bench; he spoke again, but again the words were too faint, too personal, to carry.
And then Baredan’s mouth opened to shout a warning as Bloodhame came up in a glitter of sunlight, a hidden whistle of wind.
The warning died.
Because Valedan kai di’Leonne’s blade rose to greet it.
Baredan knew a moment of perfect peace then, although he heard Sivari’s curse, felt rather than saw the depth of Mirialyn’s frown. The boy had been bred in the North. Had been born to a wife not Serra, and at that a terribly weepy, overly dramatic, unattractive woman. He had been sent here to live and die as a means to end a poorly fought war.
But the South was there, at the core of his heart; a Northern boy would have taken the cut that Ramiro desired to offer—because a Northern boy would have trusted the guise of both ally and the formality of “rules.”
Still, enough. For they were in the North, and it was the Northern armies that would be their best weapon. He had no intent of letting the Tyr’agnate further antagonize either the Princess or the Commander.
“Ramiro,” he said, drawing close, the tone of the single word genial, the hand upon his sheathed sword not. “A good fight. I trust that you have what you came for?”
The Tyr’agnate spared the General a glance, and then he smiled thinly. “Not entirely what I came for, Baredan. But I am . . . satisfied.”
“Sheathe the sword then, and be done.”
“As you say.” Ramiro di’Callesta lifted Bloodhame, and ran her edge lightly across his cupped palm. She bit, but not deeply, not in his hands.
“You are not,” the Tyr’agnate said, turning from Baredan to the master he served, “what I feared you would be. You . . . fight well, and you are wary enough. Be so, and you may survive what follows.”
Valedan did not smile in return. Instead, he sheathed his own, unnamed, sword. “One does not have to be treacherous to understand treachery, Tyr’agnate.”
The Uncrowned King Page 19
