“We’ll take care of it.”
She wanted, very badly, to ask him who we was. And for all she knew, she might have.
He did not tell her, not then and not later, that the moment she’d begun to speak in her hesitant, angry way—precious anger that, for all it stung—he’d known about the attempt on Valedan’s life; did not tell her that he was certain he’d recognize both the site and the assassin if he saw either. Because, of course, the memory, murky and insubstantial as it was, wasn’t his.
It wasn’t cowardice on his part, although he examined his fear dispassionately before he at last set it aside. Caution dictated silence; he was silent. The Astari, after all, prized discretion highly.
He knelt, on stone and marble pattern, before the altar of the Mother’s finest temple. The stone there was cool, shadowed as it was by ceilings so high it seemed easier for them to deny the sun. Or the moon, giver of thin, silver light, echo of brilliance.
How much of the life he’d lived was left him? He was certain there were memories that had slipped between his fingers, unanchored and examined by Kialli, so much flotsam and jetsam. Did it matter?
He knew who he was, and if he did not remember clearly all of the hows and whys, he was old enough to know that the memories that he did have, that he was as certain of as any man can be certain of anything, were not a simple truth; they had been shaded by years and the perspective of years, changing and growing as he did, aging as gracefully.
Ah, there. Footsteps; a heavy tread for a lighter foot. They came from the left of the altar, growing steadily louder as the arches above caught and echoed them in the silence of prayer.
“ATerafin,” a young man said; he looked up as if only now aware of his presence. “The Exalted will see you now.”
“I am honored,” Devon replied.
The man bowed in return and waited patiently while Devon rose. Together they went into the hallowed chamber of the Mother’s stronghold.
She was Exalted, and he was merely mortal; he knew it so completely the fact was like air: necessary, unavoidable. He knelt at once, and the posture made his earlier supplication at the altar look stiff and wooden, although he was certain it had been neither. This woman, with her eyes of gold and shoulders that appeared too slender to carry any but the flimsiest of weights carried burdens that even he, sworn to protect the Kings and die in their defense if need be, had never considered.
She wore no finery; she was not expected to speak publicly on this day, or the next, or the one after. But to say that she took her leisure was untrue; she was like the Kings. The finery that her public office demanded did not define her authority, as it did for so many of her priests or the patriciate; it merely underlined the obvious.
And yet, even so, she was tired.
“I have heard,” she said softly, “that Meralonne APhaniel has fallen victim to the fevers.”
He grimaced. “Truth.”
“And I have heard that a young child has fallen victim to worse.”
He bowed again. There was very, very little that the Kings knew that the Exalted did not.
“I have therefore taken the liberty of speaking with my brothers, the Exalted of Reymaris and the Exalted of Cormaris; we have begun our labor, but we fear—”
“I know,” he said softly. “But the girl’s body was completely destroyed.” He would have looked away, but her eyes gave him no such permission. “It was the only way,” he added softly, “and in truth there was very little—if anything—left. It will not rise again to be used against us.”
“Then you have done well, ATerafin.” She turned; the balcony doors were open and breeze trapped in the billow of pulled curtains. “The Exalted have acceded to the request of the Lord of the Compact to the best of our abilities.”
“And will you then accompany the Kings’ party to the Challenge?”
Her frown was slight, but it pained him nonetheless.
“It is not our way,” she said softly, “to attend the Kings’ Challenge; there are no healers on the field, and none allowed. Such an event is a throwback to the warriors’ days.”
“Men war,” he countered softly. “It is our nature.”
“Many things that are our nature are avoided. Dying,” she added, with a sharp smile.
“In the end we can’t avoid that.”
“No. In the end.” She folded her arms across her chest, and for that moment looked like a mother, not the Mother. “I have little patience for the games, but given the risk and the danger—and given the indisposition of Meralonne APhaniel and the unfortunate age of Sigurne Mellifas, I do not see that duty allows us any avenue of escape.
“You may tell Duvari that we will, indeed, attend.”
He bowed. It was the only way to look away from her face.
“ATerafin.”
He rose.
“Your other request has also been granted, but I will now confess that the daggers that we give—and the five bolts—are all that we can give. Member APhaniel is adept at arts considered ancient, even by the Churches, and the metal will not take the summer enchantment unless it is properly treated. The bolts,” she added, “are of a tree that is only found twice a year, and only then by people who know how to look for ways that man does not walk.
“We pray,” she said quietly, “for Member APhaniel’s quick recovery.”
“He is not the only mage, surely?”
She did not lie; such a stern woman had no need for subterfuge. “He is not the only mage,” she agreed. “But the arts that he has made his speciality were considered of little use four hundred years ago; he has begun to teach, but only since the Henden fifteen years ago have any been willing to actually study what he offers.
“He says he has two apprentices who may—in ten years—be as competent as he.”
They both knew what that meant.
He wondered, briefly, why Duvari had not chosen to impart that information to him.
But only briefly. It was impossible to distrust the daughter of the Mother; it was almost as difficult to trust a man like Duvari. Especially if you were one of the magi; Duvari was notorious in his suspicion for and distrust of mages.
As had Devon been, once.
Kallandras of Senniel was waiting for him when he at last returned to the office, carrying his precious burden. He lifted a pale brow as the ATerafin dropped his ungainly sack across the desk’s surface.
“I see,” he said wryly, “that ornamental chests are in short supply this Challenge season. And,” he added, eyeing the rumpled but sturdy sack, “that the Mother is more practical than the officials who serve the Kings.”
“More merciful,” Devon replied, with a quick flash of teeth. “Neither she nor the officials have to carry either burden—but she’s aware of the weight regardless.” Magelight, as even and smooth as a patch of cloudless sun, washed the room in a color close enough to green that it was clear Patris Larkasir economized where he could; moonlight had been denied by the pull of heavy curtains.
Kallandras slid off the perch the desk’s surface provided, sliding his palms forward slightly. He didn’t bother to ask what Devon ATerafin carried; it wasn’t necessary. Beneath the momentary amusement, he heard urgency. They had little time.
“You sent a message to Solran. She sent me.”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity, ATerafin, do you wish my services?”
“Is there any question?” He unknotted the sack. Reached in. Pulled out an ornamental dagger, a heavy, awkward, jeweled display piece. His eyes rested on the scabbard as if caught by the finery there. As if.
“Devon,” Kallandras said quietly.
The man he knew as Astari closed his eyes a moment. “Meralonne is indisposed,” he said at last.
“I know it. He sent for me.”
&
nbsp; Gaze flickered off gemstone, like tongue of flame. “Is he as bad as they say?”
“Yes. Possibly worse.”
“Do you know what the full implications of his death would be?”
“No,” Kallandras said, certain by the question that he didn’t. “Does it matter?”
Devon said nothing for a long moment. When he spoke again, Kallandras heard something familiar in his voice; an edge that reminded him that the Astari were weapons. “Valedan kai di’Leonne faces death at the test of the sea.”
The master bard looked down to the knife that had become, in Devon’s hands, that rarest of things: perfectly still. So had the ATerafin. “The Astari?”
“They watch,” he said softly, “but it is not the duty of the Astari to protect a foreign monarch—or pretender. They watch the Kings.”
“And you?”
“I watch the boy; he is, after all, of interest to the Kings and their future security.” Light, that. Light and easy, said without inflection. Without passion.
Devon ATerafin was a silent man; a still one. He had better control of his speaking voice than most bards, and he gave little away, save when he chose to do so. Kallandras had rarely seen him unguarded. But if he was neutral by choice, unknowable by discipline, he was a man whose convictions could be felt.
It comes, he thought, to the boy. To Valedan kai di’Leonne. “Very well, ATerafin,” he said quietly. “Arm me. Arm us both. The dawn is scant hours away, and I am not a youth, to forgo sleep with ease.”
“Before the Challenge?”
“By the basin, yes.” He rose. Made his way to the balcony the curtains obscured. As his hands touched the material, drawing it noiselessly to one side, he heard his name. He turned his head, acknowledging it.
But the ATerafin seemed to have lost his thought, or to have decided the better of offering it for inspection; silence fell, uninterrupted, as he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
20th day of Lattan, 427 AA
Averalaan Aramarelas
Sun.
Light on the waves as bright and pale as platinum, the wind in lull. It was unseasonably cool an hour past dawn, which meant it was bearable to the men who stood waiting. At the break of dawn, the officiants—among them the Kings themselves—had in solemnity and gravity declared the start of the day’s events. An hour had drifted away, and it was a rare hour indeed, in the company of speech makers and men whose identity was defined by their clothing, that passed with so little boredom on his part.
Golden-eyed, the Kings were called demon-born in the South—but Valedan thought their eyes very like gold, the sun’s metal; he could not countenance them as demons of any nature.
But Valedan kai di’Leonne was only one among many.
The Kings had made their speeches, offered their salutes, granted their permission, and the procession had moved from Avantari to the edge of the docks themselves—or rather, the boardwalk which led to the docks. These docks were short and squat; low to water, unlike those used by the famed vessels of the Empire. Wide and solid, they were kept for the purpose of the Kings’ leisure: Swimming, fishing in small vessels, watching the sunrise with nothing at all between water’s reflection and vision. Valedan had seldom seen wood so rich in color and so seemingly new that had obviously weathered decades; the work of the mage-born, no doubt.
He hadn’t long to marvel or to wonder; the contestants formed up across the length of the boardwalk, waiting, waiting. His guards and his watchers outnumbered them.
“We cannot protect you here,” Baredan had said. “Forgo this test.”
His eyes flitting across the mages who patrolled the water in little vessels that moved as if oared by madmen—none of whom were visible—he spoke to his first General. “And will I forgo the marathon as well? Without either, I have no hope of winning.”
“This isn’t the war, Valedan; it’s a battle. At this early stage, we can afford to lose everything but you.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” Valedan replied.
As Baredan had not expected to have an effect, he bowed stiffly in the morning’s light. He turned his head to either side, counting and taking the measure of the men who had been chosen to guard the kai Leonne—although he knew both number and measure well enough by now.
Ser Anton’s students were in evidence, but the threat they presented had nothing to do with their scant abilities in this challenge. A mage had been stationed by their retinue, and they were “protected” by several of the Kings’ Swords.
Ser Anton did not appear to notice; Carlo was actively annoyed. He was so much like an Osprey in temperament that Valedan wondered if he’d truly been culled from the South at all.
“Third heat.”
Valedan nodded at Commander Sivari’s words. They weren’t necessary, but he found the sound and tone a comfort. Here, the challenge was simple: Swim from the isle to the mainland and back. Quickly. The javelin had served him well; the water, he hoped, would serve him well again. In this test, neither far North or South were well-served by their natural environs. Not so the heartlanders, as the citizens of the strip of land that surrounded Averalaan liked to call themselves; oceans and rivers in the center of the Empire, especially here at its heart, were warm and calm. Swimming was a pastime of leisure; if a swimmer were pressed, it was also an activity that welcomed practice, and it rewarded skill over bulk or muscle—although muscle and skill combined would almost of necessity win.
Valedan cast a glance at Eneric, and the Northern barbarian waved, his hands splayed wide in an open palm gesture that was not unlike flailing.
He, too, was in the third heat.
Fifteen men stepped forward onto the lowest portion of the boardwalk. No seawall here; the seawall fortified the eastern edge of the isle, petering out to either edge. Behind each stood their chosen witness and a single trainer; the witness watched, and the trainer waited to receive the clothing they wore. They stripped to skin beneath the sun’s glare. Only one of them appeared to find it amusing, and Valedan was immediately embarrassed for those women he knew with certainty were witness to the event. The man’s companions in this swim maintained their dignity and their seriousness, ignoring him and each other. Or trying to.
The judges counted.
Numbers had been one of the first things that Valedan had learned in this land of the two Kings, the demon-kings, the golden-eyed scions of foreign gods. Numbers, spoken with painstaking care, a finger and a toe at a time, under the watchful eye of both his mother and the Serra Alina.
Counting.
He watched the fifteen. Wondered if the water were cold, although he knew it would not be.
The judges counted, and he counted, in Weston, in silence.
Time.
The first man to break water in this event was also the man whose sense of play had seemed so out of place. Obviously dignity wasn’t everything.
He crossed his arms. Set his lips. Watched.
They searched.
They searched in silence, and they searched in a quiet of simple movement as they slid through the crowds that the city, high and low, had assembled for the benefit of the challenge of the sea. Neither man was particularly modest; modesty was a profession of incompetence.
Devon ATerafin chose the lower city boardwalks as his hunting ground. He did not choose to explain his choice, and Kallandras did not choose to question it, although it was clear that the lower city was by far the more difficult terrain. For one, the boardwalks were wider and rougher, and the Kings’ men had less visible control over the crowd that had gathered, in high spirits and with not a little money riding on the outcome, to watch the sea’s test. No man gave up his place easily, and few moved with anything like the normal social graces that accompanied movement in a crowded city street—and there were few enough of th
ose when the heat was high. Worse still, there was no room for fighting, and if a fight occurred, not only the enemy would die. Life would be lost drawing sword in the cramped spaces people made for themselves.
But Devon seemed comfortable with his choice, and Kallandras, measuring the Astari carefully, nodded. He preferred the open space to the closed one, although death was death: In either open space, with a full-run hunt, or in close quarters with barely room to lift a wrist, Kallandras of Senniel, who had once been somewhat different in the Lady’s service, had no difficulty killing.
But he thought that Devon would have no difficulty in a similar situation; the Astari trained their own, and well—and in arts other than death’s. Or so it was said. He knew better than to ask.
He carried Salla with him; it was a risk that he was loath to take, but he could see little way around. As a favored bard of Queen Marieyan—and as the foremost master bard of Senniel College—he was given leave to wander as if he had been born to the patriciate’s heights, but to wander without a lute was to be uncrowned in front of a people that expected a King. Important, in games like this, not to disappoint expectation.
And therefore, he was polite, friendly, peaceful, and soothing by turns; he offered attention to one and all with a fealty to song and festivity that rose above the boundary of nation or competition. He was aware of the two Morniel master bards, and the single master bard from Attariel, and he coaxed a duet from both.
But he kept it as short as possible; the sweetness of voices so intertwined, so inseparable, was a special type of pain all its own—and he could not afford that distraction now.
He made his way slowly, from the full width of the well-kept stone streets to the flawless boardwalk, his hair beneath the brim of a wide, round hat that hid nothing but his cheeks from the slowly rising sun. He cataloged faces, adding names to them where names were appropriate: Northerners, their champions, their trainers, their witnesses; Southerners—all; and the men and women from the heartlands, some of whom called this city at the center of the world their home.
And all was as it should be.
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