Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King
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The Uncrowned King
By
Michelle West
(Book 02 of the Sun Sword)
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Dedication:
This is for my mother and my father,
Because I don't say thank you often enough.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Sheila Gilbert has been patient above and beyond the call of Duty for this book. It was late and although I plead unusual circumstances, it certainly wasn't her fault.
The usual suspects were also extremely helpful--and I'd particularly like to thank Kate Elliott and Tanya Huff because it's always nice (my penchant for understatement is showing here) to have someone to call when I've hit the middle-of-the-book-and-I-hate-every-word stretch of the novel.
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Contents
Dramatis Personae
AIDAN: I
AIDAN: II
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
EPILOGUE AIDAN
EPILOGUE: SER ANTON DI'GUIVERA
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Annagarian Ranks
Tyr'agar - Ruler of the Dominion
Tyr'agnate - Ruler of one of the five Terreans of the Dominion
Tyr - The Tyr'agar or one of the four Tyr'agnate
Tyran - Personal bodyguard (oathguard) of a Tyr
Tor'agar - A noble in service to a Tyr
Tor'agnate A noble in service to a Tor'agar; least of noble ranks
Tor - A Tor'agar or Tor'agnate
Toran - Personal bodyguard (oathguard) of a Tor
Ser - A clansman
Serra - The primary wife and legitimate daughters of a clansman
kai The holder or first in line to the clan title
par - The brother of the first in line; the direct son of the title holder
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Dramatis Personae
ESSALIEYAN
AVANTARI (The Palace)
The Royals
King Reymalyn: the Justice-born King
King Cormalyn: the Wisdom-bom King
Queen Marieyan (an 'Cormalyn)
Queen Siodonay The Fair (an'Reymalyn)
Prince Reymar: son of the Queen Siodonay & Reymaris
Prince Cormar: son of the Queen Marieyan & Cormaris
Princess Mirialyn ACormaris: daughter of Queen Marieyan & King Cormalyn
The Non-Royals
Duvari: the Lord of the Compact; leader of the Astari
Devon ATerafin: member of the Astari and of House Terafin
Commander Sivari: former King's Champion (at the Summer Games)
The Hostages
Ser Valedan kai di'Leonne (Raverra): the heir to the Sword of The Dominion
Serra Marlena en 'Leonne: Valedan's mother; born a slave; granted honorific "Serra" because her son has been recognized and claimed as legitimate
Ser Fillipo par di'Callesta (Averda): brother to the Tyr'agnate of Averda
Serra Tara di'Callesta: his Serra
Michaele di'Callesta: oldest son
Frederick di'Callesta: youngest son
Andrea en 'Callesta: his concubine
Ser Kyro di 'Lorenza (Sorgassa): the oldest of the hostages
Serra Helena di'Lorenzo: the only wife he has; he has taken no others
Ser Gregori di'Lorenzo: his son
Ser Mauro di'Garradi (Oerta)
Serra Alina di'Lamberto (Mancorvo)
Imperial Army
The Eagle: Commander Bruce Allen. Commands the First
Army The Hawk: Commander Berriliya. Commands the Second
Army The Kestrel: Commander Kalakar. Commands the Third Army & the Ospreys
THE TEN:
Kalakar
Ellora: The Kalakar.
Verrus Koroma: her closest friend and counselor
Verrus Vernon Loris: friend and counselor
The Ospreys:
Primus Duarte: leader
Alexis (Sentrus or Decarus)
Auralis (Sentrus or Decarus)
Fiara (Sentrus)
Cook (Sentrus)
Sanderson (Decarus)
Berriliya
Devran: The Berriliya
Terafin
Amarais: The Terafin
Morretz: her Domicis
Jewel ATerafin: part of her House Council; also seer-born
Avandar: Jewel's Domicis
THE ORDER OF KNOWLEDGE
Meralonne APhaniel: Member of the Council of the Magi; first circle mage
Sigurne Mellifas: Member of the Council of the Magi; first circle mage
SENNIEL COLLEGE
Solran Marten: Bardmaster of Senniel College
Kallandras: Master Bard of Senniel
ANNAGAR
The Tor Leonne
General Allesso par di'Marente - par to Corano; General to the former Tyr
General Baredan kai di 'Navarre: General to the- former Tyr; loyal to Leonne.
Widan Cortano di'Alexes: the Sword's Edge
Lord Isladar of the kin: the link between the Shining Court and the Dominion
THE CLANS
Callesta
Ramiro kai di 'Callesta: the Tyr
Karro di Callesta: Tyran; half-brother (concubine's son); the oldest of the Tyran
Mikko di Callesta: Tyran; half-brother (concubine's son)
Garrardi
Eduardo kai di 'Garrardi: the Tyr'agnate of the Terrean of Oerta
Lamberto
Mareo kai di'Lamberto: the Tyr'agnate of Mancorvo
Serra Donna en 'Lamberto: his Serra
Galen kai di'Lamberto: the kai (former par)
Leonne
Markaso kai di'Leonne: the Tyr'agar
Serra Amanita en 'Leonne: the Tyr'agar's Serra
Illara kai di 'Leonne: the heir
Serra Diora en'Leonne: also Serra Diora di'Marano
Ser Illara's concubines:
Faida en 'Leonne: Oathwife to Diora
Ruatha en 'Leonne: Oathwife to Diora
Dierdre en 'Leonne: Oathwife to Diora
Lorenza
Jarrani kai di'Lorenza: the Tyr'agnate of Sorgassa
Hectare kai di'Lorenza: the kai
Marano
Adano kai di'Marano: Tor'agar to Mareo kai di'Lamberto
Sendari par di 'Marano: his brother; Widan
Serra Fiona en'Marano: Sendari's wife
Ser Artano: Sendari's oldest son
Serra Diora di'Marano: Sendari's only child by his first wife
Sendari's concubines:
Alana en'Marano: the oldest of Sendari's wives
Illana en'Marano
Illia en'Marano
Serra Teresa di 'Marano: sister to Adano and Sendari
Caveras
Ser Laonis di'Caveras: healer-born; his wife is Lissa en 'Caveras.
THE RADANN
Radann Fredero kai el 'Sol: the ruler of the Radann
Jevri el 'Sol: his loyal servitor
Radann Samiel par el 'Sol: youngest of the Hand of God
Radann Peder par el 'Sol
Marakas par el'Sol: contemporary of Fredero
Samadar par el'Sol: the oldest of the par el' Sol
THE VOYANI
Arkosa
Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani: the woman who ruled the Voyani clan
Margret of the Arkosa Voyani: her chosen "heir"
Havalla
Yollana of the Havalla Voyani: ruler of the clan
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AIDAN: I
8th of Lattan, 427 AA
Averalaan, Hundred Holdings
Men were fighting in the distance.
It made the people who trudged their way to and from the Common, laden with baskets and awkward panniers, stop a moment beneath the cover of the trees for which the holdings were famous. Those trees towered at a height great enough to give little relief from sun's light this early in the day, and they were as thick around the base as a small knot of men, which meant they were easy enough to hide behind. That no one did said more about the demands of the festival season than anyone's bravery.
Swordplay was something to stay clear of, no question.
An older woman shouted into the thick of the crowd. Aidan recognized her, although he didn't know her name; he bought the odd curiosity from her in the Common when he had money. These days, though, that was never.
A tall man made his way through the crowd at the sound of her hawkish voice, and this man, Aidan did know; he was Primus Tela-rus of the magisterial guards, a regular man with slightly broader shoulders and a squarer jaw than most, but with gray hair that grew in a fringe around what was otherwise almost black. Like his dad, except for the hair.
"Over there," the woman said. "Can't you hear it? There's swords being used!"
Primus Telarus bent down, said something to the woman. Made her angrier, from the look of it, but a lot less frightened.
"Damned foreigners, who do they think they are? There are rules in this city!"
Whoever they were, they kept on fighting.
Magisterial guards, in the streets in somewhat larger numbers than usual because of the approaching Festival season, didn't even blink an eye. Whatever the swordplay was, they knew about it, and they didn't much care. The Common's regular merchants were made skittish by the influx of cartwheeling hawkers and peddlers, keen to stake claim to good ground as the travelers—and they were legion—made their way to Averalaan for the Kings' Challenge. The magisterians were here to prevent the skittishness from developing into something uglier and more permanent. People were decent when it was easy to be decent, and when it was hard— well, that's what guards were for.
That they didn't blink twice at the sound of swordplay probably meant that someone had gotten a permit for it. You had to have a lot of money for that, but at this time of year, there was money in plenty to be found—in everyone's pockets but Aidan's. It was the Challenge season. Merchants from as far away as the Dominion's deserts on one side, the winter principalities on the other, came in droves, almost like the cattle that was sold and traded for in the Common.
You could see people tossing sharp daggers in a circle that started and ended with their hands; you could see them sword-dancing; you could see them throwing torches, lit with orange fire; hells, you could see them eating fire, here. Off the thoroughfare, which was as wide as any in the hundred holdings, there were tents and wagons— old wagons, fine as the best carpenters and wainwrights together could make—and in them, the future waited, if you had the coin. 'Course, if you didn't, men with bigger muscles than brains waited instead, and usually in a bad temper; Aidan strayed close enough to admire the wagons, but not close enough to be noticed—and in this crowd, that was actually fairly easy.
The Challenge festival was in the air, in the smell of food and ale and sweat. But the air carried other things as well: voices as perfect as those of the bards of Senniel College, and often Morniel College as well—the Morniel bards were known to be fond of ale over fine wine, good company over the gatherings of the pretentious patriciate.
You could hear almost anything if you listened hard enough. Even swords. Especially swords.
Aidan knew it was high summer, and he knew that the champions would soon be here, to try their luck, and then their skill, in a test the Kings set. He glanced at the shadows on the ground, then slapped himself on the forehead; there weren't any that he could easily see. No one could, there were too many feet in the way. Still, sun was low across the eastern sky. Morning, mid-morning at the latest. Tomorrow was when they'd start. The tents were up in the Common—he could see the poles and the flags, but he wasn't allowed anywhere near the tents themselves. No one was.
Kings' guards were all over the place, securing this and that and barking out orders as if they were selling them. The magisterians didn't much like it, and Aidan couldn't say he blamed them; having a bunch of people whose only real claim to power seemed to be an extra sword up either side of a magisterial crest suddenly become top dog in your holding—well, he couldn't see liking it all that much either.
But he wasn't a magisterian; he was just Aidan, and this was the best time of the year, even with the heat. Because—there, there in the distance—there was fighting. Clearer than bard's song.
Of course, he couldn't actually see the fight, not yet; he approached it, breath held, feet light against stone and packed dirt. He didn't need vision to know it was something tremendous—a clash of long steel swords, slide of metal against metal that daggers were too short for, a silence that was free from the sounds of anger, of ugliness. You couldn't drink and fight like that. You couldn't just swing a large fist, pick up a ladle or a tureen, lash out with a heavy foot. Swords like that meant you had to be special. He knew it. He'd seen it before.
Seen it when he was younger, before his father's foot had gotten trapped by a turning wheel in one of the wainwright's wagons and gotten all twisted up. Had twisted him all up.
It hadn't been so long that he couldn't remember when his father had been a whole man, when his strength had gone into moving things, lifting things, learning to make them.
But it had been long enough that the memory of the one man, strong and certain and silent, made the reality seem so much worse. If you started out at the bottom, the bottom was all you knew. But if you fell, it was different. Hurt more, for one. And things had been good. They had.
I won't be like that. Something bad happens to me, and I won't be like that. I'll just die. I'll die first. Aidan couldn't understand why people were so afraid of dying. You went to Mandaros, is all. Everyone who ever listened to one of the Mother's priestesses knew it. His mother had known it, too. She hadn't been afraid of death.
Probably why she'd died.
He shook his head to clear it; the sun was hot, and there wasn't enough wind to carry away the smell of sweat and food and horse manure—someone was going to get it for that—and fire. He held his breath past the worst of it; breathed through his mouth until he'd gotten past the thick of the crowd. The tents, with their limp red-and-blue flags, were at his back. But the swords were closer, he was closer to them; he only wanted to catch a glimpse of them, of them and the men who wielded them.
They never shouted. They never swore. They never spoke when they held their swords. And they didn't swing wild when they swung. They seemed to know where to strike, and where the other would strike. Magic, he thought. He'd never seen magic.
And he wanted to.
This year, he wanted to.
He hadn't eaten today. Wasn't worth it, to try to come up with something to eat. His father had woken earlier t
han usual because of the heat, and he was in a foul mood. Heat made some people slower. Not his dad.
Try to understand him, Aidan, his aunt had said. He lost his livelihood and he lost your mother in the same year.
What about me? Aidan had shouted back. I lost them both.
She'd nothing to say to that; that's what she did when he'd said something true enough that she couldn't speak over it or past it. In the silence, she'd run her hands through his hair—his white, white hair, that had nothing of either his mother or father in it. And that's the way he wanted it. Here, in the street, drawing closer and closer to the sound of swordplay, of a magic that neither his mother nor his father had had time to dream of.
The King's Challenge was a little over a week away.
In six years, his aunt told him; in six years, he might be big enough to try; he'd be old enough. To find a sword, and maybe learn how to use it. To impress the men who chose among the hundreds of supplicants, and to be one of the challengers.
Six years ago, he'd believed her. Six years, one at a time, had taken that belief away in bits and pieces, until the only time he had any of it left at all was now, during the challenge season itself. And he kept it tucked away, behind a still face, the words to express it lost with his mother's and father's lives.
He knew that these men had trainers, teachers, weapons that cost more than his father made—when he'd done real work—in three years. Knew that six years from now the only way he was going to even have a sword was if he was lucky, there was a war, and the army was stupid enough to have him.
That's what he wanted. At twelve, it wasn't going to do him any good. But at eighteen—at eighteen, it could change his whole life. So he waited, and he prayed.
And during the challenge season, he loitered around the fighters, when he could find them.