She came, bearing the fading reality of a dream that only a seer could know, and climbed the concentric marble circles that made stairs and a plateau upon which the simple, smooth stone of the Terafin altar sat.
There, in the light of lamps that were never allowed to dim completely, she knelt before the stone itself and began to pray. And if she leaned her forehead into the stone itself, more for support and comfort than to offer respect, no one was there who would comment on it.
And yet, someone did. .
"Terafin has no strength to give you. If you have strength, offer it and it will be accepted. But the ways have begun to open; there is nothing to take from the altar once you have placed your life there."
She withdrew at once, as if the cool stone's touch had marked her, burned her. As if she could withdraw what she had, in honesty and truth, offered years ago. Taking a deep breath, she rose, unfolding one knee and then the other, feeling her weight upon both. Standing seemed hard.
"Not so hard as it will, Jewel Markess."
She recognized the voice, and she did not; she kept her back to the light, away from the night and the night's solitary visitor. "It's been a long time since I've been called that."
"Yes."
She heard no sound of motion, nothing at all, but she knew that the spirit of Terafin, the spirit of The Founder, had drifted closer and closer to her exposed back. She waited without turning.
"Why are you using that name?"
"Because, Jewel, it is who you are. The years have given you wisdom, of a type, but they have not changed your nature. You are ATerafin in times of peace."
She turned then, bleakly, her dark eyes the color of night, but wider. And what she saw stilled her completely. For the last time she had spoken alone with the spirit of the Founder, he had worn the face and flesh of one of the Terafin's Chosen, Torvan ATerafin.
Tonight, he wore the guise of someone so different she drew breath: a woman whose face defined Terafin, hair paled by time's touch, but body still slender. Bent, she thought, and oddly fragile, although not until he came to her thus had she recognized any sign of the weakness of age; The Terafin was the signal example of age's strength.
Almost grim, she smiled. "You realize," she said lightly, "that she'd probably kill you if she saw you."
His smile was not The Terafin's smile, although it was The Terafin's lips that framed it. "There are worse fates. I speak from experience." The smile dimmed. "And, although she will not thank me for it, I will tell you now that not only has she seen me in this guise, but she understands what it presages, for her House, that I appear thus to her. Do you?"
"Not her death," Jewel said softly. "Torvan didn't die when you wore his face."
"No. But Torvan was not The Terafin."
Silence. Then, "Are you telling me—are you telling me that she'll die?"
"She is a ruler without an heir. What have you learned of our history, of the Weston history upon which it is founded?"
Jewel bridled slightly. "Enough."
"As much, I imagine, as most of the House Terafin." It was clear that he did not mean it to be a compliment. "And if you could recite our history, end to end, from the first day to the last— and, if it will ease you, I cannot—it would still mean nothing. It is not the event, but the experience that comes out of the event, that defines a man; it is not the experience, but the wisdom that comes out of a full range of experiences, the ability to draw a conclusion from experience, that defines the ruler."
"All right. You're saying that I'm not a historian, and that because of it, I can't draw conclusions." She shrugged. "I won't argue with you. Do you know that I don't even know your name? You were always The Terafin. The Founder."
"What is The Terafin's name?"
"Amarais, born Handernesse."
Her expression—his expression—darkened. "No, Jewel, born Markess, that is not her name. She is The Terafin."
"And I'm Markess."
"Yes."
"Why did you come here tonight?"
"Should it not be I who asks that question of you?"
Jewel shrugged. Turned away from the knowledge that she saw in eyes that were dead, and yet somehow alive with it. "The dream," she said at last.
He said nothing. He, wearing the form of the woman she respected more than anyone in the Empire. Respected and feared, if only a little. Shadows wavered as the lamps flickered in a cool sea breeze; the winds were stirring. Storm? She lifted her head a moment.
"Oh, yes," he said. "The storm is coming."
"You told me to go South."
"I told you, child, go South if South calls, and do what must be done."
She didn't much like being called a child, and he knew it, but she was old enough now not to bridle at a slight that was not offered with intent. She looked back again, and then, although it wasn't, strictly speaking, correct behavior, placed her palms on the altar's cool surface, and rested her weight against them. "And you've changed your mind?"
"I?" It was the eyes, she thought, as she met them. The eyes were not The Terafin's eyes, just as they had not been Torvan's, or the man named Jonnas, whose appearance he called upon when he offered counsel to the ruler of the House. "No, Jewel." His voice was grave. "Have you?"
The weight on her hands increased. "How much do you know?"
He did not reply. Not directly. But at the last, he said, "I had hoped to spare you this because you are young. But in this generation, no one will be spared. That is the way of it; that we treasure the young and the young at heart, and to preserve them, we sacrifice our own youth. There are deaths, Jewel, that must be faced. Love is not proof against that fact—in fact, love, in times such as this, is the root of all weakness and all strength; it is not the battle, but if you surrender to its impulse, it is the end of the war, and not in your favor."
"I've sacrificed those that I loved before," she replied bitterly.
"Yes." He drew closer, the lines of his face blurring in the torchlight, becoming as indistinct in her vision as the edges of her dream. "But never knowingly. Imagine this, if you will, an indulgence that I beg of you."
She nodded, wordless because she did not trust her words not to give too much away.
"You are standing on the edge of the field of battle. The time is our distant past, during the baronial wars. Two sides are readying for a battle that has been long coming, and upon this battle, the fate of the Empire rests."
"Our Empire?"
"Our very Empire," he said softly. "For out of the last of the baronial wars the Kings rose like birds of fire, and they spread their word, and their law, with the strength of the blade, and the blessing of the Mother. Ah, but you lead me astray, Jewel, and I do not have that luxury of time.
"You stand upon the edge of the field in that battle; you have seen skirmish, you have seen war; you have both ridden and marched as a soldier."
She nodded.
"But you are not a soldier now; you have a rank, and a responsibility. Into your keeping the standard has fallen."
Privately, Jewel ATerafin had always thought that standards on the field of battle were an artificial mess. A flag, a thing that people made into something that it wasn't, a way of prettifying something that should never be made pretty.
"You know," the spirit of The Founder continued, blurring even more in form, taking on a shape that had never belonged to Amarais Handernesse, "that if the standard falls, the hope of the regiments fall with it. That you are, while keeping this piece of pretty cloth, and its bearer, safe, succoring those men who cannot see you, those thousands who will never even know your name.
"With you, in this war, is your young adjutant. Teller ATerafin. He sees well; he always has; he watches the periphery of the boundaries set out as your responsibility."
She did not like where this was going at all. Lifted her hands from his altar again, almost—but not quite—leaping away from the name.
"A small group of men, with a mage and the use of two demons, is about
to spring its trap upon your standard. You have the vision, Jewel, and because of this you see clearly.
"You also see, clearly, that you have two choices: You can go, now, to warn the mage—in which case, the flag will not fall to this attack—or you can ride, in haste, to that stop thirty yards away, in which your adjutant is pacing out his nervous attention so as not to disturb you; he has always been considerate.
"You cannot do both."
The spirit of Terafin stood before her, not as The Terafin, not even as Torvan, but rather as a shade, a passing fancy whose voice was still as sharp and cold as a blade's edge.
"Jewel Markess would ride to the aid of young Teller.
"Jewel ATerafin would summon the mage.
"You do not have the luxury, now, of being both, and for this, I apologize. Amarais would know her way to the only choice available, and she would accept it. But it is not her war, Jewel; it is yours.
"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, 427AA
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 Vale-dan, 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?"
&nb
sp; "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 swordplay 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.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 10
