"Ser Anton," a familiar voice said. He shifted both gaze and stance and offered a correct, if somewhat stiff, bow to the Princess of the Blood.
"ACormaris," he said. Wisewoman. Still, for all her claim of wisdom, she had about her none of the Voyani trappings, none of the sense of their deep mystery, their hidden certainties. This was wisdom as the Lord might have it, not the Lady—but there were few indeed, even among the Radann, who granted the aspect of great wisdom to the Lord.
"Forgive us for this intrusion and forgive us for the delay in the test. We have had a complaint laid by an authority that it is not within our power to ignore. It seems that the lives and the safety of the athletes and their witnesses are at risk, and we have undertaken the responsibility of guaranteeing their safety." She paused, offering him the edge of a smile. "We will request that your students, yourself, and those who form your following, present themselves, momentarily, for inspection by three of our experts."
"And if they refuse?"
"Then they will be refused entry into the test."
"Impossible."
"Unavoidable." She shifted slightly, bending at the knee, taking on a stance that—were it not for the lack of a weapon—he might have recognized immediately. "We will tender apology and possibly compensation should your students feel it necessary to refuse."
"And how will we be certain that your… inspections… do no harm?"
She met his gaze, but she did not parry the blow. Instead, to his chagrin, she sidestepped it and struck home. "That is beneath you, Ser Anton."
He raised a brow, surprised at the sternness of her chosen tone. Surprised by it, amused by it, but set off-balance for a moment. There were no Southern swordsmen who could throw him off his game. And perhaps, had she been a man, she might not have succeeded. His weakness, not hers, and like any good opponent, she exploited it.
Even if unaware of its existence. He bowed, and this bow was fluid, all grace; no sign of age marred it. "It was," he replied soft-
ly, "as you say. You will forgive me, but we did not realize that you wished to see our entire retinue."
It was her turn to frown. "I apologize. Word was sent—"
"It was not sent directly to me; it was intercepted by one of my students." Carlo, of course; it had to be Carlo. "And the messenger's Torra was poor. Sadly, Carlo's Weston is poorer."
"We act in haste," she said, "But not with the greatest organization. This is the first time in the history of Challenge—" He lifted a hand to correct the sentence that she had not, quite, finished; she smiled ruefully. "The first time since the inner city difficulties one hundred and sixty-three years ago, then. I spoke for brevity's sake."
"And I interrupted for form's sake. The point is yours, ACormaris. If I cannot assemble the retinue, what penalty will we be required to pay?"
"No penalty—but those members of your retinue that are not assembled and witnessed will not be granted passage into the arenas or the palace for the duration of the Challenge."
"I see."
"We still have the spectators to witness and to pass," she said softly. "We can return."
"We will be assembled," he said. "I assume that free passage is being granted?"
"To enter, yes, at the moment. To leave…"
He raised a brow.
The smile left her face. "The charges and the complaint are serious. We will not ignore them, and no amnesty, should the guilty party be found, will be granted."
He heard the fall of the sword in her words, and he smiled.
He smiled.
Goldwork, in the heat of a day such as this, was not the choice of any sane man. That was work for either apprentices or the rainy season, although it was perfectly acceptable to acquire one's wares when the merchants traveled. Gold worked at the hands of a maker was exceptionally rare, and the makers worked as they pleased; no man or woman had the right—or the lack of sense—to tell a maker otherwise.
And yet.
In the courtyard sheltered to the west by the outer wall of the Hall of Wise Counsel, beneath awnings and tents set up for just that purpose, the makers worked.
And what they produced was not, in fact, art; it was craft, pure and simple; craft of a kind that the most humble goldsmith's apprentice would not boast of. Indeed, it might have been less insulting, and less politically unwise, to assemble such an army of apprentices.
But for one thing: the makers made their home on the isle of Averalaan Aramarelas, and the makers did not make an error. Not one. Even in this, the most simple and unseemly of tasks, they were lost to the world; the gold mattered, the simple molds mattered; the cooling mattered—and each thing in turn, end over end, was repeated beneath the open sky.
The magi worked in concert with the makers, and this was an uneasy, even a terrible, alliance. Neither magi nor maker were used to being dealt with harshly, and neither were used to being forced to false courtesy.
Meralonne APhaniel, who oversaw both the making and the finishing of the rings, was exhausted before the work was half done. It was simple work; it was work that, at one point in his long life would have been entirely beneath him, or worse, an insult to his particular capabilities.
He was glad of that; as a youth, he had never dreamed of enchanting such a number of things, and Only the fact that they were insignificant at all—that it was a magic meant to linger ten days, no more—allowed him to survive it. He would face the fevers for it; he was certain of it. He was fairly certain he would survive them—but he knew that he could say this only because some of that burden had been passed on; five men worked at his command. And each of them wore, as adornment and office, the symbol of the Order of Knowledge: The moon in three phases, and the elemental symbols in the quartered full face.
"Member APhaniel," a voice called gently.
He looked up and met the blue eyes of the most renowned bard that Senniel College had produced.
"The ACormaris sent me to you. She says that the task is almost done."
"And you had to come in person to deliver this message? I'm exhausted, Kallandras, not stupid."
The bard smiled. "No. Not stupid. I chose to deliver the message in person."
"Why?"
"This is the first making, but it will not be the last," he said softly. "And perhaps I wish to see it to capture it fully. There will be a song at the end of this battle, and a song at the end of this war. Whose voices will carry it, I don't know. But this is the first opportunity that anyone has had—to my knowledge—to see this many makers at work in concert."
"Or mages?"
"No," Kallandras replied. "I have seen the work of mages before. I mean no disrespect, old friend, when I say that the province of the makers holds more interest for me: they make magic out of things ordinary."
"There is a magic in the ordinary," Meralonne said. "I will concede that to you. To watch them at work on something worthy of their grand obsession is probably as close to a glimpse of the gods at work as we are likely to see in this age." His gaze narrowed. "And I am old enough and feeble enough—at the moment—to pretend to believe you. Tell the ACormaris that we will be ready shortly."
Kallandras turned and spoke a moment, and then turned back. "I think," he said softly, "that Jevrin can manage from here."
"Jevrin," Meralonne replied succinctly, "is a clod."
"A talented clod. Meralonne. Enough. We have not passed through the fires together to surrender to obsession and overwork."
"I believe," the mage said, "that I know my own limits."
"Knowledge and acceptance are two different things. Come."
The mage held the bard's gaze. Found it unwavering and cool, and found that fact comforting. "Very well," he said quietly. "I think that perhaps—just perhaps—there is some merit in what you say."
And before he could make his way from around the wide, flat bench, before the first rays of the overbearing light could mark his pale skin, his treacherous knees gave way completely.
He cursed, and
cursed again.
Kallandras was beside him, his arm a support. Humiliating that it was necessary.
"How did you know?" he said, from between clenched teeth. The bard was absolutely silent. Then: "The infirmary has been put at your disposal. The Lord of the Compact desires your continuing presence in Avantari." He called out, and the man that Meralonne had pronounced a clod nodded. Grimly.
"I told him," he said. "But he's one of the magi." As if that were explanation enough. It probably was.
"You came to stop me," Meralonne said.
"Does it matter? I'm here, and I'll be of use while I am." Silence descended as they walked, sharing his weight between them. At last, Kallandras said softly, "You are not the only mage I know. Even before I came to this city, I understood the price of their power. It is not very different from the cost of my own."
He spoke in a voice that no one, no one but Meralonne would hear.
And they were, in Meralonne's opinion, acceptable last words to hear; the chills came suddenly, far faster than he had expected; his collapse was complete, and completely beyond his control, long before the healerie's doors opened to contain him.
He carried the rings. At the last minute, an ornate box was found to contain them; the obvious method—a large sack—was deemed, in the end, unsuitable for public display. The fact that the men who so deemed were also men who had not lifted the box itself was not lost on Kallandras by the time he approached the arena.
Mirialyn met him, her expression the only thing about her that was serene as always.
"The Master apologizes." he said quietly, "but says that the remainder of the rings will be ready within the hour. It has been— it has been a difficult two days, ACormaris."
She shrugged, then took one of the boxed rings and pressed it firmly into the palm of her hand. "Hard to believe," she mused, "that something this plain and this thin could be worth the political penalty we may well pay for its creation." Turning, she led him down the hall, the command to follow inherent in the motion.
"Valedan," she said, just ahead of his vision but not his hearing. "We've done. We'll finish with athletes and trainers first, work our way to the spectators by the end of the evening. There will be room for error," she added, although it was obvious, "but we're watching."
He rounded the corner then, and saw Valedan. The boy was pacing like a caged beast.
"You'll forgive me," she added, "if I do not choose to don the ring yet; we will all be forced to wear them, but a demonstration of their function might save us some difficulty where the Northerners and the Southerners are involved."
He nodded. Held out a hand, palm up.
She smiled, and Kallandras saw a flash of warmth in an expression that he would have thought, this day, had none. "You're the first." she said. "Be honored. The makers have been slaving in our service for almost a day and a half, without pause."
His eyes widened slightly. "But the rings are—"
"I know. Put it on."
"I don't think it's going to fit—"
"Valedan, we're now four hours late to start; we'll be five hours late before this is over, and only if we work quickly." She took a breath. "My apologies, Tyr'agar."
"Accepted," he said. "Alina's not here." He slid the ring over his finger, and Kallandras, watching, saw it widen to fit him, moving not as a metal, but as a shining clay. Light limned it momentarily, a brightness and a warmth that seemed the essence of gold itself. And then it sat upon the ring finger of the young Tyr's sword hand.
"Thank you." Mirialyn said quietly. "You can't remove it. It is attuned to you, and if for some reason you cease to be you, it will… let us know."
"How?"
"Best not to discuss it," she warned. "When you see it. it will be obvious enough."
He nodded to her.
"All right, the rest of your guards will have to wear them as well." She raised a hand to her brow.
Valedan moved at once, and Kallandras thought, watching him, that he had not noticed—that none of them had noticed—that the ACormaris had said not if but when.
To say that the Ospreys were mutinous was inaccurate; had they been. Duarte would have been forced to act. But to say that they were happy or complacent would have been to miss their point entirely, and they made it. He was willing, for the sake of peace, to actually don the first ring.
It helped that his magic was capable of telling him that the power of the ring was defensive and informative, and that the transformative magic that resided within the gold—not an easy spell, in his estimation, because it was so very subtle—was meant/or the gold itself, no more. But even knowing this, there was something very wrong about watching gold—one of his favorite metals—curl around his finger like a snake and then harden there. It was… disconcerting.
Alexis followed his lead. Auralis obeyed as well, although he couldn't refrain from cheap theatrics when the ring fit itself to his hand. Had the Princess of the Blood not been in attendance. Duarte would have rewarded his fake cry of agony with a good reason for a real one. But that did the trick as far as the magic-suspicious Ospreys were concerned—because any cowardice on their part would now be seen as worthy of Auralis' mockery, and no one subjected themselves to that willingly.
Unfortunately, when Kiriel took the ring and slid it around her slender finger, it exploded.
She felt nothing when the ring touched her palm, and she had been trained so well, magic should have set up a shiver that started there and passed through her as if she were a bell and it a clapper. Oh, she knew it was magic; gold didn't move like that without cause—but she couldn't feel any of it.
"What are the rings for?" she whispered to Cook.
He'd shrugged. "Don't know how they work—but I'd guess they're supposed to help us separate people from demons, somehow."
Made sense. She didn't know how she'd accomplish the task had it been made hers—but then again, there was a reason the Empire was respected, even feared, among the denizens of the Shining Court; the speed with which they approached their crises did not surprise her as much as it should have. As it might have, once.
Her fingers curled up round the edges of the gold as she made a fist, driving its cool lip into her skin. A moment of clarity gave her pause: this ring was meant to detect the kin, or their master's work. And what was she, if not the latter?
She started to speak. Lifted her hand to catch the Primus' attention. It caught light instead; light along the rounded curve of polished platinum.
All right, she thought, lowering her hand. You've deprived me of what I am. How far does it go?
"Cook, do the rings do anything?"
"Don't know. You heard Duarte—or weren't you listening?"
She said nothing. He rolled his eyes.
"Person's not the same as the first person it fit itself to, it'll let the Kings' men know. If the body's the same, but it's been tampered with somehow, it'll let the Kings' men know that, too." His eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking all of this?" he asked suddenly, as if only just remembering that Kiriel never asked an idle question.
She met his eyes. Smiled softly. He stepped back from that smile, and that made her smile deepen and lose its edge. "Let's find out," she answered. She slid the ring onto the ringless hand. Because, of course, it was her less-favored weapon hand. Old habits, deeply ingrained.
The light came.
Burned.
Expanded in a ring of white fire.
She had the time to cry out, and the strength not to, as shards of hot gold scored her clothing and her flesh.
The pain itself was like a cloud of smoke; it cleared with air and time. And as it did, she looked up to see that Primus Duarte was covering his face with both hands. Her hearing was not what it had been—a gift, no doubt, of the cursed ring the seer had 'dropped'—but she knew that he was swearing under his breath.
"Well," Auralis said, filling the silence before anyone else could, "that answers that."
"What answers what?"
/> "We know what the ring does when it's not on the right hand." He laughed, speaking to Duarte, whose hands had come down and now rested at his side. "Anyone stupid enough to try to take her out, or worse, take her over, deserves whatever the Hells they get."
That caused laughter, even hers. It surprised her enough that she stopped. Stared at her hand, which was bleeding and messy.
"The ACormaris is going to be pissed," Alexis said, from the corner of the room. "What do we tell her?"
"To get us a ring that goes on the normal way. Auralis is absolutely right," the Primus said.
"Which means," Cook whispered, for Kiriel's ears alone, "it'll be his fault if something goes wrong." He stopped then, stared at her hand, and swore. "Med!"
"It's nothing," she said curtly.
"There's a reason they don't let soldiers self-diagnose." He reached for her arm, stopped himself an inch short, and frowned. "You're an Osprey, you follow his orders. Duarte!"
"What?"
"That light was a bit more than just pyrotechnics." .
"What?"
"Kiriel's hand has been fried."
"Tell her to get to the medical division, post haste." He paused. "Make sure she doesn't see a healer, just in case there's one on site."
"Right, sir." To Kiriel, he added, "You heard him." She frowned, but it was half-hearted. The ring had exploded upon sealing itself round her finger. No one else had had that effect on it. Somewhere, buried so far within her that she couldn't reach it no matter how desperately she tried—and she had—she was still herself. Funny, how much that mattered.
Ser Anton watched as Mirialyn ACormaris slid a ring that he had chosen from the clutch of slender, simple adornments onto her finger. She made the movement masculine, graceless, and public, lifting her arm so that the men here, most of whom were taller than she, but not all, could see what followed.
It wasn't particularly pleasant; the gold itself seemed to shudder at impact with flesh.
"Now," she announced, "the ring itself is proof of my identity. It will change in appearance if it is removed, and it will… warn us if the rings change hands. It will also alert us to the presence of foreign, but hidden, magics.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 49
