They came, golden-eyed, the demonic rulers of the Northern Empire. Avoid their eyes, and they appeared to be nothing more— although certainly not less—then men: not giants, but tall and of warrior bearing. But avoiding their eyes was not a simple task: where they looked, they saw, and he felt, as the eyes of the Wisdom-born King swept across him, that they saw much.
Much, in fact, that he himself was unwilling to see.
It had not taken Ser Anton di'Guivera long to understand that the golden-eyed were not the spawn of demons, but the spawn of Northern gods, weak gods, gods who would see their people ruled by women and half-men and the aged and feeble as their unnatural law demanded.
Before he had come to the North, he had memorized the stories—and they were legion—of Northern weakness, of Northern decadence; he had full expected to see sniveling excess acted out upon the corner of every street. But he had come for the Kings' Challenge. And as a Challenger, he had met the Kings.
At that instant, kneeling in the formal Northern posture, his back straight, his sword at his bent knee, he realized that he could not—not then, and not ever—raise his sword against these men. Golden-eyed, enemies. The sun was high that day, the sky clear, and he knew then that the sun did not shine in the same way over lands that had never known desert.
The Kings had nodded; the moment had passed. He had thought that nothing could revive the sense of wonder and dread that the Kings conveyed that day, for even at closing ceremonies, his composure, his elation, his weariness, had robbed them of their grandeur.
But today the moment came again. He was young..
They shed their robes, their crowns, their regalia; they set aside the weapons that were part of their finery. But the one king retained the rod, and the other, the sword, and as they approached the struggling priests and the exhausted mages, they turned, one to another, and crossed the items they carried. Rod. Sword. Light flared at the intersection of metal and metal.
Wisdom. Justice.
The balance of an Empire.
* * *
He sensed it. He thought Andaro might. The creature shifted on both feet, swaying as the wall at his back seemed to buckle. Hard to tell with darkness, but it was there—a moment Of weakness. A lessening of the power of a god.
Valedan kai di'Leonne uttered a single word and threw his strength into a frenzied assault.
Leonne.
They heard it. The word seemed to resonate in the air, witnessed by the open sky. The dark shield seemed to shy away from the combined effort of the Kings, casting groundward for death and lack of light. The light was golden; the blood shed to capture it, red. The Kings had joined the combat.
At just that moment, Ser Anton understood why the Shining Court, whose Lord claimed godhood, and whose generals were Kialli, feared the Northern Empire. He understood why they had chosen to ally themselves with the South, why they had promised aid, in war, against the Kings and their people.
And he understood what his own role in that must be.
A fire burned him, just as the Kings' light burned at the darkness. But the darkness resisted.
She could not approach its shell. Could not approach the shadows, although the shadows had been her strength and her power— her survival—when she had been a Queen in waiting in the Shining City.
The Ospreys, Duarte, Alexis, Cook—the men and women she knew—kept a distance enforced by Kings' Swords and magi. Only Auralis sought to break that edict, and he had been detained. There would be words and, if she was any judge of Kalakar, Auralis would lose a rank. Rank in the Empire was a concept she was only beginning to understand; it was like having power, except without any.
The darkness itself was heaving under the assault of Kings and magi, of god-born priests. She knew it; she could almost taste the way it snapped and struggled. Her mouth was dry. The Lord's power was here; somehow, whoever had taken Carlo di'Jevre had formed a link with Allasakar across the distance between the isle and the Shining City itself.
If the vessel had been stronger, she thought no one would be able to stand against His shadow. No one but she, and she could not approach the darkness.
"Kiriel!"
She turned; all the Ospreys did.
Jewel Markess ATerafin, chest heaving, ran across the green, her domicis and Kallandras the bard at her side, her two den-kin. Carver and Angel, not far behind.
"Jay."
But attacking together or attacking alone, they were losing ground. The blows they landed did less damage, caused less pain; the creature was gaining in power.
It became easier for Valedan as the demon's face lost the last vestiges of Carlo di'Jevre's; he wondered if it were easier for Andaro. But he wondered briefly; the creature's strikes were still aimed at him, and he had now been wounded three times. Armor meant for the Challenge was not meant for a darkness and a demon such as this.
"Can you bring it down?"
Kiriel was silent.
"Kiriel?"
No one else had thought to ask her. No one else had thought of who she was, of what she could do. She had become, for the fight, an Osprey—half-twisted Houseguard with a past she didn't want to own.
Jay caught her by both arms. She allowed it, meeting brown eyes with brown eyes.
"Kiriel, please. Valedan's alive—but he won't stay that way."
"The Kings are having an effect."
"I know."
No doubt in the two words; she did.
"And I also know that they'll succeed in the end; whatever the power is, it's not completely connected to All—to its host. But that won't matter if Valedan's dead." She met Kiriel's gaze, her own unblinking, intent. "Tell me what you need me to do," she said, her voice low and steady, "And I'll do it."
Kiriel knew, then, that Jewel knew she could take the shield down. Kiriel herself hadn't known it for certain until that moment; the ring on her hand was throbbing as if it were a wound. She felt something ease within her; felt the dryness in her mouth catch her tongue, it grew so strong. But she managed to speak regardless.
"Tell them—tell them to stop."
Duarte, present and silent, frowned. "Tell who?"
But Jewel understood her. Jewel almost always understood her. She swore. "All right. Can you—can you come with me?"
Kiriel gazed at the darkness and then shook her head. "I don't— I don't think so. If I can—if I can do what you've said, I don't think I can be that close to their power without—"
"Never mind. I'll get them to stop. But Kiriel?"
"Yes?"
"Be ready, and be fast." She turned to the men who now waited at her back like a small army of a shieldwall. Taking them, Kiriel saw, for granted. Because she could.
"Okay, little bit of difficulty," Jewel told them. "We need to call the Kings and the priests off."
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
She caught his eye immediately, although later he wouldn't have been able to say why—and Devon ATerafin was almost never at a loss for an explanation.
Maybe it was the cadence of her step; in the middle of this madness, surrounded by magical fire, smoke and golden light, facing a barrier whose strength and whose appearance they had encountered together before in the darkest Henden the Empire had ever seen, Jewel ATerafin walked as if she were avoiding the market chaos on a busy Selday.
And she walked toward him.
Business as usual.
It was strange that after all their arguments and unease, that mattered. "ATerafin," he said, as she came within earshot, having lifted her hand twice to show the House Council crest to waiting Swords.
She nodded. No formality from Jewel; she was all business. "The barrier can be brought down," she said, curt and to the point.
"But?"
A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "But you need to get the Kings and the priests away from it." She paused for effect. "Now."
He turned, then; she followed him. Duvari stood not ten yards from the backs of the men he h
ad made it his life to protect. "You realize," Devon said, "that he's not going to like this."
"That's why you're going to ask. I don't much like the idea of getting into a fight with him, and it's all I can ever do to speak politely at him when he's around." She shrugged. "That, and he trusts you."
"He trusts you, in as much as he ever trusts a member of the powerful patriciate. But stay here." He left her then, and she obeyed, trusting him.
Three minutes later, the Kings put up their arms. The god-born priests, golden-eyed and weary, retreated.
Andaro cried out in pain; his leg buckled, flesh sheared to bone in an instant. Valedan cried out as well, but it was a war cry. His voice was hoarse with it. Not long now, and he would have no strength for words. But he was Southern-born, after all; a warrior's heir.
Kiriel di'Ashaf saw the light fade. The hair on her neck stood on end, then. Jewel came back for her, and she caught her den leader's hand in her own, squeezing it too tightly. Jewel said nothing. They crossed the green together, making their way past Kings' Swords, past exhausted magi, past priests who had laid down the symbols of their Order and the foci of their power.
She saw all this, and more; saw the Kings as they stood back from the barrier, arms crossed in front of their chests, shoulders straight. The war was not over in their eyes, but she had joined it, and she guessed that they did not quite trust her. Which was well enough; she wouldn't have.
Ah.
There it lay, exposed, the heart of her power. She slid her free hand to her sword's hilt, and left it there.
"You aren't afraid of the darkness," she said softly to Jewel.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because this time," Jewel replied, with an intensity that Kiriel had rarely heard in her voice, "we're not helpless."
This, Kiriel understood. It was one of the few times she felt that she understood anything about Jewel ATerafin. "You'll have to stand back."
"How far?"
"Far enough," Kiriel said softly, "that I can't touch you immediately after." Her grip on Jewel's hand tightened, if that were possible. "Do you understand? It's important."
Jewel nodded. "Far enough back, then. Kiriel?"
"Yes?"
"Now."
Kiriel frowned and shook her head; she let go of Jewel's hand. Then, taking a deep breath, she drew her sword. Raised it, in the sun's light. She stood a moment, perfectly poised, the barrier a blade's length before her, the sun above, a woman who was almost a friend not fifteen feet from her back.
She almost couldn't believe where she was. To be here, yes— but not like this; that had never been the plan. Hers was a position at the head of the armies that would march to destroy this city, the heart of this Empire.
She had never told Ashaf that. Ashaf would have hated it, and she could not—not quite—bring herself to cause the older woman pain.
In the end, it hadn't mattered. Pain was caused, and death, and both because of her.
The sword dipped in her hand; her hands lost their steadiness. They always did when she thought of Ashaf. Ashaf had no place in war, no place in combat, no place in the lives of the powerful.
With a cry that was too incoherent to be a word, Kiriel di'Ashaf brought her sword down.
The creature cried out as if struck, although in truth neither Andaro nor Valedan's weakening blows had landed. Something in the air shifted; something changed.
It meant nothing to the Southern warrior, hut Valedan kai di'Leonne's eyes opened in wonder as he felt, for the first time since the darkness had closed in, the sea breeze. He found strength then.
The sword shivered, rebounded. The barrier denied her an easy victory. No one could see the smile that turned her lips up, and just as well. Kiriel di'Ashaf did not sheathe her sword, although the sword itself became useless as she made her decision.
She reached out with her free hand.
Touched the shadow.
Jewel started forward; Avandar pulled her back, catching her by both shoulders in a grip so sudden she almost lost her footing.
The shadow touched her. She felt it seeking purchase in skin, in the flesh beneath skin, and she laughed, although the sound came out as snarl to her ears, to her human ears. Here, in the sunlight, she was ascendent; the power to conquer was hers.
The ring did not defy her; could not contain her. Had it ever? She forgot. This smallness, this shadow—what matter where it came from? Her father's, her teacher's, her enemy's—it was power.
And Kiriel di'Ashaf had spent her life training so that she might take it. She began to absorb the darkness; instead of fighting it, she let it in.
Jewel didn't struggle against Avandar. She waited. But he knew her well enough—no surprise after this many years. His hands remained where they were; on either shoulder, tightly. She knew there was no point telling him to either let go or loosen up; she didn't try. To speak would have been to somehow break away from Kiriel, from the Kiriel she knew, viscerally and completely, could never be called in truth di'Ashaf. Oh, she'd known it the moment she met her, but she hadn't seen this. This was a test of a den leader's faith and strength.
She wondered how many of the magi could see what she saw. Wondered what they would do if they could. Wondered, in fact, what Kiriel would do when the shadows consumed her. Or when she consumed them. She was grateful that she couldn't see the younger woman's face. Cowardice, that, and she knew it. But there are some things that friendship doesn't survive unscarred.
Or at all.
"Meralonne."
The magi looked up.
"I asked you a question."
"Ah. Apologies, Sigurne. I was—"
"Transfixed. Yes. I noticed. Clearly what you're seeing through Cahille is filtered in some way." Disapproval in the words, but not as strong a disapproval as he might have expected.
"What was the question?"
"Do you understand what the young girl is doing?"
"I believe so."
"Do you think that she can survive it?"
"I have no question of that whatever."
"Good." Sigurne paused, and then lifted a frail hand; she brushed silver strands of hair from her eyes, and then looked back at the spell cloud that gathered on her bed. At the man who held it there, hair as silver as hers, skin as translucent in quality, but somehow unbowed by the age that she had reached uneasy truce with.
She knew that his power would fail him soon; that in truth he was being irresponsible—dangerously so—by continuing to fuel the spell. But she was what she was: Magi, and a seeker of knowledge. Where curiosity and concern clashed, curiosity won.
"Will we?"
He gave no answer.
The barrier, to Jewel's eye, was getting thinner and thinner. She couldn't see past its darkness, but she knew that in a minute or two it wouldn't matter; the darkness was almost entirely Kind's now—or she, its. Kiriel had still not turned to face them, but her sword hand was slowly rising, the weapon clutched in such a way that it might have been made of bamboo for all the difficulty its weight caused her.
The shadow spilled from shoulder to ground, rolling off her back like the finest of cloth, a thing that spoke of power, of stature, of rulership.
Ah. There. Her free hand rose, and when it rose, it pulled the last of the darkness with it, uprooting it from soil, from grass, from anything that was not her.
Valedan saw the light first.
Andaro saw the demon.
Between them, they made a single warrior; they were too injured, too damaged, to stand as two whole men. But when the light came, Valedan rallied for the last time.
Before the Kings, before the Ospreys, before the Southerners and the people who had come to watch a pretty contest of skill, he cried out the name for which he would become known, and swung his sword in a wild arc—
—that ended with the creature's neck.
The head itself rolled across the grass, its expression shifting slowly from stricken squinting to rage. Not dead, n
ot yet, but aware that the final blow had been struck.
There was a thunderous silence; the priests, who had until that moment been frozen, practically flew into action; the magi joined them almost as quickly. He saw all this, and then turned his back on it; Andaro had time to bury his sword in—through—the standing, moving body before mage-fires and something older than that began to cleanse it. He rescued his sword in time, and they stood, Andaro di'Corsarro and Valedan kai di'Leonne, in the Challenger's circle—a circle now marked perfectly by dead, brown grass.
But they didn't face each other. Valedan started to turn, and something caught his attention. Caught it, held it, pinned it struggling to the ground.
He saw the darkness that had had solidity now moving, now seeing, breathing, living. And it was less than five feet away.
She jabbed Avandar's insole with her heel and drove her elbows in a one-two thrust into his rib cage. That was enough to make him let go, and that was all she needed. Jewel ATerafin ran. There wasn't much space to cover between her and her target; less to cover between her target and Valedan kai di'Leonne, the man lives had already been sacrificed to protect. The boy, really; he was only a handful of years older than Kiriel—if that—and he was bleeding from a half-dozen dangerous wounds and a host of little scratches. In no condition at all to face darkness.
Of course, if she'd been thinking rationally, she'd have admitted that neither was she. That was her worst problem at times like this: She didn't remember to think. She just acted. Always just acted.
How could you rule a House when you didn't have the brains to rule yourself?
What had Kiriel said? Far enough that I can't touch you immediately after.
He raised his sword; hers was there, limned in shadow the way steel is often haloed with reflected light. It wasn't the sword that was terrifying; it was her face. Because he almost thought he recognized it, that face, but he could not bring himself to put a name to it. He wasn't sure why. Wasn't sure why the recognition frightened him.
But as he stood there, unable to either attack or retreat, some gift was given him; she staggered; took a step—an involuntary step—toward him, and then turned.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King Page 74
