The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

  Without thinking, she lunged forward, grabbed the girl; she was almost weightless.

  Blue light flew out in thin, sharp strands, the edge of a hundred blades; a thousand.

  Lord Isladar turned his back upon Jewel and the child. “Go.”

  It was her dream. Hers.

  But she ran.

  The first thing she felt was fingers on her shoulders in the darkness. She cried out, wordless, her hand already moving in the shallow depths of the tent.

  No one touched her when she slept. No one.

  She kicked off silk, rolling, her hands reaching for the dagger that lay by her side.

  Jewel.

  In two syllables, she gained fifteen years; she was able to force herself to be still. “Avandar.”

  “I apologize for the intrusion. But—”

  Gathering the silks she had thrown off, she sat up, the curve of her knees beneath her chin. “What—what is it? Why are you here?”

  “I had to wake you.”

  “Why?”

  The tent’s flap opened; light from the clear desert sky filtered in, lending gray, dark and pale, to the interior.

  “Wait.” The air was cold. She saw her breath as it hung for a moment in the stillness.

  He stopped. Turned; she could not see his face, although the moonlight made his outline clear.

  “You were there.”

  He was silent.

  “In my dream. You were there.”

  His nod was minimal. It would have been easy to miss, but she watched him as if he were the only thing in the tent. “I owe you an . . . apology. What you saw was no artifact of dream.”

  “The armies?”

  “The shadows. The armies were simple vision.” His chin dropped, the movement slow and deliberate. “We needed that information.”

  “And you woke me because?”

  “Don’t play the fool.”

  “I’m not. I want the information.”

  “You have it. I was thrown out of the dreaming—and not by you.”

  Because I don’t have the skill. She didn’t say it; Avandar was forever lecturing her on her ability to belabor the obvious. “Fair enough.” She smiled thinly. “I’ve been terrified by dreams, but I’ve never been hurt by them.”

  “It’s not pain that concerns me.”

  “No, of course not.”

  She could almost hear Avandar grinding his teeth; it was strangely comforting. “You are vulnerable in the dreaming state,” he said quietly, “because you are not used to guarding against intrusion.”

  “People don’t usually invade my dreams.”

  “I will give you the benefit of the doubt although you haven’t earned it. I will assume that this ignorance is genuine.”

  Comforting.

  He stood. She saw, in the folded loose fist, the magestone that he carried; light, for nightmares. She was not home, but she missed it viscerally. “In the Empire,” he told her, “dreams are significant.”

  “Some dreams.”

  “Indeed. Some dreams.”

  “I . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you think those are accidental, Jewel?”

  “I haven’t really thought about them much.”

  “No. You wouldn’t. Think now.”

  It didn’t take much time. “No.”

  “Good. Where do you think they come from?”

  “Avandar—I have no idea. If you do, and you want me to know, tell me.”

  He laughed. It was an unexpected sound; deep and lingering. “In my youth, they were the gift—or the curse—of the gods, if there is any differentiating between the two; they were wyrds placed upon the unwary.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” The laughter ceased. “I do not know. The gods are beyond us; they cannot easily interfere in our affairs.”

  Neither named the god who could; they were silent for a moment. It was cold in the tent; the silks, skewed, had been exposed to night air. Jewel envied Avandar his ability to rise above the weather as if it were an Imperial fashion trend.

  “With skill, and some knowledge of the dreamer, those who were powerful could visit the dreaming; could touch the edges of those who sleep unguarded.

  “What did you see, Jewel?”

  “An old . . . acquaintance. Of Kiriel’s.”

  She heard his brief curse, although it was as minimal as his nod had been, and far less deliberate.

  “Did you speak with this acquaintance?”

  “Some.”

  “Jewel.”

  “Yes, I spoke with him.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Lord Isladar. Of the Shining Court.”

  “The lord who tried to kill you in Averalaan.”

  “And failed. Yes.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing important.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Nothing important. Avandar—”

  He caught her wrist. Silk curtained down the side of her leg. “ATerafin, this is not a game.”

  His hand was warm. She shed it. And rose. “Avandar.”

  “ATerafin?”

  “My clothing. The outer robe. I need it.”

  She could not see his face, but she felt a brief, and fierce, impatience. Light flared in the tent, trapped in the curve of palm that had curled into fist; his fingers, above the light, were a pale, pale red.

  She grabbed the clothing he held out, and donned it, freeing her feet from the bedding that was entwined round her ankles. She struggled with her boots.

  When she rose, she rose swiftly. He knelt at the sole exit, eyes dark, face illuminated in such a way that it seemed more shadow and hollow than flesh.

  Their eyes met.

  She looked away first. She grabbed the sleeping silks, winding them tightly around her shoulder, like a Northerner preparing for an early, deadly snow.

  Avandar’s brow rose a fraction; she could see this because he had moved out of the tent entrance.

  She crawled out as well, gaining her feet clumsily. The river’s voice, never silent, seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet chill of desert evening.

  Unerring, she headed toward the river, aware of his presence as shadow, a thing cast by light.

  The stag joined her, steps light and almost silent in the silvered landscape of night. The Lady’s light, she thought, and then wondered why. The South exerted its influence here, where the North was as distant as dream.

  In the North, there would have been snow.

  It didn’t happen often, but snow in Averalaan was death.

  Death informed her first memory of Teller, his loss an echo of all of her own. She saw him clearly as she walked, a continent between them, huddled in the snow, crouched like an animal that is incapable of hunting to sustain itself in a landscape of wolves and indifference. He’d been so small for his age, so skinny, so utterly terrified; she had approached him with a caution born entirely of her certainty that aggression would startle him, cause him to run. Had approached, hand extended, eyes unblinking, with the overwhelming desire to protect.

  That had defined her, in her early years.

  It defined her now.

  She admitted it as the night, in clarity, resolved itself.

  She walked with purpose; the stag fell in beside her, and Avandar walked slightly to the left. No one spoke; there wasn’t any need for words, and the squabbles that had plagued her den in the streets of the twenty-fifth holding were beneath the companions she had now.

  She missed it.

  At a bend in the river, she found what she had known she would find: a child, in the moonlight, shivering at the touch of desert cold, the absolute absence of warmth.

  The girl looked up when they were close enough to make noise. Her head bobbed from side to side, her eyes wide; she got to her feet, exposed her chest to the night air.

  Her clothing was pale, but in the moonlight, Jewel could see patches of black. Dreams.
/>   She lifted both of her hands, one to either side; a command. They stopped moving, stag and man, and Jewel thought she could sense, in their silence, a mild unease. This was territory that they had seldom traversed, these two, who could admit without regret all that they had done in the service of gathering their own power.

  She continued on foot, bridging the gap that divided her and the girl.

  She stopped ten feet away.

  She was predictable. Predictable enough, it seemed, that Lord Isladar had chosen to leave the child here, bereft of the clothing that would allow her to survive undetected until morning. Jewel wondered if he had consciously made that decision; if he had decided that the child needed the pathos of utter helplessness in order to influence her decision. No answer came to the silent question; no hint of gift by which she could better understand the creature who was, without a doubt, her enemy.

  All that he had left was this child.

  Why?

  And did it matter?

  The girl’s arms had come up; she cradled them across her body as she stared at Jewel.

  Jewel dropped slowly to one knee, her hands before her, palms exposed to the bite of the cold and the child’s inspection.

  “Ariel,” she said, in Torra.

  The child nodded, as if the name were a question, as if it were something that she only barely had the right to use.

  “Lord Isladar sent you to me.”

  The child nodded again.

  There were so many questions Jewel wanted to ask. Instead, she said, “It’s cold out. I’m not—I’m not like he is. Come; our camp is a mile to the East, and we should return.”

  The child nodded again, but she did not move.

  Jewel rose slowly.

  The girl watched as she approached.

  Watched as she took the silks from around her shoulder and held them out. “Ariel, please. Come here.”

  Wordless, the girl obeyed.

  Jewel wrapped silk around her shoulder, around her slender frame. Then she lifted her right hand.

  The stag came in the silence.

  As Jewel had done, he knelt, his slender legs bearing the whole of his weight. Jewel lifted the child a little too high; she had overestimated her weight.

  She placed her upon the stag’s back, and then took her place behind her, wrapping arms around her to keep her steady.

  “Are you ready?” she whispered into the child’s ear.

  The girl nodded.

  “Me, too.”

  The stag rose, bearing their weight without effort.

  She heard the girl’s breath catch, and she smiled. “He won’t let you fall off,” she told her. “I won’t let you fall off.”

  The stag turned toward the camp.

  Only when he had turned toward the East did he speak.

  Jewel, who is she?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  5th of Corvil, 427 AA

  City of Amar, Terrean of Mancorvo

  SER Mareo kai di’Lamberto was surrounded by his Tyran. When he walked within the confines of his domis, they attended him; it was both their honor and their right.

  He walked now, but did not linger; his steps were quick and forceful. He came from the walls; his cerdan were stationed both at the base and at their heights, and they gazed out upon the vast plains of the Terrean. The city was old; beyond the walls, serafs tilled and farmed the soil, and beyond them, horses ran; he treasured both, but he knew that they would find no protection within Amar unless he wished to forgo the late planting.

  War was in the air. The face of the Lord was bright and without mercy.

  The armies of the North were gathered East of the borders that separated Mancorvo from Averda. And the armies of the traitorous General, Alesso di’Marente, were gathered to the South. He knew that they must meet, these two armies; what he could not yet be certain of was where.

  Those men that could be spared, he had summoned, and they had begun to arrive in number. The granaries were full, but would not remain so.

  He had no intention of allowing Mancorvo to be turned into a battlefield.

  The Tyran parted when they reached the gates, and he strode between their perfect ranks, shorn of expression.

  Ser Adano kai di’Marano waited, Toran at a respectful distance. His horse was, to Mareo’s eye, nearly exhausted.

  And a man of Adano’s caliber did not push his horse to ground without cause.

  The Tor’agar bowed; the Tyr’agnate returned that bow. The Court was in the nuance of those gestures.

  “My pardon, Tyr’agnate,” Ser Adano said, speaking with the formal precision of a man raised to power. “I have come on a simple errand, and I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “The visit of a liege is never a disturbance, Ser Adano. I bid your men enter my city.”

  The Tor’agar bowed again, and when he rose, his men bowed. “We are grateful for the hospitality you offer,” Ser Adano said. He reached into his sash, and took from it the harbinger of war: a small tube, edged with the stylized runes of a war-message. They met perfectly; it was not clear to the Tyr’agnate’s eye where the break in the tube was.

  But it had not been breached.

  Possibly could not be, if it came from the General Alesso di’Marente.

  “You did not speak with the General,” Ser Mareo said, clutching the tube in his sword hand.

  “No.”

  “And his armies?”

  “I did not think it wise to cross the border,” Adano replied. “But I have received word that the kai Lorenza and the kai Garrardi have joined the General’s forces in Raverra.”

  “The kai Garrardi?”

  Ser Adano’s face was a careful composition, an artful one. Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto did not envy him. But he did not distrust him either, although perhaps this was not entirely wise.

  “His forces were last to arrive, if our information was correct. But he arrived with numbers.”

  The Tyr’ agnate nodded quietly. “So. It is Raverra, Sorgassa, and Oerta.”

  And in the North, he thought, although he did not speak, Mancorvo and Averda. The two Terreans to suffer loss of land in the previous war. He was not a fool; he knew that the presence of Oerta and Sorgassa, upon that field implied much, for the gathering of an army was not a casual task.

  “Ser Adano,” he said quietly, “I will retire for the moment. My serafs will attend you; please remain in Amar for the next few days.”

  Adano bowed again, and then smiled. “Our horses thank you, Tyr’agnate.”

  He dismissed his Tyran when he approached the harem. They were accustomed to this; they left only two men at the closed door that led to the most sheltered quarters in the domis. On all sides, halls and rooms formed a boundary which could not be easily crossed; the Lord’s light came to the women of the harem through the open gardens and courtyards the harem boasted. If the domis itself were ever breached by enemy forces, the last place they would reach would be the harem—and if they did, it would signal the end of the clan Lamberto and its ancient rule.

  Not all domis were constructed in this fashion, and perhaps, at the dawn of the clan’s preeminence, the inner chambers and courtyards were used differently. No one living, however, remembered that day, and history had conveniently forgotten this single element; the present was all that existed.

  And the present contained the Serra Donna en’Lamberto and her wives. Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto had sons and daughters who still dwelled within the harem walls, and he was quietly proud of them; they were a source of strength and amusement, a source of chaotic beauty and unparalleled noise. Two, Marianna and Karina, had been born to the same wife on the same day, the youngest of his kin. They were now four years of age.

  But as he walked the halls, he did not hear their voices, and he felt a pang of disappointment. He could not, of course, ask after them; not when a missive of war awaited his attention. It was not what men did, in the Dominion.

  Yet Donna, Na’donna, knew; she often had the children
with her when he arrived, and let them play for some small time before dismissing them. Two days ago, Marianna had insisted that she was strong enough to carry his sword, and he had shamelessly indulged her by allowing her to make the attempt. He had not, however, unsheathed the blade—which was not to her liking, although in the end the scabbard had bruised both her feet when she dropped it.

  This is why women are not given swords, he told her, with mock severity. That truth was in the words as well would become evident with time; already Karina had begun to develop a keen interest in the saris and the jewelry that adorned his wives. But Marianna was stubborn and willful.

  With effort—and it was an effort—he could pretend that he saw no similarities to another young girl, another willful, indulged, and sharp-tongued woman.

  Certainly his daughter was lovelier than his serpent of a sister.

  He shook himself; neither daughter nor sister was present; only his Serra waited, seated before a low, flat table, the flowers in her hair still wet from the vessels that had, moments ago, contained them, the water cups empty and evenly placed upon the flat, wooden surface.

  She offered him a graceful bow as he entered the room, and he accepted the obeisance simply because he loved the shape of her back and the effortless way she exposed it.

  She rose without leave or permission. He met her eyes and noticed that lines were worn into the corners, and shadows into the hollows. Not age, not exactly, but care.

  But her smile was genuine, made warmer by the open affection and pride with which she now graced him. She lifted an arm, trailing silk, and caught the long, long stem of an artisan’s water vessel; it was too slender, too perfectly proportioned, to be called a jug.

  He nodded and she poured sweet water. Lifting his cup, she held it out in both hands, almost bowing again as she offered it to him.

  He took it quickly, and settled himself into the cushions which lay at the table’s base.

  She waited. There was no obvious anxiety in her silence; just peace. It was a blessed peace, and he was old enough now to desire little else. War should have to wait, he thought.

  But he set the cup upon the table and placed beside it the tube that Ser Adano kai di’Marano had traveled in such haste to deliver.