But her horse, Merrin, was a shade of brown gold; his mane was dark, his tail dark, and his flashings white. He had good ears, a good, solid build, but his eyes were considered too small to be, strictly speaking, beautiful.
He was, nonetheless, beautiful.
Verrus Korama AKalakar kept a respectful distance from that beauty. His own horse was a gray mare, perhaps a hand shorter than Merrin, and infinitely more docile. Her eyes were the size of a child’s gathered fist, her lashes long, her mane perfectly plaited; she accepted sea squalor and confinement with the same steady bearing that her master did.
“Ellora,” he said, when Merrin had paused for a moment to survey what was left of the ground, “we’re ready.”
She nodded.
Korama paused, his silence a search for words, not an end to them.
“Duarte will be there.”
She nodded again. Merrin began his mincing step, and she wondered, briefly, if it was always to be the wild things that she loved best.
Callesta was large.
It lay across the width of the valley like a declaration, and the Commanders paused at the height of the sloped track to gaze upon it, reading between the lines of buildings, fields, walls.
Ellora’s men were restless.
More than a decade ago they had approached Averda, seeking entrance into the city. They had never reached it, although they had come close enough to end a war; to drive men whose venue for conflict was political to the tables and halls where their power resided.
Vernon Loris had not chosen to accompany The Kalakar, and she had refrained from making an order of the offer. He stayed with her troops, overseeing the logistic machine that kept her army fed and sheltered in a way that did not demand more than the terrain would bear.
If the war was long, that would change.
She urged Merrin down the slope, pushing past the men who were, in theory, there to protect her. They were used to this; only Sentrus Brotherton dared to argue the point, and he did so with the pained expression of a man who knew that the argument had never been his to win.
Ellora led her men.
Such an action was the source of many of her conflicts with Devran. Although she was clearly in no danger, his preference was to present a united front to the troops; to exercise caution, and to allow men to perform the duties for which they had been handpicked.
Certainly, for House Berriliya this approach was acceptable. Men adapted to almost any circumstance, and those men he chose to personally serve him wore this signal honor with a gravity that spoke of distance and respect for the rank they served.
Ellora AKalakar had created the Ospreys, coming between them and the gallows and fashioning, out of the men she had saved, a unit under the care of Captain Duarte. Ellora AKalakar earned affection by offering it; earned respect by offering it, especially when it was unlooked for.
Devran’s men were drawn from the sons of the patriciate. His Verruses came from families only slightly less significant than The Ten; they responded as nobles respond to most situations. The hierarchy of the army was preserved both on and off the field.
Korama was the only Verrus that came from such a family.
But he was, of the men who served, the one she most trusted. He was not interested in power; he was interested in her power.
She turned when his horse’s nose crossed the line of her peripheral vision. “Stranger things have happened, haven’t they?”
He smiled. “Some. We always vowed that we would bring the army to Callesta.”
“And you always told me to be careful of rash oaths.” She laughed. “Especially my own.”
“You’re looking forward to this.”
“To some of it. I want to see that man’s wife.” There was no mistaking whom she meant by “that man.” In the Empire, it was rare for the Inheritors of the House Seats to marry. Commander Allen, when he stepped off the field, had had no such limitations, no scrutiny of his personal life. On the field, he chose to deprive himself of companions, and it was just as well; Sioban was no soldier.
Korama wondered, briefly, if they would see her on the field. As the bardmaster of Senniel College, her life had been contained, confined by the responsibilities of the Collegium’s many students, and the responsibilities laid upon any bardmaster by the Kings. Upon retirement, she had only the responsibilities she chose.
But retired or no, very few were the men—or women—who could tell her what to do. Or what not to do.
“What are you thinking, Korama?”
He shook his head. “Wives.”
“Wives?”
“You want to see his wives, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Wives, then.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not a man who tolerates mediocrity where he has the choice.”
Korama nodded quietly, as he did all else. “But if confronted with a mediocrity that he doesn’t have the choice of, he accepts it. He doesn’t have your style,” Korama added, “but I’ve watched his Tyran. They serve him.”
“They’ve made their oaths,” she replied.
“So did I.”
Her gaze was sharper; he offered her his profile.
“I didn’t demand your life,” Ellora said at last.
“No. But if you hadn’t been certain that that was what I was offering, you wouldn’t have accepted it. Rough speech or fine, words are easy.”
She laughed. “Tell that to the Ospreys.” And then she stopped, the strange joy at approaching the open gates of Callesta diminished.
“Ellora—”
She lifted a hand. Swatted the words away as if they were insects.
“Words are easy to say,” he told her softly, “and sometimes the saying is easier than the accepting. No one else thinks of Duarte’s men as anything other than what they were. They were the only unit under your command that came together in the South. In a sense, they were born here; this is their home.”
Every aspect of life in the South was a calculated risk.
In the fields, beneath the glare of sun, in a race against weather and the shortness of the season; in the kitchens and dressing rooms of the Court, in a race against the expectations of the High Clans and their need for seemingly effortless perfection; in the taking of a wife, in the bearing of a child; in all of these things, risk.
In halls very much like this one, in the grace of Southern stone, southern screens, open courtyards in which graceful ponds and tall trees hid the egress of men, the Serra Alina di’Lamberto had learned this lesson, first from her mother—while her mother lived—and then from the serafs and the wives of her brother, the kai Lamberto.
She had learned to stand, in silence, a beautiful accoutrement to an otherwise empty room; she had learned to arrange the flowers and the food brought by serafs with an eye to every detail, every droop of leaf, every fallen petal. She had learned to play the samisen, although in truth she hated the instrument because she had never managed to play it well enough to please her own ear; had learned to choose sari fabrics, in texture and color, by which the wealth of her father, and then her brother, might be advertised in a fashion that was considered both seemly and modest. She had learned to sit perfectly still in a room where men spoke and ate and drank; had learned to listen to the tones of their voices when their words were just a few feet beyond her hearing.
She had learned to plan, had learned to improvise—as only a Southern Serra might—had learned how to speak to the men whose duty it was to protect her reputation and her person; had learned how to read the women’s language, and how to lift brush, wet with the darkest of inks, to write it. She had learned to read poetry, to read philosophy, to read the letters of the Court, first to her father and then to her brother until he found a wife who might better serve that function.
And she had learned, as only a Serra might learn, to distinguish friend from foe; to spot, at a distance, a man who might become a worthy ally, or an obedient vassal. That had been her mother’s gift
to a sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed daughter.
Had she been indulged?
Yes. By her father. By her grandfather.
But by her brother?
Ah, the old arguments rankled. She had left them behind when she had been traded to the North. She had never thought to return here, and she had therefore taken no care to make certain they had died.
Your son was killed by war, Mareo. He died the Lord’s death.
My kai was killed by the Northerners.
Your kai was killed by his own choice. He was one of hundreds of men.
They killed him.
They killed him because the Tyr’agar is a fool.
Alina, the Serra Donna had said, her voice gentle, her expression as gracious as grief and fear allowed.
He was not even considered worthy of ransom, her brother had continued.
Ransom happens after surrender. She had known there would be a cost for the words. Had known it, but had been unable to contain them.
He was your blood!
He was my nephew, she snapped, her own voice breaking beneath the thin veneer of control. He was my nephew, and I raised him; I stood by his side at his first trial; I held his hand when he took his first step. I sat, idle, while you trained him to be the perfect vessel for Lambertan honor.
Be silent!
No! I was silent. I was silent, and now he is silent, and he will never have a chance to speak for himself. He died because he wanted to prove himself worthy of you!
It had not been Mareo who had intervened; it had been the Serra Donna. For the first time—for the only time—she had raised her hand.
At a remove of years, Alina could still feel the stinging rebuke of her open palm.
Horrified at what had been said, horrified at what she had done, the Serra Donna had risen, stiffly, had bowed with complete poise at her husband’s feet, and had retreated.
And less than one month later, the Serra Alina had been sent to the North.
Of all memories of the South, the day of her departure had been the clearest. She shed no tears, of course. Instead, as a dutiful daughter might, she had knelt upon the flat mats of her brother’s outer rooms, hands palm down a few inches above the bend in her knees. She had worn white and blue that day—not only because the death of a kai demanded mourning, but because she did mourn.
He was not even considered worth ransoming.
Have you shed a tear for the men his decision led to death? Have you paused to weep or berate your enemy for his lack of consideration in the deaths of those who had no choice at all?
Ugly words.
All hers.
But ugly or no, there was a twisted, strange liberty to be found in the folds of truth.
As she waited for the palanquin to be equipped, the serafs to be chosen, the bolts of silks to be loaded into the wagons below, she repeated those words, again and again, in the silence behind closed lips.
And during this terrible ferocity of litany, the doors slid open.
She had turned to tell the seraf to leave, and had found herself face-to-face with the Serra Donna en’Lamberto, knees bent to the wooden slats of the exterior halls, hands upon the rounded lips of sliding door, face framed by its warm panels.
The Serra Alina began to rise.
The Serra Donna rose swiftly instead, closing the doors at her back.
“So,” Alina said. “He cannot find the grace to say goodbye; he sends you in his stead.”
She was careless now with her words—although she had been accused of such carelessness in the past, it was never with such truth.
The Serra Donna had never been so careless; not with words. But she had expected the Serra Alina’s reaction, and barely flinched when Alina raised her hand to her cheek—accusation and reminder.
Such an accusation might have made a lesser woman wither, but although Donna was in all aspects the perfect, dutiful wife, she was no weakling. She met the Serra Alina’s bold stare, and after a moment, surprised her by nodding.
Had Alina’s anger been so easily stilled, she might never have left for the North. With far less grace than the Serra Donna had shown, she said, “Why have you come?”
“To tell you what you know he cannot tell you.”
“That he has decided that I am the perfect insult to offer the Northern victors? Have no worries on that account, Serra Donna. I was present for each of his discussions on this very subject; I am aware of his feelings.”
The Serra Donna’s gaze had darkened.
“Are you?” she said coolly.
Alina had spoken in anger, but confronted with anger, she fell silent. “Not, clearly, as aware as you are. You are his wife. I am only his unmarriageable sister.”
Serra Donna rose stiffly: “It is not because you are his sister that you are . . . where you are. You are harsh, Alina, and your temper is unbecoming.”
“For a woman?”
“For,” Donna replied, “A Lambertan. Of all of his kin, only you can invoke such anger. And it is your choice.”
“It is as much his choice, is it not? I am merely a Serra; he is the Tyr’agnate.”
The Serra Donna bowed stiffly, without kneeling. She opened the screen doors and would have stepped lightly between them.
But Alina said, “Na’donna, wait.”
The stiff shoulders of her brother’s wife relaxed. She turned, her hand against the soft panes of the closed screen. “Na’ali,” she said quietly. “He is not an evil man.”
“I know,” Alina replied bitterly. “He is an honorable man.”
“He—regrets—what he has done.”
“And he has told you so?”
“You know him; it is an admission that he could not make.”
Alina said nothing.
“I chose the silks that are to be sent with you; I’ve sent brushes and inks as well as gold. I do not believe that you will be treated poorly in the Northern court.” She paused. “You were wrong,” she whispered.
“Wrong?”
“They killed his son.”
“Na’donna—”
The Serra’s head rose in a snap of motion; her eyes were red. Surprise stilled Alina’s voice; surprise humbled her and sent her in search of different words.
“He was your son, too.”
“Yes. But—”
“What happened on the field? Mareo will speak to no one of it.”
“He was not there. But—”
“But?”
“Word traveled. Be as gentle with him as you can in your thoughts, in exile. Please. For me.”
“What word?” She was still Alina, still sharp and hard-edged. But she was perhaps much like her brother; she was not immune to the pleas of his wives, where orders failed to move her.
“They demanded the kai’s surrender.”
“I know.”
“No. You don’t. The cerdan, the Tyran—they were present when the demand arrived. The Northerners sent word to the Lambertan General.”
“The General?”
Donna nodded. “The letter said, in substance, that they would cease all hostility. If . . .”
“Lady’s blood.”
“If the General was willing to surrender the kai into their custody.”
For the first time since she had heard of the death of her nephew, Alina’s eyes were also heavy with tears. She held them back.
“They demanded his surrender.”
Alina closed her eyes. “Just his?”
“His.”
“And his men?”
“They would not countenance it. Who, of the Lambertan men, could have done so with any honor at all? Had they demanded the surrender of the General, he would have offered it, and gladly, in return for the promise of safety for his men and the kai. It would have destroyed him personally. It would have destroyed his ability to lead our men in the future. But he would have done it.”
“But he could not give them the kai.” There was no criticism at all in the words. “Na’donna—”
“They killed my son,” the Serra whispered.
This time, this time Alina said nothing at all. She rose instead, leaving the very empty pretense of servility behind. Crossing the room blindly she wrapped her arms around the Serra Donna’s shoulders.
In that fashion, in silence, she offered the Serra Donna her promise to forgive—as it was possible—her brother for his anger and his crime.
She remembered this clearly. The years had not dimmed the conversation. But they had explained it.
The kai, by Northern standards, was not considered to be of age. No boys led Northern armies; no boys led Northern units. The kai Lamberto, heir to the vast Terrean of Mancorvo, was not considered adult; he was not considered the person in authority upon the field.
The Northerners had therefore chosen to send their word—their perfunctory word—to the man they felt was in charge.
Ah.
She bowed her head. They had expected a surrender. They were not so bloodthirsty that they had expected to be forced to slaughter any man who would not flee.
But what man would, when the future of the Terrean had been entrusted to them?
For this, for this misunderstanding, her nephew had died, and her brother had been permanently scarred, enraged, embittered.
It was in the past, but the past formed the root of the present, as birth informed life.
And her life? She bowed her head to the ground again, waiting. Waiting in this foreign hall, in the stronghold of her brother’s enemies.
Enemies that he had made because the Callestans had chosen to treat the war as another form of politics; had opened up their borders to trade and treaties; had forgiven the North for its trespass, its act of willful murder.
A seraf paused in the hall before her. He fell to the ground, his posture matching hers in both grace and suppleness.
“Serra,” he said gravely, “the Serra Amara en’Callesta will speak with you now. Please accompany me.”
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 22
