“There are few upon the field who could appreciate that perfection; I, among them, but I will be encumbered by the guise I am forced to adopt.”
“Baredan di’Navarre will be present. My husband. His Tyran. There will be others. If, in the end, the kai Leonne is to be victorious, there will be others, and they will be far less inclined to overlook his flaws than we.”
Alina knew what Valedan would say; knew it, and knew as well that she would accept what the Serra Amara offered.
He hated slavery.
He wished to own no one.
Perhaps, she thought, as she nodded in genuine gratitude, you might change this world, Valedan. Perhaps you might bring some of the North into the heart of the South. But all things take time, and if you are not to wage war forever against the men whose support and respect you must have, you will bow, in this. You will learn to bend.
CHAPTER EIGHT
8th of Corvil, 427 AA
Terrean of Raverra
JEWEL had missed the Arkosan children when the caravan had left them at the desert’s edge. They were a source of noise and life, a little well of chaos, a sturdy innocence that spoke of the future, the future’s promise.
But the child she had taken from the river’s edge, at the coldest hour of desert night, was unlike those children: she spoke, instead, of the loss and the suffering that war engendered. It was not a reminder that Jewel desired.
“Ariel.”
The girl looked up, mute, her injured hand hidden in the folds of a shirt that was, oh, four sizes too big. The child reminded her of Finch, of Finch on the day she had been found in the twenty-fifth holding. Silent, small, injured, it had taken her time to find her voice.
How much time, Jewel thought, do we have? She smiled, but the girl was cautious. As Finch had been cautious.
Ariel slept only in the presence of Jewel ATerafin, and then, only when Jewel herself was awake. She spoke very, very little, and again, she would speak only when Jewel was alone; if Jewel had any hope of hearing what the girl had to say, she was forced to dismiss Avandar and Celleriant. The bard’s voice was soothing enough to lull the child’s natural suspicion, but it took two days of quiet riding before she did not view the stag with fear’s eyes.
What have you seen, child? she wanted to ask, and Avandar almost demanded that she do so, but he knew her well enough to know that this would merely be grounds for fruitless argument, and he did not press her.
The child liked Stavos—and who wouldn’t?—when she saw him. She did not sleep in his presence, but she did allow him to accompany her on those occasions when Jewel was deep in conversation with her companions.
As now. The colorful baritone of his voice carried a great distance, suggesting the rumbling amusement of the earth itself—if earth as dry and barren as this could ever uphold such an analogy. Enough, Jewel. Pay attention.
“The dream itself was an accurate guide,” Avandar was saying in a curt, brusque voice.
The Radann par el’Sol—a title of note in the Dominion, as the Serra Diora had quietly and firmly pointed out—nodded. But the nod was a gesture of punctuation; it granted nothing but the certainty that you had his attention.
“ATerafin?” the Radann said, when she failed to fill the silence.
Jewel raised a brow. “You’re asking me?”
“It was your vision, was it not?”
She shrugged. “It was. But Avandar is my domicis.”
“What is this domicis?”
“It’s a . . . a servant. Sort of. More than that. But not a House Guard, or anything like. It means . . .” She struggled to find a word that had nothing at all in common with seraf. Shrugged and gave up. “I trust him.”
Marakas raised a dark brow. It was a thin brow; Jewel thought he must usually go completely clean-shaven, for his hair and his face were graced by what could only generously be called shadow. “Do you?”
“With my life.”
“A fair answer.”
She waited for him to point out that the value of life in the South and the value of life in the North were different entities, and she waited with less patience and grace than she usually did—which is to say, none at all. But in the week that they had traveled together, he had gleaned enough of her personality to understand the futility of such an observation; he remained silent.
“I am not always . . . cogent . . . when I wake,” she said quietly.
It was an effort to speak slowly to the Radann, but her Torra was not of a class that was good enough for him, and she did not wish to reveal her inferiority; she therefore chose to speak Weston, which he understood, albeit with some difficulty.
Understand, Avandar said, that this is a compliment. He is unusual for any man who holds power in the South; he is not oblique in his curiosity or in the way he pays his respects to you.
And this is a compliment because?
Women have, in theory, no power.
Jewel gazed at the hidden face of the Serra, and she shook her head. So much for theory.
Dismiss it, Avandar said, as coldly when you see the practice behind that theory.
The Radann’s Weston was stilted; it was clearly learned for use in the environment of a Court that had some exposure to foreigners, but not a lot. It was left to the Serra Diora to translate.
“It is upon waking that these dreams are usually transcribed, and it is the waking witness—my domicis in this case—who is considered the first, and therefore the most reliable, source of information. What he tells you of my dreams—especially when I am present—is truth. All of the truth,” she added, with a trace of bitterness, “that the dreams themselves can be said to contain.
“If you wish proof of their truth, simply continue as you have been traveling.”
The Radann turned the slightest of gazes upon the waiting Serra, who sat with such demure and perfect grace it was hard to believe that she would offer the sole opinion he valued. Hard until one saw the minute nod she offered, the tipping of her fan beneath a jaw barely exposed to something as trivial as the sun’s light.
“Then we cannot journey as we intended.”
Hard to bite her tongue. Hard to contain her sarcasm. But Jewel had learned, with real effort, to do both in her sojourn as a reluctant member of the Terafin House Council; she kept her peace.
“There is another danger,” Kallandras said quietly, into the stillness of this simple gesture.
He had their attention immediately, this strange man with his pale golden roots lengthening beneath a dye that had given him the appearance of a Southern native. “In your vision, only two of the armies had gathered; the third had yet to arrive.”
Jewel nodded.
“Sorgassa was not yet present.”
“Not according to Avandar. I confess that I studied the banners and the regalia of the South for a short period of time; I did not recognize which were missing.”
She felt, rather than heard, Avandar’s derisive snort.
Don’t start, she snapped.
I would not dream of belittling you in front of those whose respect you require, he replied, sardonically. And truthfully.
“If the army has not yet arrived beneath the banner of Lorenza, there is a chance we may meet them on the road.”
A subtle shift in the lines of the Radann’s shoulders caught Jewel’s attention.
“Serra,” he said softly. Urgently. She shook her head.
“The armies that you saw gathered—where were they?”
Jewel looked to Avandar.
Avandar did not roll his eyes; did not frown; did not otherwise make his annoyance at her ignorance obvious. But it was clear to Jewel’s many years of experience that he expected her to recognize the geography of the terrain she had passed through at his behest in the dreaming.
“They are gathered upon the Northern border of Raverra.”
Marakas nodded. “As expected.”
“They are gathered equidistant between the Terreans of Mancorvo and Averda; to an
inobservant eye, it would not be clear which road they intend to take when they at last choose to move.”
“It has been a few days; are you certain they are not already upon the road?”
“I am certain of nothing except for their disposition on the night the ATerafin ventured into her dream.”
The Radann nodded. Rose. “We are not so small a party that we will not be noticed by scouting—or raiding—parties, if any are searching for us.”
It was Kallandras who spoke next. “Consider the possibility that the army gathered where it did along the border with that eventuality in mind.”
“Pardon?”
“Of the duties the Serra Diora in her wisdom assumed, one is anathema to the General di’Marente. He cannot know for certain in which direction she decided to travel. But if he believes that she has traveled to one Terrean over the other, he may move in that direction first.
“She has, besides herself, something that holds an incalculable value in the coming war. If he can claim it before she conveys it to its rightful owner, he has struck a blow, in the South, that the armies of the North will be unable to overcome.
“The kai Leonne has, as his only claim to the Tor and the waters of the Lake, the bloodline of the Leonnes. And his only proof of that is in the Serra’s hands.”
“In the Dominion, stranger,” the Radann said quietly, “that claim is paramount.”
“It would be,” Kallandras countered, his hands upon the still strings of his careworn lute. “Save for the disaster of the last war, it would be. But the Lord of Day favors no bloodline blindly. What the General Alesso di’Marente has chosen to build for himself, he has built with the approbation of at least two of the Terreans. Were it not for the General’s brilliance, the General’s ability to engender both loyalty and confidence in the men who served him, the losses to the North in the ill-advised war the previous Tyr’agar chose to prosecute would have been severe.”
“Severe or not, it was still a loss.”
“Indeed. And it was a loss incurred because of the incompetence of the Tyr’agar.” He lifted the neck of his lute in the curve of his palm, settling it in his lap. A warning, perhaps. “I mean no disrespect,” he added quietly. “But we face what we face. It is best to accept that if we are to triumph here.”
“And what is triumph, here?”
“We seek shadow, subterfuge, the ability to hide in the open. It is the Voyani way,” Kallandras replied swiftly. “Like it or no, man of the Lord, it is that road that we must travel if we are to arrive in safety in the Terrean of our choice.”
“And that is the crux of the matter,” Avandar continued smoothly. “Which Terrean, Radann par el’Sol? Which Terrean will be friendliest to our cause?”
“Averda, certainly,” Marakas replied. “But it is for that reason that I believe the armies will move upon Averda.”
Celleriant rose suddenly; his blade, completely silent, now shone in the clearing in which they had gathered.
Kallandras was on his feet in an instant, and if lute could be wielded as weapon, it, too, was readied.
The Arianni lord’s pale brow rose, and a smile lifted the corner of his lips. “Even you, bard, might best be advised to select a different weapon.”
“We choose the weapon at hand,” Kallandras replied, but his smile was rueful. “What draws your attention?”
“I am not certain. But . . . there is something unpleasant in the air. It will be night soon. I feel that there is a risk here.”
The stag had risen as well.
Jewel called him wordlessly, and he came.
Lady, he said. Lord Celleriant speaks truly. I believe that we—he and I—have heard the sounds of a hunt being called.
Whose hunt?
Not the White Lady’s, he replied.
“Mancorvo,” the Radann par el’Sol said quietly.
They looked toward him. He was not in command of the expedition; no one was. But he had been given the choice.
Yollana, silent until now, also rose; the Serra Teresa was her cane and her crutch. She lifted her aged hands and made the symbol of the circle across the sandy stretch of Voyani desert robes. “Mancorvo,” she said, nodding. She turned her unblinking gaze upon the Radann. “If the sun is not in my eyes, Radann par el’Sol, it is in Mancorvo, in the end, that you will discharge the greatest of your debts.”
“I am the keeper of those debts,” he replied coolly. “I will decide when—and if—they are discharged.”
“Indeed.” Yollana slumped against the strength of the deceptively graceful arm that held hers. “But before then, I fear we will all be tested. The Lord of Night is at work here. If the armies of the General Marente are not aware of our work in the desert, He will be, and he will seek to prevent its completion.
“Come. If we are to start in the morning, we must take what rest the desert offers.”
Marakas turned to look at the river that rushed past them, its steady whisper the only noise the silent desert now offered them. “The desert has offered many surprises to even a man such as myself,” he said at last. “Let us do as the Havallan Matriarch commands.
“And in the morning, let us take the winding road into Mancorvo.”
Stavos brought the child to Jewel’s tent the moment the awkward circle opened. The fire that had sustained its heart was a meager thing, for there was little in the way of wood in these parts. But Yollana had insisted upon setting two sticks into the hard sand, and she had lit them with care, allowing no other hands to touch them. They smoldered, trailing dark smoke.
The Voyani heartfire burned down in the odd clearing.
“Two more,” she said quietly to the Serra Teresa. “Two more, and we will be vulnerable. It is not to my liking.”
The Serra Teresa di’Marano lifted her head, tilting it a moment to one side. “We are vulnerable,” she said softly. “It is only our words that are hidden, and words have little value to the dead.
“But . . . I heard the roar of the desert storm, Matriarch, and against it, we emerged.”
“You speak of the Northern bard.” No question there; a lift of gray brow, a sharp look, but no question.
“Yes. Kallandras.” Her smile was brief, but genuine. “He has been a shadow in our lives, as have the Voyani—and it is all the proof I need that the Lord of Night does not rule the whole of the darkness.” The smile dimmed, the gaze sharpened; the whole of Teresa’s face shifted subtly in the silver light.
Yollana’s frown added wrinkles and creases to the lines of a face scoured by wind and exposure to sunlight. “Your hearing is better than mine, Na’tere.”
“But not, I think, better than those that serve Jewel ATerafin. If you have charms or wards, if you must let blood, do it now.”
Yollana grimaced. “They will pay,” she said almost absently. “For the use of my legs. They will pay.”
She looked toward Jewel’s tent.
The younger woman had stiffened, rising. Her right hand sought the belt beneath the folds of her robes; her left, the child’s shoulder. The child.
The great, tined beast moved in silence, coming to stand by the ATerafin’s side. She bent on one knee. Spoke to the child, her voice soft enough that no words carried the distance between them. Then she lifted the child as the stag bent its antlered head. The girl was utterly silent.
Jewel turned to the man who now stood, back toward her, facing the expanse of the desert’s coming night.
“Avandar,” she said.
“ATerafin?”
“There are no wolves in the desert, are there?”
“None at all.”
She swore.
“So,” Yollana said. “It begins.”
“It continues,” Teresa said, correcting her. “Come. I intend to survive to see its end, no matter how long that may be in arriving.” She held out a hand, and Yollana gripped it firmly.
Their scent filled the air. Their warmth left its trail across the still night: If they were capable of hiding, they h
ad chosen to do otherwise. Costly mistake.
The kinlord smiled. The leader of the hunters rose on two legs and walked toward him, breaking the sand with the force of curved claws. He could, when he so chose, make his tread invisible—but it took effort, and it cut his speed.
The kinlord had seen no need for such a precaution; what life there was in the desert was not sentient enough to carry a warning to the men whose knowledge the Lord of the Shining Court deemed dangerous.
He had scoffed when the possibility of danger from mortals had first arisen, but he had not yet seen the shadow of the Tor Arkosa in the dimming brilliance of night sky when he had been given his orders.
Yet he had seen it now, and it had stirred its bitter memories; he could still feel the spells which contained and protected it. Not for such a kinlord as he was the breaking of that spell, not for one such as he, the entry into that City. He could admit this now, in silence; it cost him nothing.
The hunter waited his word, aware of the difference in power between them; the kinlord was cautious. “Yes,” he said softly, aware that he was not the only kinlord abroad. Others were hunting, and in terrain in which caution was forced upon them by the mortals who crowded this realm.
The Voyani had proved themselves a danger.
One City had risen. One line had returned to the desert. The Lord of the Shining Court desired there to be no others.
“Now.”
Avandar did not speak.
Even in the privacy of thought, he was notably absent. But Jewel could feel what was not put into words, and she listened.
During the reign of man, such hunts as these were not infrequent; they were not unknown. Men did not travel in the desert unless they were prepared for battle, and such battles had proved a testing ground, a way of culling the weak and the unwary.
No such test was necessary now.
She felt his annoyance war with a sense of dark amusement; he had walked the length and breadth of the hidden byways that served as roads to those who had the power to navigate them. He had walked in company, and he had walked in isolation, and in either case, the kin had chosen to avoid any encounter that involved him.
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