Serafs filled the silence with their graceful movements. Water was brought. Wine. Delicate, dark bowls. Everything was perfect.
Empty.
“Serra Amara,” the kai Leonne said.
She met his gaze. “Tyr’agar?” And bowed as low as she could gracefully bow, encumbered by the dinner posture.
“You honor us with your presence at this difficult time. Please, remain while we discuss what must be discussed.”
Ramiro’s head lifted slightly. She saw his expression shift, his lips tighten. But he said nothing.
“You, your wives, your city, will pay the price for our presence here. You have already begun what will certainly continue. You have shown your people, by your example, how loss can be borne. Understand, then, how that loss might unfold.”
“Tyr’agar,” the Tyr’agnate said. “Is this entirely wise?”
Words, Amara knew, that he would never have offered the father to this strange, this vulnerable, this likable son.
Ser Valedan did not reply directly. Instead, he turned to Duarte AKalakar. Duarte rose. “With your permission, Tyr’agnate, I would like to . . . secure the perimeter of the room.”
The hesitation between the question and the response was marked, exaggerated. Amara was almost shocked.
But the Northerners did not seem to notice it; neither did the kai Leonne.
Yet she could not believe that a boy so schooled in manners, in grace, could be, in the end, a scion of the North. He must understand how great her husband’s reluctance was.
“You may.”
Duarte AKalakar bowed. He rose quickly, and with an ease that spoke of practice. “The serafs?”
Ramiro turned to his wife. “Dismiss them.”
She nodded. Clapped once. They left the room as gracefully as they had entered it, but perhaps more quickly.
Duarte AKalakar then rose and walked the length of each of the four walls in the room. “This door,” he said, to the Tyr’agnate, gesturing at the open wall that let the gardens and the moonlight in. “May I close it?”
“If it is necessary, of course.”
He nodded. He was no seraf; he struggled with the doors as he drew them across the grooves that held them in place. Then he bent. Touched the floor. Gestured.
Magery, she thought. Widan’s art.
Here, in Callesta. Her mouth was dry. She regretted the absence of her husband’s hands, but she did not reach for them; it was not her place.
Only when Duarte AKalakar resumed his seat beside the Tyr’agar did the younger man speak.
“You may have noted the absence of General Baredan di’Navarre,” the kai Leonne said quietly. He did not speak to her; he did not speak past her. She realized that he intended to speak openly of matters of warfare while she was in the room.
She had desired this. Why should she suddenly be so fearful?
The Commander who sat to The Kalakar’s left lifted his head slightly; his gaze was sharp enough to cut. He nodded. “His absence was noted.”
“We received word this afternoon.”
“The armies.”
“Indeed. The armies of the pretender are on the move.”
The village was burning.
The thatched roofs of the small cottages that had been home to the serafs who toiled in the Averdan fields collapsed slowly beneath the weight of flame. Some death could not be avoided; Alesso di’Alesso watched as the soldiery swept down the rough dirt road, destroying it beneath the weight of hundreds of shod hooves.
There had been little resistance offered. The serafs were not the Lord’s; they screamed, they cried, they begged for their lives. If they had weapons, they had chosen to forgo them, hoping for mercy.
And in a fashion, mercy had been granted. Less than a quarter of the villagers had died. The clansmen who oversaw the fields themselves perished in the first few minutes of the attack, of course; they expected no more. Their swords, he broke, and their bodies he offered to the fire.
But he did not fire the fields. He did not destroy the granaries. They were of value to his army. The serafs themselves were accustomed to the vagaries of war; they would serve one master just as well as they had served another.
At his side, Ser Eduardo kai di’Garrardi watched, his face lit by distant fire, the green of his eyes robbed of their color. Night had almost fallen.
He had come late to the field, but he had come at the head of the armies that he had so grudgingly promised. He spoke seldom; spent little time in the company of the man to whom the armies owed their allegiance.
A certain reminder that allegiances, like winds, could carry scouring sands.
She was between them, of course; although they were mounted, armored and armed, although they traversed the length of the fields upon which they would remake the Dominion, her presence fell like shadow cast by the burning village homes.
Serra Diora di’Marano.
Flower of the Dominion.
“Where is she, Alesso?”
“I do not know.”
“Widan, is this true? Is this the truth?”
Sendari, gaze hooded, expression completely neutral, had bowed. Bowed far, far too low. Eduardo had spoken the words in a room graced by the significant, the powerful: by the Tyr’agnate of Sorgassa, Ser Jarrani kai di’Lorenza, his son and heir, Hectore, his par, Alef; by the Sword’s Edge, Widan Cortano di’Alexes, and his closest advisers; by Peder kai el’Sol, the leader of the Radann who had become significant as allies, and significant as enemies. Only the delegates from the Shining Court were absent, and their absence was equally significant.
An accusation.
Alesso’s hand had lingered at the hilt of Terra Fuerre. He had almost drawn her.
But Sendari had chosen, instead, to grace the accusation with a reply. “It is true. When the Lady rode from the Lake, the serafs fled in panic; the cerdan—and the Tyran—situated themselves outside of the buildings in which the women were housed.
“When they returned, she was gone, although her absence was not noted immediately; very few were the men granted access to the harem in which the Serra was guarded.”
He paused, then, unfolding from the bow that was far too low to be necessary between the Tyr’agnate and the man who was acknowledged to be the Tyr’agar’s most trusted adviser.
That much, Sendari offered Alesso for the smooth course of war. It was far too much for Alesso’s liking.
“There was,” Peder kai el’Sol said, into Eduardo’s thin silence, “the disappearance of something of far more value to the Tor Leonne.” Of far more importance, his tone said, than a mere daughter, a woman.
Eduardo’s lips compressed into a line as thin as a blade’s edge. But Peder wore the open symbol of the ascendant sun, the regalia of the Radann at Court. And Peder kai el’Sol, as Eduardo knew—as they all must know—was only barely an ally to the Tyr’agar; he was no friend.
Eduardo did not therefore seek to antagonize a man whose friendship he might later require. He said nothing.
“The Sun Sword,” the kai el’Sol said quietly, “has also vanished.”
Eduardo had been silent. The silence of anger and the silence of political surprise held two different shades of emotion, and the kai Garrardi had not the grace to blend them to his advantage. “When?” was the single sharp word he offered.
“We are not certain. After the night of the Festival Moon, there was much to do in the City; the swords of the Radann were occupied in its cleansing. The care of the Sun Sword has been diminished of late.” He did not add, although every man present could, that this was due to lack of a wielder. “We care for the swords that we use,” he added softly, his hand falling to the hilt of the sheathed sword Saval. “And they have been used much of late.”
He bowed to the Tyr’agar. “The loss of the Sun Sword, is, measure for measure, the loss of the Tor. But another blade has been absent these many months.” He placed his hands upon his lap and lowered his head a moment.
Alesso waited.
He knew.
“Balagar, the sword that is mine by right, vanished shortly after the death of Fredero el’Sol. The Radann have been searching for it—with discretion,” he added, making his meaning plain. “And we believe we have discovered where it lies.”
He rose. “With your permission, Tyr’agar, I would ride with the armies to the Northern border of Raverra.”
Alesso nodded quietly.
“When we regain Balagar, the Hand of God will again be complete; I will elevate another to the rank of par el’Sol. There is much work,” he added softly. “And there will be more. It is best to have all of the Lord’s weapons in play.”
Ser Jarrani kai di’Lorenza inclined his head. “I had wondered,” he said softly.
“We were much occupied,” Peder kai el’Sol replied. “But this war is the Tyr’agar’s war.”
“And not the Radann’s?”
“We serve the Lord of Day.” His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, leaving his lap. It rested there comfortably; there was no threat offered or implied by the movement.
Alesso wondered, idly, whether or not the change in posture was deliberate; he was a judge of men, and understood their moods well. Peder kai el’Sol had done much to rise to the rank he now held; the loss of Balagar was not the formality that the loss of the Sun Sword had been.
“Where is Balagar?” he asked, the question deceptive in its mildness.
Peder kai el’Sol said, simply, “Mancorvo.”
“And the Sun Sword?” Eduardo added coldly.
“We have searched,” was the cool reply. “But our arts are not Voyani arts. We do not know where it is.”
“And if you did?”
“If we did, Tyr’agnate, that information would now be in the hands of the man who claims the Tor.” The Tor Leonne. But he did not speak the full name.
Thus rebuked, Eduardo’s silence grew weighty.
They watched, the men who would be his allies. Waited.
Ser Eduardo kai di’Garrardi rose.
“I will take my leave,” he said softly. “I will return to Oerta.”
“And the armies?”
“The armies were promised. But so, too, was the Flower of the Dominion.”
A dangerous game.
“Find her.” It was not a request.
Alesso’s shrug was smooth and supple; it masked his anger. “We have been searching,” he replied. “But the night of the Festival Moon, this year, has made the search . . . difficult. The gates were riven to the East and the West. Clansmen, Voyani, and seraf alike chose to flee the Tor.”
He did not say why; it was not necessary.
They had been in the Tor when the ancient Hunt was sounded; had seen its beginning.
Only Alesso and Sendari had witnessed its end. Neither man understood what they had witnessed, although the Widan toiled, even now, to gain some glimmer of comprehension.
“We have ascertained that the Serra Diora di’Marano did not travel to the Northern Terreans—and had she, had she made any attempt to cross those borders, we would know.
“She has passed either to the South, or remains well within Raverra. Either that,” he added, “or she was destroyed in the rush upon the gates.”
Eduardo’s eyes were dark and narrow. “You had best hope that that is not the case.”
“No body has been found,” Ser Sendari said, speaking in the stead of the Tyr’agar. “Although it is a possibility, we do not lend it credence.”
“I will fulfill my oath,” the Tyr’agnate of Oerta said, rising, “when all oaths are fulfilled.”
After he had left the room, Ser Jarrani kai di’Lorenza rose. “Tyr’agar,” he said, according Alesso di’Alesso the full measure of a respect that continued to elude the kai Garrardi. “He is a danger.”
Alesso nodded.
“The Serra Diora?”
“I have no need to lie, Ser Jarrani. She has not passed to the North.”
“Did she take the Sun Sword with her?”
Alesso lifted a dark brow. It had been a long—and a trying—morn. “That is our belief, yes.”
“She was not seen.”
“No.”
The kai Lorenza cursed a moment. “She will head to the North.”
Alesso nodded. “It is what I would do, in her position.”
That he said as much plainly said much indeed. But the men in this room had all underestimated the Serra; they would never do so again. They accorded her a measure of respect, in privacy and silence, that women were seldom accorded. She was, against all odds, a worthy foe.
“She will take the sword to the Leonne seraf?”
He nodded again. “The Sun Sword can serve in only one fashion in this war. She—if she is indeed the thief—must mean to deliver it into his hands.”
“And where will she travel, Tyr’agar? Mancorvo? Averda?”
“She might find a home in the former, with the kai of her clan.”
“Widan?”
Sendari stirred. Nodded, his fingers stressing the length of his beard. “I concur. Ser Adano would grant her harbor. Should she reach him.”
“It is not Marano that concerns me.”
“No?”
“It is Lamberto. Has Mareo sent no word?”
“His Serra has written to a number of the Serras within the High Court; they speak of the affairs of women, and bemoan the coming winds of war.”
“And in this wifely prattle, there is no hint of the direction in which he will place his loyalties?”
“None at all. But the Serra Donna en’Lamberto took pains to remind the Serras with whom she has corresponded of the . . . cost of the last war to the clan Lamberto.” He paused again. “These letters were written weeks ago; what will come in future, we cannot say.”
“He is no fool,” Alesso said quietly.
“Aye, damn him,” Jarrani replied, with the first real hint of humor.
“He knows, by now, that both Lorenza and Garrardi have committed themselves to the shadows of war.”
“Does he know that Lorenza has been offered some part of the rulership of the Terrean over which he presides?”
“Only a fool would not suspect it.” Ser Alesso di’Alesso’s face was a cold mask. “But there is land to be had in Averda, if the Leonne seraf is indeed there; if Lamberto joins our war, we might content ourselves with the entirety of Averda.”
“Ah.” Silence, and then, “Will he stand with Callesta?”
Alesso shrugged. “Our allies have taken some pains to ensure that if he was willing, Callesta will not be.”
“What pains?”
“The deepening of their hostilities,” Alesso replied, his voice completely neutral. He, too, rose. “Gentlemen. The Northern armies have amassed, and they will move into Averda if they are not already a presence there.
“Therefore, although we will encamp in such a way to . . . encourage the cooperation of the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, it would be prudent to move the armies that will gather across the Averdan border in haste.”
“Will they gather?”
Alesso frowned. In the silence he heard the ghost of a song. The Serra Diora di’Marano.
“I believe that the kai Garrardi will, in the end, choose to honor his vows.”
A portion of the lands of Averda had been offered to the clan Garrardi, as cement for their necessary alliance. This village was within that redrawn border.
A pity.
“Tyr’agnate?”
Eduardo nodded coldly. “Rumors of the organizational skill of the Callestan Tyr were not exaggerated.” Sword’s Blood was restive. The Marente horsemen did not ride mares; they rode stallions or geldings as befit men of their station. But not all of the horsemen had chosen as wisely, and the mares presented their difficulties.
Garrardi held the reins of Sword’s Blood in gloved hands; those hands, if one knew how to look, were shaking with effort.
“Indeed. Nor are the rumors of his military skill.”
“You fought under
him in the Imperial-Dominion war.”
“I fought . . . at his side.”
“This village?”
“It is within the boundaries of the lands granted the clan Garrardi,” Alesso replied smoothly. “The disposition of the village is therefore left to your discretion.”
This was a formality, but it was a necessary one.
“With your leave, Tyr’agar, I will assign one of my men to oversee the operations of the village.”
“Of course.”
He was silent a moment; the Tyr’agnate rode his horse in a tight circle beyond the waft of black smoke.
The Serra Diora had not been found.
The Tyr’agnate had arrived three days late, and if those three days proved costly, Alesso vowed that Oerta would pay the price.
But he had, in the end, arrived.
Therefore, Alesso did him the honor of treating him with the respect that was his due; he offered him the first of the taken lands in the name of their strained alliance.
But as he did, old words traveled on the wind that held smoke and the growing silence: He had sacrificed a village in order to purchase Sword’s Blood; how many would he sacrifice, in the end, in order to secure the Serra Diora?
“Our apologies,” Commander Allen said stiffly.
The table that he had graced, a scant hour past, with his presence now seemed a confinement, the jess which prevented his flight.
“Apologies?”
“We had hoped to contain the first stages of the war to the South of Averda, in Raverra.”
The Callestan Tyr shrugged, a model of restraint. “To be expected,” he said coolly. “Without Lamberto, without Mancorvo, it was at best a theoretical hope. Your troops?”
“Encamped along the Moonstone River.”
“Supplies?”
“Housed by the river’s mouth. We have taken the liberty of setting up a supply train between the Omaras and the delta.”
The Kalakar leaned into the tabletop, placing both of her large hands against it. She was no more at home here than Commander Allen. “Word has been sent to Mancorvo?”
The silence was cold.
Valedan kai di’Leonne raised a hand, providing the room’s only motion. “No word,” he said quietly, “has been sent.”
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 32
