The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5

by Michelle West

  The Serra Amara lifted her face as the three Commanders absorbed the whole of his words. She hesitated a moment. Valedan had never seen such a hesitation from her; it was profound.

  “Word,” she said at last, “has been sent.”

  The Kalakar turned quickly.

  As did the Tyr’agnate.

  She had the grace to flush; the color added a youth to her expression that Valedan had never seen there.

  “My apologies,” she said, her voice very low. “My apologies, Tyr’agnate, for my presumption.”

  But if Valedan was any judge of expression, none were necessary; the Callestan Tyr was surprised, but it was a surprise that held no anger. “Serra Amara,” he said gently.

  “We do not often speak of such things as if they were significant,” she added, dissembling. “Men decide the course of war; women watch as it unfolds. And any word sent, meager and insignificant though it might be, was sent merely to the Serra Donna en’Lamberto.”

  “The Serra Donna is the Tyr’agnate’s wife?” The Kalakar asked.

  “She is his Serra, yes.”

  “When?” It was Commander Allen who spoke.

  “Two days ago. Before the Commanders set foot within Callesta.”

  Valedan glanced at the Serra Alina di’Lamberto. She was as still as the Callestan Tyr, but her silence was one that encompassed motion, movement; she gazed at the tabletop, the lacquered box that no seraf had been summoned to remove, as if her glance was weighted and immovable.

  “How was word sent?” the Commander continued.

  She did not answer. After a moment, it became clear that she would not.

  He did not frown; he did not raise his voice. But he posed, instead, a different question. “When will it reach her? When it will reach the Mancorvan court?”

  She looked to her husband; her husband smiled. The smile, his first, held both warmth and a hint of playful malice. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, speaking to her, although the whole of the room waited, “that I am unable to answer that question.

  “It is said that the conversations of Serras are beneath the interest of Tyrs. And that such conversation, such correspondence, is much like the wind; impossible to stop, impossible to command. In truth, Commander Allen, I do not know.

  “If she chose to send word by horseman, it will be days yet before that word arrives, and the message would have to be carried across a border whose roads are well guarded. If the messenger was wise, and chose to forgo the open road for the wilderness of forest, days would be added to the transit. If the messenger was unwise, or unallied, such subterfuge would be unnecessary.”

  “So it might be a week, or more, before that message was in Lambertan hands?”

  “If it were delivered in such a fashion, yes.”

  “And if it were delivered in another way?”

  “Ah,” he said. He nodded regally to the bowed head of his unveiled wife. “If indeed it were delivered in a different fashion, it might rest in her hands now.”

  “Magery?”

  The Tyr frowned. “Magery is not so common in Averda as it is in the Imperial capital.”

  There was silence, heavy with the unsaid.

  To Valedan’s surprise, it was the Serra Alina who broke it, although she did not otherwise look up. “You do not understand, Commander, the subtleties that are a necessity in the Dominion.”

  He took no offense at the words, or seemed to take none. He nodded.

  “Believe that the kai Lamberto is no fool.”

  “It is a wise belief,” Ser Ramiro added distantly.

  “If he is not . . . the hand . . . behind the assassination of the Tyr’agnate’s oldest son, he will not have been apprised of the death,” the Serra Alina di’Lamberto said, speaking for the first time. Speaking in a way that Serra Amara could not, married and bound by duty to uphold her husband’s dignity.

  “And unapprised,” the Serra Alina continued, as if speaking to favored children, “he might commit an unforgivable transgression in the negotiations that would otherwise be deemed a necessity between the two clans. Understand, as well, that the words of Serras are not binding; they are, as the Serra Amara has said, women’s words, with all of the weight that implies.

  “But where men of power must treat, they tread cautiously. As women are free to say what must be said, they may speak through their wives of things that men would otherwise be above saying. Before they can meet—surrounded by their lieges, their Tyran, their courtiers—which is a Northern word,” she added, “that has no true counterpart in the South—there is much that must be discussed.

  “Serras, therefore, play some small role in those early discussions; they speak with all the freedom women indentured to their husbands can have.

  “If the Serra Amara chose to begin such a discussion, we must be grateful for her wisdom.”

  The Kalakar snorted. “Indeed,” she said, her impatience almost an insult. “But if what you say is true, shouldn’t the Tyr’agnate be apprised of the letter’s contents?”

  Serra Amara did not reply, which seemed reply enough.

  But Serra Alina continued to speak. “The Tyr’agnate may be apprised of the contents of the letter, although I find it doubtful. It is a letter, no more, between women whose sole distinction—in the eyes of the clansmen—are their husbands. The letter that the Serra Donna replies with, should she choose to reply, has more weight. Her reply forms the beginning of any negotiation that might be entered upon.

  “But if she makes no reply, no insult is offered.”

  Valedan noticed that the Serra Amara was now staring, subtly, at the Serra Alina.

  “Understand,” Alina said, after a long pause, “that you are speaking of a man whose oldest son was killed by the Northern armies.”

  “It was war,” The Kalakar replied, with an ease that no woman—North or South—should have spoken.

  “Spoken,” Alina said, “as a member of The Ten. Spoken as a Lord who has no understanding of the visceral nature of blood ties.”

  The Kalakar raised a brow.

  As did Valedan. But Valedan smiled as the shock of the words dissipated. This woman, this was the woman he had grown up listening to. This was the companion of the Princess Royale, Mirialyn ACormaris.

  He had never thought to see that woman in the dining hall of the Tyr’agnate.

  “You do not understand the significance of the Serra Amara’s gesture,” Alina continued, speaking now as she would have spoken to Valedan when he had been particularly obtuse. “You do not understand her gift.”

  “Gift?” The Kalakar’s word was not sharp, but her reaction made clear the truth behind Alina’s accusation.

  “It is generally acknowledged that the Lambertans are the hand behind the kai Callesta’s death.”

  The Kalakar nodded, her expression now hooded. “I see.”

  She had not. Perhaps, Valedan thought, she better understood.

  Until she spoke. “It was unfortunate. It is a tragedy. But surely Mareo di’Lamberto—”

  “The Tyr’agnate,” Alina said smoothly.

  “The Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo,” The Kalakar continued, aware of the correction, “can see that the survival of his clan, and his Terrean, depends upon his ability to forge an alliance with—”

  “With the men who murdered his son?”

  The Kalakar stopped. Her gaze narrowed.

  “In war, there are acts of murder. The death of the Lambertan kai was not considered one of them. He was outnumbered, outmaneuvered; his Generals chose to secure the death of their forces for reasons that are not clear to us, even now.”

  “You do not understand the Dominion,” Serra Alina replied, in a voice as cold as any she had used upon Valedan when his ignorance had been particularly galling.

  “We understood it well enough to win its war,” the Commander countered.

  But Commander Allen lifted a hand. “Ellora,” he said quietly. “Please.”

  She subsided.

  T
he Serra Alina, in silence, did not.

  Commander Allen turned his gaze upon the woman who had been one of the Imperial hostages, in a terrain vastly different than the political one she now occupied. “Serra Alina,” he said gravely, inclining his head, “you speak truth. We do not understand the Dominion. We understand that the enmity of the Lambertans has never faded. We do not understand why, and it has not been of concern to us to do so, until now.

  “Forgive our ignorance, and lessen it, if that is your desire.”

  “There are two deaths,” Serra Alina said, after a long pause, “that will decide the course of any possible negotiations. The first is the death of the kai Lamberto, the second, the death of the kai Callesta.

  “Whole clans have willingly perished before they sought mercy from, or alliance with, the men who murdered those of their bloodline. Among Lambertans, that truth will be harsher than it might be among any other clan of the High Courts.” She raised her face, her hawkish thin profile gaining the beauty that ferocity had always lent it.

  “Ser Andreas, the kai Lamberto, was much like his father; a Lambertan son.”

  “He was, what, thirteen? Fourteen?”

  “Ellora,” Commander Allen said, and this time Valedan was certain The Kalakar would remain silent.

  “He was fourteen,” Serra Alina replied. “Fourteen is not considered unworthy of note in the Dominion. The Imperial laws govern the age of manhood; in the Dominion, there is no universal law. The Tyr’agnate saw fit to grant his eldest son command of an army upon the field. By his grant, he acknowledged that his son had come of age.

  “But he did more, by such an acknowledgment; he surrendered to the field a boy that he valued more than he valued himself. By example, he offered his lieges proof that he was willing to meet, measure for measure, the sacrifices that he asked of them, in the name of the Tyr’agar.”

  “They chose his death,” The Kalakar Commander said quietly. “He was offered his life; he chose to forgo that offer.”

  Alina laughed. She laughed, and it was a bitter, harsh sound.

  “Had you offered him his life, in exchange for his surrender and the surrender of his men, that might have been true.”

  Her gaze at last broke from the tabletop, from the dinner that she had not touched. Her head came up, her chin sharp, her cheeks flushed.

  Serra Amara was shocked.

  She had heard laughter in her life; certainly from the wives she had chosen to grace her harem. But not one of them would be capable of this harsh sound, this grating accusation.

  She would have said, had any asked, that such a sound was beneath the Serra Alina di’Lamberto. It was a Northern sound. No, worse, it was a man’s laugh.

  And a woman’s duty was to ease the harshness of a room full of men; to offer those sounds—laughter, where appropriate, speech where not—that would bring peace and harmony. There were only three women in the room: The Kalakar, who by the roughness of her speech and the sheer folly of her ignorance, must be discounted, the Serra Amara, and the Serra Alina.

  Has the North so scoured you of grace, Serra?

  She turned to her husband; saw that his expression was entirely hidden behind the stiff mask of his face.

  She knew what her duty was, then.

  Knew it. “Serra Alina?”

  The Serra turned at once, obedient, to face her.

  “Did they not make the offer to the kai Lamberto?”

  “Ah. No, Serra Amara, they did not.”

  Amara almost closed her eyes. Almost. But it was a weakness, with her: she had to see, to know, to hoard the naked truth that she was certain she would not witness again.

  “He was a boy,” The Kalakar said quietly. “And it was clear, from the campaign, that it was not a boy’s hand behind the commands that controlled that army.”

  “They delivered their offer to the General who stood by the kai Lamberto’s side. They offered the General the safety of internment, in return for the kai’s surrender.”

  Nothing that had been said this evening was as grave a shock to the Serra Amara as the Serra Alina’s words.

  “But—but—”

  Serra Alina nodded bitterly.

  Serra Amara turned to the barbarous woman of the North. “Had you demanded the General’s surrender, in return for the safety of the kai Callesta, it would have been difficult, for the Northerners have no way of sealing their oath.

  “But that would have been possible. Surely you must understand that no General could have acceded to the demands you did make?”

  Ramiro’s hand touched hers. She felt it as a sudden warmth and a sudden pressure.

  “We understand it now,” Commander Allen said quietly. He bowed, both to the Serra Amara and to the Serra Alina.

  “And if there existed some method of changing the past, we would undo the damage we did, in ignorance, more than a decade past. Your ways are not our ways, Serra.”

  But Serra Amara’s gaze was captured by the Serra Alina’s face.

  She had never understood the Mancorvan hatred of the North until this moment.

  How can you sit by the side of that boy, she thought, clenching her husband’s hand—the hand that had been offered in command and in warning. How can you sit across from these . . . these barbarians? How can you work with them when they murdered your nephew?

  As if she could hear what had not been said, the Serra Alina spoke to the Serra Amara.

  “The mercy of the North,” she said softly, “has often been mistaken for weakness.” She closed her eyes a moment. “I have spent twelve years in the Northern court. I have spoken to the Kings who rule it; I have conversed with their children. I have spoken to the men who serve it in capacity of war; who serve it in capacity of peace. I have seen . . . much . . . there to admire.

  “But it was bitterly, bitterly galling to understand, in the end, that Ser Andreas died for the folly of their ignorance. They did not intend his death, Serra Amara. I know it. I understand it. But . . . I have returned to the Dominion, and the knowledge rests uneasily now that I am . . . home.”

  She bowed her head. “It is not a mistake that Valedan kai di’Leonne would make. Would ever have made.”

  As much an explanation as a woman could offer in such a terrible room as this.

  “And you,” Commander Allen said, into the moment’s silence, “Serra Amara. What would you cede to your son’s assassins, if indeed the Lambertans are the hand behind his death?”

  She was shocked. He turned to her, spoke to her. It was a question not even the bold would ask of her husband, the answer was so obvious. The question was an insult.

  And yet, the man who asked it meant no insult; his expression was clear of malice, and free also of the mask of neutrality that served Generals in good stead. She turned to look at her husband; met his gaze. She knew how to read the subtle lines of his face, the careful neutrality of his expression.

  But this eve, he offered nothing.

  “It is not my place,” she said quietly. “It is not my decision.”

  He seemed to accept this.

  But he did not speak again, and the silence grew awkward. She had wanted the company of these people; she realized her mistake now. They demanded the intimacy of the harem without even understanding the demands they made. They were shorn of grace, these men, this woman.

  “We did not kill the kai Lamberto,” she said at last. “And we will not pay the price of his death, if that is a part of their negotiations.”

  “Not even if the price we pay for the lack of those negotiations is the death of the rest of your clan?”

  She was shocked again.

  Silence reigned, but briefly, and when it was broken, it was broken by the kai Leonne. She would remember this.

  “Commander Allen, enough.” He raised a hand; there was, in his tone, a gentleness that did not belie the command beneath the words. “There are some prices that cannot be paid.”

  Commander Allen was, indeed, silent, but his gaze crossed
the table like the sudden plummet of an Eagle in flight. She thought of their names, of their Northern names, and understood them completely.

  “Do you not remember the Mother’s judgment?”

  Commander Allen said dryly, “The Mother judges many things. Of which judgment do you speak, Tyr’agar?”

  “The story of Olivia and her children.”

  “Ah.”

  Serra Alina bent slightly across the table; she whispered a few words that did not travel the distance, and Valedan kai di’Leonne nodded.

  “It is a Northern tale,” he said quietly, nodding gravely to the Serra Amara. “And it is long enough that I will handle its telling poorly. I will say this: She had a son and a daughter. In the South, the tale might better be told if she had two sons. But . . . it is a Northern tale.

  “A son and a daughter, and she loved them both. They were young. Her bloodline was found guilty of treason against the Baron of Estrican—one of the Blood Barons who ruled before the founding of the Empire. But because she was his kin, if distant, he decided against the destruction of her family.

  “He desired that she remember the cost of her crime, however, and told her that she might choose among her children: one would live, and one would die.”

  “She loved her children. It was her greatest weakness.”

  He said nothing for a moment. Serra Amara watched his face carefully. “The rest of the tale, kai Leonne?”

  “She could not choose; they were young, but not so young that they did not understand what she had been offered. They were terrified, but as children do, they both believed that they were best loved, and that in the end, their mother would choose to spare them.

  “And she knew it, of course. She would have fled with her children, would have taken the Mother’s oath, and forced it upon them. But the Baron was canny, and he understood her weakness well. He did not trust her.

  “And he was wise. She accepted his offer, accepted his poison, and in the end, she told her children that the Halls of Mandaros awaited them all, and that she would never send them, alone, to the Lord of Judgment, although she told them he greatly loved children.”

  Serra Amara said, simply, “She killed herself, and her children.”