Meralonne APhaniel cursed roundly in Weston. Reaching down, he caught the heart in his hands as the skin that had risen now collapsed in a sudden effort to heal the breach. It came too late; the heart was his.
And as he drew it from the chest, the body began to collapse, taking the form now of dead leaves, long grass, bent branches and twigs.
“It is Allasakari magic,” he said quietly. “I begin to understand now.”
No one spoke for a full minute.
“Two others must have traveled with the possessed Tyran,” he said quietly. “But they had no intention of dying here. You will no doubt find—if you look—that two of your own have gone missing, kai Callesta. They will never be found; no more of them remains than this.” And he lifted the heart in the scant light. “It is a magic of seeming, only; it has not the power to grant life, or even its semblance. But it has served its purpose here.
“They may have served as witnesses to the assassination; they could not afford to leave any real witnesses alive. Seek them.”
But his tone made clear that he thought nothing would be found.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
12th of Corvil, 427 AA
Terrean of Averda, Amar
THE Serra Donna en’Lamberto entered the courtyard with two of the Lambertan Tyran. Her husband’s men, and trusted, they walked before her, swords sheathed; they were meant not as warning but as evidence of her significance.
She accepted them with an ease borne of familiarity, and in truth, she found them a comfort—but she would have to shed them before she spoke with the Voyani who waited. Her hands were steady; she drew strength from the formal posture, the rigidity of lifted chin, of elongated neck—forms that she adopted without thought, they were so necessary.
This was not her home; her home was the heart of the harem. Exposed, she retreated into the mannered dignity of a Serra.
And knew, as she reached the waiting women, that it was the wrong retreat.
The older of the two was no longer dark-haired; time had grayed the untidy spill of raven black, and lines had become engraved around mouth and lip. Whether these were due to frown or smile, she could not say; the woman herself betrayed no emotion, other than the mild look of irritation that seemed so common among the Voyani.
But when the Serra Donna left the Tyran and approached, both women surprised her; they bowed. She did not kneel, although instinct bade her bend knee. Her husband was watching.
“Serra Donna en’Lamberto,” the older woman said quietly, as she rose. “I am Nadia Yollanaan, Daughter of the Matriarch of Havalla. And this is Varya, my sister. We’re honored that you could meet with us.”
This last was said with a heavy irony, and the younger woman frowned openly. But she did not speak, and by her silence, Donna knew who was in command. Still, she gazed at the sister a moment; she, too, was darkened by sun, creased by wind—but the color had not yet been bleached from her hair, and the wildness was moored in her face, her dark eyes. In the full bloom of her youth, however brief, she must have been beautiful.
“Accept my apologies for my tardiness,” she said quietly. “I received a message that could not wait.”
“Was it welcome news?”
“No,” she said quietly, discomfited by the boldness of the question. Squaring shoulders, she added, “It came from the Terrean of Averda.”
Both women were instantly alert.
“And I will offer it to you, although it was private, in return for information.”
The women relaxed. The Voyani were not true merchants; if they traded at all, it was in secrecy and herbs. But information was bartered often between the poorer clanswomen and the Voyani. “And that information, Serra?”
“I wish to know how something impossible might be achieved.”
“If indeed it is impossible,” Nadia replied cautiously, “it might never be achieved at all.”
“Ah, you mistake me—I speak poorly. It has been a long day. I do not desire to achieve this thing; I desire to understand how it came to pass.”
The sisters exchanged a look. Donna read much in what passed between them, but it did not surprise her; the Voyani did not wear masks in the High Courts. Did not spend time in the High Courts, if it could be avoided.
“You will have to trust us,” Nadia said at last. “For until you ask the question, we will not know whether or not we can answer it; you may be offering us information for free.”
“I will take that risk,” she replied quietly. “For it is said that the Voyani serve the Lady.”
“It is not said beneath the Lord’s gaze,” Nadia replied quietly, lifting a hand.
That hand cast a shadow; the Lord was in the sky.
“If you will,” Serra Donna replied, “I would offer you the meager hospitality of my quarters. I know that the Voyani are not accustomed to spending much time beneath roof or enclosing walls—but there is privacy in the harem that is not found elsewhere.”
Nadia bowed again. “We have traveled in haste,” she replied. “And although it is said that we neither bathe nor sleep, neither of these things are entirely true.” Her smile was almost warm; it was certainly genuine.
Serra Donna returned a scant bow; it hid her relief. “Please,” she said quietly, “follow me. The Tyran will not accompany us if you prefer their absence; you do not travel in the company of men.”
“No,” Nadia replied. “We do not. You are considerate, Serra Donna, but it is no surprise; you are Lambertan; If you are truly comfortable with their absence, we will gratefully do without; if there is difficulty in the domis, both Varya and myself are capable of dealing with it, and we will defend you as if you were Havallan.” Her accent, indeed her choice of words, was awkward—but it was appropriate. To the domis, to the High Court, to the Serra.
She felt a prickle of unease take root at that.
Serra Donna bowed again, and turning, she offered the Tyran the agreed upon signal. They parted to allow her to pass, and they did not follow; they were perfect enough that they showed no concern, no interest all, as she left them behind. It did not surprise her, but it gratified her nonetheless, for she knew that Nadia of the Havalla Voyani was now slightly off her stride; she had expected neither offer, and had accepted both.
The Voyani women were offered access to the baths, and food was prepared in their absence; when they returned to the heart of the harem, Serra Donna en’Lamberto was alone—but her screens were not yet closed, and through them, the sounds of the children could easily be heard. She had arranged it, just so, but children were often unpredictable.
Nadia sank awkwardly to her knees, and Varya, even more so, but the cushions were soft and the food at a height that standing made awkward. Serra Donna herself poured both water and wine; she knew that the Voyani were not comfortable in the presence of serafs, and she therefore sent all of her serafs from the wing. The children, however, remained, a distant reminder of the things they had in common.
Only after the women had eaten did Donna rise and close the screens, sealing them with the silk flashing that requested—no, ordered—privacy.
“Nadia of Havalla,” she said, as she resumed her seat, “we have had no word of the Matriarch. Have you?”
“Some,” Nadia replied, with care. “But none of it from her directly.”
More than that, Donna did not ask. Instead, she swallowed breath and shed dignity, in order to better accommodate her unusual guests. “I received a letter from the Serra Amara en’Callesta.”
Nadia raised a weathered brow. It changed the landscape of her face. “How much does she say?” The tone was now completely neutral, if too blunt.
“Enough,” the Serra Donna replied. “It is a Serra’s letter . . . and it is not. She does not,” she added, when Nadia opened her mouth again, “speak of the Northern armies, if that is what you mean to ask.”
Nadia subsided, but her expression shifted again, and this time she offered the Serra the sharpest of her smiles. “So,” she said quietly.
“You know.”
“My husband knows,” Serra Donna said carefully, setting the water aside. “It is not given to the Serras to study the arts of war.”
“Fair enough,” Nadia said.
But Varya said bitterly, “No. Only to die by them.”
The older sister turned a venomous gaze upon the younger; it was the first thing they had done that made them seem, in truth, kin. Serra Donna was careful not to smile.
“What, then, does the Serra Amara offer you?”
“She offers nothing,” Serra Donna replied, with just a hint of reproval. “But she asks much.”
“Be blunt, Serra.”
Donna stiffened. “I was being blunt,” she said coolly.
Varya snickered.
“But I will be more so, if it pleases you. Her son, Carelo kai di’Callesta, is dead.”
The two woman stilled completely. That much information, it seemed, had not traveled between the two Terreans, at least not by the roads the Voyani walked. “How?” the older of the two asked sharply.
“Assassins,” the Serra replied, serene now, the knowledge a sharp weapon. A weapon, she thought, with some regret, that could only be used once.
“What was the nature of the assassins? Is it known?”
It was not the question that Donna expected, if she had expected any at all, but it told her much. It changed the face of the conversation.
“To the Callestans,” she said, with deliberate care, “it would seem that he was killed by Lambertan men. By,” she added softly, “the Tyran that serve my husband.”
“Impossible,” Varya said, and from that moment on, Donna felt that she must like this sharp-tongued, prickly woman.
Nadia, however, said nothing. She was not yet her mother’s equal, but the potential now lay before the Serra, open to inspection. “Were there witnesses?”
“I think there must have been,” the Serra replied quietly. “But although the bodies of the killers were identified by a source that both the Callestans and the Lambertans must consider above reproach,” she continued with care, “the Serra Amara en’Callesta is cautious.”
“How so?”
“She has asked me if my husband ordered this killing.”
“And your answer?”
“Ah, forgive me, Nadia. I have not yet tendered a reply; I was late to meet with you because the information was of import enough to the Tyr that I attended him first.”
Nadia frowned.
“My husband, of course, did not order the assassination.”
Nadia nodded. If she doubted the words, the doubt was kept from her otherwise fluid expression.
“Yet the men who carried it out were, indeed, his men.”
Impassive, the Voyani woman waited.
“We do not treat with Widan, except at need,” the Serra continued, “and their arts are not our arts. But it is not my husband’s belief that such . . . deception is within their capabilities.”
“No,” Nadia said quietly. “It is not.”
“How, then, could this be achieved?”
Nadia looked toward the opaque screens. She bowed her head a moment. “There are two ways,” she said quietly. “And I will offer you both, Serra Donna en’Lamberto, and more.
“If the killing itself was carried out by a third party, it would be a difficult—but not impossible—task to then leave the bodies of the supposed killers behind. The Voyani could do it, although it would carry some risk to us, and the witnesses could not be people with any sophistication.”
Donna said nothing at all, but folded her hands in her lap as Nadia spoke.
“We did not, nor would we, assassinate the Callestan kai. Not now. Especially not now.”
“And the other way?”
“The other way is not within our grasp,” she replied. “But it is within the grasp of the servants of the Lord of Night.”
The hands in her lap shook briefly; Serra Donna stilled the tremor.
“Even here?” she said at last, when it was clear that the Havallan would not continue.
“Even here.” Nadia lifted wine, not water, to her cracked lips. “We did not come to barter with old wives or to offer fortunes and mystery, Serra. Were that our intent, we would never have approached the plateau.” She drank; there was no grace in the bitter, deliberate gesture. “The wine is sweet.”
“And the water.”
“Nadia—”
“No, Varya.” She raised her head and ran fingers through stiff hair. “We have come with word, and with an offer.”
“What offer?”
“The Voyani have, among their number, people who can detect the servants of the Lord of Night. They are few,” she added quietly, “and we do not expose them willingly.”
“And word?”
But Nadia’s face smoothed into lines of impassivity as she studied the Serra’s face. A decision was being made; Donna knew better than to attempt to influence it.
“The Tor’agar of Marano,” Nadia said at last, “arrived at your gates some days before we did.”
Serra Donna en’Lamberto frowned. “Yes,” she said quietly.
“He carried word, we believe, from the General Marente. No, Serra; if it places you in a difficult position, do not answer; it was not a question.”
Serra Donna said nothing.
“The General Marente has made, in one action, enemies of the Voyani. We will not serve him; we will not treat with him.”
Serra Donna nodded. She longed for the safety of her fan, but although it rested beside the cushions on which she knelt, she did not dare to draw attention by lifting it.
“I do not know what offer the letter contained; there was some discussion about whether or not it was wise to let the message pass.” Another look passed between the sisters. “But in the end, we must have some faith in Lamberto; we did not intervene. And in the end, Serra Donna, we had pressing concerns; taking action against the Tor’agar would have hindered us in our other operations.
“Some small number of these servants of the Lord of Night have crossed the border of Mancorvo; they are someplace within the Terrean as we speak.”
13th of Corvil, 427 AA
Dominion of Annagar, The Dark Deepings
Kallandras turned to Lord Celleriant when he stilled. Ahead, in the darkness, he could hear the clear sound of snapping twigs, dry branches that had fallen from the ancient trees that seem to gird the path chosen by the Havallan Matriarch.
“Celleriant.”
The Arianni lord lifted his silver head. The night had waned; the moon had passed above them inches at a time; day weighted it as the horizon shifted toward light. “Now,” Lord Celleriant said softly, “we had best be wary.”
Kallandras nodded. He could not see what Lord Celleriant saw; that much was clear. But he knew how to listen; he could hear. The forest was devoid of the voices that would otherwise give it some semblance of life. Only dry branches spoke, at the behest of the weight of footsteps.
“Do you know this place?”
Celleriant offered the bard a rare smile. “I knew it in my youth, and it has . . . changed little. I am surprised.”
“What dwells within this forest?”
“Now?” The smile dimmed. “The dead,” he said softly. He spoke with regret; did not trouble himself to hide it in the folds of silken voice. “And the living—you, the others—had best be wary. But there is some benefit to this road. If we are followed here, it will go ill with the followers.”
“Where will this path take us?”
“I do not know. It is not a path of my making.” He lifted his head. Listened a moment. “Understand,” he added, staring up at the bower of dark trees, “that in a place such as this—in any of the oldest places the world harbors—paths are made; they are not made, as they are elsewhere, by the simple expedient of walking them time and again. This forest lives, and the will to make an impression upon it—any impression—must be both strong and personal.”
Kallandras heard nothing
but the sound of Lord Celleriant’s voice. It was almost enough. “We will fall behind,” he said softly.
Celleriant nodded. Nodded, and drew sword. It came in the graying dark of early light, as bright as moon or stars in the clear, cool sky. Its edge traced a blue symbol in the air; one that hung there, like afterimage, burned into awareness and vision.
Kallandras lifted a pale brow.
“It is . . . my name,” Celleriant said, answering the question that the bard had not—would not—ask.
“And you expect to meet someone who will know it?”
“This is an ancient place, a Deeping.” Celleriant began to move, taking care to place his feet against the earth, grounding heel, bending toe. “The old woman has written her name, her blood’s name, in the earth; she seeks to use what already exists.”
“You see her name?”
“Yes. You don’t?”
Kallandras shook his head. “I neither see it nor hear it, and perhaps that is best. I may cling to the delusion that mortals do not possess mystic names.” But he, too, drew his weapon. As he lifted it, the ring that had come to him in the oldest of the mortal cities burned blue against his pale flesh.
“Be wary,” Celleriant told him, eyeing the ring. “For the power that guides us is not a friend to the power of that ring.”
The master bard of Senniel College bid the ring be silent, speaking softly and pleasantly; making a plea of the command. He cajoled, where another might have ordered, and in doing so, avoided an argument.
Celleriant watched him. “You are . . . unexpected,” he said at last, when the ring was silent, its light momentarily stilled.
Kallandras looked up.
“It is the way of men of power, is it not, to rule?”
And shrugged.
“The wind is silent,” the Arianni lord continued, “and if I judge its voice correctly, it will remain so.”
“Be glad that it cannot so easily hear yours.”
“Ah, but it can.” He smiled. “It is not our way to speak softly to the wild ones, and we have ruled them for millennia.”
“You are not mortal.”
“No. But in my time, I have met many who are, and I have not noted that lack of pride comes with lack of longevity.”
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