This was the accepted wisdom that governed Mancorvo, but Marakas par el’Sol had never understood the truth of that warning so clearly. He would not pass this way again, while he lived.
He saw dawn clearly when they reached the path’s end, the unnatural light across the forest floor giving way, at last, to the shades and shadow of true day. Not since he had drawn Verragar for the first time had he felt the blessing of the Lord so keenly.
He bowed his head a moment; it was a gesture of respect, as much of an obeisance as one could make to the Lord in the lands of the sun.
He was accompanied by the Serra Diora di’Marano and her seraf; Stavos had fallen behind, had taken up his quiet position beside the Matriarch of Havalla. He did not touch her—in Marakas’ estimation, he did not dare—but hovered quietly by her side, as if he, younger in years, were father, uncle, or brother. The Arkosans and the Havallans were not. friends. Although it was true that the Voyani claimed no home, they often chose to wander within the boundaries of a particular Terrean.
Arkosa had claimed Averda; Havalla had claimed Mancorvo. Although they traveled the merchant roads openly between these two places, they seldom met, and never as friends. But a bond had grown between the Arkosan and the Havallan Matriarch. A bond and a debt.
The Voyani were Southern in at least this: they accrued debt cautiously, and they repaid it—as they were able—in full. And so he labored, in silence, his presence almost ignored.
The Serra Teresa di’Marano was crutch and cane; she spoke often to the Matriarch, and the Matriarch responded. It was the Serra Teresa—if she could be called that, robed as Voyani, and darkened even now by exposure to sun and wind—who fashioned a patch for the old woman’s lost eye; the Serra Teresa who placed it gently across her brow. The Matriarch allowed this.
And he, man of the Lord, noticed. He had the excuse of observing a person of power—for no one who holds power is beneath the attention of the Radann—but in truth, it was not power which drew him, not a desire to observe one who might be, might yet be, enemy. Instead, he felt pity, and the painful desire to aid.
His hands ached with it, as they had not done in years: healing denied.
The Serra Diora di’Marano glanced up at his face, and then reached out gently to touch his sleeve. Surprised, he turned to face her, his chin lowering, his gaze falling. She was delicate, diminutive; her height forced his gaze down.
“Serra Diora?”
“We are in Mancorvo.”
Not a question. But he nodded quietly.
“Do you know where we are?”
“No.”
“A pity. For I believe that we have been seen.”
He lifted his head, turning toward the expanse of flat land, green and broken by rows of trees that spoke not of forest but of windbreaks. In the distance, he could make out a stretch of flat dirt that must be road, and upon that road, dust drifted up in a great cloud.
“We have been seen,” Kallandras of Senniel agreed quietly. “Celleriant?”
“There are twenty riders,” the Arianni lord replied softly. He turned, then, and looked not toward the growing cloud of dust, but rather, toward the only mounted rider in their group: Jewel ATerafin and the child she held so carefully.
“ATerafin,” Kallandras said quietly. “Perhaps it would be wisest if you dismounted.”
Avandar said nothing, but he came at once to her side and offered her a hand. The gesture was, on the surface, the perfect example of the domicis art, but beneath the polish of servitude lay the force of command. And there was only one circumstance in which he offered—which he dared to offer—command. She hesitated a moment, and he lifted a brow.
“Ariel,” she said quietly.
He nodded. The girl was awake, but barely, and she stiffened the moment Jewel handed her to Avandar. “It’s all right, Ariel,” she whispered quietly. “He’s a friend.”
The girl’s eyes were wide and dark.
“And he serves me. He is . . . like the stag. He will carry you, and he will allow nothing to reach you if it means you harm. Trust him,” she added, without much hope. “Trust him as much as you trust me.”
And then, before she could think, she added, “Not even Lord Isladar could defeat Avandar in battle.”
The girl’s eyes grew wide a moment, and then she nodded and turned away, burying her face against the domicis’ chest.
He raised a brow above the tangle of her hair, but said nothing.
What would you have of me, Jewel? The stag’s voice was regal. Calm.
Take Celleriant, she told him quietly. Take him, and go.
She thought he might refuse.
“I do not like this,” Lord Celleriant said quietly, as he watched Jewel ATerafin dismount.
Kallandras smiled.
“The Kialli are abroad. Your human armies are scattered, and it is not easy to determine which is friend and which is foe.”
Again, the bard smiled, but he offered no words.
“I do not like to leave you.”
“Nor I, you. I think I will find no better comrade in arms in the breadth of the Dominion. But you—and the Winter King—are a part of a different world, and we are not yet ready to declare ourselves.”
“I am capable of bearing a lesser glamour.”
Kallandras raised a brow. “You are capable of donning the appearance of mortality, but when you move, when you speak, when you walk, you deny its truth. I have never seen you sleep. I have seldom seen you eat.”
Lord Celleriant shrugged. “I require less of the earth than you and your kind.”
“Indeed.” He paused. Spoke again, privately.
Brother, when you are needed, I will call. You will know when to come.
It was not to Celleriant’s liking.
“Remember,” Kallandras said softly, “who you must serve. The ATerafin has made her decision, and it is not without merit.”
“I have served the White Lady for all of my life,” Lord Celleriant said quietly, “and she would never have divested herself of lords of power in enemy lands.”
“She desires—is capable of—no subtlety. Jewel ATerafin has often been accused of the same, but she understands what is at risk in a way that you, my friend, cannot.”
“I understand the Kialli. I understand the Lord they serve.”
“And if our battle was in the Northern Wastes, you would be with us.” Kallandras bowed then, with perfect, fluid grace, as the Winter King joined him.
“We will meet again,” Kallandras said quietly. “The war has not yet begun in earnest.”
“I have no desire to come late to that field,” Celleriant said. He had sheathed his blade, and did not now condescend to draw it.
“And I,” Kallandras replied, with more gravity, “have no desire to come to that field at all.” He bowed.
Watched as the Arianni lord and the Winter King retreated into the outskirts of the forest.
The Serra Diora di’Marano had been raised in the High Courts. It had never been the intent of her father that she become bride to the kai Leonne, but he had had his pride; if she was never to be wife to a Tyr, she was to be—in all ways—the equal to the women who would occupy that position. She sang, of course, but she sang well; she read, and she could write in a hand as perfect and delicate as the Tyr’agar’s Serra. She could serve sweet water and wine, could arrange flowers, hangings, the fall of chains of gold; she could make a room that was empty an elegant, even an opulent, place simply by becoming some part of its center.
And she could recognize, at a distance, the golden glint of a half circle, six distinct rays rising above the sword that formed its horizon: the standard of a Tor’agar.
At her side, the Radann par el’Sol stiffened. His hand fell to his blade, but he was cautious enough not to draw it; twenty mounted men were not wisely antagonized before one knew their intent. Or perhaps even after.
As Serra, the option to draw such a weapon had never been granted her. She had a dagger, of course,
but daggers in the hands of Serras were seldom considered weapons; they were defense of a last resort, and turned as easily inward as out.
She did not draw hers. Instead, she lifted hand, pulled hood from her face, touched the strands of hair that now hung there, untended by seraf, unadorned by jade or pearl, by flower or comb. Her clothing was almost inexcusable; she felt a pang as she looked at the heavy robes and saw them as they would be seen by the men who now approached on horseback: dusty, dark with the dirt of forest travel, of desert travel, of too little water.
She felt a moment’s panic; her palm still bore a faint, red mark—a blemish made more obvious by the pale, perfect lines of a Serra’s skin.
The fear—one she had not felt since she had stood at the heights of the Sen tower in the Tor Arkosa—told her that she had, at last, come home. It settled about her, familiar, unwanted.
It must have shown. It must have, because the Radann par el’Sol turned to her at that moment and lowered his head.
“I am sworn to defend you,” he said quietly.
She nodded.
She nodded, and she felt grateful, for she had no other family here; she was a woman, without cerdan, without brother or father—and such women’s honor lay at the mercy of the men they encountered.
Margret would have been angry.
She bowed her head, thinking it, knowing it for truth, and finding in that truth the strangest of comforts. Margret would be angry, when she learned of it.
As the horses drew closer, the standard grew clearer. The six rays were unmistakable; the crescent sword the perfect horizon for the embroidered sun, and beneath it, in orange, red, and gold, a shield of fire.
The clan Clemente.
“The Tor’agar has taken to the road,” the Radann par el’Sol said softly.
She nodded. But she did not speak; she had passed the boundary of the darkest of forests, and that border, paid for by the blood of the Havallan Matriarch, had been closed against them. There was only one way, and that, forward.
She was once again a Serra of the clan Marano.
Garbed in desert robe or not, she knelt in the tall grass, and her seraf, her perfect seraf, came to stand by her side, choosing, carefully, where he might best plant his feet to protect her from the sun’s glare.
No one joined her; Jewel ATerafin did not bow, and the Havallan Matriarch, supported by Ona Teresa, stayed her ground with a bitter twist of her lip. The child that had come to them, like ghost or doom, in the heart of desert night, was held fast in the arms of the domicis; Diora was alone upon the ground, knees bent in a familiar posture of obeisance.
But because she was gifted—and cursed—she heard the sharp intake of the Radann’s breath. She did not glance up to see his hand tighten about his blade; it would not be seemly, and besides, she had a good view of the feet that trampled the slender stalks of dry grass, and saw that he had planted them firmly apart in a sword stance.
Such a stance would not be lost upon the Tor’agar.
The horses came to a halt; she heard their hooves slow and become silent. A moment passed; the sound of men’s boots were less thunderous, and more dangerous, when they came. The Radann Marakas par el’Sol did not move; his shadow joined Ramdan’s as the Tor’agar’s men made their way across the wilderness of land that had not yet been cleared or tilled.
She had a wild, terrible urge to look up.
Could remember the time she had sat thus, in a dark, cold desert night, when Adam of the Arkosa Voyani had come bearing the instrument of Kallandras of Senniel College—a gift, to her, that had almost cost him his life, and that had, in the end, cost him the only family he had.
Could even she be changed in so short a time? Could she be ruined, destroyed by the freedom and the conflict in the desert’s heart, her own laid bare?
No.
No. She was Serra Diora di’Marano. She understood duty.
But it was hard, much harder than she had expected it would be, to sit in silence, head bowed. To be perfect.
She did not pray to the Lady for strength or guidance; the Lord reigned. Instead, she waited, her hands palm down in the fold of her lap. Palm down, so that the imperfection might be hidden, that it not trouble the sight of men.
Ramdan bent, still shielding her from sun’s rays by the breadth of his shoulders, his back. In his hands, pulled from the robes of the Voyani desert, he held a simple fan. Painted silk, spread by straight, slender jade spokes. She took it as if it were an anchor; raised it in gratitude and hid her face.
“Strangers,” a man said. She heard worry in his voice, the vague edge of fear, the certainty of duty. “You have entered, without permission, the lands of the Tor’agar Alessandro kai di’Clemente.
“Identify yourselves, and state your business clearly.”
Swords were drawn. Clemente swords.
“I am the Radann Marakas par el’Sol, and these, my companions, have come to your Tor’s lands in haste. Accept our apologies for the unsuitability of our dress and our manner; we have been on the road these past weeks, and we have seen little in the way of hospitality.”
“You traveled the roads?” Disbelief in that voice. Suspicion.
“No,” the Radann said quietly. “We traveled through the forests at the border’s edge.”
“The forest?”
“Indeed.”
The Serra waited. Silence followed the single word; she wondered if the man would challenge the Radann’s words. But the Radann par el’Sol was granted, by right, the symbol of the sun ascendant, and if it did not adorn his chest in the open light, his name carried its weight.
“Radann par el’Sol,” the man said. His armor spoke as he bowed; she heard it clearly, the clink of metal against metal, the chaffing of surcoat. In the Southern Terreans, armor was rare. “We . . . did not expect . . . a man of your import. Your companions?”
“I will speak for them,” he replied evenly.
“Then speak,” a new voice said. A strong voice. Not, the Serra Diora thought, a friendly one. But this man spoke with the certainty of power: this man was the Tor’agar.
“Kai Clemente,” the Radann said. “My companions are varied, but as you can clearly see, they are not a band of war.”
“Give me their names, par el’Sol, and let me judge their worth for myself.”
The silence was stiff. But the command in the words was almost laced with threat. Diora lifted her face, protected now by folds of translucent silk, her eyes seeing between the painted petals of lilies.
She saw, veiled in gauze, a man dressed in armor, his coat adorned with the full symbol of the rising sun, its six rays reaching to throat and shoulders as they caught light, glittering. His hair was dark; he wore a scant beard. His eyes, she thought, were dark as well, but the fan’s folds hid their color, and she did not dare to lower it; he was not a man given to missing even the slightest of gestures.
“Very well, Tor’agar,” the Radann replied. He turned and bowed to Yollana, the Matriarch of Havalla.
The old woman’s nod was visible.
“May I present the Matriarch of the Havalla Voyani,” Marakas said gravely, “and her cousin, Teresa.”
The Tor’agar stiffened slightly. That he did this much showed the depth of his surprise; he was Court trained, after all. After a marked hesitation, he lowered his head. No other courtesy was demanded of a clansman of his rank; indeed, not even that much was necessary. But etiquette and prudence often diverged, and he had chosen prudence.
It spoke well of him, if nothing else did.
“The others?”
Again, the Radann par el’Sol turned, and again, he received a slight nod.
“Kallandras of Senniel College. He is . . . of the North.”
“So it would seem.”
“He travels with Jewel ATerafin.”
“ATerafin? If I am not mistaken Terafin is one of The Ten Houses that have prominence in the Empire.”
“Indeed, Tor’agar.”
“The man?
”
“Her domicis.”
“I am not familiar with the term.”
“There are no serafs in the North,” the Radann replied evenly. “But there are those who choose—free of constraint—to serve. He is one.”
“I doubt that, par el’Sol. I doubt that highly.” The Tor’agar held the words for just a second longer than necessary, and then added, “Although it is clear that the claim is his, and not yours. And the other man is also Havallan?”
“He is Arkosan.”
“Arkosan?”
“Even so.”
The men who had ridden at the side of the Tor’agar were silent, but beyond them, their voices clear to Diora’s strange gift, the others spoke. They gestured toward the forest, the forest heart, the forest height.
“It seems that old tales have some truth in them after all,” the Tor’agar said. “But I notice that you have failed to introduce the last member of your party.” And he stepped forward, into the shadows cast by the bower of ancient branches.
Marakas par el’Sol moved as well, interposing himself—with far less courtly grace—between the Tor’agar and the Serra Diora. His hand was on his sword, and Diora thought—for just a moment—that he might draw it. She held her breath; contained it in the same way she contained all motion. Remembering, now, how to wait.
Marakas par el’Sol glanced toward her; met the sheen of fan, the shadow of seraf. “Serra,” he said quietly, “it would honor us both greatly if you chose to grace us with your presence.”
As his words died into silence, the Serra bent slowly and delicately toward the earth, aware that there was no mat against which to place her forehead. Her hair brushed the undergrowth, revealing the curve of the back of her unadorned neck.
Ramdan was at her side in an instant, offering her a hand with which to steady herself. It was unnecessary; she had no need of his aid. But it was also necessary, for he showed himself to be a seraf of breeding and refinement, and by so doing, showed that the woman who owned his name was worthy of note.
The Serra Diora di’Marano rose quietly, unfolding as delicately as she had unfolded the fan, her movements both conscious and unconscious. The line of her shoulders both rose and fell, lengthening her neck, accentuating the perfect line of a back hidden by folds of stiff desert cloth.
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 54
