“But they have significance to Clemente, story or no, and it seems that they have given you to us, when you were unexpected and unlooked for.” He brought his blade up until it mirrored the straight line of his spine.
“Those stories?”
“Can a man who is a part of their nature appreciate them?” the Tor’agar asked softly. “It is not the Lady’s time, but my thoughts are given to her now.”
“And my companions?”
“They traveled the darkest road,” the Tor’agar said. “They traveled it willingly, if I am any judge. Even the Serra Diora. Perhaps especially that Serra. And they traveled that road to us, in the wake of the emissaries of the General Marente. The man who claims the Tor Leonne.
“Against his arrival, the bowmen upon the curtain wall wait. We have sought word,” he added quietly. “And the simple people of the Clemente villages have sought more. They have looked to old stories for their wisdom and power, for they are bereft of any other. And it seems that some answer has been granted their prayers.”
“What would you have of us?”
The Tor’agar stared at the unsheathed blade; Verragar’s edge seemed to converse in the silence between them. “You owe me a debt of blood. Pay it.”
The sword whispered. The fire burned.
“And that payment?”
“Wield the sword.”
“Gladly.”
The Tor’agar turned to the two men who adorned the dais. “Adelos, Reymos,” he said. “Open the war room.”
They nodded in unison, and turned.
“Par el’Sol, forgive me my curtness; forgive the lack of hospitality you have been shown. What food we have, we have chosen to store in the granaries against the need and the movement of our forces.”
“In time of war, much is forgiven,” Marakas said quietly, his hand still tingling with the heat—and the ice—of blue fire. “But I must ask, Tor’agar, what you intend in the event—however small the chance—that we fail.”
Ser Alessandro nodded grimly. “I will offer the Serra Diora di’Marano to the General,” he replied. “And I will offer my formal allegiance to his armies.”
“And if we succeed?”
“I will consider all debt between us repaid,” was the even reply, “and I will put my forces in the hands of the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, against my blood-kin, the clan Manelo.”
Again Marakas par el’Sol nodded. The Tor’agar turned, but the Radann lifted a hand, calling him back with the force and the silence of that gesture.
“Par el’Sol?”
“Another question, a brief question,” he said.
“That?”
“Which outcome is preferable, kai Clemente?”
The kai Clemente was still. “Is it not obvious?”
“If it were, I would not ask. Indulge me; I am not—as you have correctly guessed—a man of the High Courts, and the subtlety of the Courts often escapes me.”
“I would not have brought you here, nor requested your aid, if I desired the allegiance . . . offered me . . . by my kin.” His lips twisted in the curl of a man who has eaten something bitter and has not yet decided if the manners decreed by hospitality will be enough to force him to swallow. “I have been fond of my cousin,” he said softly. “And I understand his pain. If the kai el’Sol were among the living, I would be . . . less certain of my answer.”
Marakas nodded slowly. It was not the answer he would have chosen, had the choice been his, but it was shorn of prettiness.
“I will ask, in my turn, why the answer is of interest to you; it changes nothing.”
“It changes much,” Marakas replied. “The kai el’Sol went willingly to his death,” he said softly. “On the eve of war, in the heart of his enemy’s stronghold. You . . . resent him . . . for his part in the death of your cousin.”
“Resent is a petty word.”
“Perhaps. But were it not for that day, I would have followed a different course. I would not now wield one of the five; I would not now enter your war room with intent to wield it in your service.”
“I have already said the necessity of such action would not exist were it not for the kai el’Sol’s intemperate action.”
“No. Nor would justice within the Dominion.”
“You speak as a servant of the Lady,” Ser Alessandro replied curtly. “The Lord’s justice is delivered by sword.”
“And it was, and it was not accepted as such by either Manelo or Clemente, although neither of you have stooped to accuse the kai el’Sol of dishonor in the fight.”
“Justice is not static,” Ser Alessandro said.
“No.” Marakas bowed. “I will require the aid of my companions upon the road.”
“Granted; you may take with you all but the Serra Diora; the Serra will remain within the safety of these walls.”
A grim, grim smile touched the Radann’s face. “There is no safety within these walls; Verragar does not speak so openly when the servants of the Lord of Night are not nearby.”
Ser Alessandro’s expression was soft as steel. “I would have this done with discretion,” he replied. “For the clan Manelo is not, in its entirety, the man who now rules her.”
“And his heir?”
“His heir,” Alessandro said coolly, “is perhaps a man who might meet with your approval under different circumstances. He was not much loved by his brother, Ser Franko; nor was he much valued.”
“And by his father?”
“His father understands the necessity of having an heir; the son understands the necessity of loyalty to his bloodline. Do not look for help from that quarter.”
“Understood. I will leave you now, and I will return shortly. But Tor’agar?”
“What?”
The word was curt. Cold.
“I would hear, when we have time, of the stories of the dark wood.”
To his surprise, Alessandro di’Clemente laughed.
Kallandras of Senniel College was waiting when the Radann par el’Sol knocked upon his door. The door opened silently; Kallandras met the gaze of the Radann par el’Sol and nodded.
He carried little, and of that, he left only his lute behind. He did not ask questions, and it seemed odd to the Radann that a man known across both the Empire and the Dominion for the strength and the clarity of his voice should trade so little in words.
He came next to the room occupied by Jewel ATerafin, and hesitated a moment outside of its screen—for she had been given rooms better suited to the women of a clan than their men. But his shadow had drawn her attention, and she waited for no seraf; she shoved the screens to one side, rattling them in their groove. The child was huddled in the room’s corner. Jewel ATerafin spoke briefly, and in Weston; the man who was her servant nodded. He lifted the girl in his arms.
“The Serra Diora?”
“She is to remain in the stronghold of Clemente, an honored guest.”
The Northern woman almost spit, her expression was so clearly one of open contempt and hostility. But Marakas noted no surprise.
“We will take the child to the Serra Diora,” the ATerafin woman said, in her rough and lowborn Torra. “If we can find her.”
He nodded. He had not yet finished.
But he hesitated outside of the last door: the room in which Yollana of Havalla resided. He was no seraf, but he opened her door gently, and bowed at its outer edge.
She was awake; the wounds she had taken had not yet ceased to cause her pain, if they ever would. “Matriarch,” he said quietly, “we have been summoned to a council of war. Will you join us?”
The old woman snorted. She was entirely graceless. “Na’tere.”
The younger of the two women rose swiftly. “We would be honored to join you, Radann par el’Sol; give us but a moment.” She knelt at the side of the Havallan Matriarch with the grace and form of a perfect seraf. But she lifted her head as she lifted the burden of the older woman. “The Serra Diora?”
“She is to be held in the safety of t
he domis,” he replied.
The answer was not to her liking; it was not to his. But it was unwise to offer a lie to the Havallan Matriarch; she was canny, and she was easily angered.
“Stavos?”
“A seraf has been sent to fetch him; he is quartered in the outer domis.”
She nodded. “Lead, then, and we will follow as we are able.”
Brother.
The word traveled on the Lady’s wind. Kallandras did not listen for an answer; none would be forthcoming.
It seems that we will fight; the ATerafin summons you, and the Winter King, should you care to join us. It would he best if you met us beyond the gates; the men here are easily . . . intimidated . . . by the unknown.
The words left a peculiar silence in their wake.
Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente looked up from the table upon which the flats of his palms rested. The perfect line of bent back straightened as he rose.
“Par el’Sol,” he said, nodding. “Matriarch. You honor us by your presence.” He did not condescend to notice the wounds that darkened her clothing; if she chose to be present, she did not consider them worthy of note.
He gestured; command came easily to the rise and fall of hand. The hand then fell to the table; niceties were kept to a minimum.
“This,” he said, “is the border of Clemente lands.”
Marakas understood the invitation in the sparse words. He walked to the table and took his place at the side of the Tor’agar. Beneath his hands, a map lay, pinned gracefully across the tabletop. It was the only adornment a war room required.
“These are the forces of my cousin.”
Marked in red, they were concentrated on the wavering line of the border closest to the city itself. “All of his men?”
“Not all. He has had the prudence to leave his city well defended against our enemies.”
“And these?”
“Ah. The blue marks are an estimation, to the best of our ability, of the forces of the Tyr’agar within the lands Manelo holds.”
“They are concentrated in three villages.”
“Yes. They have built a rough stockade. The villages,” he added quietly, “are those that have granaries. They supply themselves there, although we believe that they have some method of feeding themselves that does not rely upon the friendliness of the Mancorvan Tors.”
“It is not a small number.”
“No.”
“And your own forces?”
“They are represented by the green. They are ready, upon my word, to close our borders.”
“The red here?” Marakas placed finger lightly above the marks that existed within the Clemente border; they were not inconsiderable.
“My cousin,” Ser Alessandro said quietly. “He has come with a small force to discuss our military plans. We have agreed to allow his troops to station themselves within the village of Damar.” At the mention of the village, the Tor’s expression darkened.
“And that village?”
“Ten miles to the south,” he said quietly.
“How large is this small force?”
Ser Alessandro’s smile was bitter. “To the best of our knowledge, three hundred armed and mounted men.”
“A definition of small that only a Tor’agar would condescend to use.”
Ser Alessandro’s brow rose. “There were reasons he was granted leave to remain within the fields and inns of Damar.”
“There are blue marks within that village as well.”
“Indeed, but those are of a less certain nature. We know that he travels with Marente advisors. We cannot be certain of their number; we cannot be certain of their strength. The men that my cousin claims as his own could be Marente’s.”
“The village of Damar is bounded by the Adane?”
“No; the river cuts through the village; the fields—and the buildings that house the officials the village boasts—reside on either side of the water.” He reached out and lightly touched the ridges of dark terrain. “Damar is bounded by the dark forest on its Western edge.”
“Can men be secreted within the forest?”
His smile was grim. “You have traveled it yourself; you are better judges than I.”
Yollana grimaced.
Answer enough.
The men bent over the unfamiliar map; the Tor’agar allowed them their silent study, studying their faces in turn. Kallandras was still; Avandar was still; Marakas moved quietly from one side of the table to the other. The Havallan Matriarch did not seem to notice the map at all—but it was likely that she found it unnecessary. All of Mancorvo was, inasmuch as it could be, the wandering grounds of the Havalla Voyani.
“The road that we took from the forest?”
“The Western road. It is a smaller road, and it follows the West bank of the Adane. Here, and here, the Eastern road follows the East bank.”
The Adane drifted toward the city of Seral. “This is where we crossed the river,” the Tor’agar said.
“And if you travel to Damar?”
“We will take the Eastern road. Here,” he added. “There is no river crossing until we are within Damar itself. My cousin is lodged, with the better part of his men, in the fields and houses of Damar; they are bound by the forest, here, and by the Western road and the Southern one, here.”
“And the Eastern road?”
“If there is difficulty, the greater part of my forces will be stationed on the East bank. We can hold the bridges, should the unforeseen happen, and it becomes necessary.”
“And if you want to drive them out of Damar?” Marakas asked quietly.
“That is our intent. But we do not know, for certain, where their forces are arrayed, and in what number. We will remain in the East until our meeting.”
“Bridges?”
“Two bridges. One is wide enough to easily convey the whole of a merchant caravan; the other is a footbridge two men wide.”
“Ferries?”
“Boatmen work the banks of the Adane, but not in great numbers; the bridges are considered safer. Only when the river swells in the rainy season do the boatmen show their true value, for the footbridge is considered unsafe at that time. The larger bridge is traversable.”
“You are certain your cousin can be found within the Western half of Damar?”
“There is more room, and more to his liking, in the West; the Eastern half is poorer.”
Kallandras of Senniel, reading the lines of the map as easily as he might have read music, now raised his head. “Do Widan travel with the Tor’agnate’s party?”
“Openly?”
“Or not.”
“One man wears the sword,” the Tor’agar replied.
“And do the Tor’agnate’s forces arm themselves, as your own appear to have done, with Northern bows?”
“To the best of my knowledge, no.”
He nodded. “Is the Tor’agnate to be found in the village of Damar?”
“He resides there, yes. I offered him the hospitality of my city, but he chose to take the counsel of his advisor.”
“The advisor?”
“A man who wears the colors of Marente,” Ser Alessandro replied. No gift was required to hear the anger that lay beneath those words.
“And no messenger, no member of his entourage, is within your city?”
“That I know of? None.”
Kallandras turned to the Radann par el’Sol. Marakas nodded grimly and spoke. “There is at least one.”
“We cannot assume that he has no method of communication.”
“No.”
“If we remove him, you may be forced into a position of war,” the Northerner said.
“And if you do not?”
“Then when we seek the village of Damar, he may be in a position to do great damage within your domis. The choice is yours. You may say that our intervention was entirely without your blessing or knowledge, but in order for such words to have effect—”
Ser Alessandro lifted a hand. “
It is not to my liking, to be told how to wage war by a man who sings for a living.” His voice was cool.
Kallandras, however, took no offense. Marakas wondered, briefly, if he was capable of taking offense; in their travels together, he had shown no sign of temper, no sign of anger, no sign of fear.
“I have received three messages from the Tor’agnate. I have returned two; he has been patient, but the tone of his third letter makes clear that his patience is almost at an end.”
“What does he request?”
“My presence,” Ser Alessandro replied coldly. “He wishes to meet in the village of Damar, to discuss the future of our place in the Terrean of Mancorvo. He has, at his side, a man who is given leave to negotiate on behalf of the Tyr’agar, and it is in Damar that my cousin feels such negotiations would best be served.”
“Not a sign for lovers of peace,” Kallandras said quietly.
“Indeed.”
“And this meeting?”
“It is to take place on the morrow. Understand,” he added softly, “that there is a reason that you are viewed with both suspicion and reverence among the more superstitious of my cerdan.
“They understand what is at risk; they understand that I have no choice but to attend my cousin. But your presence here—with the Matriarch of Havalla as traveling companion, and the bearer of one of the Five Swords of the Radann at her side—has come upon a day of decision for Clemente. You are seen as an omen.”
“Omens are not guaranteed to be good.”
“Indeed, as you say.”
Kallandras of Senniel College inclined his oddly colored head and fell silent. He was a strange man, even for a Northerner.
“How many of your men will stand ready?”
Another voice. Another Northerner. Avandar Gallais had quietly joined the table.
“Three hundred,” Ser Alessandro replied, barely lifting a brow at the interruption. “Here. And here.”
“Six hundred men in total. Are they mounted?”
“They are all mounted.”
“And the villagers?” Jewel ATerafin spoke for the first time.
To Marakas’ great surprise, the Tor’agar smiled. It was a bitter smile, but not devoid of humor. “I should have guessed,” he said softly, “for they travel in your company. It comes, always, to that, does it not? You will seek victims no matter where you travel, and no matter who claims to own them.
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 58
