“Very well. The villagers are trapped within the bounds of Damar. Some few have fled, where they are able; it is how we have the information we do have.”
“And the others?”
“They may yet live. My cousin is not a fool, but he is not entirely capable of containing his cerdan.”
“He expects you to say no, doesn’t he?”
Ser Alessandro’s brows rose. “In the North,” he said at last, “are all women so blunt?”
“I don’t know. I can only speak for me.”
“No,” Avandar Gallais replied. “Not all women are so blunt. But you will find that our men are often just as ill at ease with the social grace demanded by the Courts of the South. And Jewel ATerafin has asked the most obvious of the questions your answers offer; let me ask the second.”
“And that?”
“The information the villagers brought you.”
Ser Alessandro nodded again, his face growing grave. If he was ill-pleased by the broken currents of interrupted conversation, it did not show; Marakas suspected that he was in some ways relieved—for the questions showed an understanding of tactics that required no lengthy explanation. “Understand that the villagers are not serafs, but they are not of clans whose power might otherwise protect them. They are often superstitious, and in times of duress, will see what superstition suggests.”
“Understood.”
“It is said that in Damar, when the Lord has turned his face toward the night, fell creatures walk. There have been deaths and disappearances among the serafs, and among the poorest of clans, who are incapable of demanding restitution.”
“Then let me speak bluntly, in the Northern style,” Avandar Gallais said, although he did not veer from the use of Torra. “We are seven men—and women—and at least one of our number was greatly injured in the passage through the Deepings. You cannot intend us to destroy the whole of the forces arrayed within the village of Damar unless you intend the destruction and the loss of that village.”
“And if I were willing to lose the village in its entirety?”
“No,” Jewel ATerafin said sharply.
Avandar Gallais raised brows at what was obviously an expected interruption. “ATerafin.”
She subsided. Hard, thought Marakas, to tell who was master, and who servant, here.
“I see,” Ser Alessandro replied quietly, and it seemed to Marakas that he did. His gaze was now cutting where it rested upon Avandar’s face, but it did not rest there long. “That was, indeed, not my intent.”
“What would you have us do, Tor’agar? What would you have us achieve?”
The Tor’agar turned to Marakas, and only to Marakas. “Hunt what you must hunt, man of the Lord. Seek what only you can find. Destroy it, and you will have destroyed a greater part of the threat that is leveled—in silence—against us. We cannot fight what we do not understand.”
“And the demon who walks within your own fair city?” It was the first time the threat had been given name.
“Destroy it,” Ser Alessandro said, without pause. “If it can communicate with the forces the Tor’agnate has assembled, it will do so; I am willing to take that much risk with the fate of my village.”
“Can I make a different suggestion?” Jewel now spoke through tight, thin lips.
“Please do,” the Tor’agar replied, in a tone that should have conveyed warning and veiled threat.
“Why don’t we time this so that we strike in tandem?”
“In tandem?”
“Let the Radann par el’Sol deal with the demon within the walls,” she replied curtly. “But let him do so only when we’re in position to attack the demons in the village.”
“You have obviously never been on the battlefield, ATerafin.”
She shrugged. “So?”
“Information of that nature is seldom easily conveyed; to attempt to time—”
“Kallandras is a master bard of Senniel College,” she said coldly. “There is no better method of conveying information. No bird, no horsed rider, no cursed wind. None. I’m betting that the demon in the city will be easier to find than the demons in the village—if they’ve got half a brain, they’ll be wearing human guise. When we know what we need to know, we’ll let him know what he needs to know. He can strike at leisure; any warning the creature can send will be too little and too late.”
The Tor’agar was silent a moment while he considered his options. His gaze shifted to the Radann par el’Sol. “Can this be done, as she claims?”
“I am not a Northern bard,” the par el’Sol replied cautiously, “but in my limited experience with the Northerners, no claim they have made has yet been proved idle boast. If it were my city, and it were my choice, I would trust them.”
Alessandro’s gaze shifted. “Matriarch?”
“I have already placed myself in the debt of the bard and the Northern woman; if we are an omen here, she was a like omen to the gathering of Matriarchs. I, too, would place my faith in their claims, were I minded to incur a greater debt.”
“It is said a wise man will accept the counsel of the wise. Very well.”
“If you can spare them, Tor’agar,” Kallandras said quietly, “I will take two bows.”
“Two?”
The Northern bard smiled, but said nothing.
“I can spare a handful of bowmen.”
“Will you risk them?”
“I am loath to send you on a mission within my domain with none of my own in attendance.”
“We would, of course, be honored. But the line of command must be drawn before our departure.”
“They serve me,” the Tor’agar said quietly.
“Indeed. But you will not be present.”
“Ah. I see that we have a misunderstanding, Kallandras of Senniel College. I will of course be present.”
Silence, then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SILENCE greeted the Tor’agar’s words; silence punctuated by the grim edge of his smile.
“We have watched the Lady slowly raise her veil while we have debated the course of Clemente. There are those among my advisers who are not of the High Courts, and they have spent much time adorning the Lady’s shrine with water, wine, and blood.
“It is said that the guidance of the Lady is a hazardous thing to the men of the Lord, and perhaps we shall see the truth of that in the evening to follow. But we will tender our answer to the Tor’agnate and his allies: the clan Clemente does not negotiate on its knees.” His smile was slender. Cold.
“Can you give him that answer after we’ve started our own attack?” Jewel ATerafin asked.
“You will be in position,” he said quietly, “for I will carry the answer myself.
“My men will travel with me, and in number; they have been prepared for this since we received information from the clansmen of the village of Damar. I should warn you that not a few of them were born to Damar. Their concern is no idle concern, and in the event of victory, they can be trusted.
“And you, gentlemen—and lady—will grace us with your presence.” He stepped back from the map, surveying it with the intensity a circling bird of prey gives the low lands beneath its flat expanse of wings.
“Go now. Ready yourselves. Say what must be said to your companions; if you require armor, it will be provided.” He hesitated a moment, and then turned to Jewel ATerafin. “It is said that women serve in the armies of the North, and if what I have seen here today is any indication of the women of that strange Empire, I believe the words to be true.
“But you are not of a size that would normally be considered acceptable for the ranks of the Clemente cerdan, and if I bid all of my armorers to work in the scant time remaining us, they would not be able to produce anything that would fit you.”
“I’m not used to armor,” she said; she was of the North and did not notice his descent into bluntness. “But I don’t really need it. I have Avandar.”
“Then let us hope that your Avandar is proof
against steel and spell, Lady.”
She smiled. “Lady is a Northern title, but it’s not one I use. Call me Jewel, unless that causes some sort of political difficulty.”
He raised a brow.
“I’m called ATerafin when people feel the need for formality.”
“ATerafin,” he said, and he bowed. The bow was shallow, and it was short, but the fact that he offered it said much. “We have weapons that might be of use to you. Long daggers. Our swords, I fear, will be heavy for your hand.”
“And all the wrong shape,” she said quietly. “No, don’t worry about me.”
“Will you go mounted?”
Her smile was peculiar. “Yes,” she told him softly. “But I’ll spare you the horse.” Just that.
“Then withdraw; we will meet again in the courtyard.”
14th of Corvil, 427 AA
Terrean of Mancorvo
The Serra Teresa di’Marano sought the company of the Serra Celina en’Clemente one more time. She came without seraf, but she had long since learned to navigate the heart of harem mazes, with or without the benefit of a guide.
Her hand touched the screens beyond which the Serra Celina lay confined; her hands lifted the doors with deliberate care; her hands moved them, an inch apart, along their grooved tracks. She bowed there, in the small space made, and waited.
Nor did she wait long.
A seraf bid her enter at once, and the only awkward moment came when the seraf herself did not move quickly enough, and the Serra Teresa was forced to choose between stumbling or stepping upon the folds of her sari. She chose the former, but it pained her. Vanity.
The Serra Celina rose at once, and then made courtly obeisance to an honored guest, gesturing for privacy by the curt wave of fan. She received it instantly.
They stood, two women in an empty room.
“Forgive me for my interruption,” the Serra Teresa said. “Forgive me my lack of grace; the circumstances are dire and permit little.”
“You have spoken with my husband.” It was not a question, and it was not a statement that the Serra Teresa had been prepared to hear. It seemed that the humble Serra Celina was yet a Serra capable of surprising.
“Say rather, that he has spoken with us,” she replied softly. “And that the Radann par el’Sol, and the men who have traveled with us, are of a mind with his intent.”
Celina’s eyes closed heavily; she bowed her head a moment and strands of black hair curled round her cheeks with their full weight.
“Serra Celina, this night, no matter what we might otherwise wish, war will be joined. Battle fought. But although war is the affair of men, some wars are said to be more evil than others. I believe that the Tor’agar will grant the armies of the Tyr’agar no easy passage through his lands.”
“I am glad,” the Serra whispered, her voice shaking.
And Teresa heard the sorrow and fear in the words as clearly as if they had been spoken instead. “I ask a favor,” she said quietly. “The Matriarch of Havalla is not well, and she is not fit to travel with the Tor’agar and the men he has assembled. Where she cannot travel, I do not seek to travel.
“But our rooms are no harem rooms; they are blessed with no windows, and no view of the Lady’s face. By your grace—”
“Stay with me,” the Serra said quietly. “I am not afraid to have the Matriarch within my harem, and I would—as any Serra would—be honored by your presence.”
“I thank you, Serra Celina, for your kindness.” She bowed again, her knees now touching floor, her shoulders flowing over them beyond the perfect line of her back.
Kallandras.
Serra Teresa.
It is done. I will remain in the domis, and if the situation here becomes dangerous, I will send word.
Word may well travel too late, Serra Teresa. Will you not reconsider? He did not say, but could have, that the power she had at her command was not the equal of his; that her voice might not travel the stretch to Damar, even to his ears.
She was grateful for this kindness.
You know the answer, but you are Southern enough to ask. No. I know how I may best serve, and I am no longer Serra, to be bound and hidden at the whim of my kai.
She did not mention the Serra Diora di’Marano; he did not ask.
But when she raised her face, she met the unblinking gaze—the appraising gaze—of the Serra Celina en’Clemente.
The Lady’s time had not yet come; the light in the room was warm and gentle. But it was to the Lady that both women had claimed some small allegiance, and by the Lady that the Serra Teresa was now guided, in some fashion.
“Serra Celina,” she said, “a question, if it is not too bold.”
“I do not think you capable of too bold a question, Serra Teresa.”
“You have not heard the question,” the Serra replied, smiling.
“Then ask it without fear; I shall take no offense.”
“The young man and the young woman over whom your husband’s cousin perished—what became of them?”
“An interesting question, Serra. An unusual one. What do you think happened, given the outcome to the Manelo family?”
Teresa bowed her head. But she heard, in the words of the Serra Celina, some hesitancy, and something akin to both shame and pride; she did not press further.
Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente came to her in the early morning, but this time he traveled by the side of the par el’Sol. She heard their muffled steps only moments before the knock came at the door, and she had already made the obeisance his rank demanded when the door was opened from the outside.
“Serra Diora,” the Tor’agar said, “after much discussion, and some misgivings, we feel it may be best to sequester you within the Clemente harem. But it has come to my attention that there are suitable companions for you among your own party, and in such a case, your name might not be damaged by placement among my own wives.”
She bowed her head at once.
“If there is anything you desire, you may ask it of the Serra Celina. She is aware of who you are, and she understands that you were once the wife to the man who ruled the Dominion. She is not . . . as you are; but she is kind and gentle, and she will do all within her power to see to your comfort while we are gone.”
She looked up then, although he had given her no permission to rise, and met the watchful eyes of the Radann par el’Sol.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I will be occupied for a few days at the behest of the Tor’agar, and I may be unavailable for hours at a time. The Tor’agar is summoned to a meeting with the Tor’agnate Amando kai di’Manelo; the Northerners will travel with the Tor’agar, but the Matriarch and her companion are not deemed fit for travel upon the open road; they will be your companions in our absence.”
“The Radann par el’Sol will remain within my domis. I do not believe he would be parted from you; he has given his oath, and I, of all men, am aware of what that oath entails. I have not asked.”
“And the child?”
“She, too, will be taken into the harem.” He glanced at the girl; she slept in a corner of the room, without benefit of blanket or pillow.
Serra Diora bowed again. Thinking, although she knew it was foolish and self-indulgent, that she would ask for the samisen when she was brought before the Serra Celina.
And that she would play it.
When Jewel, accompanied by Avandar and Kallandras, made her way to the open courtyard that stood in the lee of the great gates, the cerdan were talking among themselves in voices that were both heated and hushed. Silence descended upon them all when they caught sight of the Northern contingent.
Jewel wondered what the Tor’agar had told them, for she knew awe and fear when she saw it, even writ as it was upon foreign faces.
But when they turned their gazes toward the gates, she looked beyond their iron bars, and saw that it was no word from the Tor that had caused their muted conversation.
Lord Celleriant stood in the rounded glow o
f torchlight, and at his side, tines dark in the diminishing light of day, stood the Winter King. His eyes were round and dark as he turned toward her, and she felt some hint of his humor as their eyes met.
So much for subterfuge.
Celleriant stood just under seven feet in height, and every inch of it seemed a mockery of human frailty and the lack of beauty inherent in that condition; his hair fell to his shoulders, spill of silver, cloak of light; his face, unadorned by the leather and splint helms of the cerdan, was flawless, his eyes silver.
His lips turned up at the corners, and she lost breath for just an instant; hated herself for doing it. But traveling upon the open road at the side of the Arianni lord had done nothing to diminish the effect of his beauty—and only his absence, be it for a few short hours, had given her the illusion that she had developed some immunity.
He bowed to her, in full sight of the Clemente cerdan; he held that bow until she realized that he meant to hold it, awaiting her permission to rise. She gave it awkwardly, cursing in the silence.
The Winter King’s laughter was rich and deep; a resonant, welcome sensation.
“Lady,” one of the cerdan said, in awkward, broken Weston. “Open the gate?”
“Please,” she replied, in the Torra that so ill-suited the High Court. “They are allies, not enemies.”
The gates rolled open, creaking and straining; she waited in their center.
Lord Celleriant straightened, tossing his hair past his shoulder. “Lady,” he said, in flawless Weston, his voice the perfect tenor. “You summoned me. How may I serve?”
Through gritted teeth, she said, “Cut it out.” Her Weston was clean, sharp, and very, very quick. She hoped that none of the cerdan could follow the words.
But he did not condescend to notice the ill-grace she offered his perfect bow.
“I mean it,” she whispered, aware that no one else spoke. “Cut it out. Everyone is staring at me.”
“They are perhaps aware that you wield a power that is seldom seen in these lands.”
“Great. I want them to be less aware.”
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 59
