Bright anger, clear as the night.
She looked up at his face, and the anger died as suddenly as the fire had; his eyes had not changed; the line of his jaw hadn’t shifted. She saw almost nothing there that she recognized.
Just don’t start speaking in tongues, she thought sharply, not much caring if he could hear her.
She reached out, slow now, and cautious.
Felt something as she once again reached out for his hand. This time, she saw a tremor about his lips as he set them in a narrow line. And this time, there was no fire.
Not that it did much for what was left of her sleeve. She looked down at her arm; that was a mistake. The brand, the hated and unmistakable mark upon her inner wrist, was glowing brightly. Red, red, gold, and silver.
This time it was Avandar’s sleeve that caught fire; Avandar’s sleeve that was consumed by flame.
In the dark of Southern night, she saw for the first time the brand that he, too bore: red, red, gold, and silver. Twin to hers, it seemed smaller as it rested against his skin—but it was the same size, the same shape; it was their arms that were different.
She reached out to touch it, drawn to its strange familiarity. But it was hot, and she withdrew her fingers before they suffered what cloth had suffered.
Celleriant’s voice formed no words, but it carried in the stillness, intake of breath that was more than simple breathing.
And she knew that something was wrong.
She touched his hand carefully; it was warm in hers, and she knew that meant hers were cold. “Avandar,” she said, speaking as gently as she knew how to speak.
His eyes flickered. A hint of gold, like dying embers, caught and held her attention. “Jewel.”
Not ATerafin. Not the comfortable formality of the distant House. “What . . . is . . . this mark?”
“It is mine,” he replied.
“It’s the same.”
“Yes.”
“But—”
Silence. He had no intention of helping her.
No; be fair. His gaze was caught by something beyond her. She wondered if he heard his dead. Had no doubt at all they existed.
“Have you ever . . .” She hesitated. Decided that she really didn’t want to know. She lifted a hand—her left hand—and the Winter King walked forward.
I really hate to do this, she began.
Then don’t.
But you’re going to carry him.
She could feel the Winter King at her back. “That isn’t a request,” she added.
He will not ride.
He damn well will.
If he accedes to your . . . command . . . I will bear him, Lady.
Don’t. Call. Me. That.
Grinding her teeth, she turned back to the man who was her domicis. “Avandar.”
No answer.
Avandar.
No answer.
She started to worry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE Radann par el’Sol was granted the freedom of the domis. More significant, he was given the freedom of the city. While in theory it could not be denied him, in practice there was much a Tyr or Tor could do to impede his progress. The Tor’agar had chosen no such restraint, and Marakas was glad of it.
Before he began his hunt, he sent word to the Serra Celina en’Clemente, and she in turn carried that message to the Havallan Matriarch. It was brief; he could not afford the length that pretty words required, and for once—perhaps for the only time—was grateful that the Voyani Matriarch in fact required none.
Prepare.
If there was safety—if indeed, injured as she was, she could provide some scant protection for the women and children of the harem—it would be in her hands.
His own were heavy with Verragar. His ears were absorbed with her whisper, her quiet, ceaseless determination. He had been left with a map of the city, one used by the tax collectors a Tor’agar often employed; he knew where the small temple of the Radann was situated. It was to that temple he now repaired.
The day was gone; the moon, bright as she crested the sky, declared the Lady’s Dominion. Not the time to seek the Radann, and in truth, if the temple were under suspicion from spies of a foreign Lord, it would be now, in the darkness. The servants of the Lord did not—as legend said—shrivel at the touch of the Sun, but they worked best in the shadows that hid their true nature.
The kin were abroad in the city. The light of the sword attested to this fact, and the Radann par el’Sol walked the city’s streets, measuring her brightness, the strength of her voice. Listening, now with instinct, now with deliberation. In the Tor Leonne, such a hunt had been easier; the Tor Leonne was his city, and he had, at his side, men of like mind, swords of like voice. This place, with its flat plain, its negligible plateau, was a place of unknowns.
But unknown or not, it was where his duty lay, and of all the duties he had undertaken, it was the cleanest and the clearest; he approached it with a strange, a complete, joy.
Only as a child had be been absorbed with questions of Good and Evil, of Right and Wrong; as an adult, his quest for Justice had shown him, time and again, that judgment was faulty, that men were complex. There was comfort in this return to those early beliefs; comfort and a purity that he found he still desired, decades and so many deaths and bitter truths later.
He went to the temple of the Radann.
It was not so large a complex as that which housed the Radann kai and par el’Sol upon the plateau of the Tor Leonne; it boasted no rights to the waters of the Lady. It had—from the appearance of both city map and outer dwelling, no vast, stone garden, no small fountains, no areas in which the illusion of complete privacy—and it was an illusion—could be fostered.
But he was familiar with temples such as these, for it was to such a place that he had first come, bereft of all but the poorest of swords and the clothing upon his back, to make his offerings and his oaths, forsaking the family of his birth.
But he had not come at night.
Had not come bearing the sun ascendant, with its eight full rays.
The outer gate was closed, but it was manned; he sheathed Verragar, and approached the servitor at the gate. The man was old; his hair was dusted with Northern frost, and his skin lined by days beneath the ferocity of the Lord’s glare. But age had not bowed him; did not bend him now; he turned his attention upon the Radann par el’Sol, lifting a lamp as Marakas approached.
When he saw who stood in the light’s glow, he lowered the lamp, or rather, he bowed and the light went with him.
Marakas did not bid him rise; he waited, and the man rose on his own. “Radann par el’Sol,” he said, recognizing the insignia, and not the man who wore it.
“Radann el’Sol,” Marakas replied. “It is late, but I must speak with the Radann in charge of the temple. It is Santos el’Sol, if I am not mistaken?”
“He still presides over the Radann in Seral,” the servitor replied grimly. “And he had some warning of your presence here. He expected you earlier,” he added, opening the gate. “But day or night, he waits upon your command. Follow me.”
Marakas bowed and entered.
The Radann Santos el’Sol was much like the servitor at the gate; weathered, aged by sun and wind, but unbowed. He was not perhaps as perfect as the High Courts would expect; his robes were rumpled, and his hair flyaway with sleep. But his eyes were both dark and sharp when Marakas entered his presence.
“Radann par el’Sol,” he said, bowing.
“Radann Santos el’Sol,” Marakas replied.
“We had word of your arrival.”
“The Tor’agar?”
“Ah. No, not through the Tor,” Santos replied. “He has been occupied of late with preparation for war, and it is not his way to ask for counsel. Or offer it.”
Marakas nodded. He did not ask how word had traveled; it was not his business.
“We have had little word in the Torrean,” Santos continued, “But of the words that have reached us, none
have been more troubling than the news of the kai el’Sol.”
“Peder kai el’Sol travels with the armies of the—of Alesso di’Marente.”
Silence, then. With caution, the Radann Santos said, “It was not of Peder kai el’Sol that I spoke. Forgive me.”
Marakas lifted a hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” he said softly. “My own allegiances are—in the Terrean of Mancorvo—well known, in life and death, and I stand by them.”
Santos’ eyes widened slightly; his boldness had been far surpassed by the Radann par el’Sol’s. But after a moment, the older man smiled, and his shoulders seemed to slump slightly, as if he carried a great burden and was at last allowed to acknowledged the fullness of its weight.
“I told them,” he said softly, “that you were Fredero’s man.”
“But you were surprised to find me in Seral?”
“Yes,” Santos replied gravely. “But not because you do not travel with the Radann kai el’Sol; rather because you arrived at the side of the Havallan Matriarch. She is known in this Terrean. Even to me, she is known.” He seemed about to add more, but hesitated.
“Speak freely,” Marakas said. “I am no more a man of the High Court than you, and wherever possible, I shed its burden.”
“You came from the Lady’s forest,” Santos said. “I am . . . a man of the Lord . . . but I was raised in the Torrean. Very, very few are the men who enter that forest and leave it again. But if there were one such among the living, I would guess it would be you.”
Marakas was uncomfortable with the awe the words contained, but he held his peace. He had grown to understand that such awe was a gift, and no gift of its kind could, with grace, be refused.
“It is not of the forest that I would speak,” he said softly, and with the force of truth. “I am not permitted to speak of it openly, and if I had the choice, it is not a road I would take again.”
“Of course. Of course, par el’Sol.”
“The Tor’agar has ridden to Damar.”
Santos el’Sol closed his eyes. The lids were thin, veined in rich blue, a rich purple. But they were steady. “We expected as much,” he said quietly, and opened them. “Among his cerdan travel some ten of our number. They go to war.”
“Aye, war. But it is of the nature of that war that I have come to speak.” He rose to his full height, placed his hand upon the hilt of Verragar, and drew the sword.
Its light was much diminished in this hall, but it was unmistakable. The Radann Santos el’Sol stared at the length of the blade for some time.
“So,” he said at last, the word an echo of the Tor’agar’s word. “So.” He bowed. “I will don my armor,” he said quietly, “and summon the Radann left at my disposal.”
“The crest must be seen,” Marakas said quietly.
“It will.”
He could have refused the Radann’s offer; he had fought with the demons of the Lord of Night, and he knew that normal swords counted for little against them.
But not for nothing. And Santos par el’Sol was the Lord’s voice in this Torrean. The weight of his presence could not be underestimated.
“We hunt,” Marakas said, as the older man reached the door. “And what we hunt, we must find before dawn.”
“Understood, par el’Sol. While you wield one of the five—”
“Verragar.”
“You will be noted; if your face and your name are not known, the importance of what you wield will be.”
Avandar.
Jewel Markess ATerafin, comfortable now in all three names, stared at her domicis. She must have called the Arianni lord, for he traveled down the unseen path, careful to drag Kallandras with him, until he stood by her side.
“What does he see?” she asked him softly.
“What did you see, Lady?”
She hesitated for just a moment; she did not trust Celleriant. Could not. She had seen him on the Winter Road, and although she had seen him countless times since then, the road was strong this eve. She knew what he was capable of.
But trusting him was not an issue, here.
She had learned that secrets weighed her down in ways that she could not afford to be weighed down. Had the den appreciated her honesty? Yes. But in truth, she was honest because it best suited her. If she spoke openly, nothing that lay in her past could be wielded, without her consent, as a weapon against her.
“I saw a boy I had killed.”
He nodded.
“Is that what he sees?”
“I would say that he sees far more than one,” Celleriant replied.
She glanced at his face; his expression was neutral. He took no joy and found no horror in his statement; it was bald fact, unadorned by malice or concern.
“But he’s seen them before,” she said faintly. “And I’ve never seen regret in him.”
“Mortals are strange, even those that cannot die,” Celleriant replied. “They take comfort from their strength, and they resent it, in turns. Both emotions are true.”
“Can we define strength as something other than killing?”
“We can define strength in a myriad of ways,” he replied, bowing slightly. “But I ask your pardon; I attempt to define strength in the way that the Warlord has defined it for millennia. It is by the fear of death that he wielded the greatest power.”
“Can he hear me?”
“I do not know.”
“Can we move him?”
Celleriant was silent. After a moment, he said, “Perhaps you can. I think it would be unwise for anyone else to try.”
And unwise for me to. But she didn’t say it aloud; there was no need.
The Winter King waited.
“Kallandras?”
“ATerafin.”
“Can you speak to him?”
“What would you have me say?”
“That we are on this road, and we need to move.”
She felt what she seldom felt when Kallandras chose to speak in the tongue of bards: the tingle at the base of neck and spine that spoke of power being shed. But a glance at his face revealed as much as a glance at Celleriant’s: Nothing.
The Arianni lord was not human; he did not say I told you so. She wasn’t sure what she would have done if he had. Couldn’t imagine his cruelty descending to that level of pettiness.
Avandar did not move:
“ATerafin,” the master bard said quietly, “if he hears me, he either chooses not to answer.”
“Or he can’t?”
“Or he cannot.”
This is my fault, she thought. It was true.
But it had happened before. It would probably happen again. What could she say? It had seemed like a good idea at the time? It had.
She took a deep breath. He wasn’t dead; wasn’t dying. Short of that, there was no point descending into guilt. It wouldn’t do either of them any good. Later, maybe. When she had time. But it was tempting, that paralysis, that internal conflict. Tempting, because she had the choice of that and fear.
You’re afraid of Avandar.
Big surprise. I’ve seen what he did. I know what he can do. How could I not be afraid of him? He was a monster.
Is he a monster now?
Yes. Yes. Maybe.
She wasn’t the type of person who said “I can’t judge.” Judgment—her own—had saved not only her life but the lives of her den more times than she could count. She lived by that judgment, by that ability, and to set it aside was something she wasn’t capable of.
What are you afraid of right now, damnit?
Harder question. Because the fear wasn’t a clean one; it was muddled. Muddy.
There was only one way to get clarity here.
Steeling herself, she reached out and touched him. Her right hand. To his right.
The trees vanished.
Pain did that.
She stood by the seawall, Avandar at her side; the night was moonless and dark.
At least, she thought it was the seawall; the ocean’s voice
was a crashing thunder, a horrible rumble of wave. No one with half a brain stood here in a storm; the water could easily crest the walls.
No. No, that was a comfortable thought. The truth followed quickly on its heels. That wasn’t the ocean’s voice. It was the thunder of a crowd. A mob, each voice subsumed by the whole, individual words lost to its shouting, its terrible anger.
She turned, clenching her hands into fists. One hand. The other couldn’t quite close.
Of course it can’t, idiot. It’s holding Avandar.
She could see him clearly.
And after a moment, she could see some part of what he saw. Steel yourself was such a useless expression; all the steel in the world couldn’t prevent her from blanching.
He gazed at her, almost unaware of her grip on his hand.
But his frown, while not the familiar one, was the first expression he offered her. There was something else in it, but it took her a moment to recognize it for what it was because she couldn’t remember ever seeing it on his face before. Fear.
She even understood it.
“No,” she said quickly, before he could speak. “No, I’m not dead. I’m not one of your dead.”
She thought he would turn from her then. But his eyes remained fixed on her face.
“Avandar?”
He lifted his free hand and cupped her chin in it. She would have drawn away had they been in any other place. Had he looked at her in any other way.
But his face was rigid, and the hand beneath her chin was shaking. Not a lot, give him that, but it was the first time—
The first time that she thought he needed her.
She stayed her ground.
“Avandar,” she said. And then, after a long pause, “Viandaran.”
“Lady.”
Not the word she wanted, but it would do. She was surprised she could even hear it; the voices of the dead were so damn loud.
“We can’t stay here,” she told him.
His eyes narrowed. She didn’t much like the look.
“Viandaran,” she said again. “They’re already dead. The dead can’t hurt you.”
He laughed. “The dead,” he said, the words soft, “are the only things that can hurt me. Have you forgotten, Lady? I cannot die. I will never die.”
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