Gently defeated, Ser Janos hung his head. His beard was not yet a man’s; it was too thin for that. But his resolve, untested, was all that she needed to know of Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente.
Ser Janos knelt at the Tyr’agnate’s feet, his knees giving slowly. She saw him swallow his bitter disappointment; he took no comfort in the praise offered him. But he lifted his sword, slowly and awkwardly, from the sheath that bore it, and in silence, he offered it to the Tyr’agnate.
The Tyr accepted the blade, and in turn, offered what was rarely offered: his blood. The edge of the blade glinted like rubies, like the emblem of the Sword of Knowledge, but although Ser Mareo was no Widan, Diora saw the subtlety of the magic he worked.
“You have not made the trek to Amar, Ser Janaos. When we return, I will call you to Court.”
“Tyr’agnate.” Gravity remained.
Diora chose that moment to sequester herself in the palanquin.
In the presence of any other Tyr, the boy had just committed a sin against his Tor; no man—no wise man—went above the head of his clan in such a fashion.
But Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto had chosen to witness what was offered from the heart with heart; he did not call upon the Tor’agar to bear witness to his kai’s obvious disobedience.
She liked him, then, and it surprised her.
But she had liked the kai el’Sol as well, and it was his death—and only his death—that had given her the gift she required in order to win the battle that she had chosen.
Avandar Gallais chose to accept the kai Clemente’s offer of horse; it was the first time that Jewel had seen him so mounted. The destrier was restive beneath foreign knees, and the robes that Avandar had chosen were not designed to part with ease for such a passage; they were seraf’s robes, and serafs did not ride.
But Jewel did; the Winter King bore her aloft, his tines gleaming like new growth in the dawn sky. Purple had given way to pink, and pink to the endless blue of the Lord’s regard.
Jewel, in Voyani dress, gripped the stag’s antlers. Her hands were shaking.
Jewel?
She shook her head.
ATerafin?
But although she could ignore the question in the Winter King’s secret voice, she could not—quite—ignore Avandar’s.
The war, she told him softly. Just that.
You fear it.
Of course I fear it. I’m not an idiot.
His chuckle was not so hidden as his words, and she swung to face him; his horse gave him more of an advantage of height than he already possessed.
After a moment, she said, I had a dream.
The laughter fled his face, as anything sane would.
What dream. ATerafin?
You didn’t see it?
His frown was his frown. In the days after Damar, he had become his old self; there were now whole moments when she could pretend that she was traveling with a merchant caravan, her domicis by her side, her duties to Terafin, and only Terafin.
He didn’t condescend to dignify the question with an answer, although his impatience served in its stead.
I’ve had it before, she said again, but quietly.
When?
In Averalaan. I saw—
Kiriel.
She closed her eyes. She could do that; the Winter King had never let her fall.
And this?
She’s on the field, Jewel told him, as if they were in the kitchen in their wing of the Terafin Manse. And she sits astride a . . . demon. She carries a banner, but it’s long and dark; if it has a standard. I can’t see it. I’m not sure I want to.
The demons follow her, Avandar. She looks so unlike the Kiriel I left, I shouldn’t recognize her. I wouldn’t, if it weren’t my dream. But I know her sword. And I know the man who walks by her side.
Man?
Demon, she said softly. He almost killed Angel.
ATerafin. Pause. Jewel. He almost killed you.
I try to call her. To call her back. She laughs. She . . . laughs at me, Avandar.
Is this a true dream?
I . . . don’t know.
His brow rose, changing the line of his face. She loved that expression.
But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because she’s riding at the head of Allasakar’s army. And if she does, we don’t have a hope in Hells of winning.
Where is she now, Jewel?
Questions. As her eyes were already closed, she couldn’t retreat beneath lids.
He cursed her gift. Or rather, he cursed her inability to direct it, to contain it, to manipulate it as if it were dagger or sword.
As if it were a talent, he corrected her.
I won’t learn that, she snapped, her lips moving noiselessly.
It appears that you will not, he replied, his own face composed and dignified in its stillness. What are you afraid of?
If I learn, she told him, knowing the truth was in the words she was about to say, but unable to hold them back, people will die.
If you don’t, ATerafin, can you say that people won’t?
She had no answer to give him.
But she looked to the North and the East, and after a moment, she said, Kiriel is in the North, at the side of the kai Leonne.
But it was not of Kiriel that she thought, although her thoughts drifted to the North.
Her lips moved slowly around silent syllables; she did not give them the play of air or breath.
But she wondered what they were doing. Teller. Finch. Jester. Angel. Carver. Arran.
The Finest in Fantasy from MICHELLE WEST:
THE SUN SWORD:
THE BROKEN CROWN (Book One)
THE UNCROWNED KING (Book Two)
THE SHINING COURT (Book Three)
SEA OF SORROWS (Book Four)
THE RIVEN SHIELD (Book Five)
THE SUN SWORD (Book Six)
THE SACRED HUNT:
HUNTER’S OATH (Book One)
HUNTER’S DEATH (Book Two)
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 79
