Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (104 page)

Today, however, the Lord's anger was vast.

Anya had not returned to the Shining Palace. She lingered here, somewhere, causing difficulty in the Tor.

Ishavriel had impressed upon her—inasmuch as the very broken fragments of her intelligence could take an impression—the importance of the Scaral night. He had also stressed her own importance, her central role, the fact that the Lord Himself was depending upon her considerable power. Flattery often produced what threats could not.

She had seemed so very enthusiastic.

He cursed. She was possessed of an intelligence that was so splintered it seemed nonexistent. Until, on a day like today, one cut oneself. There was no illusion whatever: If he failed to return her,
he
would pay.

And now he stood in the streets of the Tor; the sun, brilliant, the dawn long past. Anya eluded him.

It was time to send out the hunters, but he hated to do it; if they were miraculously lucky, and they found what he could not find, they were also very likely to perish. Anya's hatred of the kin—an aftereffect of his own plan, which had proved both convenient and inconvenient—was legendary, and with cause. Very few of his servitors could survive a chance meeting with Anya a'Cooper. He frowned.

Closed his eyes.

Sent out the words that would set them in motion. It meant that he might lose their participation in the festivities of
this
evening, but in this case they would not resist his command; they all felt it: the anger of the Lord of the Shining Court. So small a distance as the one that separated them did not afford them protection or ignorance.

The only bright note in an otherwise dismal morning was the lovely sound of screaming in the distance. One of the bodies, he thought, had at last been found.

The Captain of the cerdan was slightly gray. In no other way did he show the strain of his discovery, although Alesso questioned him at length about the details. He answered only what he was asked to answer; volunteered no opinion until he was asked for one; replied truthfully and with an economy of words that managed to convey respect rather than brusqueness or the stiffness of manner that comes from the ill at ease.

Alesso took note of the man's name; he was neither too young nor too old. The General was a judge of character, and he felt that this man might, in time, prove a worthy addition, to his Tyran. He thanked him for his service to the city, offered him a commendation, and released him.

He missed Sendari's constant presence. The counselors that he afforded himself otherwise could not offer any meaningful guidance, being as they were unapprised of the full situation. But the Widan was still somewhat weak, and Alesso wanted—if possible— a full recovery by the night of the Festival Moon. He did not understand fully what would occur. No one did. Not even Lord Isladar would commit himself to a full prediction.

But in the meantime, this—three very grisly and very precise deaths—was the latest move on Lord Ishavriel's board. He wondered what that Lord would offer in counter to his opening of the Lake; he had his reserve planned. He expected the demons to attempt to stop anyone from entering the Tor itself. It was what he would do were the positions in the game reversed.

But the demons were, themselves, occupied.

He had to consider his options carefully; weigh the cost and the value of the pieces he was willing to surrender.

The Sword's Edge was among the most valuable of his pieces. Sentiment aside, he was of more value than the men he had not yet made generals, and of more value than the individual Tyrs. He was not, however, worth more than the Lake or the Tor; to lose either was to lose the game.

The sun's shadows were shortening as the day progressed. The gates had been cleaned and the flowers there tended. It was almost time to open them; to open them and to see who had the temerity to approach the Lake whose waters were said to grant longevity and peace.

But he smiled as he signaled an end to his brief reign in the private audience chamber.

He had made his career, and guaranteed his position, by turning a rout into a retreat—a costly retreat for the enemy. But that was when he had been forced to concede. In the Tor, he reigned, and he knew he was not yet defeated.

She had never seen so many people upon the plateau. The carefully cultivated wilderness that offered a sense of isolation and privacy to those with power and means bowed before the pressure of the hundreds, perhaps thousands, that made their trek from the city below.

Their voices were like the rumbling of distant storms, and even when awe muted them, there were too many for silence to have strength. The Serra Diora stood in the protected shade of a copse of lovely, bent trees, and watched as the crowd traveled between the gently sloped hillocks.

Alana en'Marano stood beside her, and behind them—not nearly as far away as they might otherwise have stood—two of her father's cerdan. There was also a seraf who held a large umbrella that protected them both from the sun's full glare.

Alana was almost speechless. "I heard rumors," she said.

"But you didn't credit them." Diora's voice was soft. Almost faint.

"No."

"No matter, Alana; I do not think any of us truly did. But…"

"Yes."

"He will empty the Tor."

Alana was silent. After a moment, she said, "Perhaps there is less truth to the other disturbing rumors we have heard, if he truly offers the Lady's blessing so openly."

"Perhaps." The Serra Diora looked up from her inspection of that crowd and the possibilities inherent in its very presence. "Alana," she whispered, pitching her voice into the higher range of youth. Alana's face immediately snapped into the lines that meant indulgent suspicion.

"What?" Because she was the eldest of Sendari's wives, and because the Serra Teresa was not present to exert her influence, she was allowed to have less than perfect manners when no one but the cerdan themselves were present to be offended.

Diora willed her lips into a smile. It wasn't difficult; a smile, after all, was a woman's way of controlling the atmosphere of her environment; of making it light and pleasant and cheery when none of those things were otherwise evident. "Could we not," she said softly, "go now to the Pavilion of the Moon? The Tyrs will not require it but—"

"But it will give you a vantage from which to view the Lake?"

She blushed. "Forgive me, Alana, but I am very curious. I have never seen this many people by the Lake before—not even for my wedding." She paled then.

Alana's expression was sharp enough an unwary person could cut themselves to bone on it. "Na'dio," she said sternly, "I am pleased to see that you are capable of playing these games. A little more of them and perhaps you would not be where you have been these many months." She frowned. "However, they are not meant to be used against women unless you feel the woman in question is as much a fool as the men."

She bowed meekly, hiding her expression.

"But because it has been so long since you have ventured out in polite company, I will take no insult from your attempt to manipulate me. And because I am indulgent and old—and far more important, because
I
am curious—I will even consider it."

"What game are they playing?" The question was softly asked, the edges hidden. The Lyserran Matriarch seldom spoke when the Matriarchs gathered, possibly because it involved a contest of volume and raised voices, or perhaps because speech depended upon the ability to slide words into the cracks between shouting. Obvious scorn and derision didn't hurt either.

Unfortunately for the Matriarch, these skills had never been encouraged; she was very much the elegant Serra and very little the fishwife. Jewel was reminded of this, however, only when she did speak. Even at her sharpest, she was deceptively quiet.

"Not sure," Jewel said, as the Serra was staring directly at her. "But we were there. My Torra's not up to court intrigues, but I can get the small words. Kallandras and I went as far as the gates, but we didn't have the masks on hand; they turned us back. We've got every reason to believe if we'd been carrying masks, they'd've let us in with the rest of the crowd. And before you ask, everyone seemed to be leaving. Most of them were quiet on the way out—good quiet not bad quiet. Almost contemplative. Whoever this guy is, this is the first politically smart thing I've seen him do."

That got a look from Yollana that gave new meaning to the phrase "if looks could kill." She heard Kallandras whisper,
Have a care, ATerafin; Yollana was guest in the Tor, and only for the preservation of her children would she put aside the desire for the destruction of the current ruler of the Dominion
.

She had no way of questioning him in as unheard a fashion, but the emphasis on the word guest made the situation quite clear.

"There was one odd thing," she continued, letting her gaze hit the dirt within which a special fire was encircled. "They were talking about the blessing that the Lady gave or withheld. It seems that in some cases, when the Festival masks were offered to the water—"

"They were
what
?"

"They were consumed by fire. It was as if, or so the participants said, the Lake itself rejected the work." She drew breath. "And in every case, the mask was one that had been given out for free by men who claimed to be working at the behest of the Tyr'agar himself. He is said to be in quiet fury, but to be grateful to the Lady for the protection She affords Her loyal followers.

"And I have no doubt that he'll empty the Tor of at least half of the existing masks by tomorrow morning; apparently this added festivity is to continue until the Festival Moon shows itself. But… and correct me if I'm wrong, please… doesn't this work in
our
favor?"

"Indeed," the Serra Maria said, and Jewel bit her tongue even though she hadn't used the title itself, because it was almost impossible to think of this woman in any other way, and it was the wrong way to think in this camp. "That
was
behind my question."

"And if you'd speak half plainly, that might have been clear," Elsarre snapped. Probably, in Jewel's opinion, because she was irked at the fact that the Serra Maria seemed to already have the information that Jewel had only just presented.

The Serra declined to notice the remark; it was easy enough to do—it had no information content that needed to be acknowledged. Well, all right, Jewel amended silently, it probably wasn't all that easy to do; she'd about had enough of Elsarre's snappish-ness and in Maria's position would have already returned it in kind or hit her by now. It was the
graceful
thing to do, however. Too bad grace was so underappreciated.

Margret snapped at Elsarre in Maria's stead. Elsarre snapped back. They continued in this friendly fashion while Maria and Yollana said nothing. It was to Yollana that Jewel turned.

The oldest of the Matriarchs fumbled a moment with the pouch at her side, her hands carefully unclasping and unbuckling worn metal. A quiet descended around her; she was unhurried, her every movement deliberate. She seemed, for that instant, to be
the
Wisewoman, with a bag that contained magic, treasure, mystery.

Or a pipe. Jewel rolled her eyes. But as the old woman worked dried leaves into the bowl, she was reminded of the only other person who consistently smoked a pipe when the discussion turned to matters arcane—and disastrous. Meralonne APhaniel. The biggest difference was that she didn't just snap her fingers and summon a fire; there was a fire before her—one that had the advantage of being made by someone else's labor—and a few slender sticks, and she made use of both. Yollana was practical.

Practical, cantankerous, so Oma-like in her demeanor that one could almost forget that she was also Matriarch, and of them, the one with the most blood on her hands.

As if the stray thought were words, and those words loudly spoken, Yollana looked across the fire to Jewel. For just a moment, Jewel could see the menace that lines and chosen demeanor hid; the ferocity behind the face; the woman who would do
anything
at all to save her children.

Anything but walk hand in hand with the Lord of Darkness. Anything but leave the
Voyanne
. It chilled her. Because the thoughts—as they so often did—came from nowhere, and once there, they took root. They were true. She
knew
it.

"I think," Yollana said quietly, "that the Lord of Darkness has a short memory indeed if He expects any alliance He makes with the men of power in these lands to prevail."

Serra Maria started, and then, to Jewel's surprise, she laughed out loud. Her voice, rich and deep in laughter, sounded like a stranger's voice—a hidden glimpse of a woman who only rarely revealed herself.

"It's good to see you laugh," Yollana said, her tone implying the opposite.

"I think," the Serra said, sobering almost instantly, "that if we are very lucky and very successful, the Dominion will not regret his rulership half as much as he will. He did not choose wisely when he chose to make an enemy of you."

"He'll have other things to worry about." But watching the pipe smoke wreath the old woman's face, Jewel wasn't as certain. "And besides, I bear him no personal ill-will."

"No?"

"No."

"Then?"

"The Sword's Edge."

Elsarre's low whistle spoke for them all. "Pick a different enemy, Yollana. That one—"

"Enemies are made by their actions." The Havallan Matriarch shrugged. "They are never truly
chosen
. Our enemies, by their actions, appear to be divided. Let us move quickly, Sisters. Let us take advantage of their division as we have always done."

Margret, who had been silent until now, rose. "The Serra Teresa and Kallandras are waiting," she said quietly. "Let us see them off, and then feed the children."

The Serra Diora di'Marano understood the powers of the Lake. She understood the properties of the water that both prolonged life and offered health to those who were powerful enough to claim it.

But the understanding that she claimed was silent, personal, private; she did not speak of it as she stood beside the oldest of her father's wives; the oldest of her many mothers or sisters. Alana en'Marano was, herself, stunned into a wary silence as they crested the hill that formed a natural crown to the Lake. The sun faceted the waters; the winds rippled them.