Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (32 page)

The mage's response was typical of him: He snorted and lit his pipe. Embers curled, orange warmth in the darkness that was already a bit too hot. Smoke wafted up in a breeze that neither man thought to control—but that both men could, should they so choose.

They had that in common.

"No," the mage said at last, ringing the air with smoke, with rings that hovered in the serenity of stillness. "You are too clever by half, Kallandras, that's your problem."

"I thought," the bard replied, with exaggerated politeness, "my problem was that I was far too talkative?"

"Well, that, too. In fact, at the wrong times you are far too quiet." The pipe's glow lit the underside of a perfectly smooth chin; Meralonne was one of the few male members of the magi who chose to go beardless, although his hair was long and fine, the envy of young women who rarely had a chance to meet the mage face-to-face, and probably with good reason.

"You did not call me here to tell me what was wrong with me? I assure you, Sioban would be somewhat annoyed to see you poaching in her preserve." Wry grin there.

"No," the mage said, his smile lost to the stem of pipe, and then to the night itself. "I did not call you for that."

There was something in his voice that caught Kallandras' attention. It was meant to; Meralonne was among the most careful of men, and he could hide behind the mask of words more easily than most could hide behind impenetrable fortress walls.

"You think you have something that presents a danger."

"Very good, bard. Master bard. Yes, I do."

"And you wish me to defuse it?"

"In a manner of speaking." He rose, cast a stray glance to the full moon, the high moon, and then Said simply, "Follow."

It was a request, of sorts, but one did not lightly ignore the request of the magi, and besides, Kallandras was stirred with a rare curiosity.

Beneath skies so Southern even the breeze felt foreign, free a moment from the memory of the mage's familiar tower, he stared at the blades, wondering about them, about their use, about their manufacture. Wondering just how much Meralonne knew, and how much of that knowledge he had chosen to disclose.

"You will never be fool enough or young enough again to enter the Kings' Challenge," the mage said, "and I will not warn you not to carry these weapons there because I see no need to insult your intelligence."

"That," Kallandras had replied gravely, "has never stopped a member of the magi in the history of the Order that I'm aware of."

Meralonne lifted his lamp. It was odd; a man of his power could light a room without thinking and keep it lit without noticing the strain. But in this tower, in these rooms—or perhaps only for this particular visitor—Meralonne APhaniel chose older, quieter ways. The oil lamp, glassed in and darkened with use. The shadows it cast shifted slightly as the mage said, "Take the daggers."

They lay, simply made, simply sharpened, in a black box.

But the box, which he would have said was ebony at a distance, was something far harder than that; obsidian, cold and heavy as a rich child's casket. He approached the box, and stepped back, almost in a single motion.

"Interesting," the mage said.

"Meralonne, I am not your experiment."

"Not as such, no." The mage shrugged.

"What are these?"

"They are daggers. For the moment. They are weapons."

"And their manufacture?"

"Old," he replied. "The actual forging of the blades themselves is something that has not been attempted since the last of the mad Artisans passed—quite thankfully—from our world."

"
These
are Artisan's work?"

"They are," Meralonne replied, in a voice with the consistency of steel, "the work of the man who once called himself Magellus." He snorted. "
Magellus
."

"It is not so ridiculous a name as all that."

"Not if you're a small child, it's not." He lowered the lamp.

Kallandras shrugged. "He was an old Artisan."

They both knew the fate of the Artisans. "Yes. And I will warn you that he made these at the zenith, not the nadir, of his power."

"They look very… plain."

"They do."

"Have you handled them?"

"I? Yes. I have." He was quiet a moment, weighing the words that would follow. "I created the box that contains them now. But it is not a safe containment."

"And I am?"

"Strange though it seems, Kallandras, I would trust the blades in your sheaths far more than I would trust them in my tower— and I have had in them in my tower since before I could legally claim it as my own."

"You've never thought to give them to me before."

"No. And I would not—but you go South, and I stay North, and I fear that we will not have this chance again."

"Her words?"

The pronoun, said with just the right emphasis, belonged to Evayne a'Nolan, even in this tower. Especially in this tower. There was a long pause, a thoughtful one.

"No; I rarely take advice from my students, regardless of how well they've learned." His gaze was curiously intent; his eyes, silver-gray, flickered with orange lamplight, much as the surface of the blades did. "I will not press them upon you if you've the wisdom to avoid them."

"You make me curious."

"I? No. That is a function of the weapons."

Kallandras reached out then.

Reached out. Touched them. They were cool, steel and leather. "Be ready," he said, although he couldn't have said why.

"I am," the mage replied softly.

He gripped the daggers, left- and right-handed, and pulled them from their resting place.

They
shifted
, writhing in his hands like solid snakes. His grip tightened, where another man might have let go in surprise or shock. There was a battle here, a fight, a contest.

Steel bent itself up in twin arcs, reaching for the backs of his hands. He could not contain them, but he did not cry out; he stared at their bending curves, seeing in them liquid, gold, an iridescence and a magic that were at once familiar and chill. Darkness here; darkness beneath the surface of reflected light.

But he had faced darkness before, and this darkness was contained, girdled somehow by form, by function. The blades edged up, and up again; the tips bent down.

He was surprised when they touched his skin; more surprised when they breached its surface. But he held, and he held calmly, waiting.

They went no farther.

"Meralonne," he said, "these are—"

"Not yet finished," the mage replied. "Watch."

As if he could choose to do anything else. The blades shifted again, undulating and twisting,
growing
. Fascinated by it, awed by it in some fashion, Kallandras watched the conception of a crazed maker as it began its first work in centuries: the fashioning of a weapon. Of two.

Steel melted, but without the heat that would scald or cripple a man fool enough to hold it; leather vanished, absorbed by form. The daggers did what they could not do: they grew in size, in weight, they changed in essential shape, blades lengthening, guards lengthening, handles growing.

He recognized the weapons.

How could he not? They were the brotherhood's weapons of choice when they faced each other, or when the weapons to be used were not prescribed by the men and women who offered the target.

Meralonne said nothing for a long moment. Kallandras stared at his gift. "I… see. Kallandras, these present a danger. The magi have not seen them and they will not, I think, approve. Sigurne knows."

"They are?"

"Magellus, as far as we are able to discern, thought he might make use of demons." He offered no more.

Kallandras said quietly, "and will these weapons fight
me
in a fight?"

"Magellus was an Artisan, not a mad mage. They will serve their function."

Kallandras bowed. "I will think long on accepting your gift, Meralonne."

"You will not think at all. You have already accepted the gift, or the weapons would not have changed." The magi bowed. The pipe's embers guttered in a wind that was felt, but never seen. "And now, I am tired, and I have work to do. Take them South with you; you're inventive. You'll know when to use them—and why."

Truth, there.

He
had
known when to use them. And why.

Yollana was injured. Margret saw it from a distance; the old witch would
have
to be injured to allow some man—some strange man, mind, not kin—to carry her into the encampment of a rival family. She was a Matriarch, after all, and she had her pride.

But she was also known for pragmatism, and if she had never been loved for it—what Matriarch was, after all?—she was admired for it, and followed.

Margret left, and returned with Donatella, and when Donatella had finished tending to Yollana's hands and legs—and her legs were a ruin that made the younger woman flinch, first with that momentary pang of recognized pain, and then with anger and a desire for vengeance—she sent Donatella away.

"Matriarch," Yollana said quietly.

"You've heard," was Margret's stark reply. Yollana
knew
that her mother was dead. It shouldn't have surprised her; it did. But worse, it shamed her. Yollana was Matriarch, yes, but she was
Havallan
, and she should not have known first what most of the Arkosans barely knew. Their Matriarch was dead.

She bowed, half to cover the shame that stung her cheeks, and half because this was Yollana of the Havallans.

Of the Voyani Matriarchs, Yollana was the oldest, and the one most feared. Margret was now the youngest; they were theoretically equals, but they did not meet as equals, not here. Although it was Margret's encampment, and although it was Margret's directive that had saved the Arkosans the fate of the Havallan Matriarch, Yollana was a breed apart, and she had come to Evallen on the morn of Margret's birth; had aided in it, as she had known she would have to.

Evallen had some part of the gift, but it was weak; Yollana's was strong enough to need no embellishment. But the two older women had forged a bond that Margret felt, meeting the dark, inscrutable eyes of her elder, she and Yollana never would.

Still, she nodded. "My wagon," she said quietly. "And my tent. Both are yours while you choose to stay with us."

"I want more than that, Matriarch."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Privacy; the Lady's privacy. You can grant it, if you choose— this is your ground, and yours alone."

"You want—"

"I want the heart's circle," Yollana said starkly.

Margret paled. "I—"

"You were trained by Evallen of the Arkosans." Yollana's tone was a slap, stinging and sharp. "You were raised to
be
Matriarch. You are the heart of your people. Falter, for whatever reason, and
they
will pay the price." She drew a deep breath. "I ask you again, Matriarch: draw the heart's circle. We have seen enough this night to know that it is necessary."

"You ask for this in front of a stranger?" Margret replied, changing tactics, attempting to buy herself time.

"This stranger has already seen it; he has already been part of it; I myself cut and carried the blessed wood and drew the sigils. Will you do less?"

"This is not Havalla."

"You're stalling."

Oh, the old woman could be a bitch. She wanted to tell her the truth, then: that she didn't
have
the heart of the Arkosans—that it was hidden in the keep of some highborn clanswoman, given to her by Evallen for reasons that Margret could not begin to understand. But she could not tell her that—not standing outside of the heart's circle. The words would carry on the night breeze, and they would reach every nook and cranny of every wagon before dawn's full light, weakening her.

Just as the angry admission would weaken her. The Matriarchs were responsible for their own, after all—and family wars were not uncommon.

After Nicu's poor display in the streets of the city, she knew that she could not afford to be seen as weak in any way. Ona Tamara knew the truth. Elena knew it as well.

"I'll burn the circle's periphery," she said, struggling to keep the bitterness out of her words, "with heart's fire."

"Good."