Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (47 page)

"Perhaps." Isladar looked up, lifting his head until his eyes were level with Ishavriel's. "
Telkar
ad'Ishavriel was killed in the streets of the Tor Leonne."

Ishavriel cursed, but quietly. Word traveled
far
too conveniently. "I was aware of this."

"I was not," Assarak said, speaking sharply. "Who killed him?"

"Humans."

"Mages?"

"No."

"Impossible."

"It was seen."

"And what of it?" Etridian broke in. "We have
power
now— perhaps it is time that we stop skulking in the pathetic shadows humanity casts. We will rule, but not by hiding. Not by waiting."

Isladar let his words fill the silence that was left between the cracks of the wind's roar. Then he said, quietly, "
Mordagar. Arral. Saval. Verragar
."

"What of them?"

"They are awake, courtesy of Telkar's inability to, as you say, skulk in pathetic human shadows."

"I did not hear their voices," Assarak replied.

"And they, no doubt, cannot yet hear ours; the distance is too great. But I have seen their light, and I have heard their voices. The Radann do not—not yet—know how to use them.

"In a day, it has become… interesting to be in the Tor Leonne."

"And what of the fifth?"

"
Balagar
was nowhere to be seen." His smile was soft. "But the Sun Sword is keening now. Listen, if you have occasion to approach the city."

"We need to kill the boy," Assarak said coldly.

"And," Etridian added, diverting attention from his failure in that regard, "the Radann. Isladar, tell the Tyr that the Radann must be destroyed."

"He is aware of this, Etridian. Our plans in that regard have been—"

"Now."

Isladar bowed his head.

But he did not, in fact, agree. Minutes passed as they discussed elements of lesser importance. But hours would not be wasted here: the air was too strong, and their own skills too atrophied, to remain long.

The air left Isladar last, swirling at his feet in such a leisurely fashion the edge of his robe seemed liquid to the eye. He bowed to it, offering what the others had not: a benediction. A gratitude. The wind's voice, here as in the desert, was strong. Much stronger than the earth's voice, although the earth did have a voice. Had he called it too weak for a parliament? Yes. And it was; but too weak and voiceless were not the same. The earth, beneath the surface of water and the force of air, was alive.

He bespoke it as the winds reluctantly let him go and his feet grazed the ice-covered surface. The shock of foot against living ground had dimmed with the passage of years. But he was
Kialli
, not human, and the passage of years had been slight enough to make little dent in the visceral reality of millennia in the Hells.

Millenia in a place that defied things merely physical, in a universe where sight, where sound, where sensation itself, was filtered through two things: The Lord and the damned.

The world enveloped him; the elements, slow to wake to his presence, now called him, faintly, by a name he had not used since before the beginning. The Hells were gone.

In a moment—less—he could be sent flying back to them; in the next moment, he could be called forth again. As if he and the rest of the
Kialli
were fragments of memory, hidden parts of their Lord's unknowable past. It was truth; he acknowledged it. He had always been the pragmatic Lord, in either universe.

When the air no longer held him, he whispered to its keening presence; it roared back, ice crystals skittering along the surface of his skin in the wake of its voice. He spoke again; air rippled the length of his arms, pulling at the cloth that surrounded them, snapping at the tips of his fingers in petulant demand.

He had raised Kiriel from birth with the help of a Southern slave. He knew what no other
Kialli
Lord had ever truly learned: How to deal well with petulance.

/
am called
, he told the elemental wind,
on all sides. You have taken the measure of my enemies and my allies. They watch me; they are cunning. And they listen. What they see does not concern me. What they hear does
.

Carry the words away from them, if you can, and when the words are well away, we will destroy the mountain's peak.

He waited; the wind bit at his skin. On the odd occasion, it had drawn blood, but he had never angered the element enough to fight—to
truly
fight—for his life. Just as he had never angered his Lord.

Not enough.

The ground in the North was cold. The water above it, frozen and thick, had a more accessible voice. But water was not useful, not yet; earth was essential. He waited until the attention of air was elsewhere, and then channeled his power through ice and water and into the ground itself.

The ground answered," rumbling and slow.
Here
, there was anger and a desire for blood—or war, he could not be certain which. The voice of the earth was sluggish, slow, thick with the cold and the presence of water. He had wakened it over the past decade, calling softly, coming at regular intervals to stand in the same spot, by the mountain's foot, while he relived his first attempt to call the earth to heel.

He had been young then, but not so young that he thought power was a substitute for intelligence; he watched the success and the failure of others before he planned his own attack. Lord Isladar of the
Kialli
had always been capable of absorbing the lesson in another's failure. It was considered cowardice in the Hells; it had been considered prudence upon the plane.

He weathered both with the same ease.

You are known by what you choose to hate, and what you choose to love. If you wish to have no weaknesses, you will disdain either.

Truth, there. The fierce love that the
Kialli
had once been capable of had been winnowed by the Hells; their passion was in hatred, and it was considerable.

Ah. There. He lifted his head as the earth woke. Spoke to it, the syllables forming slowly, as if speech itself were fighting against his use.

The element spoke his name.

Isladar.

He replied. In that exchange of syllables, two hours passed. The rest came more easily.

The mortal.

He felt, rather than heard, the earth yield to his request. Ice cracked at his feet in a ring; it was pushed aside in shards so slowly one might have thought the earth had no power.

Until one saw the ground continue to rise beneath one's feet, the movement slow as glaciers, but as inexorable. He stirred a moment, the thrum of the earth's voice almost a comfort. Earth had been his first element because in all ways it was the hardest: it required, among other things, the patience that the
Kialli
, immortal each and every one, so often lacked.

Youth was here.

Memory.

And all identity was memory.

"Thank you," he said softly, in his own voice.

The earth replied; it split down the middle, falling in on itself as it crumbled away from a shape at its center. Prone, dusted in rock and rubble, it lay; he watched it only until he could discern the rise and fall that spoke of breath.

Then he walked to where it lay, prone, a thing carved of flesh, not earth, not air, not water. Lifting a gentle hard, he brushed the rockdust and dirt away from her face. There was familiarity in the gesture of comfort, and more; it surprised him. He had forced himself to it with Kiriel, learning, over the course of a decade and a half, to offer her the comfort she craved. It was a binding; he had created a need, or perhaps exploited one that already existed, as just another move in the long game. But as she had grown—and she grew so quickly—she had hidden the need for comfort from everyone but Ashaf. He should have been relieved.

Odd, that he was not. He did not lie to himself; he had never lied to himself. It served no useful purpose. But there were some truths that were slow to surface, slow to demand the attention. As his hands brushed the last of the dirt away from Anya's face, he acknowledged that, in his fashion, he missed the child Kiriel.

Anya a'Cooper was not that child, but there were similarities and echoes. Kiriel was
not
mad; he had seen to that with care. But she was vulnerable, powerful, and unpredictable. And she was, of course, mortal.

He did not touch Anya when she was conscious. None of the
Kialli
did, save Ishavriel; she had seen to that with an efficiency he admired.

In fact, the only person, with one notable exception, whom she had been physically affectionate toward had been Ashaf, Kiriel's nursemaid. The old woman, sun worn and careworn, had not returned that affection; she had managed, on a good day, to look at Anya a'Cooper with a tremulous pity, but no more, and that pity had only barely risen above her fear.

And what, in the end, was there not to fear? Anya a'Cooper was a law unto herself. She had more power than any human had ever possessed, with the possible exception of the mages of the Cities of Men, long dead, long taken by desert sand and sun, but she had no understanding of power itself. She had not struggled to hone it for the sake of supremacy, but rather, at the request of Lord Ishavriel, and when she was bored, she would often destroy the room she was taught in in a sudden flash of rage. She hated to be laughed at—and no
Kialli
Lord could deny her that weakness, it was so much their own—but what constituted being "laughed at" was a mystery to the Lords, for it often involved no malice, or even awareness, on their part.

The Lord had forbidden her death.

Isladar was not so certain that, had he remained completely neutral, Anya a'Cooper would not have survived. She had an animal cunning, a child's cunning, a vulnerability that shifted and turned into a strength.

She had no sense, and no ability to plan, but she was driven by a pain that the damned know, and few others. They could sense it, all of the
Kialli
who had served in the Hells for so long; pain was their speciality, their drug—as Lady Sariyel cleverly called it—of choice. It was their compulsion; it was the silk that was twined round the chains to take the edge off their bite when one pulled against them.

They therefore flocked to Anya a'Cooper's pain like moths to flame, and like moths, they were often consumed. Because, of course, no one who had harvested the damned could easily resist the desire to take up the challenge and inflict other pain, stronger pain, a pain that bore signature and name.

She didn't approve.

Yet she lived with the
Kialli
, not the humans. And the one friend she had at Court was the only other misfit: Kiriel, the Lord's child, the half-human godling who had been Isladar's keep.

Kiriel was allowed to touch Anya; Kiriel was the only denizen of the Shining City who had bitten Anya—albeit when she was a young child—and survived the act. Anya, twice Kiriel's age, had a sentimental weakness for children—one that her madness and her instability had not damaged, or rather, had not damaged in a way that was easily comprehended by
Kialli
.

She was their monster, for although she was powerful she did not desire power—but she was willing to risk her life in the contest, again and again. And what did she gain? Nothing. Anya desired affection. Love that she could trust.

What was trust to the kinlords?

What, he thought, was trust to anything alive?

Anya a'Cooper was not, in any appreciable way, intelligent— but she had that low animal cunning that is far more important than things intellectual for survival. She had walked through the fires. Although she desired love and affection, she knew better than to believe in either.

That
was the mortal trap. He admired it. As a way of inflicting pain, it was long and slow, and so very few of the kinlords understood its appeal for that reason.

The kinlord brushed her skin clear of the last of the dirt; he took one long look at her face, and then bowed.

"Anya," he said. When she did not stir, he infused her name with just a hint of power. "Anya."

It was a calculated risk. Anya a'Cooper could smell magic almost before it was summoned, and she considered all magic her province; she was willing to share with Lord Ishavriel, and she never went against a dictate of their Lord. When, that is, she understood them.

Her eyes snapped open, sleep shattering like dropped glass.

"Anya," he said, wiping his voice clear of even the echo of power. He bowed.

"Was I under the dirt?" she asked. "Did you think I was dead? Did you bury me?" She was on her feet before she'd finished the sentence. That, she'd learned in the Hells.

His bow deepened. Her voice had the high, sing-song lilt that spoke of, that meant, death. "You were indeed beneath the surface of the earth. You were not dead, no—but, Anya, Lord Ishavriel has taught you of the dangers of using too much power. You were nearly consumed by the fevers."

"Lord Ishavriel," she said smartly, "also says there's no such thing as too much power. And what does that have to do with being buried?"

"The fevers were strong enough to last two days. You are in the Shining Court. Lord Ishavriel was not here to protect you. I apologize if I've offended you, Anya, but I had to put you somewhere safe. The other kinlords would not see you beneath the surface of the earth."

Her eyes were narrow as a blade's edge. He met them, unblinking. It was important, with Anya, to meet her eyes when one offered her a truth that one hoped would prevent her from entering the black rages that meant death.

"Where," she asked softly, "was Lord Ishavriel?"

"Anya, you know this already. He did not run; he did not desert you. Did he not tell you that the Lord had sent him South?"

She was momentarily nonplussed; her forehead creased. "Oh," she said at last. "You're right. I forgot. South where?"

"In the Dominion," he replied. "The Dominion of Annagar."

"Did he tell me why he was going?"

"I'm sorry, Anya, but I do not know that. He is a kinlord, as am I; we seldom share each other's plans."