The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (41 page)

“You fought under him in the Imperial-Dominion war.”

“I fought . . . at his side.”

“This village?”

“It is within the boundaries of the lands granted the clan Garrardi,” Alesso replied smoothly. “The disposition of the village is therefore left to your discretion.”

This was a formality, but it was a necessary one.

“With your leave, Tyr’agar, I will assign one of my men to oversee the operations of the village.”

“Of course.”

He was silent a moment; the Tyr’agnate rode his horse in a tight circle beyond the waft of black smoke.

The Serra Diora had not been found.

The Tyr’agnate had arrived three days late, and if those three days proved costly, Alesso vowed that Oerta would pay the price.

But he had, in the end, arrived.

Therefore, Alesso did him the honor of treating him with the respect that was his due; he offered him the first of the taken lands in the name of their strained alliance.

But as he did, old words traveled on the wind that held smoke and the growing silence: He had sacrificed a village in order to purchase Sword’s Blood; how many would he sacrifice, in the end, in order to secure the Serra Diora?

“Our apologies,” Commander Allen said stiffly.

The table that he had graced, a scant hour past, with his presence now seemed a confinement, the jess which prevented his flight.

“Apologies?”

“We had hoped to contain the first stages of the war to the South of Averda, in Raverra.”

The Callestan Tyr shrugged, a model of restraint. “To be expected,” he said coolly. “Without Lamberto, without Mancorvo, it was at best a theoretical hope. Your troops?”

“Encamped along the Moonstone River.”

“Supplies?”

“Housed by the river’s mouth. We have taken the liberty of setting up a supply train between the Omaras and the delta.”

The Kalakar leaned into the tabletop, placing both of her large hands against it. She was no more at home here than Commander Allen. “Word has been sent to Mancorvo?”

The silence was cold.

Valedan kai di’Leonne raised a hand, providing the room’s only motion. “No word,” he said quietly, “has been sent.”

The Serra Amara lifted her face as the three Commanders absorbed the whole of his words. She hesitated a moment. Valedan had never seen such a hesitation from her; it was profound.

“Word,” she said at last, “has been sent.”

The Kalakar turned quickly.

As did the Tyr’agnate.

She had the grace to flush; the color added a youth to her expression that Valedan had never seen there.

“My apologies,” she said, her voice very low. “My apologies, Tyr’agnate, for my presumption.”

But if Valedan was any judge of expression, none were necessary; the Callestan Tyr was surprised, but it was a surprise that held no anger. “Serra Amara,” he said gently.

“We do not often speak of such things as if they were significant,” she added, dissembling. “Men decide the course of war; women watch as it unfolds. And any word sent, meager and insignificant though it might be, was sent merely to the Serra Donna en’Lamberto.”

“The Serra Donna is the Tyr’agnate’s wife?” The Kalakar asked.

“She is his Serra, yes.”

“When?” It was Commander Allen who spoke.

“Two days ago. Before the Commanders set foot within Callesta.”

Valedan glanced at the Serra Alina di’Lamberto. She was as still as the Callestan Tyr, but her silence was one that encompassed motion, movement; she gazed at the tabletop, the lacquered box that no seraf had been summoned to remove, as if her glance was weighted and immovable.

“How was word sent?” the Commander continued.

She did not answer. After a moment, it became clear that she would not.

He did not frown; he did not raise his voice. But he posed, instead, a different question. “When will it reach her? When it will reach the Mancorvan court?”

She looked to her husband; her husband smiled. The smile, his first, held both warmth and a hint of playful malice. “I am afraid,” he said gravely, speaking to her, although the whole of the room waited, “that I am unable to answer that question.

“It is said that the conversations of Serras are beneath the interest of Tyrs. And that such conversation, such correspondence, is much like the wind; impossible to stop, impossible to command. In truth, Commander Allen, I do not know.

“If she chose to send word by horseman, it will be days yet before that word arrives, and the message would have to be carried across a border whose roads are well guarded. If the messenger was wise, and chose to forgo the open road for the wilderness of forest, days would be added to the transit. If the messenger was unwise, or unallied, such subterfuge would be unnecessary.”

“So it might be a week, or more, before that message was in Lambertan hands?”

“If it were delivered in such a fashion, yes.”

“And if it were delivered in another way?”

“Ah,” he said. He nodded regally to the bowed head of his unveiled wife. “If indeed it were delivered in a different fashion, it might rest in her hands now.”

“Magery?”

The Tyr frowned. “Magery is not so common in Averda as it is in the Imperial capital.”

There was silence, heavy with the unsaid.

To Valedan’s surprise, it was the Serra Alina who broke it, although she did not otherwise look up. “You do not understand, Commander, the subtleties that are a necessity in the Dominion.”

He took no offense at the words, or seemed to take none. He nodded.

“Believe that the kai Lamberto is no fool.”

“It is a wise belief,” Ser Ramiro added distantly.

“If he is not . . . the hand . . . behind the assassination of the Tyr’agnate’s oldest son, he will not have been apprised of the death,” the Serra Alina di’Lamberto said, speaking for the first time. Speaking in a way that Serra Amara could not, married and bound by duty to uphold her husband’s dignity.

“And unapprised,” the Serra Alina continued, as if speaking to favored children, “he might commit an unforgivable transgression in the negotiations that would otherwise be deemed a necessity between the two clans. Understand, as well, that the words of Serras are not binding; they are, as the Serra Amara has said, women’s words, with all of the weight that implies.

“But where men of power must treat, they tread cautiously. As women are free to say what must be said, they may speak through their wives of things that men would otherwise be above saying. Before they can meet—surrounded by their lieges, their Tyran, their courtiers—which is a Northern word,” she added, “that has no true counterpart in the South—there is much that must be discussed.

“Serras, therefore, play some small role in those early discussions; they speak with all the freedom women indentured to their husbands can have.

“If the Serra Amara chose to begin such a discussion, we must be grateful for her wisdom.”

The Kalakar snorted. “Indeed,” she said, her impatience almost an insult. “But if what you say is true, shouldn’t the Tyr’agnate be apprised of the letter’s contents?”

Serra Amara did not reply, which seemed reply enough.

But Serra Alina continued to speak. “The Tyr’agnate may be apprised of the contents of the letter, although I find it doubtful. It is a letter, no more, between women whose sole distinction—in the eyes of the clansmen—are their husbands. The letter that the Serra Donna replies with, should she choose to reply, has more weight. Her reply forms the beginning of any negotiation that might be entered upon.

“But if she makes no reply, no insult is offered.”

Valedan noticed that the Serra Amara was now staring, subtly, at the Serra Alina.

“Understand,” Alina said, after a long pause, “that you are speaking of a man whose oldest son was killed by the Northern armies.”

“It was war,” The Kalakar replied, with an ease that no woman—North or South—should have spoken.

“Spoken,” Alina said, “as a member of The Ten. Spoken as a Lord who has no understanding of the visceral nature of blood ties.”

The Kalakar raised a brow.

As did Valedan. But Valedan smiled as the shock of the words dissipated. This woman, this was the woman he had grown up listening to. This was the companion of the Princess Royale, Mirialyn ACormaris.

He had never thought to see that woman in the dining hall of the Tyr’agnate.

“You do not understand the significance of the Serra Amara’s gesture,” Alina continued, speaking now as she would have spoken to Valedan when he had been particularly obtuse. “You do not understand her gift.”

“Gift?” The Kalakar’s word was not sharp, but her reaction made clear the truth behind Alina’s accusation.

“It is generally acknowledged that the Lambertans are the hand behind the kai Callesta’s death.”

The Kalakar nodded, her expression now hooded. “I see.”

She had not. Perhaps, Valedan thought, she better understood.

Until she spoke. “It was unfortunate. It
is
a tragedy. But surely Mareo di’Lamberto—”

“The Tyr’agnate,” Alina said smoothly.

“The Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo,” The Kalakar continued, aware of the correction, “can see that the survival of his clan, and his Terrean, depends upon his ability to forge an alliance with—”

“With the men who murdered his son?”

The Kalakar stopped. Her gaze narrowed.

“In war, there are acts of murder. The death of the Lambertan kai was not considered one of them. He was outnumbered, outmaneuvered; his Generals chose to secure the death of their forces for reasons that are not clear to us, even now.”

“You do not understand the Dominion,” Serra Alina replied, in a voice as cold as any she had used upon Valedan when his ignorance had been particularly galling.

“We understood it well enough to win its war,” the Commander countered.

But Commander Allen lifted a hand. “Ellora,” he said quietly. “Please.”

She subsided.

The Serra Alina, in silence, did not.

Commander Allen turned his gaze upon the woman who had been one of the Imperial hostages, in a terrain vastly different than the political one she now occupied. “Serra Alina,” he said gravely, inclining his head, “you speak truth. We do not understand the Dominion. We understand that the enmity of the Lambertans has never faded. We do not understand why, and it has not been of concern to us to do so, until now.

“Forgive our ignorance, and lessen it, if that is your desire.”

“There are two deaths,” Serra Alina said, after a long pause, “that will decide the course of any possible negotiations. The first is the death of the kai Lamberto, the second, the death of the kai Callesta.

“Whole clans have willingly perished before they sought mercy from, or alliance with, the men who murdered those of their bloodline. Among Lambertans, that truth will be harsher than it might be among any other clan of the High Courts.” She raised her face, her hawkish thin profile gaining the beauty that ferocity had always lent it.

“Ser Andreas, the kai Lamberto, was much like his father; a Lambertan son.”

“He was, what, thirteen? Fourteen?”

“Ellora,” Commander Allen said, and this time Valedan was certain The Kalakar would remain silent.

“He was fourteen,” Serra Alina replied. “Fourteen is not considered unworthy of note in the Dominion. The Imperial laws govern the age of manhood; in the Dominion, there is no universal law. The Tyr’agnate saw fit to grant his eldest son command of an army upon the field. By his grant, he acknowledged that his son had come of age.

“But he did more, by such an acknowledgment; he surrendered to the field a boy that he valued more than he valued himself. By example, he offered his lieges proof that he was willing to meet, measure for measure, the sacrifices that he asked of them, in the name of the Tyr’agar.”

“They chose his death,” The Kalakar Commander said quietly. “He was offered his life; he chose to forgo that offer.”

Alina
laughed
. She laughed, and it was a bitter, harsh sound.

“Had you offered
him
his life, in exchange for his surrender and the surrender of his men, that might have been true.”

Her gaze at last broke from the tabletop, from the dinner that she had not touched. Her head came up, her chin sharp, her cheeks flushed.

Serra Amara was shocked.

She had heard laughter in her life; certainly from the wives she had chosen to grace her harem. But not one of them would be capable of this harsh sound, this grating accusation.

She would have said, had any asked, that such a sound was beneath the Serra Alina di’Lamberto. It was a Northern sound. No, worse, it was a man’s laugh.

And a woman’s duty was to ease the harshness of a room full of men; to offer those sounds—laughter, where appropriate, speech where not—that would bring peace and harmony. There were only three women in the room: The Kalakar, who by the roughness of her speech and the sheer folly of her ignorance, must be discounted, the Serra Amara, and the Serra Alina.