The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (62 page)

Ramiro nodded.

“Oh, yes. You live up to your reputation.”

“And that?”

Meralonne inhaled. “In the Averdan valleys, you chose to ambush the Black Ospreys. They were a small unit, and in the eyes of the North, one viewed with distaste; their loss could not dictate the course of the war.

“Why, then, did you choose to focus your efforts upon their banner?”

“In the South,” Ramiro kai di’Callesta replied, “they were the only face of the Northern army that was clearly understood. I did not strike to damage the North, but to strengthen the South.”

“They remember it.”

“I remember it,” Ramiro said, the smile gone from his face. He turned away. “Enough.”

But the mage had not quite finished. “This kinlord was kin to the Ospreys. You have made a name for yourself among the enemies of the North, and it will not be forgotten; the
Kialli
forget little.”

When they returned to the plateau, they found it little changed. The addition of the whole of the Tyran did not seem to crowd the damaged grounds; did not seem to crowd the broken frame of the temple door. The Ospreys were there in their full numbers as well, but they milled, like a small crowd.

This stopped when Commander Allen issued a soft command. All heads turned to Ramiro di’Callesta; in the soft glow of a carried lamp, he could see the momentary relief that changed the Commander’s features. “Tyr’agnate,” the Commander said, offering him a full Imperial bow.

Ramiro nodded. He was weary now. Whatever had driven him from balcony to ground had deserted him; the night was cold.

“Member APhaniel,” the Commander added, turning to the mage.

Ramiro perceived that it was indeed the mage they waited upon. Why?

“Commander Allen.” Meralonne was once again robed in the loose fitting garb of the Order; the sword was gone, and the mail of tiny chain links hidden. He bowed and reached for his pipe, the latter gesture robbing the former of due respect.

Not even Widan, Ramiro thought, with just a hint of humor, would dare as much. But the Commander, the Eagle, seemed familiar enough with this rough lack of respect; he paid it no heed. None at all.

“We have need of your services, APhaniel.”

“The bodies?”

The Commander lifted a brow. Then he grimaced, and this, too, was completely unfettered. “The bodies,” he said. “There were four. The days beneath the ground have been . . . unkind . . . to two of them. But the others seem whole.”

Meralonne nodded.

“The Serra Alina di’Lamberto does not recognize the two.”

“Then only two of the men served Lamberto.”

“At best guess, none of them served Lamberto,” the Commander replied, and this time, steel girded the words.

The mage shrugged. “This will not wait?”

Commander Allen’s silence was answer enough. And it was the expected answer. It seemed that the Northerners had their own customs, their own dance of power. The manners that informed it were not Southern, but they were there, if one knew how to observe.

Meralonne lit the leaves in the basin of his pipe and then gestured; Commander Allen, himself, led. They walked between the ranks of the Tyran, smoke lingering in their wake like a pathway through air.

Ramiro met the gaze of his par. “Fillipo,” he said.

“Was it done?”

Ramiro nodded.

“The bodies were disinterred. They have not been otherwise disturbed. If magic was used—by the Northerners—it was subtle enough to escape our detection.”

He nodded again. He shed weariness, replacing it with a bitter curiosity.

Valedan kai di’Leonne waited beside Ser Andaro di’Corsarro, flanked by Ospreys, before the pallets upon the cleared ground. The open stone path that led to the temple served as bed; the Radann, some four men, Fiero among them, stood stiffly by his side, the rays of their office catching light as they moved. Dirt clung to the hems of their robes, dirt and grass; they carried their swords openly, forsaking shields for torchlight. But they bowed as the Tyr’agnate approached, and they retreated.

The kai Leonne did not.

Nor did Kiriel di’Ashaf or the Serra Alina di’Lamberto; nor did Alexis AKalakar or Fiara AKalakar. Commander Ellora AKalakar was likewise present; they formed the living antithesis to things graceful and feminine by their watchful, militant—and in two cases, sullen—presence.

But they ringed the kai Leonne, and for just a moment, Ramiro saw in them a ferocity, a fellowship, that reminded him in a way he could not explain, of his wives and their daughters.

There is very little
, he thought dispassionately,
that these women would not do for your cause, or in it
. And then he smiled again, thinking that the same could be said of Serra Amara. He had—all of the South had—chosen the few weapons by which the Serras might fight, but having chosen to arm them so poorly, he still knew what they were capable of. He desired his wife now.

But he would not demean her by summoning her. There were other reasons why he did not wish to face her yet.

“Member APhaniel,” Valedan said quietly.

The mage looked up. To Valedan kai di’Leonne, he offered a somber, perfect bow—a Southern bow, graceful to the last detail, and held for exactly the right length of breath, of heartbeat.
So
, Ramiro thought. But he said nothing.

“You are aware of what passed within the temple,” the boy Tyr said quietly.

“Indeed.”

“We wish to know how it was done.”

“If I am not mistaken, Tyr’agar, you have seen it once before.”

Ser Andaro di’Corsarro was pale. The light that shone orange upon the rest of the Ospreys seemed to discolor his face and his skin.

But the mage made his way to the side of the bodies, and he knelt there for some time, his expression shifting. He passed a hand over the sunken faces of the men that the Serra had called Lambertan. With a grunt, he rolled the first body over, dislodging it from the pallet. Armor had already been stripped from it. From the back, the black of a sword wound could be seen; the blood had long since dried.

“These?”

“Perhaps.” He rolled the second corpse on its chest, and likewise examined back and spine, and then bid the Ospreys roll them back. He said quietly, “I will have to cut them open.”

“Why those two, APhaniel?” Ramiro asked, choosing the Northern title.

“If, as you suspect but do not say, one of the four carried demons within them, evidence will almost certainly be found with these two.”

“And not the others?”

“They are a different problem,” the mage replied. “And they may offer different answers. But the Tyran and their presence would be significant here; were I to choose a method of conveyance, were I to desire their presence, I would control it personally.” He glanced up at Kiriel di’Ashaf, and after a moment, she shook her head. “They are empty,” she said quietly.

“Good.”

Ser Andaro said, “When . . . my compatriot . . . was—”

Valedan lifted a hand, but Ser Andaro shook his head. “The body was his; the memories his. I would swear it. Cutting him open, wounding him, did not—”

Meralonne frowned. “You are correct, Ser Andaro. And perceptive. Our lore in these matters is poor; we are forbidden the study of ancient arts, and we gather information as we can. But you are correct. What . . . inhabited . . . the kai Callesta’s body was not kin to what we witnessed upon the Kings’ field. I am almost certain that the kai Callesta was dead before the demon moved.

“The kin do not easily inhabit living flesh, and not without a great deal of preparation; they can, however,
wear
it, for some time, and in a fashion. They can preserve it for their own use, if they have the self-control, but no more.” He paused, and then drew his dagger.

Without another word, he cut across the center of the first man’s chest; his blade was sharp, if short, and it passed with ease between ribs and sunken flesh. Too great an ease, the Callestan Tyr thought.

He peeled back the skin.

The chest cavity was hollow; the number of ribs too few. “Here,” he said quietly.

“There is no heart,” Valedan said.

“None, Tyr’agar.” The mage rose, and bent beside the second corpse. This, too, was empty.

“We found only one demon.” Valedan rose.

“If there was a second,” Kiriel told him, “It is long gone. The plateau is free of the presence of the kin.”

“So,” Meralonne said, rising and stretching his shoulders, his long neck. His pipe flared again. “At least that much of a mystery is solved. It leaves another, of course. Tyr’agnate, is it possible for the oathguards to quit?”

Ramiro’s scorn was only barely concealed. “They are not Northern guards,” he said quietly.

“And is it possible to dismiss them?”

Ser Fillipo par di’Callesta, silent until that moment, said, “Yes. We call it execution.”

“Ah. Then this must have been done in Lamberto.”

“They planned well,” Ramiro said quietly.

“Lack of organization has never been among their failings; they are not bound by mortal time; haste can be measured in decades, not hours. You are confident that the kai Lamberto is in no way allied with the kin?”

Ramiro kai di’Callesta said nothing. But he looked to the Serra Alina.

She, too, was silent.

“We are confident,” Valedan said, speaking the words that they would not.

Meralonne rose. “They cannot do this easily,” he said at last. “And not for long.”

“Did they retain the memories of the men whose bodies they wore?” Ramiro asked.

Meralonne shrugged. “I cannot be certain. I would say no, but that would be conjecture, and we have no way of testing it.”

“It would be best if this were not known.”

“Indeed. It is the same situation in which the Kings found themselves: the cost of the fear and the panic would be too great.”

“Can we protect our own against this?”

Meralonne shook his head. “As we protected the contestants? No. We offered them no protection in the end, kai Callesta; we offered ourselves early warning, that was all. But I will tell you again, this is rare, and it is costly.”

“Not costly enough.”

“Not yet.”

“Kiriel di’Ashaf,” Ramiro turned to the Osprey. “If these possessed my men, could you detect them?”

She hesitated. And then, as if ashamed, she lowered her head. “Not I,” she said at last. “But—”

“Say no more. But I better understand your decision now, and if I do not rejoice in it, I accept it. Your creature—your servant—I wish use of him on the morrow.”

She nodded grimly.

But the mage had not yet finished.

“These two,” he said quietly, coming at last to the bodies that seemed freshly fallen. He paused before the first, looking up, not at Valedan, but at the Tyr’agnate. “Kai Callesta, with your permission?”

“You have it.”

The mage looked down. And then he set his pipe aside upon the stone, and spread his hands flat against the chest of the nearest. He spoke words, and they were sharp and harsh to the ears of the Callestan Tyr; they were fully formed and yet completely unintelligible; they eluded the ear, and all memory. He could not hold them.

The chest of the man began to
unfold
. Skin rose, and rose again, like tendrils of a plant, flesh-colored but thin and almost translucent beneath the lantern hearts, the billowing smoke of torchlight.

Everywhere that skin had touched the mage’s hands, it sought to elude them, until beneath his hands, only one thing remained, shining and wet in its exposure to the cool of the night sky: a heart.

Not a living heart, but not—yet—dead.

Meralonne APhaniel cursed roundly in Weston. Reaching down, he caught the heart in his hands as the skin that had risen now collapsed in a sudden effort to heal the breach. It came too late; the heart was his.

And as he drew it from the chest, the body began to collapse, taking the form now of dead leaves, long grass, bent branches and twigs.

“It is
Allasakari
magic,” he said quietly. “I begin to understand now.”

No one spoke for a full minute.

“Two others must have traveled with the possessed Tyran,” he said quietly. “But they had no intention of dying here. You will no doubt find—if you look—that two of your own have gone missing, kai Callesta. They will never be found; no more of them remains than this.” And he lifted the heart in the scant light. “It is a magic of seeming, only; it has not the power to grant life, or even its semblance. But it has served its purpose here.

“They may have served as witnesses to the assassination; they could not afford to leave any real witnesses alive. Seek them.”

But his tone made clear that he thought nothing would be found.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

12th of Corvil, 427 AA

Terrean of Averda, Amar

T
HE Serra Donna en’Lamberto entered the courtyard with two of the Lambertan Tyran. Her husband’s men, and trusted, they walked before her, swords sheathed; they were meant not as warning but as evidence of her significance.

She accepted them with an ease borne of familiarity, and in truth, she found them a comfort—but she would have to shed them before she spoke with the Voyani who waited. Her hands were steady; she drew strength from the formal posture, the rigidity of lifted chin, of elongated neck—forms that she adopted without thought, they were so necessary.

This was not her home; her home was the heart of the harem. Exposed, she retreated into the mannered dignity of a Serra.

And knew, as she reached the waiting women, that it was the wrong retreat.

The older of the two was no longer dark-haired; time had grayed the untidy spill of raven black, and lines had become engraved around mouth and lip. Whether these were due to frown or smile, she could not say; the woman herself betrayed no emotion, other than the mild look of irritation that seemed so common among the Voyani.

But when the Serra Donna left the Tyran and approached, both women surprised her; they bowed. She did not kneel, although instinct bade her bend knee. Her husband was watching.

“Serra Donna en’Lamberto,” the older woman said quietly, as she rose. “I am Nadia Yollanaan, Daughter of the Matriarch of Havalla. And this is Varya, my sister. We’re honored that you could meet with us.”

This last was said with a heavy irony, and the younger woman frowned openly. But she did not speak, and by her silence, Donna knew who was in command. Still, she gazed at the sister a moment; she, too, was darkened by sun, creased by wind—but the color had not yet been bleached from her hair, and the wildness was moored in her face, her dark eyes. In the full bloom of her youth, however brief, she must have been beautiful.

“Accept my apologies for my tardiness,” she said quietly. “I received a message that could not wait.”

“Was it welcome news?”

“No,” she said quietly, discomfited by the boldness of the question. Squaring shoulders, she added, “It came from the Terrean of Averda.”

Both women were instantly alert.

“And I will offer it to you, although it was private, in return for information.”

The women relaxed. The Voyani were not true merchants; if they traded at all, it was in secrecy and herbs. But information was bartered often between the poorer clanswomen and the Voyani. “And that information, Serra?”

“I wish to know how something impossible might be achieved.”

“If indeed it is impossible,” Nadia replied cautiously, “it might never be achieved at all.”

“Ah, you mistake me—I speak poorly. It has been a long day. I do not desire to achieve this thing; I desire to understand how it came to pass.”

The sisters exchanged a look. Donna read much in what passed between them, but it did not surprise her; the Voyani did not wear masks in the High Courts. Did not spend time in the High Courts, if it could be avoided.

“You will have to trust us,” Nadia said at last. “For until you ask the question, we will not know whether or not we can answer it; you may be offering us information for free.”

“I will take that risk,” she replied quietly. “For it is said that the Voyani serve the Lady.”

“It is not said beneath the Lord’s gaze,” Nadia replied quietly, lifting a hand.

That hand cast a shadow; the Lord was in the sky.

“If you will,” Serra Donna replied, “I would offer you the meager hospitality of my quarters. I know that the Voyani are not accustomed to spending much time beneath roof or enclosing walls—but there is privacy in the harem that is not found elsewhere.”

Nadia bowed again. “We have traveled in haste,” she replied. “And although it is said that we neither bathe nor sleep, neither of these things are entirely true.” Her smile was almost warm; it was certainly genuine.

Serra Donna returned a scant bow; it hid her relief. “Please,” she said quietly, “follow me. The Tyran will not accompany us if you prefer their absence; you do not travel in the company of men.”

“No,” Nadia replied. “We do not. You are considerate, Serra Donna, but it is no surprise; you are Lambertan; If you are truly comfortable with their absence, we will gratefully do without; if there is difficulty in the domis, both Varya and myself are capable of dealing with it, and we will defend you as if you were Havallan.” Her accent, indeed her choice of words, was awkward—but it was appropriate. To the domis, to the High Court, to the Serra.

She felt a prickle of unease take root at that.

Serra Donna bowed again, and turning, she offered the Tyran the agreed upon signal. They parted to allow her to pass, and they did not follow; they were perfect enough that they showed no concern, no interest all, as she left them behind. It did not surprise her, but it gratified her nonetheless, for she knew that Nadia of the Havalla Voyani was now slightly off her stride; she had expected neither offer, and had accepted both.

The Voyani women were offered access to the baths, and food was prepared in their absence; when they returned to the heart of the harem, Serra Donna en’Lamberto was alone—but her screens were not yet closed, and through them, the sounds of the children could easily be heard. She had arranged it, just so, but children were often unpredictable.

Nadia sank awkwardly to her knees, and Varya, even more so, but the cushions were soft and the food at a height that standing made awkward. Serra Donna herself poured both water and wine; she knew that the Voyani were not comfortable in the presence of serafs, and she therefore sent all of her serafs from the wing. The children, however, remained, a distant reminder of the things they had in common.

Only after the women had eaten did Donna rise and close the screens, sealing them with the silk flashing that requested—no, ordered—privacy.

“Nadia of Havalla,” she said, as she resumed her seat, “we have had no word of the Matriarch. Have you?”

“Some,” Nadia replied, with care. “But none of it from her directly.”

More than that, Donna did not ask. Instead, she swallowed breath and shed dignity, in order to better accommodate her unusual guests. “I received a letter from the Serra Amara en’Callesta.”

Nadia raised a weathered brow. It changed the landscape of her face. “How much does she say?” The tone was now completely neutral, if too blunt.

“Enough,” the Serra Donna replied. “It is a Serra’s letter . . . and it is not. She does not,” she added, when Nadia opened her mouth again, “speak of the Northern armies, if that is what you mean to ask.”

Nadia subsided, but her expression shifted again, and this time she offered the Serra the sharpest of her smiles. “So,” she said quietly. “You know.”

“My husband knows,” Serra Donna said carefully, setting the water aside. “It is not given to the Serras to study the arts of war.”

“Fair enough,” Nadia said.

But Varya said bitterly, “No. Only to die by them.”

The older sister turned a venomous gaze upon the younger; it was the first thing they had done that made them seem, in truth, kin. Serra Donna was careful not to smile.

“What, then, does the Serra Amara offer you?”

“She offers nothing,” Serra Donna replied, with just a hint of reproval. “But she asks much.”

“Be blunt, Serra.”

Donna stiffened. “I was being blunt,” she said coolly.

Varya snickered.

“But I will be more so, if it pleases you. Her son, Carelo kai di’Callesta, is dead.”

The two woman stilled completely. That much information, it seemed, had not traveled between the two Terreans, at least not by the roads the Voyani walked. “How?” the older of the two asked sharply.

“Assassins,” the Serra replied, serene now, the knowledge a sharp weapon. A weapon, she thought, with some regret, that could only be used once.

“What was the nature of the assassins? Is it known?”

It was not the question that Donna expected, if she had expected any at all, but it told her much. It changed the face of the conversation.

“To the Callestans,” she said, with deliberate care, “it would seem that he was killed by Lambertan men. By,” she added softly, “the Tyran that serve my husband.”

“Impossible,” Varya said, and from that moment on, Donna felt that she must like this sharp-tongued, prickly woman.

Nadia, however, said nothing. She was not yet her mother’s equal, but the potential now lay before the Serra, open to inspection. “Were there witnesses?”

“I think there must have been,” the Serra replied quietly. “But although the bodies of the killers were identified by a source that both the Callestans
and
the Lambertans must consider above reproach,” she continued with care, “the Serra Amara en’Callesta is cautious.”

“How so?”

“She has asked me if my husband ordered this killing.”

“And your answer?”

“Ah, forgive me, Nadia. I have not yet tendered a reply; I was late to meet with you because the information was of import enough to the Tyr that I attended him first.”

Nadia frowned.

“My husband, of course, did not order the assassination.”

Nadia nodded. If she doubted the words, the doubt was kept from her otherwise fluid expression.

“Yet the men who carried it out were, indeed, his men.”

Impassive, the Voyani woman waited.

“We do not treat with Widan, except at need,” the Serra continued, “and their arts are not our arts. But it is not my husband’s belief that such . . . deception is within their capabilities.”

“No,” Nadia said quietly. “It is not.”

“How, then, could this be achieved?”

Nadia looked toward the opaque screens. She bowed her head a moment. “There are two ways,” she said quietly. “And I will offer you both, Serra Donna en’Lamberto, and more.

“If the killing itself was carried out by a third party, it would be a difficult—but not impossible—task to then leave the bodies of the supposed killers behind. The Voyani could do it, although it would carry some risk to us, and the witnesses could not be people with any sophistication.”

Donna said nothing at all, but folded her hands in her lap as Nadia spoke.

“We did not, nor would we, assassinate the Callestan kai. Not now. Especially not now.”

“And the other way?”

“The other way is not within our grasp,” she replied. “But it is within the grasp of the servants of the Lord of Night.”

The hands in her lap shook briefly; Serra Donna stilled the tremor.

“Even here?” she said at last, when it was clear that the Havallan would not continue.

“Even here.” Nadia lifted wine, not water, to her cracked lips. “We did not come to barter with old wives or to offer fortunes and mystery, Serra. Were that our intent, we would never have approached the plateau.” She drank; there was no grace in the bitter, deliberate gesture. “The wine is sweet.”

“And the water.”

“Nadia—”

“No, Varya.” She raised her head and ran fingers through stiff hair. “We have come with word, and with an offer.”

“What offer?”

“The Voyani have, among their number, people who can detect the servants of the Lord of Night. They are few,” she added quietly, “and we do not expose them willingly.”

“And word?”

But Nadia’s face smoothed into lines of impassivity as she studied the Serra’s face. A decision was being made; Donna knew better than to attempt to influence it.

“The Tor’agar of Marano,” Nadia said at last, “arrived at your gates some days before we did.”

Serra Donna en’Lamberto frowned. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“He carried word, we believe, from the General Marente. No, Serra; if it places you in a difficult position, do not answer; it was not a question.”

Serra Donna said nothing.

“The General Marente has made, in one action, enemies of the Voyani. We will not serve him; we will not treat with him.”

Serra Donna nodded. She longed for the safety of her fan, but although it rested beside the cushions on which she knelt, she did not dare to draw attention by lifting it.

“I do not know what offer the letter contained; there was some discussion about whether or not it was wise to let the message pass.” Another look passed between the sisters. “But in the end, we must have some faith in Lamberto; we did not intervene. And in the end, Serra Donna, we had pressing concerns; taking action against the Tor’agar would have hindered us in our other operations.

“Some small number of these servants of the Lord of Night have crossed the border of Mancorvo; they are someplace within the Terrean as we speak.”

13th of Corvil, 427 AA

Dominion of Annagar, The Dark Deepings

Kallandras turned to Lord Celleriant when he stilled. Ahead, in the darkness, he could hear the clear sound of snapping twigs, dry branches that had fallen from the ancient trees that seem to gird the path chosen by the Havallan Matriarch.