The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (81 page)

“Enough.”

The burden of silence was not difficult to shoulder.

“The man is Widan,” Amando said coldly. “An ally of the Tyr’agar.”

Alessandro studied the Widan, his eyes narrowing. The man was tall; taller than the Tor’agnate of Manelo. His build was slender, but not slight; indeed, nothing about him gave the impression of a small man. His hair was night dark, and it fell about his shoulders, unfettered by braid.

But his chin was smooth; no beard descended from its sharp line. Widan?

No.

“He does not choose to wear the Sword of Knowledge.”

Ser Amando frowned. “Will you play at games, Alessandro? I am disappointed. Of my son’s kin, he counted you closer than brother.

“He does not wear the Sword, but the river is his work; what other proof of his claim is required?”

Here and there, dirt track had been worn through grass; it was covered in layers of straw and mud, like a dense imitation of stone. The tracks that were little worn were not wide; Kallandras found them, and Kallandras led the way, walking a few paces ahead of Jewel, no more.

Buildings now added a texture to the scant light; lamps were lit, and Jewel doubted that they always burned this late. Shadows stirred to one side of the track.

They were familiar to Jewel because, in her youth, she had been such a shadow. She lifted a hand; the stag was already still beneath her.

“We mean no harm,” she said, speaking quietly but clearly into the empty night. “We travel at the behest of Clemente.”

“Clemente?” A voice. A woman’s voice.

“Clemente,” Jewel said more firmly.

“The Tor does not travel through the forest,” the woman said, and the shadows resolved themselves into a single form.

“No. We do not travel by his side.”

The woman nodded. “We know.”

The villager approached now, lit by moon; she carried neither torch nor lamp. Nothing, Jewel thought, that might give her away to the casual observer.

Jewel had walked as carefully through the streets of the twenty-fifth holding. But they had never been so quiet, those streets; even at night, the taverns’ noise spilled into the cobbled stone, and the loud, varied voices of men who indulged in smoke and alcohol provided some cover for the sound of moving feet.

“We?”

“Not all of the people of Damar are in hiding,” the woman answered.

“No,” another voice said, older but definitely feminine. “Only the smart ones.”

The woman in the road froze, but not with fear; although Jewel could not yet see her face—might never see it clearly—she thought she sensed irritation in the stiffening of posture.

“There is no good place to hide,” the younger woman said, and her tone conveyed clearly what her posture had hinted at. “Surely Maria’s and Serge’s deaths made that plain.”

Silence.

“The Tor’agnate is here,” the figure said. “But he is . . . alone.”

“Alone?”

“He has seven men by his side.”

“Impossible,” Jewel said flatly. But it wasn’t—and she
knew
it.

“As impossible,” the woman replied, “as a woman riding a creature of the Old Forest. As impossible,” she continued, “as a woman who is clearly served by one of its lords.”

Almost against her will, Jewel smiled. “How? How was he isolated?”

“He crossed the Adane,” the woman replied. “And the river itself was raised from its bed as the Tor’agar and his escort stepped off the bridge.”

“But—”

“The river destroyed the bridge; it destroyed the narrow foot passage as well. The rest of his men will not be able to cross the river unless they turn East and make for the bridge near Sarel.”

Which would mean they’d have to leave Damar. Jewel knew just how likely that was.

The woman lowered her head. “By then, it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

But the stranger fell silent. Words had power. She had said enough.

“You are not a war host,” the older voice said. Another form separated itself from the shadows by the simple expedient of motion. She wore a heavy robe, and a veil covered her face.

“No,” Jewel replied, cautious now.

“Then if you cannot summon an army from the shadows of the Old Forest,” the woman said, “leave Damar.”

“Why?”

“Because an army
is
gathered here.” The younger woman tried to regain control of the conversation. Jewel wondered idly if they were related. “And without an army, you cannot stand against it.”

“We’ll take our chances.” She turned to look at Avandar.

He met her gaze, and his frown reminded her of the desert. But he turned to the women. “How many?”

“We don’t know,” the woman replied. “We don’t . . . count . . . that number of men.”

The frown tightened.

“ATerafin,” Kallandras said quietly. “With your permission?”

She nodded.

He approached the younger woman. Something about his silent, graceful movement was almost timid; his approach provoked no fear, caused no retreat. “I will not ask you to lead me, but tell me where these men can be found. Are they within Damar?”

She nodded. “Some hundred men came to this village four days past; they occupy the Western half of the village, but they do not stray to its borders, or we would not be here. The others came to the village this morning, in numbers; we believe they encamped a few miles outside of Damar until now.”

“Where are they?”

“They are not hard to find: they line the banks of the Adane, and they cleave to their Tor. We can lead you some part of the way.”

“Let us go,” he said quietly, his voice carrying first to Lord Celleriant.

“Kallandras.” Avandar lifted a hand.

The master bard turned.

“Remember: do not seek to speak with the wind’s voice.”

He nodded.

“We desire your presence upon the field,” Ser Amando said. He did not move from the vantage of height. “I, of course, have no doubt of your loyalty, but my allies are less trusting.”

Alessandro said nothing. His hand did not stray from the hilt of his sword. He weighed the past against the future, aware of the edges of either. The Northern sword might not be a man’s weapon, but it was a weapon that served metaphor: it had no safe edge.

If he died here, he died. His heir was safe within Sarel.

“I have long valued the trust you have placed in me,” he said, tone neutral. But he raised his head to meet the eyes of his kinsman. “I am a simple man,” he continued, when Ser Amando nodded. “But the presence of the . . . river . . . does not seem to me a great indication of faith.”

“But it is, Ser Alessandro. Were the bridges to remain standing, your men might be tempted to cross.” He lifted a hand then, and held it aloft.

Lanterns began to converge upon the dais, revealing, as they burned, the metallic sheen of the men who carried them.

“You took the time to gather your forces,” he continued. “You have always been a prudent man. But I, too, understand the value of preparation.”

Alessandro gazed upon the forces of Manelo. They were greater in number than even his spies had indicated; he wondered—for he could not see beyond the press of men who now lined this open causeway—how many of these men served a different Tyr.

“I will not see your forces squandered needlessly,” the Manelan Tor continued. “And I thought it best that they remain where they stand.”

“I . . . see.”

“They serve you,” he continued. “They are not serafs. They are among the finest of the plainsmen. Lead them. Lead them to war against the enemy of the Tyr’agar, and the river will fall. You may rejoin your men when we have completed our negotiations here.”

The double edge of the Northern blade was a metaphor, but so, too, the single edge of the South: Alessandro came to his grim decision.

He smiled. “Then, cousin, there is much to discuss. I have a visitor in Sarel who may be of interest to the Tyr’agar.”

Kallandras chose his position with care. The packed straw and mud of road gave way to wider venues; he avoided these. The woman who traveled by his side had once again rejoined the shadows that kept her hidden; she had led him only as far as the light permitted.

But the light in the distance had suddenly grown bright; he could make out the individual flickers of lamp flame, and these were too numerous to count.

He whispered his thanks to the nameless stranger, but he did not wait for a response that he knew wouldn’t come; instead, he began to climb. The roofs of the houses were peaked, and sometimes the slope from the peak was a sharp decline of wood; they offered him little trouble.

In Averalaan, or in the streets of the Tor Leonne, he might make his way from roof to roof in silence, unobserved by the men who stood sentry. Here, the gaps between buildings was large, and the finer homes were fenced in.

The fences were meant as decoration, he thought; as a way of demarking the subtle rank of lower clansmen. They were easily traversed; the Southerners valued privacy, and often built hedges against the fence wall to facilitate a sense of isolation.

He used both without pause, seeking safety and height.

The bard-born were gifted with voice, and with
the
voice. In the South, shorn of the title of Northern diplomat, such a gift often meant death.

But in the South, so much did. What he had made of his gift would be at home, here.

He slipped over a balcony rail.

The distance was great, but the press of men who now spilled into the city streets leading toward the Adane were mercifully silent.

He waited a moment, crouching against the wooden rails, the smooth slats beneath his feet dry and cool. Then he rose again, ascending to roof; there were only three buildings in the town that were tall, and he had chosen the one closest to the water.

There was some risk in the choice, but there was always risk; he felt the passing feet of men as clearly as he heard them. They patrolled, he thought, and this surprised him. He listened.

The wind’s voice was silent, but the voice of the water was the storm’s voice, chained to ground and unhappy in its captivity. The wall that rose from the riverbed towered above the tallest of the buildings, shimmering in moonlight. He could see the banks and the bed itself, shorn of the water’s movement: the river had gathered itself, condensing its strength and power in a stretch of wall that traveled a few miles, no more.

He felt its presence.

The ring on his hand glowed a pale white against the darker shade of night skin. He did not respond to the heat. Instead, he responded to the warning offered him by Avandar Gallais.

But not for the first time, he wondered what the cost of bearing this ring would ultimately be: for he disliked the water, with its blind, groping presence, its contained rage, its threat.

No; dislike was a petty word for something so visceral, and if the bards of Senniel were trained to song, they were trained to words as well. He did not name what he felt because it was so incongruous. He had been raised to think carefully, to deliberate quietly, even to kill dispassionately.

To kill in any other way was simply self-indulgent—a service performed for self and not for the Lady.

He shook his head, clearing it. He did not listen to the voices of the brothers he had lost, although they were there, as they had always been.

Instead, he looked. The army that stood at attention along the Adane broke in one place: its center. The streets of Damar led there, ending in a wide, semicircle which he knew must contain a fountain of contemplation. It was lost to the bodies of men, the gleam of armor. What now claimed the half circle’s heart, raised against the stones of this thoroughfare, was a long platform, and upon it, four men.

Ah, no, five.

The fifth, he recognized.

“This is true?” the strange Widan said sharply to the Tor’agnate of Manelo.

Alessandro did not dignify the question with a reply; the Tor’agnate dignified it with the simple narrowing of eyes.

The man in Widan’s robes noticed neither.

As if, Alessandro thought, he was ill-versed with the customs of the Court.

“Tor’agar,” the man said, into a silence that grew in weight and meaning, “is it true that you have the girl in your domis?”

“If,” Ser Alessandro said quietly, “the Widan accuses me of lying; perhaps there is no point to these negotiations.”

They were not words that should have had to be spoken, but their truth was immutable. Not even Ser Amando, clearly annoyed by Ser Alessandro’s hesitance, could have been so careless with his words.

And still, it was the Widan whose thin composure gave way to anger, and there was no subtlety of expression, no stillness of gesture, no cutting silence in his display; his brows rose in obvious, and ugly, displeasure.

“You are in no position—”

“Widan,” Ser Amando said, lifting a hand.

It would have silenced men of greater power. Indeed, it would have silenced the Tor’agar, had he been fool enough to require such reminder.