Sun Sword - The Riven Shield Part 57

The dark-haired man bowed. He was ten years Ramiro's junior, and the distance of years put all power in this discourse upon Ramiro's shoulders. As, he thought, with fleeting amus.e.m.e.nt, it should be.

The temple of the Radann was not, in theory, his, and he was conversant with the laws that governed its existence. But his or no, he was the Tyr'agnate; the symbol of sun rising, eight rays glittering gold in a reflection of hastily gathered light, was in all ways equal to the robes that the Radann Fiero el'Sol would wear when he at last chose to join them.

Allanos bowed. When he rose, he was still for a moment: in the torchlight he could see the length of the Callestan blade. Bloodhame had been drawn.

The Radann was pale. Ramiro chose to see this as an artifact of the light.

An act of mercy.

"The Radann Fiero el'Sol will join us," Allanos said. "Are we under attack, Tyr'agnate?"

"We are at war," Ramiro replied smoothly.

Allanos nodded grimly. "Radann Fiero el'Sol has prepared the blessing for the dawn."

"Such a blessing is a blessing, but we are not always fortunate enough to choose the hour of its necessity."

"Indeed, that is the Lord's truth." The Radann parted; Radann Allanos gave way with just a hint of relief to the man who controlled the Radann el'Sol in the Terrean of Averda.

If Radann Fiero el'Sol was disturbed by the manner of the Tyr'agnate's chosen summons, his bearing gave no evidence of it. He bowed, his hand upon the hilt of sheathed blade. Without hesitation he stepped across the threshold, giving himself over to the world of the clansmen and the will of the man who ruled them here.

"Radann Fiero el'Sol," the Tyr'agnate said quietly, "I have come with the Tyr'agar and his guards." He bowed to Valedan, the gesture perfect.

The Radann's bow was minutely different as he extended it to the last of the Leonne bloodline.

It was difficult to cede the rest of the negotiation to the untried youth, but Ramiro was capable of such surrender. He stepped aside, wordlessly demanding Valedan's attendance.

Saw the slight lift of dark brow in the otherwise smooth countenance of the Radann. "Tyr'agar."

"Radann Fiero el'Sol."

"How may we serve?"

"With your permission," Valedan said, as smooth in speech as Ramiro had been, his Torra the perfect Torra of the High Court, "I would guard this conversation from ears less friendly to our cause than yours."

"Of course"

"Primus."

Primus Duarte AKalakar lifted arms in a wide, swift circle that reminded Ramiro of a bird's flight. Hunting bird. The Ospreys, he thought, had always been well-named.

While Duarte drew the eye with the grace of his gesture, and confounded the ear with the unpleasant gutturality of his spoken, impenetrable words, Valedan gestured Kiriel forward.

He turned, met her gaze openly; she offered him no pretty bow, no Serra's obeisance, no graceful obedience. Her gaze traveled across the gathered men; her fist clenched. After a moment, she shook her head.

"Thank you, Sentrus. That will be all."

It was not a choice Ramiro di'Callesta would have made, but he had already made his decision, and now abided by it.

"Radann Fiero," Valedan said quietly, "I ask for your judgment."

Fiero's brows rose. What seemed dark in the darkness was lined silver; age, there. The strength of an age that weakness had not yet diminished. Men called it wisdom.

Radann Fiero el'Sol waited.

"The temple of the Radann is forbidden the women of the Dominion," Valedan continued. "The Lord seeks warriors, and the women of the South lift no sword, and join no battle, for his greater glory."

"Indeed."

"But among my men are the warriors of the North. This woman," he continued, acknowledging Kiriel, and by such acknowledgment, forcing the same from the Radann Fiero el'Sol, "lives by the sword she bears. She has fought the servants of the Lord of Night both in darkness and beneath the Lord's gaze, and she has always emerged victorious; if he judges, he judges her as one of his own."

Ramiro closed his eyes. The line of his jaw was stiff as a blade, stiff as Annagarian pride. He did not speak.

"The Lord does not reign in the North," the Radann Allanos el'Sol said, his modulated tone belying the outrage of stiff words.

"The Lord," Valedan replied quietly, "is not confined by the borders drawn-and contested-by men. There is not a one among you who can best her in battle."

"Kai Leonne," Ser Ramiro said. A warning.

One that the kai Leonne chose not to heed.

"She is blessed by the Lord. I have seen it. The Tyran that now serve the Tyr'agnate have seen it. She has defeated a darkness that existed, whole, in the light of day."

"She is a woman," Radann Fiero el'Sol replied. Seeing, now, where the conversation was headed, and not liking it overmuch.

"She is. But she has more than a warrior's heart." He bowed. "We have traveled far this eve, and we have received word that the servants of our enemy reside within Callesta, waiting upon the departure of the Tyr'agnate before they strike at the heart of his lands: the city of Callesta itself."

"Grim news," Radann Fiero said softly, relenting.

"There is only one place they might reside in safety," Valedan continued. "Only one place that is considered above reproach, and therefore, above suspicion."

Wisdom. Light in the face of the Radann Fiero el'Sol: fire. Lord's fire. "Impossible."

"That is our hope," Valedan replied. But his tone offered none.

The Radann turned to his Radann, to his armed servitors. He gestured; he spoke.

And the Tyr'agnate saw what he had never seen as lord of Averda: the Fire of the Radann. Light leaped from Fiero's eyes to the edge of the blade he drew, as if it were lightning strike in the heart of the storm.

"Yes," the kai Leonne said softly. "Within the temple itself."

Dangerous. Dangerous that; it bordered upon accusation. Boy Tyr, Ramiro thought, tread cautiously.

"We harbor no servants of the Lord of Night."

"Not knowingly; it is not the way of that Lord. But within the temple itself, our enemy is waiting."

The Radann turned toward the open doors, toward the darkness made of night's fall through the crafted gla.s.s of the Northern Empire.

"If such a creature has made his abode in this place," Valedan said softly, "is the temple of the Radann not defiled?"

The Radann Fiero el'Sol was curved, Lord's blade. Southern blade. "If such a thing were true, Tyr'agar, yes."

Be careful, kai Leonne.

"Then the Lord has consecrated these grounds in a manner befitting the warriors he chooses to test. This is his blessing." Valedan drew blade; it was dull and flat as it met the fires of the Radann, but he held it firmly, raised it without hesitation. The Radann Fiero el'Sol recognized the blade at once: the blade of the heir to Callesta. "We take battle to the only place upon the grounds of Callesta that knows the Lord's sight in the darkness of the Lady's time.

"Will you deny us our warriors?"

"They are women," Fiero said slowly.

"Yes. And the judgment that I wait upon is in the hands of men who know best the Lord's will. Deny them entry, and we will abide by the decision of the Radann."

The moment stretched.

Valedan kai di'Leonne did not move; although he was capable of-could be accused of-being gentle, he was steel now. Behind the respect he offered the Radann was, at last, the edge of a threat that only the Tyr'agar could offer. The Tyr'agar, who wore the sun ascendant, as even Radann Fiero el'Sol could not.

The Radann Fiero el'Sol's eyes fell first and, as they did, gazed at last upon the full splendor of the sun ascendant. "Tyr'agar," he said stiffly. "As you have spoken. Let the Lord judge."

Just that.

Valedan kai di'Leonne offered the Radann el'Sol the lowest of bows he might offer from the distance of his rank.

"Sentrus," he said coldly to Kiriel di'Ashaf. "Find what you seek."

It was a command. And more, for if she was mistaken, it would be costly, and the cost would be borne, in its entirety, by the man who would be Tyr.

Although he had given the command, Kiriel waited.

She understood the subtle play of politics between the powerful; had seen it many times. Kinlords often offered their va.s.sals a chance to earn their deaths, and the deaths were never pleasant.

He waited a moment, and then he nodded. "Follow," he said quietly.

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the slight incline of Ramiro di'Callesta's head. Was surprised at the momentary pleasure his approval afforded her.

Lord Telakar waited by her side.

"You are . . . interesting," he said, in the tongue of the Kialli.

She gave him no answer; Valedan stepped between the open doors and she followed, moving so quickly and gracefully not even Ser Andaro was given the chance to cleave to the side of his lord. She drew her blade carefully, avoiding the theatrical sweep of black steel in the confined s.p.a.ce the backs and chests of men made.

"Where, Telakar?" She, too, chose to speak in the Kialli tongue.

"Can you not sense it, Kiriel? You are almost upon him now."

She hesitated for only a moment. "If I could sense him, I would have killed you instantly."

"Then perhaps it is not in my interest, Lord, to satisfy your curiosity so quickly."

She shrugged. "You've already exposed your weakness, Telakar. Thwart me, and I will kill her."

"You lack subtlety."

"Yes."

"Very well. But be quick, little one."

She froze. Turned to him, then, the blade wavering in her hand. She almost killed him.

Didn't. "Never call me that," she said softly.

He bowed. Rose, expression remote. He lifted a hand and gestured.

Toward the altar.

Toward the body of the kai Callesta.

Kiriel reached out; touched Valedan's shoulder. He froze. "Kai Leonne," she said, using the familiar t.i.tle and not the formal one. "It would be best if you . . . waited outside with the Tyr'agnate."

Her only mercy. A mistake; she had little time. Telakar's warning was clear: if the creature escaped, if he made good his return to the Shining City, it would change the face of the war before she was ready.

He would carry news of Lord Telakar to the Shining Court, and if the Lord's will was bent upon Telakar, she had already lost him. Worse, he would know where she was.

But the ring upon her hand burned suddenly hot and the colors of the shadowed room darkened and brightened, speaking a language that mortals were never meant to understand.

Valedan's expression was cloaked now in the colors of night; his face was pale. She could see, beneath the thin stretch of skin, the colors by which mortal lives were defined: the brilliance of pale, pale white, the beauty of the grays that defined its edges. No darkness here.

The sight stilled her.

And in that moment, the Tyr'agnate joined them as they stood, crowded now, too many bodies pressed into a small s.p.a.ce.

She looked at the older man. Wondered why she had thought of sparing him this combat, and shook herself free of the desire.

Lifting her blade, she shattered the silence with the strength of her unbound roar.

She could see.

For a moment, the ring seemed to fall from her hand; it was luminescent, yes, but slender, a transparent circlet, a harmless adornment.

Not so the blade; it woke at the sound of her cry, quickening in her hands. She could feel its pulse as if it were alive; as if it were an extension of her arm, her flesh and blood.

She had wielded it for all of her adult life, and it had never responded thus.

The creature upon the altar rose at once, caged in dead flesh, his eyes shrunken now by the lack of water and vision, his lips cracked, the hollows of his face containing wells of shadow. Beauty, and in it, the whole of the facade of death.

Those lips stretched out across flat teeth.

She could not see his name. Could not command him; could not draw him out of the body that housed it.