The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 45

"If his other choice was annihilation, yes." Sendari's smile was dark. "Alesso, we gambled, and in this case, it failed. We will still own the Tor; even Ramiro di'Callesta acknowledges as much in the letter to the Radann. Yes, it would have been better to have killed him at the height of the Festival. But that was a.s.ssa.s.sination, and this is combat. You made your name in the latter, and not the former."

"Oh?" was the moody reply. "Tell that to the clan Leonne." He reached out suddenly and grabbed Sendari's goblet; wine sloshed over the rim, staining the cushions beneath his crossed legs. "I am not a patient man, old friend. I see the need to act; I act. But in this-*" He lifted the cup to his lips and upended it.

"Enough, Alesso. Enough. Yes, we should have ridden to war. And we can, if you judge the armies enough."

"They will not be enough." Alesso lifted the goblet with an angry wave. It was filled. Quickly. "Oh, we could win a war against two Terreans that will not stand together. But not without cost. Not against those two. And after the war, what? You know where Baredan has gone, old friend. You know what he was seeing." Fingers were as white as aged silver against the goblet stem. "The sun-scorched child of an ugly concubine. Legitimized and sent North to be forgotten."

"Yes. Ser Valedan."

They were silent a moment. "The Sun Sword," Alesso said grimly. "Our cause will be hurt if I cannot wield it. Cannot the Widan-" "No. And you know it. A blade that can cut through the shadows that surround the kinlords will not be put off by our magics." His brow furrowed, for the problem was an old one, and oft-asked. "Perhaps if the Widan worked in concert-but I believe that we could not keep knowledge of that from the clansmen, and that will hurt you more."

"Then we've no choice."

Sendari said nothing. It was the prudent course. But he sat back uneasily against the sky-blue cushions, his throat too dry to drink.

"Tell Tyran Calevro to make the Tor Leonne ready for the public execution of the Northern hostages. Tell him to make their deaths quick but b.l.o.o.d.y; they must be a insult-worse-to the Northerners." He rose. "Then set a few of the Northern merchants free. Let them carry the tale."

"They will slaughter all of the hostages, Alesso."

"That is the plan," was the cool, dry reply.

"The Tyr'agnati will have no choice but to call for blood, and most certainly the Northerners-"

"The Northerners back away from war like beaten dogs whenever the opportunity presents itself." He paused. "But of course, when it is explained that the deaths were caused by a terrible political unrest-when we send the heads and the rings of those involved-they will bl.u.s.ter and ask for concessions. The hostages are not blood-kin, remember."

"They may back away from war," the Widan conceded, "but it is we, in the end, who ceded the lands in Averda to them. Weigh carefully. We cannot take the Dominion to war while we do not own it. Too much will be too unstable, and if the war is won by a General who is not Alesso di'Marente, we have lost the Dominion. Perhaps it might be better to forget about the boy and take the armies you control against Mancorvo and Averda."

"No, old friend," Alesso said, although he did not turn to face the Widan, "we will order the death of the Imperial hostages, and then we will wait. They will kill the boy, and I will wield the Sun Sword, I will hold the Tor. Only then will we call the war; for then we can take the cursed Shining Court out on a very short leash. But they had better," he added, throwing the goblet to the ground where the sweet wine was lapped up by the wooden planks, "be all that they say they are. And more."

Lady's last shadow.

Baredan di'Navarre stood in the darkness, waiting. It was cool in the valley, but not cold, and the sound of the insects sitting atop stalks of corn and wheat began to abate.

Sashallon, he thought, and it hurt. The horse that he rode for what was in all probability the most important ride of his life would be a stranger. As if the wind could hear his thoughts, it turned, bringing the scent of horses to him.

"General kai di'Navarre."

He recognized the voice in an instant, and bowed, although the bow was an act of generosity, not a dictate of custom.

The young girl, Eliana en'Callesta, returned his bow with an agile grace that made him feel truly old. At her side, with a gla.s.s lamp swinging in the brisk breeze, stood an older seraf with a neutral expression. His shadow fell across her feet. Eliana was not a woman who should stand in shadow.

Had he ever looked so perfect? Had he ever walked with such a complete confidence in his youth, in his own beauty? At that, he smiled ruefully. He had never been a beautiful man; not even his wives said otherwise. And there. She could bring a smile to his lips without speaking a word.

"Eliana," he said quietly. "Have you come to see an old man off?"

"Not an old one," she said. "But an honorable one. There are so few left in the Dominion." She spoke gravely, and the gravity made her, of all things, more beautiful. Holding the folds of her sari with her left hand, she reached down with her right and pulled out a long-stemmed flower. It was crimson, and beneath its closed bloom, there were thorns. "Serra Amara sends this to you," she told him softly.

"And I would not refuse a gift from Serra Amara the Gentle." He took the rose carefully, but in the dawn's poor light it was not easy to see what was stem and what thorn; the gift drew blood. "A wise man indeed."

General Baredan di'Navarre smiled. "Tyr'agnate," he said, dropping carefully to one knee. And then, from a vantage much closer to ground than Baredan was comfortable with, he saw it: the sword of Callesta. Another man might have pa.s.sed over it, for its sheath was not ornate. It was black, bound and knotted from top to bottom in linen and silk, with gold tip and gold mouth. What set it apart was the crimson mark in its center. The mark of Callesta.

"Do not," Ramiro di'Callesta said, "kneel before me. You are not beholden here, kai di'Navarre."

Baredan di'Navarre nodded grimly, but surprise still tightened his lips, silencing him. The sword. The sword of Callesta. He was certain it had not seen the Lord's light for at least a decade.

"Yes," Ramiro said, stepping to one side to allow his cerdan-no, his Tyran-to pa.s.s.

"Then I will ride," Baredan said, "with a lighter heart."

"And I," another voice said, "will wait with a heavier one." The Lord's light colored the sky; Serra Amara the Gentle wore a thin, thin silk against the line of her jaw as protection from the wearying sun. "General Baredan, we charge you with the safe return of our Tyr."

"With the-" He showed his surprise then, and Amara did not judge him weaker for the display; it was dawn, and in the moments when the Lady handed reign of her dominion to the Lord, it was hard to know where one's thoughts were best placed. "I am honored, Tyr'agnate di'Callesta."

The Tyr nodded briefly. "We will take an escort of a dozen." He turned to face the cerdan who waited with his wife. "The Terrean, in my absence, will be guarded and governed by my kai in my stead. His word is my word."

One of the Tyran stood apart, and bowed quite low. "Tyr'agnate." When he rose, Baredan thought he saw the likeness of the mother in his face. Ser Carelo kai di'Navarre.

The Tyr'agnate nodded as if satisfied, and continued. "Ser Alfredo di'Callesta will, however, be given command of the Western border patrols. It is time he a.s.sumed some of the responsibilities of Averda."

"Tyr'agnate," the kai said, bowing again, his face a perfectly composed mask.

"Come, Baredan. We ride with the sun's rise. The borders will almost certainly be watched."

He took no serafs with him because his mood was poor and he could ill afford to lose another; he had been forced to discard too many, and their experience and training was already missed. Even in the quiet splendor-the carefully cultivated appearance of tranquil, undisturbed wilderness- even in the presence of the lake of the Tor Leonne, his anger festered.

But the Festival of the Sun was to commence in less than ten days. Each pavilion, each viewing platform, each guest house and each hidden path, had to be tended, manicured, readied. This first year of the reign of Alesso di'Alesso, everything must be perfect.

He cursed the need for that perfection in silence, for at every stop he made, serafs and cerdan abounded, carrying bolts of fabric, hammers, nails; toiling with their wheelbarrows and their dirt, flowers, and spades; seeking, in each change, the blessing of the wives of Marano and Horaro, the women who, in the absence of a ruling clan, sought to better themselves by making the Festival of the Sun in their image.

Of course, when they saw Alesso di'Marente, they made haste to leave their labor, and of course, they made haste to bow, lengthening their stay and their work as they groveled. His power was not certain enough that he could afford to have any of them killed out of hand, although were he to do so, today would have been the day.

He cursed the Shining Court. Baredan di'Navarre was what he had been chosen to be: cunning, untrust-ing, untrappable-the Annagarian warrior. Just how cunning, and how suspicious, even Alesso had not begun to guess, and they had been friends a long time. He admired the General, even as he planned to crush him, for there was enough of the warrior in Alesso di'Marente that he truly appreciated a worthy rival.

Unreliable allies, on the other hand, were not accorded the same respect.

Wage war against the Essalieyanese, and you will have at your disposal kinlords.

And these?

He had watched the Lords in action. In the heat of the high sun, he felt a momentary chill, and he lifted his face to the Lord's. Wind touched his forehead.

What did the kinlords do in their millennia in the h.e.l.ls? They fought for dominion. And that fight, that desire for power, Alesso par di'Marente understood.

He nodded grimly at three serafs as they knelt gravely before him, their hands slightly dirt-stained, their presentation poor. Of course, presentation when one was digging and building could not be perfect; he pa.s.sed them by, pretending not to hear the sigh of relief the youngest gave.

Yes, the kinlords battled. But it was not for the glory of killing and dying that Alesso Di'Marente struggled. It was for this s.p.a.ce of wilderness, this near-perfect retreat, this crown of the Dominion.

I will be the greatest Tyr'agar that the Dominion has ever known. Or I will be the last. At this moment, neither sat well.

He did not know what he was searching for-did not, in fact, realize that he had been searching at all-until he came across the distant sound of mournful samisen music. He stood within a small stand of perfectly landscaped trees, and as he turned, the wind brought the notes to life, carrying an unmistakable voice.

No serafs attended him, by his strict command; nor did the cerdan that he normally brought with him. He regretted his decision, for their absence made of his approach an insult, and he did not wish to insult the Flower of the Dominion. Yet he approached as if drawn, seeking the words that the distance blurred.

Beneath his vantage, the Pavilion of the Dawn-well past its best viewing hours-lay protected against the sun's harshness by a simple, gabled roof; the screens had not been drawn. Upon the serafs' platform were two men and a young girl; they sat at ease, legs bent beneath them, heads bowed. The wide, round hats of the Southern Annagarians were bound with bright ribbons; they wore them well.

He followed the path that the trees hid until he could see beyond the serafs, and there he stopped, for Serra Diora di'Marano was singing. Her lashes were a dark sweep of perfect curve against her fair skin; her hair, unpearled and unfettered, hung down her shoulders and back as if she were a young child. She wore midnight-blue and ivory, and gold caught the light at her neck in strands that bound it perfectly.

He could not name the song she sang, and he was not unlearned. But the song brought him a measure of peace that he had not felt since... since last he heard her sing. She brought back youth, and the brashness of it.

He was a man, under the Lord's sight; a warrior who had proved himself upon the fields of battle against the Lord's enemies. The Tor Leonne-the Tor-was his, and in a man's home, a man's domain, he could do as he pleased if he had the strength to defend that action. General Alesso di'Marente had that strength.

The serafs looked up as he approached. The oldest of them, gray-haired and slender, rose in the seraf half-crouch, moving forward a graceful step to kneel in the soft dirt before the pavilion. The youngest, the girl, rose as well, stepping into the pavilion's shadows.

General Alesso par di'Marente stopped a foot away from the seraf when it became clear that the seraf did not intend to move for the clansman. Alesso wore the rayless sun above the crescent sword-a military symbol, a symbol that only clansmen were allowed to bear.

Had he not thought it would displease her, he would have killed the seraf outright; he considered it, before bowing very correctly instead. "Tell your Serra that the General Alesso di'Marente wishes the privilege of her audience."

The seraf bowed at once, his gray hair blending with bent stalks of gra.s.s that, like the man, had pa.s.sed their season of soft newness. Then he rose and retreated. But he did not retreat to where Serra Diora sat; he moved father back, disappearing from view into the cooler recess of the building.

Alesso had just time to curse quietly under his breath before the seraf returned to once again resume his position upon the seraf platform. "The Serra Teresa di'Marano grants the audience the General Alesso di'Marente requests."

Widan Sendari di'Marano was a troubled man. "Serra Teresa, you must be mistaken."

"You are the Widan, Ser Sendari. If you insist, and you walk the path of the Wise, who am I to demur?" She lifted her lavender fan and spread it wide, waving it through the air so delicately her hands seemed involved in an intricate dance. "Yet to my unlearned and untrained eye, I would say that Alesso di'Marente has shown his intent."

"Alesso is not a mere boy, to be overwhelmed by a woman's face or figure." He froze. "Or voice."

The air cooled. "Speak plainly, Widan Sendari di'Marano."

"You have not interfered?"

"Make the accusation, if you will make it; if you will not, leave it be." Her cheeks were colored slightly; they gave a pleasing blush to her appearance. But they also gave warning, and if the Widan did not take warning well, he took it.

"It is not like Alesso," he said roughly.

"It is exactly like Alesso," she replied. "You have interest and affection in the women that she chose for you, and in the woman that Fiona has chosen since. But you are not a poet, Sendari, and you will never be one; you have never had a young warrior's heart." Her eyes narrowed; the fan stilled, and she studied its perfect crescent, its jade ribbing. "Or did you have another plan for my niece? For I will concede that it is unlike Alesso to work against a plan he himself has devised."

"Indeed." He stared at her; she did not meet his gaze. "Speak," he said at last. "Speak plainly, at my request."

She lifted the carafe of sweet water and poured it for him. "I do not interfere in your affairs,

Widan. But if I were so inclined, I would not beguile Alesso di'Marente or in any way draw him to my Na'dio. He has already killed two wives."

"One died in childbirth," Sendari replied, too sharply.

"Very well, then."

"What exactly did he say?"

"What did he say? He said very little. But he approached without seraf or cerdan."

The Widan darkened slightly. "And?"

"He chose to speak with my serafs, and they carried his message. But he meant it, I think, for

Diora. He sat with us for two hours, and during that time, Diora sang and he watched her."

"Just that?"

"Yes. Only that." She paused, setting down the carafe and lifting the fan again, the effect one of

grace and muted satisfaction. "He did not look at another thing under the Lord's sky."

The Widan rose heavily, as if age were settling more quickly than he had ever expected it would upon his shoulders. He did not know if Teresa knew it, although he suspected that she did. Serra Diora Maria di'Marano had already been promised to the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi of the Terrean of Oerta in return for his pledged support of Alesso di'Marente at the Festival of the Sun. And she had been promised, with the very reluctant approval of her father, by Alesso di'Marente; for without his approval, Garrardi had vowed to withdraw not only his support, but his silence.

A dangerous game, that. But well-played.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

th of Morel, 427 AA Averalaan, Avantari.

"This was the third attempt on Ser Valedan di'Leonne's life in less than three weeks!"

"We're well aware of that."

"How is it that, in three weeks, your security has been so poor that not once, not twice, but thrice, the boy's life has been endangered?"

Commander Sivari had a headache that would not go away. The portly, loud, and theatrically enraged Anna-garian seated-if the up and down, back and forth motion could be dignified with the word-before him had been in his office for no less than three quarters of an hour, sweat-draped vermilion silks flouncing about as he gesticulated.

It was a pity, the commander thought idly, that weapon skill and endurance faded with age, but the ability to sit behind a desk and write out commands did not. The desk was a front line that he had grown to loathe over the years.

"... and we demand justice!"

Prattle. Frothing. Abuse.