The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 65

"The Church?"

It was difficult to be spoken to so bluntly by this particular Commander. Baredan di'Navarre had studied the customs of the Imperials for much of his adult life-the military customs, of course- and yet his knowledge did not make his reactions any easier to control. The Kalakar was not a graceful woman, nor a delicate one; she walked like a man, spoke like a man, demanded-and a.s.sumed- a man's respect. And from the scars that lined her face- pale now, at the touch of the Lord's grace-she had the right to both. She was no Imperial officer, come to the field without a sense of what she asked her people to face; she was a warrior, and she had proved it to those who needed proof: The men who served her. And the women.

He knew it. He had faced her knowledge and skill in the wars over a decade past-although she was not the anvil against which his sword had been forged. No, that General, defeated, now ruled in the Tor Leonne. Such were the ironies of life. The Kalakar and Alesso di'Mar-ente had clashed in the Averdan valleys, and although she had narrowly escaped the ma.s.sacre there, the victory had been granted to the Northerners. A costly victory, both to Averda and Mancorvo. Ramiro di'Callesta adapted. Mareo di'Lamberto was, well, Lambertan.

d.a.m.n it. What had she said? The Church. "The Radann serve him. They have no reason not to. But they won't like it-not if Fredero kai el'Sol proves true to his birth."

The Kalakar raised a brow. "Explain."

"He's Lambertan."

Ramiro di'Callesta grimaced. "What the General is trying so eloquently to say is that the Lambertans will often take a misguided stand, and cling blindly to it in the name of so-called honor." He raised a hand as Baredan di'Navarre opened his mouth. "Not here."

The General did not bridle.

"So he has the army and the Radann, for the time being. And he has the kin." The word brought a shadow to her face, but the shadow sharpened, rather than softened, the lines of her jaw, the slits of her eyes.

The Berriliya, a man not unlike Alesso di'Marente, leaned across the table to look at the map that had been laid out. His face was thin, and his nose p.r.o.nounced, but war had been kinder to him than it had to The Kalakar. Baredan suspected it was because The Berriliya chose to govern his men in a fashion that was more traditional-in the North-than The Kalakar's "personal" style of leadership, which meant that he did not often face the naked blade. "With no disrespect," he said coolly, "Mancorvo's loss was both inevitable and a blow. Lamberto is a widely respected clan, both within and without the Terrean."

"Be that as it may," Ramiro di'Callesta said coolly, "let me merely say that the clan Marano is- was-of the Terrean of Mancorvo."

"I believe the Tor'agar Adano kai di'Marano remains in Mancorvo," was Baredan's neutral reply. "I do not know if he has disowned his par or not. Certainly, if the Widan is proven to be heavily involved in the deaths of the clan Leonne-and they lose the war-he will be censured."

"Let us a.s.sume, for the moment, that you did not ride to the North. You did not carry word, to either Lamberto or Callesta, and the Festival of the Sun occurred as planned. What, then, would have happened?"

Baredan looked at the map, changing the lines of his face so that he might appear to be thinking, although the time taken was purely a matter of appearance; he'd thought of little else since he'd ridden with nothing but his life and his horse-ah, Sashallon-two weeks ago. "At the festival- and please," he added to the Tyr'agnate who ranked him in both political experience and knowledge of these foreign Generals-Commanders, as they styled themselves, "correct me where you think my a.s.sumption is in error."

"As you request. But I, too, am curious to know what you think; I do not spend much of my time in the Tor Leonne. Averda is a large and prosperous Terrean."

And you spend the half year that you aren't collecting taxes raiding across the Mancorvan border. "I believe that the death of the clan Leonne was planned to occur this close to the Festival of the Sun. Most of the clansmen would already be on the road when word of the death reached them, if it reached them at all. The Tyran-" he paused to spit, for the Tyran had forever condemned themselves in the Lord's eyes for their betrayal of the man to whom they had sworn their blood-oaths. In the Lord's eyes-and in the eyes of any clansmen who understood honor. "Your pardon. The Tyran have cut off the only road that leads out of the Tor Leonne, and even serafs are given a very difficult pa.s.sage. Word travels, yes, but it travels slowly.

"The Tyr'agnati were intended to a.s.semble, as for any Festival of the Sun. It is likely, in my mind, that Tyr'agnate Lamberto would lose his life immediately. Tyr'agnate Callesta is a more political man, and he might have been able to survive. Perhaps. The Tyr'agnati of Oerta and Sorga.s.sa are already, I believe, among the General's supporters. It is likely that they have laid claim, for their support, to the parts of those unfriendly Terreans that border them: Oerta for Averda, and Sorga.s.sa for Mancorvo."

"I will, of course, have to disappoint."

"Of course, Tyr'agnate.

"Regardless, once the men were in the Tor Leonne, Alesso would have the power that he needed. They would be separated from their armies, and although they could call upon the individual clansmen who owe them loyalty, even these would be outnumbered by the cerdan and Tyran that now man the Tor."

"What would the Church do?"

"In our hypothetical case, they would acclaim the new Tyr." He met the unblinking eyes of The Kalakar, unconsciously drawing himself to his full height. "It is not the way of the Dominion to follow a weak man, and the Tyr'agar proved himself to be incapable of winning a war against his Northern enemies. Worse, he gave up lands that were claimed by the Dominion-by either Callesta or Lamberto-in order to sue for this peace.

"If I were Alesso di'Marente, I would have slaughtered Callesta and sued for peace with Lamberto."

"I see," Ramiro said, the two words succinct, although the glance that he afforded the General was a genial one.

The Kalakar and The Berriliya exchanged a glance. "But they will not acclaim a new Tyr?"

"Oh, they'll do it. But they'll be split. Callesta is a clan worthy of a great hatred or a great fear. It holds the cradle of the Dominion; Averda is rich enough to feed an army, and its borders have been, because of its dalliances with Lamberto, well-defended. Its young men are raised in war,

and in death; they will not blink. Kill the Callestan Tyr'agnate, and the clan would be in disarray enough that Averda's fall would not be too costly."

"You are mistaken, General."

"Oh? You are the power behind your clan, Ramiro. Your kai is not your equal, nor his par."

"As you will," Ramiro replied, although it was clear that he was ill-pleased.

"Gentleman," The Kalakar said, "Let me go back to our hypothesis. The new Tyr is acclaimed by

the Radann. What of the clansmen?"

"Those that are suspect will be killed," Baredan replied, feeling the sting of being corrected by a woman. "Those that are not will be elevated. Alesso will build his support, and he will hold it."

"But he will not," Ramiro said softly, "in this hypothetical case, or in fact, wield the Sun Sword."

"No."

The two men stared at each other a moment.

"Very well." The Kalakar ran her fingers through hair that was already pulled away from the

strong lines of her forehead. "In the expected unfolding of events, the a.s.sa.s.sination of the clan

Leonne would have remained an internal affair. Alesso di'Marente would found a new clan, and he would rule the Dominion. Ambition often tells this tale, when the ambition is large enough."

"Yes."

"You've come North. You have asked for our intervention, and while the Kings decide, the Festival of the Sun approaches. The Tyr'agnate-two-have wisely declined the journey to the South, and with that, ruined all plans for an easy transfer of power. So. You knew the General, Baredan. What now?"

"Alesso di'Marente has the army, the Radann, the Terreans of Raverra, Oerta and Sorga.s.sa. In theory, he holds the balance of power. But we are not a cold and logical people; we are not a people who are ruled by fear and the strength of our enemy's numbers.

"We have the clan Leonne, and if that clan numbers a single man, he is the only man alive who can wield the Sun Sword. And we have Averda.""And Mancorvo?"Uneasy silence."Are there other factors, other immediate factors?""The kin are involved, Serra," he said.She raised a brow, and he had the grace to flush."To continue: I would say, although I've been wrong many times in my youth-"

"You are hardly a young man, General."

"Thank you. I would say that Alesso di'Marente will, without the benefit of the Sun Sword, raise his armies and aim them toward the Northern borders. He will make a call to war that no clansman can ignore: a chance, at last, to salve an injured pride.

"And perhaps his call will be genuine; perhaps not. But I will say this: To get to you, it is no coincidence that the armies will be placed along the borders of the two Ter-reans that he could not be certain of."

The Berriliya and The Kalakar exchanged glances. Baredan found them intriguing, for it was clear that they did not like each other, and it was equally clear the respect between them was profound and genuine. An honorable enemy, he thought, was the next best thing to an honorable friend.

"Thank you, gentlemen, for your time."

Ramiro di'Callesta rose. Baredan stood; he disliked these foreign chairs; they were confining and rigid and colorless. "And we thank you, Commander, Commander, for yours."

He let them go, and when the doors-and even in the so-called Annagarian quarters, doors abounded in this chilly clime-had closed, he said, "The kin are involved, General."

"Yes."

"And what do you suppose they want? What would they take in return for bestowing a kingdom upon an ambitious man?"

His soul, Baredan di' Navarre started to say, and then he snorted. What a meager prize for such a display of power. They looked, as one man, at the crossbeams above them; at the walls and the towering windows that let the light in-that made of its fall a brilliant display.

"Two hundred years ago, who did the kai Leonne turn to for aid in his crusade against the Lord of Night?"

Baredan di'Navarre was no historian; he did not need to be; the question could be answered by any child old enough to speak. To the Northern Kings. The golden-eyed men who alone were not considered, by the Lord, to be of demon blood.

Or so the legends went.

Himself, he was glad that he was not of enough importance yet to speak with the Kings.

Valedan kai di'Leonne sat beside the fountain that adorned the courtyard of the Arannan Halls. Although he had always liked the peace of this place, he had never liked the fountain itself; in its gaunt, still boy, replete with marble blindfold, he felt the Northern condemnation of his people. It made no difference that the sculptor had been Annagarian; in Annagar, such a vision would have received no attention, much less approbation. Unless it had been called Justice and set in the face of the Tyr'agar, in which case, it would have merited death.

Yet tonight, the waters stilled for the duration of the long, cool evening, he felt akin to not only the fountain's maker, but also the statue itself: too weak, and too blind, for such a task as he had taken on.

"Valedan."

He did not look over his shoulder, and he did not rise; there was no need to, and in fact, any such

gesture would have been considered-now-a display of weakness. For the person who addressed him was Serra Alina, and Serra Alina was only a woman. "Serra Alina," he said, seeing the moonlight touch the water as he leaned forward. "Is my mother ailing?"

"Your mother is sleeping," the Serra replied, "Do you mind if I join you?"

"No."

It wasn't true; he minded. But she seldom came to him for the sake of company alone-for

company, she chose the women of the Northern Court, who were, in many ways, her equal.

"The Princess Mirialyn believes that the crisis has pa.s.sed."

He heard the words as if they were spoken in a foreign tongue; they touched his ears, but only

came to make sense as the seconds pa.s.sed and they sank roots. He rose, leaving his resentment upon the cool stone beneath his feet. "W-when?"

"W-when what?" she said, mocking him as gently as an ungentle woman possibly could.

"When will we know it for certain?""Soon, I think," was Serra Alina's confident reply. "Ser Valedan, you succeeded." And she knelt, before him-for him-the distance between his feet and the l.u.s.trous confines of her perfectly kept hair a finger's span. "No, I should not call you that. Tyr Valedan." She rose. "I thought that you would like to know."

He wanted to thank her-and two weeks ago, he would have. But he did not know what to say, did not know what a Tyr should say. His father's face, and the dim memories of his father that childhood had not left behind, were of little help; his father had rarely shown grat.i.tude for anything.

She turned and walked away, the moon upon her pale sari, her pale shoulders. Then she stopped, and her hair caught the scant light as she turned again. "Valedan," she said, "we are beneath the Lady's Moon; if it is not your desire to be confined by the formality of the crown you have chosen, set it aside."

I don't know how, he said, but his voice did not carry in the darkness of anything but his own doubt. "Serra Alina, what will you do?"

"I? I am the sister of Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto." As always when she spoke of her brother, her voice hardened and cooled.

"And will you remain in the Empire?"

"I do not know," she replied, her voice softening as she saw-before he did-what he would say. "The Dominion holds little for me." She waited, a shadow or a blade, giving him no words. He felt the difference between their ages as keenly as he ever had. And the difference between their ranks.

But it was Serra Alina who taught him what he needed to know about the Dominion; Serra Alina who made certain that he could read, could write, could speak with the polish of a Tyr's man. It was Serra Alina who took the time to make clear which of the laws of the Dominion were expendable, and which were not.

And it was Serra Alina, of all the Annagarians present, who had risked her life to save his. And succeeded.

She was not his mother. Nor one of his mother's co-wives. But she was, of the Annagarians here, the closest thing he had to family, whether they shared blood or no.

"I don't know how to be Tyr'agar."

"I know," she told him softly, the tenor of her voice- and nothing else about her-reminding him of Serra Tonia. "You were not raised to the rule. But you have committed yourself. Tyr'agnate Ramiro di'Callesta will follow you- or your office-and I believe that Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto can be persuaded to do so as well.

"But perhaps not. You will come with a Northern army, into territories that the Northerners savaged a little over a decade ago. He may well see you as a puppet, and the crown that you would claim as a tool, for his most hated enemies." She took a step toward him, and then stopped, affording the t.i.tle more respect than he himself knew how to. "And if you would give the lie to that belief, you must find the Leonne blood within yourself.

"You have done it once, Valedan. It is there, if you truly wish to call upon it." Her dark hair was shadow as she nodded. "And when you call it, and you hold it, let us pray that it is stronger and truer to the Founder than your father's blood ever was."