The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 87

Eduardo kai di'Garrardi stood on the plateau. His cerdan had left and the man who would meet him in combat had not yet entered the field; he stood alone. The sun was high; the shadow he cast was shorter and squatter than he.

Sword's Blood had been retired from the field, and not unharmed, but the gashes across flank and foreleg were not deep, and in the gaining of those scars he had more than proved his worth to the clansmen who watched the penultimate battle. Let them talk in their scornful way about the small village that had been the stallion's price; he knew, from this day on, that they would remember the stallion's name when the village was scattered by raiders or worse.

And they would remember his rider.

What Tyr had entered the field of the Lord's Chosen while they held their t.i.tle? What Tyr had dared to take the political risk, choosing instead to send their par-or, if brave, their kai-to the fight by which a true clansman made himself known?

He had been cautioned against it, but quietly, although he was not a man known for accepting the caution of the timid. But there was more to be won than a combat or two. More than the regard of the nameless clans who gathered in the heat of the high sun on this one day that combat, no matter how terrible the Lord's heat, could not be halted.

He turned his face into the breeze and saw the Flower of the Dominion as she blossomed beneath the blue of the open sky, and he offered her a bow and a wordless promise.

Fredero kai el'Sol was nowhere in sight; she would have seen him, no matter where he stood, for the Serra Diora di'Marano knew how to look. If a fan's folds could protect her from the Lord's gaze, might it not protect her from the gaze of the merely mortal?

She wore gold as if gold were light, as if light were a thing of weight and solidity. Gold hung in strands that were old when her clan was founded, crossing and touching and twining in a heavy spill down pale silk. Gold bound her wrists, catching light and making of it a liquid thing, a warmth that was unmarred by Northern stones; gold sent the light scattering at every movement of every finger.

And upon her finger, like a binding, nestled among the heirlooms in the keeping of the Lord's Radann, three rings, three plain and unadorned rings, as new in their manufacture as the borrowed rings of the Lord's Consort were ancient.

The kai el'Sol had paused a moment when he offered her the rings of the High Festival, for her hands were already adorned. But he had no arguments to offer, and she no defense; it was as if the evening past had robbed them of the ability to speak in any way that was both meaningful and elegant. All that remained was the awkward hesitation of a man and a woman who do not know each other well enough to speak freely, but who know each other too well to be served by the musical syllables of social veneer.

She wondered, idly, if the Serra Teresa had noticed. Wondered, less idly, why it was that the Radann who stood guard were Samadar par el'Sol and Peder par el'Sol. Marakas was, like his kai, nowhere in evidence.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the strangest of the Radann intended to somehow save the life of the kai el'Sol. He was a healer born; it was his gift and curse. Just as the voice was hers. Perhaps, hidden, he thought to wait out the wrath of the General and catch the former Lambertan clansman by the thread of his life.

It was, she thought, very like Marakas.

He did not tend to the fallen on the Lord's field.

Upon that field, no healers were allowed.

The clansmen wanted a death.

Their desire was contained by the muted silence of their breaths and the slight rise of their shoulders, but it found voice in hands that strayed to-and remained upon-the hilts of sheathed swords. Shoulder to shoulder, men sat in their clans' groupings, their banners a wall or a circle around the plateau. If wine or song or the charms of the serafs the clansmen made available had kept the men away for the first two days of the Challenge, none missed the third-for on the third day matters of honor called them, or matters of money, or both. On this day, the t.i.tle was decided.

The birds in the sky above, circling with black wings spread the height of a man from wingtip to wingtip, caught the wind and made of it a stable platform; they floated, leisurely in their observance of the men below.

And perhaps, just perhaps, one could see such birds and find them beautiful; one could see their flight and their fall without expecting a death must presage it. Perhaps one could see the clansmen watching and find them handsome and honor-bound; could see in the slight flare of nostrils, in the narrowing of eyes and the intensity of attention, no hint of blood-scent, no desire for the spoils of the kill.

Diora could not remember a day when she did not know what vultures did, and the knowledge robbed their flight of beauty in her eyes, although if she studied them carefully, and took care to ignore the revulsion that carrion eaters brought by their very nature, she could see both power and grace in their lazy flight.

In the men, she saw death, but although she could remember no innocence when it came to the flight of vultures, she could remember a time-one so removed it came back to her unexpectedly and awkwardly, very much the reminder of all the things she was not-when she had seen things bright and shiny and expected that there was mercy beneath the patina of power that wielded sword and armor.

That wielded fire and the knowledge of fire.

She turned slightly, scanning the crowd that had gathered across the ring of the plateau, looking for the Radann kai el'Sol.

She saw instead a Widan and his General, and her eyes stayed a moment, surrounded as she was by the tension of a coming kill. In all her hours of prayer, knees bent, eyes upon the face of the moon in the rippling waters of the Tor Leonne, no answer came to her for the one question she asked, time and again-the one thing that she could not explain: Why had she been allowed to live? She was not a selfless woman, but had she a choice of lives to preserve, there was one-one single life-that she would have placed above her own. No choice was offered, and she, ringbound, oathbound, sheltering grief and rage behind her perfectly schooled face, was left without choice. But the why haunted her almost as strongly as the ghosts.

Her father was Widan. And if not for the General Alesso di'Marente, he would not have been a powerful man. What had he been, before the ascent of the man he called friend? Widan? No; less than that. Widan-Designate-a man born to power, with no will to use it. Who had given him the will, and when? When had he ceased to be-to be what her memory told her he wasl When had he become just another dangerous man, another enemy in a pool of enemies too wide and too deep for the simple Leonne Tyr?

The corner of her lips did not dimple or turn downward; her face was her best mask and she wore it for the world to see.

He was not a stupid man. He knew that, having chosen this course, he could not choose another, not now; there could be no turning back. No backward glance.

Yet she thought she saw his eyes upon her before she lifted her fan with delicate grace and turned away, finding it easier to watch the combat for which the clansmen were a.s.sembled.

Finding it easier to watch a strange man's death at such a distance that the blood was just a trick of the light, a blur of color that might have easily been the workmanship of a weaver. The sun was at its height; the day was, of the long days in this year, the hottest, the brightest. The living man stopped a moment, lifting a weapon that caught the sun in such a flash it might have been pure light.

From the ground, an answering flash, but weaker; the fallen man was not yet dead, or had not yet accepted the fact. But his defense-such as it was-was meager, weak on a day when weakness itself was the worst of sins. Death was the winner's, to grant or to deny.

She knew that Eduardo di'Garrardi stood as the Lord's Chosen because of the relish with which the death was delivered to the clansmen who waited.

It was not the outcome that Alesso di'Marente desired. He turned to the Widan at this side and saw a frown that was, line for line, his own. It made him chuckle. "Not what we wanted, old friend."

"I fail to see what you find amusing, Alesso. We need Garrardi as an ally-but a Tyr'agnate who has pa.s.sed the Lord's test is a threat."

"Yes."

"You do not wear the crown yet. There are those who will try to acclaim the Tyr'agnate in your place."

"They will fail."

"Perhaps. If I had thought he would win, I would have-"

"Entered yourself? Or entered me?"

"You," was the ill-humored reply. "I saw you this morning, Alesso. Nothing Garrardi offered on the field could match it."

Sendari par di'Marano spoke with such inflectionless certainty that he might have been speaking of the weather, or of the harvest the season in his lands might bring. There was no intent to flatter; it was not his way. And because of it, Alesso was flattered.

"It is done," he told his oldest friend. "And we will abide by it. Decide what must be done to collar him if he chooses to rise above his station."

Sendari turned as the Radann made their way to where Eduardo kai di'Garrardi stood. Their formal robes wafted in the day's first strong breeze; it was as if the Lord himself chose to draw breath only at that moment. "There is a problem," he said, in as carefully neutral a tone as he used when speaking with the Sword's Edge.

It was the tone that Alesso least liked. "And that?"

"He has gained power today by gaining stature in the eyes of the clans. If I know Eduardo di'Garrardi, it is now that he will attempt to claim the prize that he was offered for our alliance." Before Alesso could speak, Sendari raised a hand. "It is clever, Alesso, give him that. He will come from the field anointed with the blood of weaker men, and he will approach the Lord's Consort as Champion, as is his right. Deny him, and he will take his stand against you before the close of the ceremony."

"Before," Alesso said coolly, "my rulership is confirmed by the Radann. I understand, old friend."

"Alesso," Sendari said, understanding well what lay beneath the words, "she is just a woman."

"You say that to meV The anger was back in the Widan's eyes; a cold flash that settled into stillness and distance.

"Do not offer me anger, Sendari. What will you say? That I cannot compare love for the daughter with love for the mother?" He caught the Widan's clenched fist. "Or will you say instead that what you had was love, and what I have is desire, that I am incapable of love?"

"Clansmen," the Widan said coolly, "do not speak of love." But the anger left his face as he retrieved his hand. "As you well know, it's a woman's word, and a woman's binding."

"Strong bonds, for all that."

"In the end, you won."

"Because in the end, she died." The sun was too hot, the day's glare too bright. "Very well, old friend," he said, his face grim and taut with the effort of this particular speech. "I will accept the Lord's judgment."

A Serra in the Dominion was no stranger to violence, but the violence was rarely that of open combat. Another man's blood, spread like an accident of color or a celebration of death, was almost like a man's s.e.x; best left for men to boast about or of.

The Serra Diora was not to be so favored. This Festival was a man's festival, and this test, a man's test. That she sat in the position of honor was due to a man's choice; that she was finely adorned, perfectly outfitted, and completely visible, a man's decree. She could no more turn away from the Lord's Champion than she might have from her own husband when eyes that were not friendly watched; in public circ.u.mstance, the watcher decreed all by his presence. No matter that the privacy of the harem protected a different form of communication, allowed for greater liberty; safety was illusion, after all.

Where was the Radann kai el'Sol?

"Lady," the Tyr'agnate said, as he approached the Radann who stood, a slender human wall, before her. They had no choice but to turn to the side, and they faced each other like well-trained cerdan in the absolute silence.

"Tyr'agnate," she replied, acknowledging the respect- and the evident desire-in the single spoken word with a nod of the head.

He chose his ascent, stepping with care upon the man-made stairs that one had to climb in order to approach anything that the Lord claimed. His trail was dark, and as he drew near, Diora could see that not all of the blood was his enemy's. She hid her smile beneath the perfect fold of her lips.

But when he held out his hand, she very carefully closed her fan and laid it in his palm. She was rewarded with his smile, and it was both dark and lovely. The plateau spoke with the hushed approbation of the clansmen.

She rose, delicate and graceful, carrying the weight of the Lord's gold; the Lord's Champion offered her the hand that did not clutch her token. But she would not take it, for it was sticky now with drying blood and sweat. He grimaced as he looked at his empty hand, seeing it for the first time as a Tyr of the court and not a combatant.

"Your pardon," he said softly, so softly that it might not have reached her ears at all. But he came to stand beside her, and as he did, the hushed murmurs that walled the plateau became shouts. Light glinted off swords raised in salute; wind gave to the flight of flags the sound of applause.

The General Alesso di'Marente chose to greet them at this moment, climbing, as Eduardo had done before him, the steps of the dais unhindered.

The shouts grew and then dimmed as the significance of his approach became clear.

Some of the clansmen gathered here had crossed the threshold of the Tor Leonne proper for the first time; they were in the strength of their youth, and they had been summoned by Tyrs or Tors who understood the need for numbers at this Festival. But most had come, yearly, with their entourage. They had seen many combatants emerge victorious, and they had seen many Consorts rise to greet them.

But they had never seen, until this day, a clansman who did not carry the Leonne blood in his veins join them upon the Lord's dais. Very, very few of the clansmen below did not recognize Alesso di'Marente, and even those who did not, understood what he attempted to claim by his presence.

Eduardo di'Garrardi's smile was smooth as steel. "General."

"Tyr'agnate. A most impressive display."

The Tyr's lazy smile was genuine; he was pleased. But flattery was not the reward that he had fought to receive. Nor was the Lord's favor. "Is that the Widan I see below?"

Alesso made no game of his response. "It is."

"I would speak with him. Now."

"As you wish. You are the Lord's Champion, Tyr'agnate."

"Yes."

"You will be content with the t.i.tle and the... Serra."

Silence; Eduardo was heady from his victory, and the cries from the plateau were close enough that memory and action could not easily be separated. He did not reply.

The Widan Sendari par di'Marano walked stiffly and silently up the steps to the platform's height. There he joined the Marente General, making it clear to any and all where his loyalty lay. Eduardo could not mistake what the action meant; the Marano clan was known for their cunning and their caution, but when they chose to ally themselves, they had examined all avenues, and all foreseeable possibilities; they were steady; they saw far. A wise man gained much forsaking old allies at the right moment, and Sendari was a wise man-but Eduardo did not see the moment at hand that would sway the Widan.

Did he want to rule? He gazed at the gathered clans, and then at the General, stiff-lipped and cool under the sun's height. "A General," he said softly, "never knows the glory of the fight."

He was rewarded with the first smile that Alesso di'Marente had offered him, which is to say, he was not rewarded at all. "Do not play this game, Eduardo. Or play it," the General continued, his hand upon the hilt of his sword, "to its end."

"And you challenge me?"

"I neither challenge," the General said, "nor refuse one, if it is offered."

Eduardo di'Garrardi met the unblinking gaze of the man who should have ruled Marente. Alesso was the older of the two, and although the Tyr'agnate had the advantage of size, he had not pa.s.sed the Lord's test unscathed. Still, his hand touched the hilt of his sword, and he smiled crookedly. The Garrardi sword had history; the Marente sword, none.

As if aware of the unspoken words, the General said, "Ah yes. Ventera is a blade with much history, some of it honorable. Terra Feure is a blade that will make history."

"Tyr'agnate. General." The Widan Sendari par di'Marano spoke quietly-and in a tone that was generally reserved for the young. "If you will play this game, may I respectfully suggest that you choose a different time for it?"

"Sendari-"

"Or you may, if you desire, play it now. But the clansmen wait, and they grow impatient. We are already walking on treacherous ground, and our allies are not those who would gracefully ignore weakness in our own court." Although he seemed to pause for breath, the pause was illusory, for both the kai Garrardi and the par Marente had words to say, but it was the Widan who spoke. "Your loss would hurt us," he said to Eduardo, "and yours. None here would benefit by it.

"The war cannot be called today-although it should be. We have no choice but to wait until the pa.s.sing of the Festival Moon-and the Shining Court wishes that practice to end here; to disappoint them poses a risk that you should both understand. In between, we must hold power against any Tyr or Tor who thinks to take it, and the Dominion, from the men who are best fit to rule it. We may gather and build our armies; we may build those structures that will support a long campaign against the Imperials, should it become one.

"Tyr'agnate, for my part I am willing to honor our bargain, and before the a.s.sembled clans, I will declare the Serra Diora di'Marano the keep of the kai Garrardi, in the Lord's name. More than that is beyond me; as you well know the rites cannot be performed on the Lord's Day.

Even suggest it, and the Radann will show you how little tamed they are.

"Either you will accept this in good faith, or you will not. We-both of us-do not have the luxury of a leisurely decision."

The Tyr'agnate met the eyes of the Widan before glancing briefly at the shuttered gaze of the General. Then he turned to the Serra who stood, in perfect silence, at his side, and for her, he reserved the brunt of his attention.

"Done," he said at last, and softly. "But you will declare this thing before the Radann offer the General the Lord's crown."

"Of course," Sendari replied. He offered his daughter his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

And as she did, he saw them: the three rings. The oath rings. He froze, and then met her eyes, and he saw in the darkness there a fire akin to Alesso's fire, a steel as sharp, or sharper. He could not hold her gaze for long, although her gaze held answers, and he was Widan.

He had spoken truth: There was little time. His grip was harsher than he intended, but it was always thus: the things that one feared or valued-or both-were always clutched tightly, in caution or care.

She was his perfect daughter; she was Teresa's perfect niece. She neither noticed the ferocity of his grip, nor cared. The Flower of the Dominion-the Serra that each and every clansman gathered knew had once belonged to the kai Leonne-stood as tall as her diminutive height allowed. That she might be seen.

And that she might, being seen, be known as a worthy Consort to the Lord of the Sun. A hush followed as the father raised the daughter's gold-laden hand; a hush that held expectancy, a desire for the tightness of the moment.

"I call the Lord to witness," Sendari said, his voice surprisingly strong. "That this, the Serra Diora, is of Marano, and she is blood of my blood, and she is wholly mine by birth, and no other clan has lawful claim to her.

"And I call the Lord to witness that this, the Lord's Chosen Champion, the Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi, has proved himself worthy, in the eyes of the clans of Annagar, and of the Lord of the Sun, of the keep of the Serra who has been the Lord's Consort.

"Therefore I, Sendari par di'Marano, grant the keep of my daughter, Diora di'Marano, to Eduardo kai di'Garrardi, such keep to be consummated upon the appropriate rites and observances, and further grant that all children borne to that union are of the Garrardi clan by birth and blood, and that Marano shall exert no claim to such offspring."

It was, Alesso thought, a statement worthy of Sendari; no simple sentence when addressing a crowd where a complicated one would do.