Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (13 page)

Still, he hoped that she was bored enough that she did not desire to follow him, for he sought not Ishavriel, but Isladar; not the Lord's Fist, but the shadow beside His throne.

Finding him proved simpler than it often did: Isladar had taken up residence, temporary residence, within the human Court. It was not unheard of; as far as Cortano was capable of understanding, humanity was his study, his speciality. Had he been human, he would have been Widan—which would have made him more of a danger to Cortano than he was now.

"Widan," the
Kialli
said, voice deceptively soft.

The chambers were completely darkened; shadow lingered at the edge of Cortano's magical vision, pulling away from the touch of his fire. This shadow devoured light where it could, and all magic, as life, was light. Where it could not devour, it seemed to bide its time—and that, too, was very much like its summoner. Isladar.

"Lord Isladar."

"You were not summoned."

"No. May I enter?"

A dry chuckle. "Indeed. Enter. But leave the lights… dim."

Cortano returned a smile for the chuckle. He stepped into the room and closed the door firmly at his back, sealing it with a hand's gesture. He chose a simple spell for the sake of expedience; the travel here had been costly.

Of the
Kialli
, he was comfortable locking himself in a room with only one: this one. It made him more of a threat, and not less; comfort itself encouraged lack of caution. He was no fool; he had made a study of the lost arts, and he knew that there was not a
Kialli
in existence that deserved that level of trust.

"You look well," Isladar said, as the lights slowly rose in a beaded mist around the periphery of the room.

"And you."

The
Kialli
smiled. "You lie well, for a human. My residence here is… a matter of more than curiosity at the moment."

Cortano was absolutely silent. The shadows that he had long since learned were a signature of power in the Hells were tattered; cloth, and rent cloth, rather than the armor that so often obscured the Court's least obvious Lord. He thought he saw—although in the dim lights he could not be certain—actual wounds in the flesh that Lord Isladar wore.

"You are, of course, curious. It is your nature. I have miscalculated," Lord Isladar said. "At an unfortunate time. Lord Ishavriel will press his advantage."

"Has he that?"

"The advantage? At the moment, yes. I will seek to separate him from the source of his power—but I am not in… condition at the moment." Isladar did not rise; he rarely condescended to take a seat, and Cortano was certain that he would continue his quiet disdain were that seat the throne of the Hells.

Isladar was a curiosity, a thing beyond comprehension, but not beyond its edge. A puzzle.

"You did not come here to ask after my health." Not a question.

"No."

"Speak, then; speak quickly. There is to be a council meeting, of a sort, in a few hours."

"Very well. Alesso di'Marente—Alesso di'
Alesso
—has chosen, wisely in my opinion, to reverse the decision to name a Consort for the Lady at this particular Festival of the Moon.

"In all other ways, he is willing to consider favorably the suggestions the Shining Court has made to him."

"They were not," Lord Isladar said softly, "suggestions."

"They were orders?" The light in the room grew brighter; the shadows darker.

"They were… requests. Lord Ishavriel's."

"Has Lord Ishavriel not learned from Lord Assarak's presump-tion? The Tor Leonne
is
the General's. He will not be ruled in it, not by Northern hands."

"Or wise ones."

Cortano shrugged. "We have begun our inspection of the Voyani caravans, and believe that we will soon have in our possession one of the four Matriarchs." It was a lie; Cortano half-expected that Isladar knew that she was already their prisoner. "
If
we are able to detain her, she will be offered to the Court, as Lord Ishavriel requested.

"But we will make no such offer, and take no such politically difficult prisoner, if we are forced to accept a Consort at a time when it would be… unwise."

"I can guarantee nothing," Isladar said softly. "In this, I am a spokesperson for the Fist of the Lord, a lesser messenger. It appears," he added, with just a hint of dryness, something so mild it might have been imagination, "that many of the messengers the Lords send fall foul of the men to whom they deliver their messages, and they are loath to risk more of their lieutenants." He shrugged. "If you desire it, I will present your case."

"I will also attend."

"I will forward your… request."

Cortano stood in front of the door for a moment, his hand on its protected surface. Magic twisted beneath his palm, the feel of it frustrating—almost, but not quite, familiar. Old knowledge here, and none of it his.

He tried to remember how important that desire for old knowledge was; how important it had been when he had first been approached by Lord Isladar of the Shining Court.
Immortality
, he thought, as he stood in the shadows.

But not—
never
—an immortality lived upon his knees. He straightened his shoulders and looked back.

"It was not a request, Lord Isladar."

Across the length of demon shadows and human light, Lord Isladar gazed. And then he smiled faintly and bowed. Cortano thought there was an edge of fang, a glint of light off perfect, slender teeth; hard to see. "Very well, Widan Cortano di'Alexes. We meet in the Shattered Hall upon the morrow. I will have rooms prepared for your stay, and I will deliver your message."

The Shattered Hall was of a piece of great, carved stone; a single piece. Tables, chairs, floors; it was, as the Shining Palace itself, the heart of a mountain exposed by the hand of a god. It was meant to impress, and it did; from height to ground, it dwarfed the occupants with its majesty. No gold here; no jewels—none needed. They were, the room implied, the measure of man, and the works of men were as nothing compared to this.

It was true; truth was something the Widan accepted.

But he wondered, idly, if it had always been true. The interest that the Voyani provoked in the
Kialli
was of sufficient curiosity to Cortano that he had taken it upon himself to ask his own questions. To date, the answers he had received were unsatisfactory; the holding of the Voyani prisoners therefore served a joint purpose.

And, he acknowledged, a singular risk.

Lord Ishavriel raised a brow as he entered the room; no more. Etridian deigned to notice him; Assarak did not. Alcrax kept his own counsel. Nugratz was actively irritated, which pleased Cortano; he was the least powerful of the
Kialli
who formed the Lord's Fist. Lord Isladar offered a graceful—a human—shrug.

Shadows filled the hall; shadows blanketed the corners of the room, rounding them and filling them until they lost all definition. He wondered if the Hells had rooms. If they had any solidity at all. It was one of the few questions that he was not in a hurry to have a definitive answer to.

"Generals," he said quietly. "I have been sent to convey a message."

"Take a chair, then, if it pleases you. It is your custom."

"I see that this is not a session of the full Court."

"What we discuss today is not of interest to the mortals," Nugratz replied, his voice a high fluting sound that should have been either irritating or comical, but which was, in fact, neither. "Had it been, we would have presided over the meeting in the Great Hall." He turned his head, narrow and birdlike, in Cortano's direction.

"Come, Nugratz," Lord Ishavriel said softly. "It is of interest to our allies, and the Widan is chief among them." He lifted a hand in the room of shadows, and the shadows responded, carving themselves into a chair that was almost as grand as a throne beside the wide stone table. "I will avail myself of a chair." He gestured again; a second chair formed. "Sword's Edge?"

"Lord Ishavriel," Lord Isladar said, before Cortano could reply, "How… courteous of you. A reminder, perhaps, of older times."

"Or," Assarak added, "a certain sign that the influence of your human pet is growing."

It was always cold in the Shattered Hall. The sunlight that entered the room—and there was sun, scant, cool light that came in through the pillars that rose from mountain's foot to the palace's lesser height—was never warm. The chill, however, had little to do with the weather; it settled about the Lord's Fist like a cloak of nettles.

Cortano broke it only slightly; he accepted the offered chair. "Gentlemen," he said softly, stroking his beard a moment as if in thought, although the words themselves were in no way spontaneous, "We have a minor problem."

He waited; Lord Ishavriel obliged. "What problem would that be?"

"After lengthy discussion with our allies in the Dominion, we feel it unwise to proceed with the crowning of a Consort to the Lady."

"Wise indeed," Assarak said. "I assume this means you intend to dispense with the pretense of the Lady altogether?"

This was expected; Cortano offered a brittle smile. "Assumptions, as often, play you false." The smile shattered; he thought he understood why the hall had been named as it had. "We agreed to your timetable under the assumption that the boy—the kai Leonne—would be dead at the end of the so-called Kings' Challenge. That did not come to pass."

"You do not- seek to threaten us," Lord Assarak replied. He had taken no chair, and could not gain height by rising; it was the one advantage that a human chair sometimes offered. But his shadows deepened, darkening the cast of his complexion.

"No," Cortano replied mildly. He had discovered over time that a mild response—one verging on nonchalance—was an effective way of dealing with
Kialli
temper. It did not suit his temperament, but very little about dealing with the
Kialli
did; he was a man used to dispensing arrogance, not receiving it.

Lord Ishavriel did not rise, but it was close. "Widan," he said softly, "it was agreed upon after the Festival of the Sun."

The Widan shrugged. That was more of a risk. "It was agreed," he said softly, "but it was also agreed that the war would be called, and the
Kialli
joined—in subtlety—to the ranks of our armies. None of what we have agreed to, save aid in the assassination of the Leonne clan—an assassination that required no aid, in our opinion—has yet come to pass.

"There will be other festivals, Generals."

"It is after the Festival of the Moon that you will have your aid," Lord Assarak said, speaking before Ishavriel could.

"And it is after the Festival of the Moon that you will have your title," Cortano replied. "The Voyani, we are willing to cede you, provided they are not too costly."

"You are
willing
?" The great table bore the full weight of the furious
Kialli
claws; he could not be certain that the stone itself was not scored by the momentary rage.

"If we follow your course of action, we will lose the Radann," the Widan said softly, "before it is wise. We will lose some of the clans. We will lose the advantage of deploying the Voyani against the Voyani during the war with the Northern Terreans. Had we gained the death of the kai Leonne in the Empire, had we amassed our armies and taken the Terreans in question—
As we agreed upon
—we would not now face any danger by granting the title of Consort for the Lady's Festival. But now… what do you offer us in return?"

"Your
lives
."

It came to this often with Lord Assarak and Lord Etridian. Embers glowed in the skein of magic that Cortano knew was visible to the
Kialli
Lords. His personal power was not negligible; not even here. To demand his death was easy; to cause it, costly.

He had no doubt whatever that they could, should they so choose, cause it—but the death that one Lord offered, the other opposed, seeking advantage. That he understood well, and not from observation of the
Kialli
and their lesser kin.

Lord Isladar rose. "Those lives," he said softly, bowing his head slightly to Lord Assarak, "are not yet yours to grant. The Lord will decide."

"Isladar—"

"And if I am not mistaken," he added, raising a brow and turning toward the doors that stretched from floor to ceiling in a long, flat sweep of something that might once have been wood before the hand of the Lord transformed it, "we are about to have a visitor."

The doors to the council chamber flew open, scattering the shadows of
Kialli
conceit in their wake. No simple doors, these; they were not of a piece with the Shattered Hall, but they were formed by the same maker's hand. When closed by the will of the Lord, they were impenetrable; when opened by His hand, they were unstoppable.

The Lord's hand had not closed these doors; nor did he open them now; Cortano would have felt his coming long before the doors announced his presence. He had had reason to greet the Lord of Shadows once, twice, and a third time; it chilled him to the bone; made him long for the desert; made him desire to offer nothing but obedience, and that, quickly.

But if the Lord was not present, the doors themselves contained an echo of His grandeur; they were an announcement, both closing and opening, that it was almost impossible to ignore.

He was grateful for the interruption. Even when the cause became clear.

One of the kin fell at once groundward, cringing in a bow that should have been impossible, as half his back had been- seared away by fire, and smoked still. "My Lord," he said.

Lord Ishavriel rose at once. "What is this, Garrak?"

"The mage," Garrak ad'Ishavriel replied, bleeding shadows into stone formed by it. "She wants—information."

"And that?"

"To know what occurred when Lord Etridian failed his mark."

Lord Etridian rose as well, grim now, furious at the reminder of his failure. He was probably, in Cortano's estimation, wondering if the interruption was Ishavriel's attempt to humiliate or discredit him; Cortano thought otherwise, because he
knew
who the mage was.