Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (52 page)

Clumsily said. Sendari started to bow, but Eduardo had turned away from him, both figuratively and literally.

"Tyr'agar," the Tyr'agnate said, drawing attention as fire did a moth's, "I wish two things."

The Tyr'agar was absolutely silent.

"First: I will see my intended. She is her father's daughter, but she is—it is rumored—under the guard of your Tyran. A House such as Marano can ill afford guards of such caliber, and as she
is
the Flower of the Dominion, I find myself taking no offense at this liberty." Eduardo waited. He waited in vain. After a moment he continued. "Second: I will have this business finished before the end of the Festival of the Moon. The Serra Diora di'Marano will be en'Garrardi when the sun sets on the first Lord's day."

Sendari bowed his head.

The first Lord's day was to be the day that Alesso di'Alesso finally declared his intent: War upon the Northern Empire. Such a war had not, of course, been declared, but the Tyr's intent was an open secret. It would have to be: the armies of Raverra were mobilizing on the Northern border of the Terrean; they faced Mancorvo.

The armies of Oerta had been promised for that day.

Eduardo, you are a fool
. But an intelligent fool; a cunning one. The threat had been made, the matter decided. Alesso could not move North without the Oertan armies. With Eduardo as enemy, rather than ally, he could not afford to divest the heartlands of their protection. He could gamble on the Tyr'agnate of Sorgassa, but if he left Jarrani's men behind, he would not have the power to defeat both Lamberto and Callesta. Not even with the aid of the
Kialli
.

Well-played, Tyr'agnate.

The Tyr'agar rose, divesting himself of the trappings—the trap—of the chair.

"And if she is not?"

The silk of Sendari's robe was, of a sudden, as heavy as stone and earth. But his posture was perfect, his face more of a mask than the confused, common craftsman standing before him could conceive.
Alesso, no
.

Two hands touched sword hilts. Eight hands followed. Tyr and Tyran faced each other across the length of a hall littered with spectators, none of whom were foolish enough to stand between these two men.

"Your pardon, Tyr'agar," Ser Sendari heard himself saying. Having spoken, his choice was made, but his voice did not please him; he modulated it. "But the Tyr'agnate's request is my concern." Eduardo did not turn to him; to his chagrin, although not to his great surprise, neither did Alesso. "I will arrange, as I can, to fulfill my obligations. Tyr'agnate," he said, bowing as low as he might without actually falling to his knees, "I had hoped to spare myself this. You must understand that I come poorly prepared for the ceremony a man of your station requires. I had hoped to acquit my family in a fashion suited to your rank, and I find myself unable to support that at this time."

Alesso said nothing.

"The fashion of her arrival is not of import, Ser Sendari." Eduardo's words were cool.

"One does not insult the station of Tyr without reason," Ser Sendari countered. He was aware of what this would cost him. "But my fortunes will be made with the war. I had intended to honor your request, and my agreement, appropriately after our victory." Oh, yes, he was aware of what it would cost him: the tongues of the court were already wagging at his open humiliation. He had exposed his throat as a dog did, declaring himself the weaker.

But better that, better that than the war that was
almost
declared. He held his breath, his face white with effort.

And Eduardo kai di'Garrardi turned, slowly. Reluctantly. "Very well," he said softly. "Had I realized your… situation, I would have been less intemperate. Your daughter could arrive by Voyani caravan and be exulted within my home, Ser Sendari. She would make humble any dwelling—as she did this one.

"I would see her, if that is acceptable to you."

"Of course," Sendari replied.

"We may discuss, privately, the matter of appropriate arrangements."

"Of course."

The Tyr'agnate raised a hand. It was the hand that had rested upon the hilt of his sword. His Tyran did likewise so quickly the two motions—master and guards'—seemed continuous. "Tyr'agar," he said, and his bow was almost perfect.

To Sendari's great regret, Alesso di'Alesso did not speak a word.

Alesso was angry. Sendari expected no less.

When the two men met at the Lake's side, they offered each other the stiffness of perfectly correct greetings, although there were no Tyran, no high clansmen, to witness them. Formality, as any weapon, could be used to either defend or wound.

Sendari cast his spells to protect their conversation from being heard by all but the most powerful of listeners and wondered, as he did so, if there would even be a conversation. There was a quality to Alesso's silence that he had only rarely witnessed; it was not, it could not be broken by any but Alesso himself.

But he had sacrificed his dignity for the sake of Alesso's war. He spoke.

"The maskmaker confirmed what Mikalis di'Arretta suspected. Ground or broken bone must have been blended with the
Kialli
clays used to construct the masks' faces. He has changed the composition of the clay, but has retained the weight and shape of the whole. He, and his sons, believe they can create replacements for the masks so generously donated by the Shining Court, but he is not confident that he can replace them all without aid.

He has asked permission to seek out those with similar craft and skill."

Alesso shrugged.

"Even so, he feels there is some chance that you will need to use some of the masks that came from the Court if you wish to preserve the numbers. He therefore asks which of the four styles of mask you would like him to concentrate on first. I took the liberty of telling him to start with the most expensive and work his way down."

"Which pleased him, no doubt."

"No doubt."

Containing his growing irritation, Sendari said softly, "There are already rumors in the streets of the Tor about the Lady's Consort. It works against us, Alesso. I believe that while we disperse the masks—as we were
ordered
to do—we may
also
disperse the rumors."

Alesso stood with his hands behind his back. His profile had not shifted once; it faced into the wind that blew across the Lake.

The Widan ceased to speak; he listened. Heard the wind's voice. War was waiting.

"Alesso, I had no choice," he said. "You of all men should appreciate this. War is your game."

"We already discussed this," Alesso said softly, speaking at last, his gaze upon the waters of the Lake. "We agreed. Your daughter's role in this war was decided the moment she lifted the Sun Sword from the lake's waters and showed it, newly gleaming, to the clansmen."

"Garrardi made clear he abided by no such decision."

"So it would seem."

"Alesso—"

"This will cost us, old friend."

"Will it cost us more," Sendari replied, his eyes narrowing at the way the words "old friend" took on an edge and a sharpness that made of them an attack, "than losing Garrardi's army? At best," he added. "At worst, the army would be pillaging the Tor Leonne. We would have to travel
with
Diora to protect her. Is that what you want? To fight rearguard action against—"

"I understand war."

"Yes. And you understand politics. You understand power. What you chose to do today is therefore deliberate, rather than the unfortunate result of youthful ignorance."

"You go too far,
old friend
."

"Tell me, then, Tyr'agar, what you would have had me do." -Silence.

Alesso di'Alesso, Tyr'agar of the Dominion of Annagar, did not condescend to answer.

12th of Scaral, 427 AA

Evereve

They stood at a door that Jewel had never seen before. It was twice as tall as Avandar, with a face smooth as glass and broken only by hinges to one side. She couldn't tell what the door was made of: wood, stone, steel. It looked like a thing of shadow, and it glowed very, very faintly. There were no handles, no rings, no knobs, no visible means of entry or exit; there were no windows at which watchful sentries might peer out to ascertain the identity of visitors.

Which made sense; she didn't expect he got much in the way of visitor traffic in these parts.

"Not now," he said, frowning at the door's smooth face. "But you would have been surprised had you been here when the citadel was first wrested from the mountain fastness."

"What exactly are you doing?"

"I'm finding," he said, with a slight gritting of teeth just in case his annoyance wasn't obvious, "my reflection."

"And that's going to help us?"

"Only if you consider walking through the door alive helpful."

She took the hint. Shut up, although it wasn't easy. The time passed; she loss track of how much as her eyes were drawn—for no reason she could think of—to the door. Watching Meralonne cast his spells was a special entertainment; he was alive with a glow of shifting colors and his magic, netlike, sparkled with power's confinement. She liked to guess the nature of the spell before the spell itself was cast. With Avandar, it was never so simple; she was usually involved with something like survival when he was casting his spell. And at the moment, he appeared to be doing nothing but grimacing, which was only entertaining for the first five minutes. "Avandar?"

"Yes?"

"Why does the door have no color?"

"No color?" He turned, the edge of his jaw more pronounced, the curve of his fingers that flick of muscles away from being a fist.

"I'm pretty sure that's what I said." It had no color the way shadow had none, except shadow was usually a soft shade of black, or a shade of whatever color it happened to be hiding from light. She frowned. Stepped forward slightly. "It's—it's like glass," she said. "No, it's like water. Flat water. Still water. I can see—"

"Enough, Jewel. Stand aside."

But she couldn't. Out of the nothing that was framed by the shape of a door, she saw darkness, and out of that darkness, surfacing slowly, eyes closed, lips half-parted, arms bent at the elbow and palms face out, was—herself.

Herself leached of color, but not form.

She opened her eyes.

Caught by herself, frozen by the hardening reality of skin that had seen a bit too much sun, of hair that was becoming a flyaway wild brown, of eyes that were becoming large-pupiled and dark-irised, Jewel ATerafin had the presence of mind to utter a single word.

"Avandar—"

The woman who wasn't her image, and who was, reached out, arms snapping with sudden energy, face twisting into an expression of glee and malice that Jewel prayed had never crossed her own face.

Her fingers, so like Jewel's own that Jewel could no longer tell them apart, were point-to-point with the fingers that Jewel hadn't realized she'd raised.

The other Jewel opened her mouth, lips moving slowly, skin stretching and releasing around syllables.
Mine
. Jewel's eyelids were extraordinarily heavy. She struggled with their weight; seer-born or no, she would have known it was a bad idea to sleep here.