The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (11 page)

“He therefore took it upon himself to bring her here. And here . . . things unfolded as they often have.

“A different man would have dismissed her. A different man would have understood the threat she posed. And when . . . things developed . . . a different man might have had her killed; if not, he would have disavowed the child of that union; it was not a son.”

Marakas bowed his head. Against the word of a Radann, the word of a disgraced, kinless girl would count for nothing.

“But this man?”

“He came to the kai el’Sol. He came in fear, but with dignity, and he confessed his crime against the Lord, and against the Radann.” The old man’s eyes seemed to cloud as they gazed past Marakas. “Fredero heard all that the young man had to say, and then he dismissed the Hand of God, and spoke to the man alone.

“He said, ‘Not all men serve the Lord best by joining the ranks of the Radann. And not all men learn the unsuitability of that life with grace or with honor. What you have done, you cannot do in service to the Lord, for the men of the Lord must be seen to be men who favor no family, and who own no ties greater than the oaths they have taken to the Lord.

“I remember that man,” Jevri continued softly. “I remember that he stood, alone, shoulders bowed, face pale. Of the Radann, it was only the kai el’Sol that he feared, although any of the others could also have been his death. And I would say that it was not fear of death that moved him then. He admired Fredero.”

“You admire Fredero.”

“Yes.

“Fredero asked him why he had not chosen to hide the woman, and the child. Why he had not disposed of them; they were poor and without family, and their absence would have been beneath notice.

“The young man’s reply was simple enough. ‘They have no one,’ he said. ‘And they trust me. I have already betrayed your trust, and in the end, betraying theirs would not regain it.’

“‘I might never have known.’

“‘No,’ he said. ‘But I would know.’

“Fredero looked at the man then, looked long, and said, ‘You have not betrayed my trust, Renaldo.’”

Marakas closed his eyes.

“‘You may serve the Lord yet. I will send Jevri el’Sol as your guide and your companion; heed him. He will take you to Mancorvo, and in Mancorvo, you will be granted an audience with the Tyr’agnate. Accept it. Tell him only what you have told me. I believe that he will find use for you in Amar.’

“‘What use?’ the young man asked. ‘I have done nothing with my life but learn the use of this.’ And he touched the hilt of his sword.

“Fredero simply smiled. That was all.”

But it was enough. Marakas set the cup aside. “I do not understand the kai el’Sol, but when he leaves the Tor Leonne ten days hence, I will travel with him.”

“If I am not mistaken, Marakas el’Sol, you will travel a long road at his behest, and by his side.”

24th of Misteral, 427 AA

Sea of Sorrows

Are you ever mistaken, Jevri el’Sol? Were you ever mistaken in your youth
? Marakas wondered what had become of Jevri, although he could guess: The sword of the Radann kai el’Sol had gone missing after Fredero’s death. Peder had not given the order to search for the sword; nor had he given orders to search for the missing Jevri.

And that said much.

I did not intend to walk this road without him. I am not sure I know how
.

What sleep he had taken had been poor, but sleep was often poor in the desert. What warmth the sun did not grant, the Lady denied him as well, and he was no longer a supple youth; he was stiff with the receding chill of her gaze. Days, he counted.

Still, he walked. The evening’s chill lessened as the sun began its ascent, the temperature shifting like grains of sand, like a Northern clock. Marakas was dressed for this trek. He drew hood down; drew cloth across his dry lips, and continued.

Lady
, he thought,
give me guidance. I have destroyed one of your daughters in our war against your enemy. Demand your due, and I will pay it
.

Marakas par el’Sol could not have served Fredero kai el’Sol without understanding obligation and debt. But it was hard to pay debt when one could not find the debtor. He walked.

Rape was not an uncommon activity among the men of Annagar. For this reason, women with any family at all were never seen alone; they were accompanied by seraf, cerdan, fathers, brothers, or cousins. These women did not interest the kai el’Sol. But upon the roads they traveled, other women did: the elderly, the infirm, and the women who had no family to protect them.

Fredero did not raise his sword often, but when he raised it, it seldom fell unblooded.

Marakas discovered that the kai el’Sol was known. His cloak and his robes fell across the low villages like a tent, and time and again people came to him, seeking the protection they offered.

The first time a young woman had darted between the shoulders of men who had gathered to speak with the Radann kai el’Sol, Marakas had been surprised. That surprise had not lessened when the woman—past girlhood, but barely, her skin dark with sun, her eyes dark with much else—had thrown herself at his feet, grasping his hem in shaking hands.

The Radann who accompanied Fredero had not removed the girl; they had drawn themselves up to their full heights, dropped their hands to the hilts of their swords, and waited.

He had wondered why. But only that once.

In ones and twos, bending at knee and covering the exposed ground with their exposed backs, the serafs of the village surrounded the Radann, their hands flat against dirt in the most submissive of postures. Old women, old men; the children were scattered or gathered and hidden by roof or hill or field. Of these, only one sought to raise his face; he was old in the way that strong men suddenly are when struck by loss.

Marakas turned his attention to the girl again.

Four men had come seeking her.

They were, not to his surprise, finely dressed; they were younger than the kai el’Sol, but older than the girl. The villagers, who had made no move to hinder the girl, now cringed to either side to grant passage to the men who pursued her.

Those men stopped just short of the kai el’Sol; to do otherwise would have insulted the symbol—the full symbol—of the sun ascendant. Not even the Tyr’agnati would dare such an insult without cause.

The kai el’Sol gazed upon them without comment for a full minute, and then he bent to the girl, whose hair now streamed down her shoulders and neck, obscuring her face, and trembling, as she trembled, like a dark rain.

“Child,” he said, his voice remote and forbidding, “who are you?”

She did not look up. And she did not release his hem. But she did not refuse his question. “Talia,” she whispered, her voice so broken Marakas could not be certain that he had heard the name correctly. “Talia en’Sambali.”

“Talia en’Sambali,” he said quietly, “where is your husband?”

She did not speak for a moment, but not even Marakas could mistake her silence for anything other than terror. The kai el’Sol waited. And waited.

Marakas knelt. He knew that the robes of his office would suffer for this lack of dignity, for not one of the Radann had shifted, and they were each more experienced than he. But at that moment, such dignity had seemed a paltry thing. He touched her shoulder. She flinched. But she did not draw back; the hem of the kai el’Sol’s robe twisted in her shaking hands as she shrank away.

“Child,” he said, touching her shoulder gently. It surprised him, this gentleness; he had thought it scoured from him by the deaths of his family. “You must answer the kai el’Sol. But answer without fear.”

She raised her face slowly until it was at a level with the kai’s knee. “He is—”

“He is dead,” one of the finely dressed men said coolly.

“She is widowed, and her family does not speak for her here.”

“Ah.” Fredero looked at the young man. His face was slender, handsome, his beard trimmed and tended. “Who then speaks?”

“I am kai to the Tor’agnate.”

“The Tor’agnate?”

The man’s brows rose a fraction. “The Tor’agnate Amando di’Manelo.”

“Ah. And he serves the Tor’agar Gerrardo di’Verrens.”

The man nodded.

“Who in turn owes loyalty to the Tyr’agnate Mareo di’Lamberto, if I am not mistaken.”

“You are correct, kai el’Sol. This girl is a villager in my father’s lands. She is without husband.”

One of the scattered villagers made a sound. A low sound, like a grunt of pain.

Fredero turned to him. “You know her husband?”

The hesitation was profound. Marakas understood it well; the kai el’Sol did not appear to.

“Speak,” the Radann Jordan el’Sol said, breaking his silence without motion. “The kai el’Sol is a man with many responsibilities. Do not waste his time.”

“He was not—was not dead—this morning.”

“And now?”

“If the kai di’Manelo vouchsafes his death, it must be so.” The words were broken.

“I see.” Fredero turned to the young man. “When did this death take place?” It was only barely a question.

The kai did not answer. And the girl, who should have known better, now raised her head fully. The sun’s light traveled down the necklace of red marks around her throat, and lingered on the soiled, common clothing she wore.

“They killed him,” she whispered. “He is just beyond the south fields, among the trees that serve as protection against the wind.”

Marakas rose. To the old man who had spoken, he said, “Do you know the place of which she speaks?”

The old man nodded.

“Take me there.
Now
.”

He felt a moment’s pity for the man; the son of the Tor’agnate glanced at him coldly, and the glance was a command. But the old man, eyes cast groundward in humility and fear, did not appear to see that glance. When Marakas approached him, he turned, wordless, and walked away from the village center.

Marakas heard the kai el’Sol’s command; no one followed them. When the village center was beyond them, the old man began to run, forgetting the Radann who trailed behind him like shadow. If the sun had added lines to his face, and the wind had broken the straightness of his back, it had not robbed him of agility; Marakas found it difficult to match his pace.

They crossed the field; the stalks of wheat were high, and the corn, green, was still as tall as a young man. The furrows between rows were not wide enough to grant two grown men easy passage; stalks fell as they passed, a punctuation to the story of their movement.

Other stories were written here; stalks trampled and crushed by the hooves of larger beasts. As they cleared the tall growth of the field, as they passed into the wilderness that farming had not banished, they came to the line of trees. Marakas had spent his youth in the land of Oerta; Mancorvo, with its abundance of life, its long stretches of rivers and lakes, was still a miracle to him.

But in that land, or in these, men with power still left their mark. They found the young man against the trunk of a tree. He had been wounded by swords, and his farmer’s cotton had absorbed blood without staunching its flow.

The old man cried out, wordless, and fell at once to his knees by the young man’s side.

“I told him,” the old man said. “I told him, not her, not that one. I told him not to marry that girl.” There were tears upon his cheeks; they caught no light, for the trees provided shade from the harshness of the Lord’s glare. “It is no boon to desire a beautiful girl,” he added, although Marakas knew it well. “And no boon to have that desire returned.”

But Marakas had also fallen to the ground beside the young man, and the life of the Radann, the desire for vengeance against the perfidy of the Lord, slipped past him, falling away as if it were a poorly fastened mask. An iron mask, a mask with no obvious weakness. He learned much, that day.

He touched the man’s face—if someone quite so young could be called a man—and then turned and barked at the older one.

“Bring water,” he said. “Bring fever root. Bring arsal, if you have it, and if you do not, for the love of your son,
find
it.”

The old man was motionless for a second, but only that long; he turned and Marakas heard the crashing of fallen stalks as the old man receded into the distance.

He was left alone.

Into the silence, he offered his only hesitation, but the hesitation was profound. He had touched the boy’s face, and he knew—as no one else would have known it—that the spirit had not yet fled the body. He also understood what the cost of holding that spirit here would be; the winds that were howling in his ears had nothing to do with the gentle breezes of the Mancorvan plains.

You did not come to the Lord to heal
, he told himself angrily.
You did not come to the Lord to offer what you promised Amelia you would never offer again
.

How many promises, made to his wife, had he broken?

He withdrew his hands. Stared at them.

Amelia
 . . .

A small bird flew down from the tree’s height. It was brown, plain, clearly a female; its chirping was an agitated cluck and whistle.