The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (17 page)

“And I ask you to see that she is—always—treated with the deference that her rank demands. See the man who lays claim to the Tor and the Lake; to the crown and the Sword. Judge him.”

“And if he is found unworthy?”

Margret drew a deep breath. “Then return her to the Tor Arkosa.”

“Matriarch,” the Serra said again.

But this time, the Matriarch did not deign to meet her gaze.

CHAPTER FIVE

B
UT how is worth in a man judged?

3rd of Corvil, 427 AA

Callesta, Terrean of Averda

Steel voice.

Sun like lightning flash from ground to clear sky.

Steel song, broken by little harmonies: Breath. Sweat. Movement.

All watch.

Who judges?

“Again.”

Valedan kai di’Leonne lifted sword; brought it, dull edge to chest, tip to forehead, edge out.

Andaro di’Corsarro mirrored the motion; there was a man’s length between them, no more, and it was measured by cast shadow.

Valedan moved first, moved slowly, bringing the blade to the sheath by his side. Against Andaro, he had no clear advantage. He watched.

Andaro nodded, the movement economical and controlled; he drew his blade up to shoulder height, extending his free arm.

Shadows here.

Beyond these men, deprived of motion, stood the Ospreys, deprived of colors. They were not—would never be—dress guards. Duarte AKalakar was aware that as Tyran, they failed on several fronts. But it was a proud failure, a Northern failure.

Alexis, dressed in the shirt and pants of the Kalakar House Guard, had drawn her hands to hips; her palms hovered above the pommel of a sheathed dagger. Beside her, restive, Auralis mimed the motion, but his blade was longer, heavier, straight where the Southern swords curved in a deadly crescent. His blade, as Duarte’s, was double-edged. And, as his Captain’s, sheathed.

Beside him, and one step back, stood Kiriel di’Ashaf. Her dark hair was bound in a single braid; her eyes, dark, were unblinking. Of the Ospreys, she was the only one who could stand at attention while Ser Anton played at war; the only one whose gaze never wavered, whose attention was drawn and held, in its entirety, by a combat they had all seen, day in and day out.

There was one significant difference on this warm afternoon. The Tyr’agnate of Averda stood opposite them, his Tyran by his side. And in front of him, brooding, radiating the heat of an anger that had not yet worked its way into words or actions, his son. Alfredo. The new kai.

Kiriel had grown used to the heat. Used to sweat. Used to combat whose purpose was not death.

Duarte told himself this again and again, willing himself to believe what did not seem credible. She had changed in the days since they had left Averalaan. He was not certain when he had first noticed the change; it was subtle. But it was there.

He knew it, because he was no longer comfortable turning his back upon her. Oh, he did it; he forced himself to do it. Forced himself to feign a nonchalance that, day by day, was ebbing.
Kiriel
, he thought. He said nothing.

Instead, he focused his gaze upon the back of the youngest member of Valedan’s entourage. Aidan, born in the streets of the hundred holdings, the son of a near-crippled wheelright. His hair was white now, with sun, and his skin much darker than it should have been; he burned too easily beneath the gaze of the so-called Lord.

He should not have been here at all.

“
I will not take him
,” Valedan kai di’Leonne said.

“He is almost of an age,” Ser Anton replied with gravity. “He can carry either drum or banner; he can be horn-bearer or shield-bearer; he can serve you as the most junior of your footmen.”

“He is a child, Ser Anton. He was well-pleased at your offer to teach him and school him; he will not expect more.”

“He is almost thirteen years of age, Tyr’agar.” The clipped use of his title was—almost—disrespectful. But the Ospreys were lounging in the distance against any flat surface; they did not affect to hear the brewing argument, although he was certain Alexis at least had her opinions, and she seldom kept them to herself.

“I would like him to reach thirteen,” Valedan snapped back. He reined his tone in; the words themselves; he did not regret. Ser Andaro di’Corsarro, often distant when Ser Anton was present, joined the Ospreys; this was not an argument that he could afford to hear.

“No more than I,” Ser Anton replied coolly. “But I’ve listened to your Ospreys—”

“They are no longer Ospreys.”

“They will always be that, to the men of the South.”

Silence, but it wouldn’t last. Valedan touched the hilt of his sword restively. The sun was high, and he was too exposed.

“Aidan nearly gave his life to preserve yours,” Ser Anton said at last.

The heart of their argument, and he had exposed it first. But Valedan knew a moment of frustration, for he perceived that to Ser Anton, it was not a weakness.

“You do him no favor,” Ser Anton said, when Valedan did not tender a reply. “If you wish him to survive, he must learn.”

“Learn what? How to kill?”

“That, and more.”

“We do not arm children.”

“He is
not
a child. Your life is proof of that. He served as only Tyran would serve: he was completely yours.”

“Ser Anton—”

“Honor his courage and his choice, kai Leonne. Accept that his life is not entirely in your hands.”

Valedan was silent.

“You are in the North, Valedan.”

“I know.”

“But you must be
of
the South. No Tyr—or Tor—would deny him his request.”

“Aidan is not of the South.”

“No. But he is tempered steel. I say again: He has proved himself.”

“He—”

“He was not struck down by accident; he chose. Would you dishonor his choice?”

“No. By leaving him here, I intend to honor it.”

A dark brow rose then. Ser Anton bowed his head. Valedan thought—for a moment—that he had won this bladeless duel.

He should have known better; he never bested Ser Anton in a fight.

“You are afraid,” Ser Anton said, “of war.”

“I am willing to die to achieve our ends.”

“It is not the same thing, kai Leonne. You are afraid to see the cost of battle written upon the things you value or treasure.” He lifted his head, his eagle’s profile burnished now by the full day’s light. “Take him.”

“I—”

“Take him; he will remind you, in the end, of
why
you fight.”

“I do not need reminders.”

“All men do,” Ser Anton said. His hands joined behind his broad back; he stood a moment, the very statue of contemplation. A warrior’s pose. “Even I, in the end, have benefited from the reminder, although I came to understand it almost too late.”

The words were devoid of heat. Had they been sparring, it would have been as if Ser Anton had put up his sword, exposing his chest to Valedan’s blade.

It was never something that Valedan found comfort in.

But against the history that bound these men, Ser Anton and Valedan kai di’Leonne, the younger lost all words. He felt a bitterness cloud the sun’s light, and he was young enough not to be graceful in his surrender.

“If I choose to accede to your request—”

“It is not my request, kai Leonne.”

“
If
I do so, you will surrender to me something of like value.”

Ser Anton’s brow rose, but he did not speak; he waited. He was damnably good at waiting.

“You have said that in the South you will no longer be my master.”

“You must be seen to have
no
master, and no equal.”

Valedan shrugged. It was a forced gesture, and it was a hollow one; he could not have felt nonchalance had he bent the whole of his will toward it.

“You will continue to train me. You will continue to teach.”

Ser Anton said nothing.

“That was not a request, Ser Anton.”

The swordmaster’s frown was slight; more felt than seen.

But it was a powerful presence. Valedan weathered it.

“Tyr’agar,” the swordmaster said, bowing.

Valedan knew what he was thinking, then. And he smiled. “You intend to hamper yourself in my training, to better elevate me in the eyes of those who watch.”

Ser Anton did not reply, but the reply was wasted breath; his only options were denial or agreement, and he clearly favored neither.

Valedan was bitter, and Valedan was content: as a sword-master, Ser Anton di’Guivera was a purist. Intent, when there were no blades and no flaws in their wielding, would in the end find scant purchase against the unquestionable integrity of his chosen craft.

It was all he had.

Steel song.

Short. Loud.

The boy at the edge of the circle—the invisible circle, a thing made of witnesses and not a thing etched in powdered grass—heard it all; the strike and the clash, the rich harmonics of a tuneless, timeless melody. His reddened, peeling face was still, and his lips, still as well. It was almost the only time that Aidan knew how to
be quiet
.

Ser Anton turned for just a moment, and the oldest of Valedan’s servants met the gaze of the youngest; they exchanged the briefest of nods before the swordmaster lifted a hand. “Enough.”

The two sparring men froze in place.

Ser Anton di’Guivera turned to the Tyr’agnate.

The Tyr’agnate nodded, but his gaze did not leave the kai Leonne. The breeze moved the grasses of the Averdan hills, turning the trees into an ocean of sound, a muted, constant whisper. It spoke to them quietly.

The Ospreys, however, lacked the skills to translate what it said. Auralis rolled his eyes. And Duarte knew that he should not have noticed the open expression of boredom, because he should not have been looking at his men. He grimaced, forcing his gaze back to the men that mattered.

The kai Leonne sheathed his sword and executed a perfect bow. Ser Andaro’s was less perfect to Duarte’s admittedly untrained eye, and the sword that slid into sheath slid less silently. It was subtle; it was artifice. Duarte knew; he had seen Andaro and Valedan spar a hundred times. Ser Andaro was as graceful, as silent, as perfect in the language of the Court of Swords, as Valedan himself.

But by the little imperfections, he granted perfection to his liege lord.

He did not do so in the circle itself, but he was Ser Anton’s student, in spite of their estrangement. What Valedan received in their drills, he earned.

If any of the Southerners noticed, they did not betray that knowledge. They waited for Valedan to leave the grounds that had been designated for this test. For when he did, he became again the Tyr’agar presumptive; the man for whom they would fight and die.

Now, he was part of Ser Anton di’Guivera’s life’s work; a testament to his art. This was the true test of a master. For in the end, the student, by dint of time and skill, might surpass him on his way to becoming both rival and legacy.

There was fire in both of these men, Northern and Southern, but it was like fire wielded by man; it burned, and it scarred, but it remained, visibly, in control.

Ser Anton nodded. It was a brusque, wordless gesture.

Ramiro di’Callesta nodded as well. The nod was a fraction deeper; an acknowledgment of his appreciation for the drill itself. His Tyran bowed.

But his son did not.

“Kai Leonne,” Alfredo said, lifting both chin and shoulders in an attempt to gain height, “you fight well. If it pleases you, I would be honored to test my sword against . . . yours.”

All of the watching men froze.

Valedan’s sword was sheathed. “Kai Callesta,” he said, bowing deeply to Alfredo.

Alfredo was not yet a man, but more than a boy; a few years older than Aidan, but a head taller. His shoulders were broad, but he had yet to fill them; he was lean in the way that the youthful are.

And angry.

Duarte tensed.

His eyes skirted the gathered men, and came to rest at last upon Ramiro kai di’Callesta. The Tyr’agnate’s face was completely still, his expression like steel.

There was a risk here. Introduced by the Averdan heir, it waited for Valedan, a Southern trap. A man did not fight with children.

A man did not refuse a challenge if it was offered.

And what Alfredo kai di’Callesta had offered was just short of challenge. Had his words been a shade less graceful, had his sentiments been given leave to surface beyond the sullen rage trapped in his expression, Valedan would have had no room to maneuver.

Nor would the Tyr’agnate.

“Alfredo,” Ramiro said softly. “The kai Leonne has agreed to ride with the Tyran after we have taken our midday meal. Join us.” It was not a request.

Alfredo did not acknowledge his father’s words.

Ser Valedan kai di’Leonne did. “Tyr’agnate.” He bowed. “If it is acceptable, I, too, am curious, and I would grant your kai his request.”

The General Baredan di’Navarre stepped between the open ranks of the Callestan Tyran. Silent and still until that moment, he drew closer to his lord. But he did not speak.

“We will be allies,” Valedan continued, “your kai and I. When I gain the Tor Leonne, he will be second only to his father. I am from the North.” He said it firmly and without hesitation. “His . . . curiosity . . . is not unfounded.”