The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (19 page)

“Those that I deem a liability have been deployed as messengers. They are crafting the tubes that we will require to send word among the Generals.”

Alesso grimaced. Cortano’s words were a veiled criticism. He had not yet chosen the men who would take command of the armies. Ser Jarrani kai di’Lorenza, Tyr’agnate of Sorgassa, and possibly the shrewdest of his allies, had a younger son. That son, Alef par di’Sorgassa, he wished to have at the head of the first army. Alesso had considered this carefully; Alef was quiet, and completely loyal to his brother. He was also competent.

But this, this was
his
war.

He walked, putting the table, with its detailed map, between them. Bending, he said, “Will they be of use to me?”

“The Widan?”

“The
Kialli
.”

“Ah.”

The silence was a Southern silence; movement broke it, but words had to be gathered, and offered, with care.

“Lord Ishavriel will arrive in person?”

Cortano nodded.

“Does he intend to remain with the army?”

“To the best of my knowledge. He is prized among the
Kialli
for his ability in war.”

“And his followers?”

“For the moment, the Lord’s Fist has agreed to your request. They will send only those who can pass themselves off as men.”

Alesso nodded. He moved a pin across the map. “Here,” he said. “The valleys narrow; if we are to gain the advantage of the terrain, there are three places we must avoid.”

Cortano nodded again.

“There will be some difficulty with the
Kialli
.”

Cortano’s smile was brief. In its fashion, heavy with irony at the understatement, it was also genuine.

“Have you ever seen one ride?”

“Never.”

“Nor I. But I have been horsed once or twice when they chose to show themselves, and even I had some difficulty controlling my mount.

“We cannot afford to take them with the cavalry.”

“No.”

Alesso moved another pin across the map. “Nor can we afford to have them reveal themselves.”

“No.”

“Have you thought upon the role you wish them to perform?”

“I? No. But I am not a General.”

“Well said. I have.”

“Then I should warn you, Alesso, that there has been some rumor in the Shining Court about the deployment of . . . His forces.”

“What warning?”

“There is some chance that Anya will be on the field.”

Alesso, were he less cautious, would have spit. “On our field?” he asked at last.

“By Lord Ishavriel’s side.”

The silence stretched; the map lay beneath him, and he saw it shift as he looked: Anya a’Cooper was mad. Powerful, yes, but her power could not be trusted; could barely be contained. If containment was a word that applied here. He struggled a moment with anger.

Into that silent emotion, Cortano spoke again. “If they risk her here, they require her power.”

“To what end?”

“They wish to win this war, Tyr’agar. To destroy the Commanders will deal a blow to the North.”

“Ah, yes. They fear the North.” It was a bitter statement. The South did not seem to be of concern. He would teach them the error of this assumption. “Cortano,” he said quietly.

“Tyr’agar.”

“I wish a small delegation to be deployed. I have received a letter, carried by a clansman of some standing; he awaits my reply.”

“Ah.”

“It is from Ser Amando kai di’Manelo.”

Cortano frowned. “He serves the Tor’agar of Vellens, does he not?”

“He does.”

“His Torrean is deep within the boundaries of Mancorvo.”

“Indeed.”

“What does he wish, and what does he offer?”

“He offers his allegiance, Sword’s Edge.”

Cortano said nothing.

“And I wish to reward that offer. I would send
Kialli
among my delegates; let them travel to the Torrean that Manelo now holds. If he can be of aid to us, let us use what he offers.”

“You will court war with Lamberto.”

Ser Alesso di’Alesso smiled thinly. “Perhaps. But I think not. In the end, with some loss, the kai Lamberto will not stand by the side of the Callestan Tyr; too much has happened between them, and the Callestan Tyr now travels in the shadow of the Northerners.”

Cortano bowed. The hatred that Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto bore the Northerners was legendary.

“Do not discount the threat he poses,” Alesso said softly, guessing at what Cortano did not say out loud. “The subversion of the Leonne Tyran was . . . distasteful to him, and if he desires vengeance, he is not a fool. He would not surrender the whole of Mancorvo in order to achieve it.”

“And how will you then send word?”

Alesso par di’Marente’s ghost haunted the plains fifty miles from the intersection of the disputed Mancorvan-Averdan border.

Sendari met him as he traveled, horsed now—on a beast that Alesso himself had chosen and given, in public, to his most trusted adviser. He met him when his shadow passed over the trampled grass; met him when his horse cantered through the wide stretches between rows of tenting and the wooden structures that serafs had spent the better part of a month constructing and perfecting.

He heard his laugh, saw the edge of his smile, saw the glint in the eyes of a perfectly still face; he saw him, horsed, and on foot,
Terra Fuerre
by his side, in the colors of Marente, a minor clan of the High Court. He saw him, not in the men who, little better than cerdan, had been gathered from the villages of the Terrean of Raverra, but in the men who commanded them; in their youth and the vibrancy of their quest for victory.

Dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders that had filled out in the strength of early manhood—that had been Alesso.

Of himself, Ser Sendari par di’Marano saw little. His home had not been on these fields, and his name had not been made upon them. His battles had been personal, his losses inflicted not by the harsh and sudden stroke of a sword or the pointed haft of a spear, but by the simple expedience of living a life in the Dominion of Annagar.

Of loving those whose lives had touched his.

When Alesso had last ridden to war as a promising commander of note, he had ridden under the banner of the kai Leonne. But his men had looked not to the Tyr; they had looked to Ser Alesso. And it was Ser Alesso di’Marente who had managed to salvage a retreat from a rout, saving face and lives in the process, and becoming worthy of the title General.

The years were gone. Twelve, almost thirteen. Ser Sendari now wore the rubied sword that told the ignorant he had passed the hidden tests demanded of the Widan; his edge was the hidden power, the will, of the Sword of Knowledge.

But he would never be the striking figure that Alesso had cut then; he would never have that breadth of shoulder, that wild determination, that terrible grace of cunning that had given Alesso the Tor Leonne.

In his youth he had bitterly resented that fact.

Now, he was above it; unlike the ghost of the young Alesso di’Marente, his own youth did not haunt him. Nor did his dead.

But the living were treacherous.

He could not escape them.

Narro, great black beast with braided mane and braided tail, was restive. Sendari had given him leave to gallop three miles past the Northernmost edge of the encampment. But three miles for a horse of Narro’s quality was the beginning of a run, not the end of it; he was restive. The robes of a Widan fell across his flanks as he tossed chunks of grass-laden dirt to and fro.

“Wait,” he told the horse, pulling at the reins.

Narro accepted the command with ill grace. Sendari shrugged. There were none here to bear witness to his inability to exert perfect control over the beast, and the witness that would come would not judge him for the weakness.

The sun had risen; he judged time by the fall of shadows. There were other ways of judging it, but this way served him best; he had developed, over the long month, an instinctive acceptance of the rhythm of day.

He missed his wives. Many of the Tors who had gathered upon the plain had brought a wife or a concubine with them; those who had not had taken, from the Raverran villages, the companionship they required. Sendari found no comfort in the arms and the words of strangers, and beauty spoke not to his heart, but to something too cerebral to be easily comforted.

That part of him was Widan.

And the Widan’s knees tightened around the girth of his horse as he heard the distant sounds of travel. There were men upon the road.

He nudged his horse forward; had to fight to hold him back. This meeting was not a meeting that he relished.

He saw the standard first; it was lifted by the hands of a man he did not recognize from this distance. Unfurled, heavy enough to withstand the ferocity of wind, it caught sunlight and scattered it. Six rays above the full face of the rising sun.

Adano kai di’Marano had come.

Behind the standard, four men traveled abreast, their horses cantering in a unison that spoke of the quality of their riders. Those riders wore the half sun, with six distinct rays; it marked them as Toran. Behind them followed another group of four, and behind them, two men rode abreast. Sendari counted them; eight, two, eight.

He waited; the distance between the riders and Narro lessened. Narro’s neck rose; his nostrils flared. Sendari straightened his shoulders; ran one hand through his Widan’s beard. Adano would know, if he saw the gesture, what it meant; the Widan was nervous.

Only when the standard-bearer stopped did Sendari dismount. Upon horseback, the differences between himself and his kai were pronounced. Sendari wore a sword gracelessly; it fit him as well as any sword ever had. It was accoutrement, afterthought, a part of the uniform that spoke of coming war.

But it was not his weapon.

The ranks of the Toran broke as the two men in their center edged their horses forward.

They wore Marano colors: emerald and night blue beneath the hooded visage of white hunting bird. Beneath its flight, the sun, the rising sun.

He waited. Their horses slowed.

The older of the two dismounted. His stride was long, his steps quick.

“Sendari!”

Sendari par di’Marano bowed; the bow was perfect, inflected with genuine respect. When he rose, he stood ten feet from the kai Marano: his brother, Adano, the Tor’agar.

The sun had not aged him; the wind had not bowed him. He smiled, nodding at the glint of ruby and gold that divided their achievements.

“Adano.”

“Par Marano,” his brother said, extending his arms.

The embrace was brief. This much Sendari expected.

It was formal. This . . . he had not. And although Adano had chosen to travel with his eldest son—which was, in disputed terrain, an open gesture of trust—he did not summon his kai to his side.

Compared to other cuts, other losses, this was shallow, but it stung nonetheless. The human capacity for pain, it seemed, was endless and subtle.

Sendari stepped back and bowed, rising to the sight of Adano’s almost expressionless face.

“We . . . have had word . . . that Ser Alesso has massed his armies on the Northern front of Raverra.”

Sendari nodded. “It is true.”

“No word was sent to the Tyr’agnate.”

“No word was received from him,” Sendari replied, slipping with effort into the smooth neutrality of the High Court. “We do not trespass on the Terrean of Mancorvo; nor do we seek to feed or house our forces upon its soil. As such, word was not deemed necessary.”

“Indeed.”

“No word was received from the Tor’agar.”

“There are some words that serafs cannot be entrusted to deliver,” Adano replied. He hesitated, and then added, “I sent word to you.”

“I am not the Tyr’agar.”

“No. You are par di’Marano.”

“And Widan.”

“Indeed. Adviser to Ser Alesso.”

Sendari nodded.

“And of the Serra Teresa?”

“I have not seen her since the Festival of the Moon.”

“Others have?”

“Perhaps. No one in the Tor Leonne.”

“Did you send her from the Tor?”

“I?” Bitter word. “The Serra Teresa answers to the kai Marano, when she chooses to answer at all. I thought, perhaps, you had summoned her North.”

“In the North, at the moment, she would be of value to me. But no. I did not summon her.” He drew his hands behind his back, clasping them there. “Sendari—”

“Kai Marano?”

“Is she dead?”

“Not by my hand.”

“Forgive me. I had to ask.”

“What is there to forgive? There was little love between us.”

“But not none. She is Marano.”

“Not none,” Sendari replied. He met his brother’s gaze. Held it. “But it is not of the Serra Teresa that we meet to speak.”