The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (56 page)

“The business of Havalla,” he said quietly, “is not the business of Arkosa.” By Yollana’s curt nod, she approved—she certainly didn’t show it in any other way.

Kallandras knelt by Yollana’s side; he was the only man who did not stand.

But he spoke, his words low and measured; he wasted no time. Yollana had made clear how little time the fire would provide them.

When Kallandras had finished, he waited.

Yollana spoke first, the beginning of her sentence colliding with the words of the Radann par el’Sol. It was odd, to see this grave and serious man struggle to give way to the woman who was in every way his opposite; Jewel was surprised when he fell silent, and realized by her surprise that she had come to feel at home in the South, this awkward place where men ruled simply by the expedient of
being
men. She wondered what he would make of The Terafin.

“The Leonne boy must be in Averda.”

The Radann’s brow rose. He did not argue with the fact, but the form in which she had chosen to describe the rightful Tyr rankled.

“That would be my guess,” Kallandras replied gravely. “And the main body of the army has certainly traveled there.”

“The Tyr’agnati?”

“He has Lorenza and Garrardi.”

She removed the pipe from her mouth, spit, and returned it. “The Radann?”

“Their disposition is less clear.”

Marakas nodded.

Yollana, who appeared to pay little attention to the Radann, swiveled. “With Marente?”

“They travel at the side of the General, yes.”

She removed the pipe and spit again, but this time kept its lip from her own. “Why?”

“It is where the strongest of our enemies will gather. What other field would you have them choose?” Curt words. Cold ones.

“The right one. Or have you forgotten your history?”

His head snapped up, pulling the line of his sparsely grown beard with it.

“Matriarch,” the Serra Diora said softly, “not one of us will forget
our
history. Not here. But let us not be governed by what has happened; let us be guided by it, instead. What
will
happen must be our concern.”

If possible, the lines around the Havallan Matriarch’s mouth deepened. But she held her tongue.

Jewel stared at the Serra Diora di’Marano for a moment. But she had fallen silent; the Radann Marakas par el’Sol began to speak instead.

“The swords granted the servitors of the Lord are our strongest weapons against the servants of the Lord of Night. They warn us of the presence of the enemy, and they are equal to the weapons they summon from the fire’s heart. We do not serve the interests of the Lord of Night; we will never serve them again. Offer us another method of detecting the servants of the Lord of Night, Matriarch, and we will gladly dispense with the pretense.”

Yollana nodded gruffly; it was as much of a concession as Jewel had seen her offer. Tobacco burned down, acrid, where the smoke of the fire was sweet. She held it in the cupped palms of her hands before she condescended to speak. “We go to Mancorvo.”

“I think it wisest,” Kallandras said quietly. “The Havallans gather there.”

“You know the movement of the Havallans now?” Yollana spoke testily.

“The Voyani call no place home, but in time of war, they gather in the Terreans that are least . . . contested. Havalla has always had ties with Mancorvo. I believe you will find your daughters there.”

The old woman snorted. “You offer no comfort, bard.”

“No.”

She cursed the cold genially, and without much fervor. “We’d best start now.”

The Radann par el’Sol had a face smooth as glass. Jewel read nothing in it, but she knew from the line of his shoulders that he was angry. Angry and mindful of the burden of debt. He turned to the Serra Diora.

“Serra?”

“The kin see as well in darkness as they do in light—but according to Kallandras of Senniel, they are few. If it pleases you, Radann par el’Sol, we will travel now. The moon is bright enough to see by.”

Yollana snorted. “Not in the Mancorvan forests, it isn’t.

And the plains are too open.” She gestured to Teresa. “But there are roads the clansmen don’t take. Na’tere, lend me your arm. I’ll lead.”

Jewel rose. “Matriarch,” she said quietly. “If you wish, you may ride.”

Yollana gazed at the stag; he lifted his head, bent tines toward earth, and waited.

She shook her head. “Not him,” she said softly. “Maybe if you had a decent horse—but I’ll owe no debt to the horned King.”

She does not trust me, Jewel. Do not press her
.

I didn’t offer out of kindness
, Jewel snapped back in silence.
She’s too slow
.

Maybe. But she is the Matriarch of her line, and she understands the debt she would incur by accepting your offer
.

What debt? You serve me
.

Ah
. He lifted his face, his dark eyes reflecting a light that did not hang in the night sky, did not burn in the heart of heartfire.
I serve you, yes, but not as Lord Celleriant does. The Winter Queen no longer binds me
.

If that were true, wouldn’t you be a man
?

I am a man
, he replied, just a hint of the arrogance of kings in the tone of unspoken words.
And she is wise. You are almost a child
.

I am not
—

Almost. You have already begun to walk a road that will change you, and only your . . . domicis . . . can see clearly where it will lead
.

But you carry the child
.

Yes. For you. Because if I did not carry her, you would, and although you would find the burden too costly, you would bear it anyway. I have it said before, Jewel ATerafin. You are weak
.

Some weaknesses are better than some strengths
.

Shall we debate that, here
?

She lifted Ariel, struggling to balance bent knees with child’s weight, and succeeding. “Ride,” she told the child. “I’ll be behind you.”

We can discuss it
.

His chuckle was warmer than his tone.
Indeed. We can discuss it until you are old; I fear you will never be wise. But in the end, this war will define all truth, and it will grant victory either to your position or mine. The Lord of Night is waiting in the farthest reaches of the Northern Wastes; he feels his power, and he grows confident
.

And if the Lord of Night rules, if in the end the battle decides the course of the war, you will have your answer
.

And the end will justify the means
?

Only if you win
. He rose as slowly, as carefully, as Jewel had, but with infinitely more grace, shouldering the burden he accepted at her behest.
Ask the timeless one, if she chooses to visit again. Ask her what she has done in the name of war; ask her what she would not do for the chance of victory
.

The chance
?

The chance. There is no certainty, Jewel. You fight a god, and you have no god behind you
.

We have the Cities
.

You have one—and it is an empty place; armor without the warrior at its heart, sword without the wielder. Perhaps if you had the other four
 . . .

Four? There are only three other Matriarchs
.

Indeed. I have spoken overmuch
.

She mounted almost carelessly; he gained his feet before hers had left the ground.

“We’ll ride ahead,” Jewel told the Matriarch of Havalla.

Yollana nodded. “Only the gifted will see you. Or the wise. And it cannot be said that the wise travel with the armies of Marente.”

I wish you would tell me your name
.

Ah. Names have power
.

You’re not a demon. You’ve said you’re a man
—
what power does a name have
?

He laughed. Wind curled round the crown of antlers, broken and snarled in the multifoliate branches; it was not allowed to pass, to offer the worst of night’s chill.
If names have no power, what does it matter whether or not you know mine
?

It’s a little bit awkward calling you
“
that big deer.
”

He said nothing.

The obdurate, condescending silence was familiar. She didn’t press him. Instead, she gazed out.

ATerafin. The Havallan Matriarch bids me tell you that you must travel to the West for some miles yet.

She had no way of answering Kallandras, but she passed the message on.

The Winter King—for in the end, demeaned in some fashion by his loss to the Winter Queen, he retained that title in Jewel’s mind—nodded.

Jewel, answer a question
.

If I can
. Not that he answered many of hers.

What is the
Voyanne?

The
Voyanne?
I don’t know. If you asked Yollana, she would say it’s what my Oma deserted in order to live in the North, in the Empire
.

She would indeed say that, if you were unwise enough to ask. She would also ask your Oma’s name, and her lineage, to better determine whose bloodline you follow. But that is not an answer. Again
.

It’s
—
I’ve never had it explained. It seems to be a way of life. Laws, rules, customs
—
and wandering
. Always the wandering.

The
Voyanne, he said quietly,
is more complicated than that; it is not merely a way of life, although perhaps your Oma did not fully apprehend this when she chose to find a home for her family. This Matriarch
—
this woman
—
has strong blood
.

What do you mean
?

You must ask her. I could tell you, but you are not
 . . .
discreet. And there are secrets that the Voyani will trust with no one. I will not be responsible, indirectly, for your death
. He turned, his feet finding purchase in the dark, dark shadows cast by foliage in the moonlight.
But I know this road. My feet know it
.

Is it safe
?

No. But no road is. We will trust the Matriarch
.

There was no path. None that Jewel could see. But she did not doubt the Queen’s consort.

They traveled in silence. Ariel fell asleep, leaning into the curve of Jewel’s collarbone. She was warm, and Jewel wanted warmth, but the memories that came with it were bitter. The streets of Averalaan came back to her—the old streets, the streets of the holdings.

Ah
.

Ah, what
?

You would never have been Matriarch
, he said softly,
but I believe that you have some of that talent
.

Memory stung.
What do you mean
?

You have made roads of your own, in a foreign place. If you traveled it again, you would find them
.

She said nothing, thinking of how little she desired to find them again. Thinking, as well, that she would never lose them, no matter how hard she tried.

“Matriarch.”

Had any other woman chosen to speak, Yollana would have pretended that her hearing was much worse than it actually was; such pretense was one of the few advantages of age.

But the woman who had spoken was the Serra Teresa di’Marano, and her lips were inches away from the older woman’s ear.
That
much pretense was beneath Yollana’s dignity.

“Serra.”

“Where do we travel?”

“Into Mancorvo.” The words were smooth, softly spoken; as much of a warning as the older woman ever offered.

The Serra Teresa nodded gravely. But she did not demur. “Lord Celleriant and Kallandras of Senniel have been speaking,” she said quietly. “And Kallandras bids me warn you.”

“Warn me?” Bitterness seeped into the smoothness, lending it the cracks and fissures of experience. “Warn
me
?”

“It is presumptuous,” the Serra said, being entirely too agreeable. Yollana wasn’t fooled.

“What do they wish to warn me of?”

The Serra was silent a moment, tilting her head to one side as if listening. Which, of course, she was. “It is the Lord Celleriant’s opinion,” she said gravely, “that the dead are bound here.”

“They seek to frighten me with ghosts?”

“I do not think they seek to frighten; merely to inform.”

“Tell them the ghosts are mine,” she said coolly. “And the past, as well.” After a moment, she added, “And tell them to
shut up.
”

The Serra Teresa had never admitted the existence of the gift that Yollana was certain she possessed; she did not admit it now. But she offered no pretty protestation, no insult to the perception of the wisewoman of Havalla. Instead, she said, “How costly will this passage be?”