The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (57 page)

It was not the question Yollana expected. She stumbled, her legs—legs that would never be right without healer’s gift, and healer’s invasive touch—giving in to the weakness of cut muscles. “Why do you ask, Serra?”

“I am concerned.”

“For yourself.”

“Of course. And for my niece.”

“Hah. You lie so prettily it’s no wonder poets made such fools of themselves in your presence.”

“Say rather that I do not choose to speak the whole of the truth, Yollana.”

“Why?”

“It is kinder.”

She laughed. “I’m not known for kindness.”

“No. But it is not beyond your reach.”

Yollana shrugged. “What purpose does it serve?”

The Serra said nothing, shifting her grip upon the older woman’s arms. The handles of the canes were cold and hard; the old woman’s hands were shaking.

“Did you see Evallen die?”

“No. But you know this.”

“Did you hear her?”

“No, Yollana.”

Yollana stared a moment at the face of the moon. “You didn’t choose to listen.”

Teresa bowed her head.

“The Lord burns those bold enough to seek to gaze upon his face; the Lady denies us little, choosing fan or veil when she seeks privacy. It is said that the Lady is the more merciful of the two—but you understand the veil, Teresa. You understand the fan.” She stumbled; Teresa righted her. There was a rhythm to this motion that had become almost as natural as walking. “Do you understand the choice Evallen made?”

“I understand that she felt it necessary. And seeing the Tor Arkosa, hearing the change in Na’dio, makes it clear that she was not wrong.”

“Good. Her price is not my price, not yet. But my price is necessary. I will pay it.” She grimaced. “All Matriarchs make their plans. For escape. For return to safe harbor. Some see clearly enough to plan well. Enough. If you will not give my advice to the young man, follow it yourself.”

That drew, from the Serra Teresa, the prettiest of smiles. It was not a court smile. There was no veil between them.

“But stay to the road.”

“I cannot see it, Yollana.”

“No? Let me make it clear.” The old woman gestured, and although she was hobbled by injury, there was grandeur in the motion. Command.

“I have traveled this road in secrecy once before,” Yollana said quietly. “But there are no secrets now; I think that only Stavos and the child will be unaffected by what we pass across.” She shook her head. Her hair was sun-dry, harsh as desert scrub. “Do you see them, Serra?”

The Serra Teresa followed the direction of Yollana’s shaking hand.

Against the floor of forest, absorbing the silver light of veiled moon, were the imprints of footsteps.

“No,” Yollana said bitterly, “they are not mine. But they were made by my kin, and they have endured against this moment.”

“Our enemies?”

“They might see them if they know how to look.” She kept her voice flat, forced it to be the uninflected mask that might better protect her from the unspoken gift that lay within the Serra Teresa.

But she thought that the Serra Teresa heard what was there anyway: fear. And not of the demon kin.

An hour passed. Two. Yollana stopped once to gain breath, and the Serra dropped to her knees, her hands against injured calves, massaging warmth and blood into them. She offered no words, for Yollana would accept none, and she had come to understand the Matriarch well enough to offer her the blessing of silence.

The stag returned. In the darkness, Teresa saw that his hooves—hooves that were at once delicate and deadly—stepped among the footprints that Yollana’s gesture had invoked; he did not touch them, and did not allow either of his riders to touch the ground they crossed.

As if he did not trust them to step carefully.

Kallandras.

Serra Teresa.

Are we followed?

Celleriant sees nothing.

She nodded. Waited until Yollana made to rise, and rose as well, becoming crutch and cane, bearing the burden of the Matriarch as carefully as she had borne the burden of any power the High Courts had granted her. In truth, it was much, for she had had the respect of her brothers as a shield, and she had used it at her convenience more than once.

It was gone; she would never shelter behind it again.

In its place, sun, wind, sand; the desert lives of nomads played out against the skin of her hands, her arms. There was a curious freedom in bearing the marks of the elements so openly, but with that freedom, fear. Beauty had not been her only power, but it was the only power that she had been allowed to acknowledge, and live.

She turned to gaze over her shoulder at her niece, stepping carefully, balancing the weight of Yollana with the weight of curiosity. None of her grace had left her; she managed both with care.

Ramdan stood a step behind Diora. He carried no weapon, for as seraf he was allowed none, but although he now bore a burden of years greater than most who served in such an exalted position, he did not waver in his duties. If it was true that the Lady loved serafs, she would honor this man above all others when the winds at last claimed his voice, his solid presence.

Diora herself was silent.

She was Serra, still, and the only effective role she could play in this war, gift notwithstanding, was that one. Serra Diora en’Leonne. Bride of Tyrs.

“What do you mean, they lost her?” Eduardo kai di’Garrardi was an unpleasant shade of red. “Alesso, I warn you—”

Ser Alesso di’Alesso raised his head in silence. It was enough; the threat did not leave Eduardo’s lips. “I am aware of her import, both to our alliance and to our enemies. But the report our scouts made was clear enough. She travels in the company of Voyani—which, we cannot be certain; the scouts are poorly informed, and they chose not to engage the enemy in conversation.”

“Were it not for the stupidity of your allies, General, the Voyani would not now be so hostile to our role in the Northern Terreans.”

“They have never been friendly to the clans.”

“No. Indeed. But they have rarely aligned against them either, and if I am not mistaken, they will be so aligned now.” He had regained his composure, falling into the cadences of a conversation more suited to his rank. And to Alesso’s. “And the Sun Sword?”

“Yes,” Alesso said softly. Again, he met the kai Garrardi’s glare; they fenced that way, in silence.

“The borders?”

“If she seeks to enter Averda, it will avail her nothing.”

“Mancorvo?”

Alesso shrugged. The Widan Sendari di’Sendari had absented himself from the conversation as quickly as he could while still preserving dignity; he had satisfied his curiosity, that was all.

“Our forces are deployed among the border towns, and beyond. The Tor’agnate Ser Amando kai di’Manelo is not unsympathetic to our cause, and he has granted us access to the lands he holds; they will be a base of operations, if such a base becomes necessary. It would be best if that base became necessary only after the fall of Callesta.”

Serafs had been forbidden the General’s tent, and Alesso missed them sorely. He desired sweet water and a moment’s peace, but would not demean himself by such a menial task as the pouring of that water in the presence of the kai di’Garrardi.

“I would ride to join our forces in Mancorvo, if that is acceptable to you.”

“A man of your skill is not easily found, kai Garrardi.” He invoked the informal title deliberately, adding sincerity to the compliment. “And our armies will be sorely tested in Averda if intelligence proves true, and the Northern flight is once again upon the field.”

Eduardo di’Garrardi inclined his head; black hair caught lamplight. He lifted a hand to his chin, poised there like a statue. But his expression was now remote.

“Let me consider,” Alesso said quietly. “I do not wish to lose the Oertan forces to Mancorvo when the war is to be fought in Averda.”

“My men are not trained to the hills and the valleys,” Eduardo said.

“No. But they will fight under the Oertan banner with the ferocity of the skill the desert edge demands. If you are present. In your absence?”

Eduardo shrugged. “They are my men. I have acknowledged your right to rule; they will not gainsay it. They will not dare to embarrass me.”

It was true. All of it. Alesso took care; he composed himself as if thought were required. A dance. “What numbers would you travel with?”

“A hundred men.”

“Mounted?”

“Fifty.”

The Tyr’agar set his hand upon his sword hilt and rose, unbending at the knee. “I had not considered this possibility. Let me consider it now, with care. I will tender you an answer within the hour.”

The kai Garrardi rose as well, and offered Alesso one of the few perfect bows he had ever offered in the privacy of the General’s tent, when none were there to witness it. When he left, Alesso knelt once again.

“Let him go.”

“Ah. Widan Cortano. You were absent from our meeting.”

“Indeed; I thought it wise.”

“You thought it wise to avoid gauging the intent of an ally who has proved less than reliable?”

Cortano walked through the open flaps of the tent, raising his hands in a steeple. He bowed, hands locked in that position; it was not a gesture of respect, but rather a gesture of power. Alesso almost shrugged.

“His intent has always been clear.” The words were as cool as the passage through the Raverran night. “He is a fool.”

“A necessary fool,” Alesso replied, speaking as coolly. “If indeed he is one.”

“Were he not, he would ride by your side with the Oertan forces; he would assure himself of the disposition of the lands you have granted him in Averda.”

“Perhaps he trusts my word, Widan.”

A peppered brow rose. Cortano was pale in the lamplight; weariness made him unguarded. The field was a very different court from the palace of the Tor Leonne, and it afforded Alesso a rare glimpse into the men upon whom he depended.

“And were he a fool, he would not now preside over Oerta. He is . . . intemperate. He is driven too openly by his desires. But he has never failed to achieve them, and the lack of that failure marks him as something other than fool.”

“There is always a first time.”

“Indeed, there is always that.”

“You intend to let him go.”

Alesso smiled. It was a war smile. “No.”

“No?”

“Not yet, Sword’s Edge.”

“He will be angered.”

“He will. But with Garrardi by my side, I am served by three of the five Terreans. If my position is . . . contested . . . I am served by at least two who are not likewise encumbered. Garrardi has held Oerta for generations.”

Cortano frowned.

“The kin made clear that there was little battle offered; those who served him perished. He spoke of scant numbers. Five of his hunters were vanquished, and with ease. If the party of the Serra Diora encounters the kai Garrardi, I am almost certain he will not return in time. No, Cortano. For the moment, we have need of Eduardo kai di’Garrardi.”

The lines of Cortano’s shoulders shifted slightly. Approval there, but it was tainted by exhaustion. “I bring you word,” he said quietly.

The smile dimmed. “Speak plainly.”

“I have seldom spoken otherwise.”

“Ah.”

“Lord Isladar has left the Shining Court.”

Alesso reached for the water, and in silence, poured it. He was not as graceful as a seraf—a matter of choice, of will. Water sloshed around the rim of his glass, pooling upon the flat wood of the sitting table. He offered that glass to Cortano, and the Widan accepted it without comment, pausing to dry his hands before he drank.

“Why?”

“It seems the Lord’s Fist saw reason—or weakness enough—to dispose of him. They failed in that attempt, but he did not choose to stay by the Lord’s side in order to further wage the war.”

“And his whereabouts?”

“Unknown, of course.”

Alesso nodded. “Is he a threat?”

Faint lines of irritation marred the expression of the Sword’s Edge. “He is
Kialli
. And of the
Kialli
, he desires no obvious power, no title, no lands; he demands the respect that anyone would demand in a position of power, but he enforces it in a manner of his own choosing, and in an unpredictable way. Of the kinlords, he is the most subtle. Of course he’s a threat.”

“To us?”

“If we better understood his desire, if we better understood his game, I would have answered that question months ago. His departure does not have the appearance of careful planning; he does not appear to have chosen the timing of his unfortunate exit.”

“Carefully said.” Alesso reached for a second glass and, with the same care, poured water.

“I do not believe he intends us harm,” the Sword’s Edge continued, speaking into a distance of tabletop, his gaze intent. “In his fashion, he has been of aid to us.”