Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (14 page)

"Not her death," Jewel said softly. "Torvan didn't die when you wore his face."

"No. But Torvan was not The Terafin."

Silence. Then, "Are you telling me—are you telling me that she'll die?"

"She is a ruler without an heir. What have you learned of our history, of the Weston history upon which it is founded?"

Jewel bridled slightly. "Enough."

"As much, I imagine, as most of the House Terafin." It was clear that he did not mean it to be a compliment. "And if you could recite our history, end to end, from the first day to the last— and, if it will ease you, I cannot—it would still mean nothing. It is not the event, but the experience that comes out of the event, that defines a man; it is not the experience, but the wisdom that comes out of a full range of experiences, the ability to draw a conclusion from experience, that defines the ruler."

"All right. You're saying that I'm not a historian, and that because of it, I can't draw conclusions." She shrugged. "I won't argue with you. Do you know that I don't even know your name? You were always The Terafin. The Founder."

"What is The Terafin's name?"

"Amarais, born Handernesse."

Her expression—his expression—darkened. "No, Jewel, born Markess, that is
not
her name. She
is
The Terafin."

"And I'm Markess."

"Yes."

"Why did you come here tonight?"

"Should it not be I who asks that question of you?"

Jewel shrugged. Turned away from the knowledge that she saw in eyes that were dead, and yet somehow alive with it. "The dream," she said at last.

He said nothing. He, wearing the form of the woman she respected more than anyone in the Empire. Respected and feared, if only a little. Shadows wavered as the lamps flickered in a cool sea breeze; the winds were stirring. Storm? She lifted her head a moment.

"Oh, yes," he said. "The storm is coming."

"You told me to go South."

"I told you, child, go South if South calls, and do what must be done."

She didn't much like being called a child, and he knew it, but she was old enough now not to bridle at a slight that was not offered with intent. She looked back again, and then, although it wasn't, strictly speaking, correct behavior, placed her palms on the altar's cool surface, and rested her weight against them. "And you've changed your mind?"

"I?" It was the eyes, she thought, as she met them. The eyes were not The Terafin's eyes, just as they had not been Torvan's, or the man named Jonnas, whose appearance he called upon when he offered counsel to the ruler of the House. "No, Jewel." His voice was grave. "Have you?"

The weight on her hands increased. "How much do you know?"

He did not reply. Not directly. But at the last, he said, "I had hoped to spare you this because you are young. But in this generation, no one will be spared. That is the way of it; that we treasure the young and the young at heart, and to preserve them, we sacrifice our own youth. There are deaths, Jewel, that must be faced. Love is not proof against that fact—in fact, love, in times such as this, is the root of all weakness
and
all strength; it is not the battle, but if you surrender to its impulse, it
is
the end of the war, and not in your favor."

"I've sacrificed those that I loved before," she replied bitterly.

"Yes." He drew closer, the lines of his face blurring in the torchlight, becoming as indistinct in her vision as the edges of her dream. "But never knowingly. Imagine this, if you will, an indulgence that I beg of you."

She nodded, wordless because she did not trust her words not to give too much away.

"You are standing on the edge of the field of battle. The time is our distant past, during the baronial wars. Two sides are readying for a battle that has been long coming, and upon this battle, the fate of the Empire rests."

"Our Empire?"

"Our very Empire," he said softly. "For out of the last of the baronial wars the Kings rose like birds of fire, and they spread their word, and their law, with the strength of the blade, and the blessing of the Mother. Ah, but you lead me astray, Jewel, and I do not have that luxury of time.

"You stand upon the edge of the field in that battle; you have seen skirmish, you have seen war; you have both ridden and marched as a soldier."

She nodded.

"But you are not a soldier now; you have a rank, and a responsibility. Into your keeping the standard has fallen."

Privately, Jewel ATerafin had always thought that standards on the field of battle were an artificial mess. A flag, a thing that people made into something that it wasn't, a way of prettifying something that should
never
be made pretty.

"You know," the spirit of The Founder continued, blurring even more in form, taking on a shape that had never belonged to Amarais Handernesse, "that if the standard falls, the hope of the regiments fall with it. That you are, while keeping this piece of pretty cloth, and its bearer, safe, succoring those men who cannot see you, those thousands who will never even know your name.

"With you, in this war, is your young adjutant. Teller ATerafin. He sees well; he always has; he watches the periphery of the boundaries set out as your responsibility."

She did not like where this was going at all. Lifted her hands from his altar again, almost—but not quite—leaping away from the name.

"A small group of men, with a mage and the use of two demons, is about to spring its trap upon your standard. You have the vision, Jewel, and because of this you see clearly.

"You also see, clearly, that you have two choices: You can go, now, to warn the mage—in which case, the flag will
not
fall to this attack—or you can ride, in haste, to that stop thirty yards away, in which your adjutant is pacing out his nervous attention so as not to disturb you; he has always been considerate.

"You cannot do both."

The spirit of Terafin stood before her, not as The Terafin, not even as Torvan, but rather as a shade, a passing fancy whose voice was still as sharp and cold as a blade's edge.

"Jewel Markess would ride to the aid of young Teller.

"Jewel
ATerafin
would summon the mage.

"You do not have the luxury, now, of being both, and for this, I apologize. Amarais would know her way to the only choice available, and she would accept it. But it is not her war, Jewel; it is yours.

"She will call Council in three weeks. And the matter of an heir will be raised, for she has chosen none."

"I know."

He laughed. "You are lying, but I accept it. I always accept a lie when it's an honest one."

"What the Hells is that supposed to mean?" she said, her voice far too sharp and high, to the empty air.

Air answered. "A lie is honest when you tell it to yourself so strongly that you believe it to be the truth."

He was gone. And she, who had come seeking strength and solace, was no more comforted than she had been when nightmare's grip had been the strongest and Terafin itself was burning into desert heat.

11th of Lattan, 427AA

Averalaan Aramarelas, Avantari

The sun traced a slow arc above two men. Rays glinted off armor joints and helm, becoming such a consistent source of light an onlooker might be forgiven for ignoring it entirely. What caught the eye with its lightplay was the sword-work; it made of the two men proud gods with forks of lightning in play.

Flash, strike, the ringing of metallic thunder.

Clearly, as one drew closer, one could see that of these men one was larger, muscled in a way that extreme youth did not allow for. He was also, this older man, more experienced; his attacks were not wild—not yet—and not poorly planned. Yet if he gained ground, it was a slow process.

His opponent was younger, slender in the way that youth is that still knows strength. He was, of the two, the taller, and his blade the heavier and the one with longer reach—but where the older man's blade was straight and double-edged, the younger man's was curved—and the older man used the interchangeability of edge to his advantage, as he used all else.

Not terrain, though; the terrain was even, flat, and quite lifeless. And Kiriel was used to that lack of life: it was the footpaths, here, that were still almost paralyzing in their scent, their profusion of color and motion.

It was not as hard for her to watch as she imagined it would be. This was not a fight—not in a way that she understood it—but she had been trained to observe, in a fashion, by a creature she had promised herself she would never again grant the dignity of a name. That creature had trained her in the arts of war, and Ashaf—

Ashaf.

Breathe. What harm was there, in invoking an old woman's name? It wasn't a
name
, after all; it was a human conceit, a thing with no power. The sun was cold a moment as she smiled bitterly at the lie she was only beginning to accept for what it was: a lie. The speaking of Ashaf's Southern name caused her more pain than anything in her life save her unnamed teacher. And why?

Flash. Clang. Curse. Lightning against the wall and the ground; the older man used his strength as leverage to half-throw the younger almost out of the field of play. He stumbled. Righted himself as the older man seized the opportunity to unbalance him with a series of quick, short swings, side to side.

Wild tactic; too wild for the young man.

These people, they would have liked Ashaf. In her turn, she might have grown to like them as well, although she never trusted men much. Kiriel rose, restive, and touched the hilt of her sword— but it was no defense against Ashaf's memory.

She almost thought that Ashaf had trained her in the arts of peace—but what peace was there now? She, as the two men below, could
feel
the war that gathered, like storm, like the breath of the Lord of Darkness himself, on the horizon to the South. But only she willed it, waited for it, yearned for it.

She saw, in the older man's heaving motions, his coming exhaustion. They had been working thus, young man and older, in the sun. a long time.

With a neutral eye, she watched them both and knew that the young man was better, far better, than even the Ospreys understood. He fought as if driven—no, better, he fought as if what drove him were a force that could be taken, whole, and
used
, as if it were power. In that, she thought that Valedan kai di'Leonne and Kiriel di'Ashaf were similar. That, and coloring; for they were pale of feature but dark of hair and eye.

In all else, Valedan was gray and light, a thing of distant beauty. Kiriel di'Ashaf grimaced, seeing in him what only demons could see: the choice of his soul. But she was no demon, no
Kialli;
what she saw, she could not twist or take. It would have been simpler if she could.

Commander Sivari's spirit was paler than Valedan's, almost luminescent. He was at the waning of his life, not the waxing, when the soul itself was often fatigued by the life a human led—although how a soul grew weary, when the life it cloaked itself in was so short, Kiriel did not understand—but he was a man at peace with himself, and secretly, Kiriel hated him for it. And it was hard to hate the Commander.