Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (52 page)

17th day of Lattan, 427 AA

Averalaan, Kings' Challenge: Gathering
of the Witnesses

Here they fought.

And here, in roads remarkably similar to these, they fell, their bodies lining the packed dirt of red. red streets. Weapons were pried from their fingers, picked up by men and women who the shadows hid so poorly. The sense of last stand defined their actions; they did not flee anything but cowardice.

Were there children?

Yes. Evayne A'Nolan was the only person living who had seen them; who had seen that not all lays are lies born of large heart and little intellect. There had been smoke and fire that night, and death, of course; always death. Even after the enemy had been crushed, the burning continued; too many had fallen to bury decently, far too many.

She could almost taste it. the dark and greasy smoke of those fires—but then again, she had seen so many war-fires. Folly to think that one was more horrible than another, or more memorable. It was just that she stood in these streets, again, and recognized them for what they were beneath the layers of history laid down above them.

The fight was long past; four hundred years and more had a way of obliterating the most noble—or the most vile—of intentions. Story held some hint. song. more. But unless one had been there, or been somewhere very like it. that was all one had: some hint.

She stood in the dawn's light. The rapid rise of pink and deep blue brought with it the hint of day's heat. She would, if she were very lucky, be gone by the time heat came in earnest. Long gone.

All around her, as if she were a large rock, people passed; those that jostled her did so unaware of just how close the crowd they were part of had forced them into the circle of one who openly wore the mage's medallion. Order of Knowledge. Knowledge.

She watched with knowing eyes. Saw the past that they did not see, these people who waited on glory in the open streets, clutching their coin, their tents, their belongings great or small.

The battle for Veralaan had been here.

As had Veralaan herself: the mother of the Kings; the priestess of the Mother. She raised twin banners, sun and moon to the people of the city, day and night; they had come. To the Mother. To the Queen.

Here, the warriors gathered. Here, the enemy was met. One final stand. One final song. The women were as silent as the men. The children wept, but only the children, and they wept with cause, for the scouts of their enemy had come in a body and left their mark before passing. They were not careful to conceal their presence, and why should they be? The Blood Barons waited in force beyond walls that had already been breached. It was a matter of time, and a short time, before the city itself, the city of Veralaan's birth, was laid waste, laid to rest.

You were given your chance to recant and retreat
, the Barons said, over the closing distance, their magery taking the words and giving it bardic strength without any of the bardic truths;
perhaps you will hear such a generous offer again when you return from Mandaros' hall
.

No one expected mercy.

No one expected clean deaths, although the prayers were littered thick and fast, said loosely, but with a passion that was astonishing in its mixture of anger and clarity.

She had come to save a life, just one. But because she was there to guard, because she was there to join in a fight, to be the shield behind which the children gathered and stood, to be the safety that parents otherwise occupied might send their children to— she was witness to the miracle of that age.

The horns. In the distance, over the clash of steel, above the thick, wet sound of bodies made and fallen, they came. Weston horns, they were called, high and clear; but she had seen them, and she knew that they were fashioned, and patterned, upon horns far older and far less noble in cause. But they were made for power, and power resided within them; they spoke, and the whole city heard the promise of their salvation.

Even Evayne. Even Evayne who had so often heard such sweet promise made a lie of, come too late.

This morn, as that one, there were people, but what weapons they carried they carried concealed, and there were far, far more of them than the city had held after its single chance to spare itself the fate of the pretenders.

And this morn, as that one, she watched over a child. Just one. He had been here two days—or rather, he had been here for the entirety of the two days that she was aware of. Hair a dusted white, eyes a deep blue, skin now red and white where it was peeling, he slept on the patch of ground that he had chosen as his own.

This day was the first day of the King's Challenge in the here-and-now. The challengers would come from their homes and their hotels, from their patrons and their tenting, to the West Gates. They would carry their tokens, and they would carry their helms; and in plain view, they would ride, armed and armored, throughout the hundred holdings.

And the pale-haired boy, his grim little face masking the building pressure of hope and excitement, would be there to watch and witness.

Because she chose to bear the symbol of the Order of Knowledge openly, no one tried to dislodge the boy forcibly from his chosen position, for she shadowed him, hovered at his side. Fewer than ten merchants had offered her money to move on. She was pleased.

It was peaceful here. It was so seldom peaceful, she took a moment to marvel at the quiet.

The boy stirred; he would wake soon. When he woke, the path would take her to a different here-and-now, one more urgent, more dangerous. Hard to remember, when life was that cutting, that close to death, that
this
life existed at all: People daydreaming, working, singing, and bickering; people eating and drinking and trying to find companionship in a city crowded to bursting. Kings' Challenge.

At sixteen, she had hated them for having the freedom that she felt had been taken from her, be it her choice or no. At twenty-five, she barely noticed them; they were unimportant, unassuming— meaningless. But at forty, at forty it was different. She could begin to see her own youth, the awkwardness in her own early life, in the lives that went on around her.

A woman pulling a wagon lumbered into view, cursing and swearing a path through the people who were even now trying to find a place to wait out the morning hours. Evayne lifted a hand and called the woman, using just enough power—and foolishly, at that—to be heard over the woman's own voice.

She had coin of the realm, and she used it, purchasing apples, bread, cheese; they were fine and fresh for all that she was so sour. Evayne took these, halved them; woke the boy.

He started at the sight of her. heavily robed and girded with the medallion that mages wore.

"You've nothing to fear from me. Not here." she said, smiling softly. "And not today. It's the Kings' Challenge; almost everyone is here for the same reason. You've found yourself a good place, and I, a good place as well."

He didn't answer, but she didn't expect an answer; she'd seen enough to know that he was skittish and suspicious, and probably with good cause, from the yellowing bruise on his cheek. "If you will watch my spot until the sun is at its height. I will break fast with you at my own expense. If I am not returned by the time the sun is at its height, sell my place. Or give it up as you see fit." She held the food out of his reach. "Do we have a deal, Aidan?"

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and nodded, hunger making him less wary.

She knew he would remember to ask how she knew his name— but not until after he'd half-finished the loaf and the cheese. And by then, it wouldn't matter.

But she wanted to laugh because, hungry or no, he still waited to see her take the first bite. As if a mage might rely on common poison if death was what they had in mind. The imagination of young boys was bright and earnest and endless—but not, in the end, terribly accurate.

Here and there, the magi found men—it was almost always men and boys—who carried weapons that had been prohibited to observers of this year's Challenge. It was a general rule, although in past years ill-enforced, that spectators were not allowed arms of war; there tended to be too much drinking to regulate their subsequent behavior, and fights between men who had laid out hard-earned and soon-to-be-mourned coin at betting tables across the city became steadily more violent as the Challenge progressed.

It was meant, Meralonne thought, as he pointed out yet another of these men to the four who served him in his duties, to be the test of a true warrior, this Challenge; how could anything but war surround it? Still, he was privately glad that the penalties surrounding the use of forbidden magics were harsher and less riddled with legality than those surrounding the possession of a sword—because it was magic that was his concern here, and he was one of the few members of the magi who was capable of dealing with an enemy quickly and completely. Unfortunately, those magics that were best used to defeat an enemy were not those best used to keep that enemy alive as an artifact for the courts to study.

The sun was cool, as of yet; the dawn had barely shaded the sky, but people were already waiting for the procession that would take these chosen contenders through the city—usually on horse—back, although by no means always—to the high city, and from there to
Avantari
, where the Kings would grant their blessing for such endeavors as comprised the Challenge.

People had been waiting, Meralonne knew, since two evenings previous; the magisterial guards loathed the Challenge season as much as the rest of the citizens seemed to enjoy it. And for the citizens themselves, there was a single genuine reason to crowd these streets, waiting. The contenders were each allowed the choice of one "witness," and that spectator, granted the would-be champion's token, was allowed to join the procession, to be literally swept away by it into the high city.

Many of these people had probably been to the high city, for although they were not encouraged to loiter, nor were they to be barred if they could pay the toll. But the only day they dreamed of belonging to that city was on this one, when—if Kalliaris smiled— they would be handed a champion's token and allowed to walk, freely, across the bridge that separated the rulers from many of the ruled.

There was no way to stop them from gathering. No magisterial guards could have prevented it; not even, he was certain, the full force of the magi unleashed. Oh, they could
kill
easily enough, but they could not discourage dreams that were, for this morn, more bright and shiny than new gold.

He had seen them gather every year. At first, he was contemptuous of it; he remembered those days clearly, and wondered when they had gone. If they had.
Do you only dream of touching greatness
? he wondered, as he saw one boy's beet-red face. He had probably been sitting in the sun for at least two days, holding his place by some miracle that had nothing to do with money, or size, or power.
Do you never dream of attaining it
?

But of course there was no answer to such a question. The boy would dream because he could dream, and perhaps that's all he could do. One of thousands, of tens of thousands, he would be passed over by the parade of challengers as they chose—and they did choose—to best suit their own ideas, their own private dreams, the memories, fragmented and challenging, of their own lacking childhoods.

The child's fair hair gleamed in sunlight, pale as platinum; pale as Meralonne's hair. Over peeling red skin, it was striking, and he did not realize, until he cast a shadow across that pale wildness, that he had stepped in front of the boy. "What is your name, child?" he asked.

The boy was long in answering, and no parent or guardian stepped in to speak for him. But Meralonne was a mage; he wore his symbol openly, and the story-filled mind of a young boy could not help but understand what the quartered moon meant. He thought the child would not answer and prepared to turn, wondering why he lingered.

"Aidan." the boy said at last. No family name. Meralonne wondered if he knew it. "I'm Aidan."

"Have you been here long?"

Gap-toothed, the boy's smile was still bright. "Three days." he said. "I kepi this spot three whole
days
. They'll be coming by here."

"You are so certain?"

"You're here, ain't you?"

"Yes. And yes, they will. Soon." He nodded. "I must attend my own duties: if I am held up here, they will not be permitted to pass."

The boy started to speak, and then stopped; he said nothing. Meralonne expected no less. It wasn't safe to talk to mages, and mages never did want to speak to young boys except for some evil purpose, some terrible fate. Stories said that: you were either a champion or a victim, a hero or a fool. And the boy was no hero: he probably had some idea of the dire consequences of a mage's notice. Death, something demonic.

Stories. He turned, taking the protective shade of his body away from the young boy's upturned face. He had not lied; not a word of it. The work was there to be done, and this year it had to be done exactly.

He did not expect to find the magic that he sought, although he was never less than thorough; Evayne had assured him that the last of the kin summoned prior to this day had been found by them. Found, destroyed; sent back to the Hells on the thin stream of their name. A good night's work; a more satisfying venture than this, this petty magical act of bureaucracy.

But this was the life he had chosen, and he was not certain, even given the simplicity of the fight, that he would choose the fight to live for; it was a warrior's life.

Sea salt was in the air; there was a time, a long time past, when he had not lived by the banks of the ocean. Then, he had been a warrior. In his youth.

"Member APhaniel?"

He shook himself. "Yes?"

"We're finished this street, sir, if you're ready."

He nodded, silent. "We're finished."

Valedan kai di'Leonne rose with the dawn on two scant hours of sleep. Dreams had plagued him, and they stayed with him as he struggled toward wakefulness; he had struggled with no less difficulty toward sleep. Alina was there, to attend; to sponge his back and shoulders, to oil them; to fit him with shirt and the loose pants that were so uncommon in the North. Last, she brought to him his sword.