Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (53 page)

It was not named, this sword; it had no history behind it, no past greatness upon which he might rest some of his weight. But it was, as swords go, a fine one; curved slightly, and single-edged, but perfect.

"We had no time," she told him apologetically, "to have its sheath or its grip or pommel redone with the appropriate insignia, but the blade itself, I am told by the Commanders, is beyond reproach; even Baredan himself was pleased by it."

As very little had pleased General Baredan di'Navarre in the last few days, he took it to be a good sign, and he bowed, very correctly, as he accepted this last of her burdens. Of course, today there was no sword's test: the sword was, if all went well, a statement, not a weapon. But it was a statement that he would be judged by, and he would make it as well as he could.

Baredan struck the gong in the outer hall. He was certain that it was Baredan because the General was wont to be louder than necessary, and this was definitively
loud
. Serra Alina's brow creased, momentarily, as she brought the smile up on her face. "I will greet the General," she said. "Prepare yourself, Valedan. The surcoat bears your marks, and the markings of the Leonne clan.

The sword, the sun in ascendance. They are finely done, and you may thank the Princess Royal for them: her gift to the man she calls the finest of her students."

"To the man," Valedan said softly, as she retreated, "she says
must
prove the finest of her students, because too much rests in the balance otherwise."

Alina did not hear the words. He found himself a mirror, rearranged his sword, feeling self-consciously like a woman who preened and fretted. Princess Mirialyn did neither. Nor, for that matter, did Alina; it was as if the Serra had no need to ascertain what was, and what was not, perfect; she knew it, as if instinct beyond sight guided her in all things.

No, only Valedan stood like this, and only now.

"Valedan," Alina said softly, lifting the curtained door that separated him from the world. "It is time. The men are gathering for the procession in the holdings, and you are expected to join them."

"Guards?"

"There will be four, including the General." She frowned. "There appears to be some… difficulty with one of the Ospreys."

He rolled his eyes. "Not today," he said, through clenched teeth. Then he laughed, if slightly bitterly. The irritation blunted the edge of his nervousness. "Lead on, Serra Alina. I will go with the General, and I will look for you, with the women." He stopped, a foot over the threshold. "But you don't have to sit with them. You're of the North, now, in so many ways. Sit with the Princess; I know she's offered."

"I am of the North," Alina said, "And it would have been my chosen home. But you are of the South, and if I am to aid you at all. I must be seen to be of the South as well." Her smile was bitter. "And I
am
of the South. It has not left me. although I thought I had left it many years ago." She knelt, then, as if to prove her point. Knelt to him. pressing knees, palms, and forehead, into the cool stone, as gracefully, as naturally, as any Southern Serra might, and no Northern Lady. "Fight well," she said, as she lifted her face from this feminine contemplation of the floor, of his feet. "Please the Lord, and he will grant you what is yours by blood."

And what
, he thought, for the first time but not the last,
will the Lord grant
you,
Serra Alina? What will you win, if I win
? He hoped that she had an answer for herself, because he could not ask it; not now, not so close to the beginning of the test, this first test.

He knew, as he turned, that it would not have pleased her to hear the question. And knew, as truth, that it would have pleased her to know that he thought it. Such contradictions were a way of life, in the South.

Baredan was angry. It was obvious to Valedan, and the kai Leonne was fairly certain that it would be obvious to anyone who saw him. Anyone of the Southern delegation. "Let me take this opportunity to remind you that the Ospreys are not suitable as dress guards. Not suitable as
guards
, not for a man who hopes to achieve—"

"Yes?" Valedan pitched his voice low, lending it a coolness that he did not feel. The word carried. The halls of
Avantari
hoarded noise as if they were so ancient, and so abandoned, that noise itself was a joy and a company. One word might echo in the heights above, at the peaks of arches and in the shadows carved creatures cast, for what seemed hours if the word itself was an unfortunate one.

As it was, however, the castle was so busy that echoes of old words could easily be lost to newcomers. The General, a man not used to correction, be it ever so subtle, took the hint, but he was ill-pleased.

Valedan himself was not certain that he was overjoyed. "The horses?"

"Readied. You will not find finer horses, Tyr'agar." Formal, now.

"Good. I will never need them, I fear, as much." He smiled, the expression as stiff on his face as the neutrality was on the General's. It had been a long night for both men, and it promised to be an even longer day.

He knew at once, although how, he was not certain, that the problem the Ospreys were experiencing had, for once, very little to do with their legendary lack of discipline. But more than that, he could not glean, because of their equally legendary protectiveness; they were hiding some fault or flaw in one of their own, and short of death—perhaps including death itself—he did not think he, who theoretically held their chain, could pry information about that flaw free.

Primus Duarte stood, armored, armed; beside him stood De-cams Alexis. At their side, or rather, a step back, the genial man that they all called Sentrus Cook, which must be a Northern term of affection. And beside him, the youngest of the Ospreys, the girl. Kiriel.

He hadn't realized, until the words left his mouth, how oddly comfortable he was with words, with these men. Because the moment he looked at the girl, he knew something was wrong. "What's happened, Kiriel?"

She flinched; Cook darkened; Alexis' glance flickered off the impassive side of Duarte's face. The only Osprey who could muster what it took to treat with nobility, Duarte's expression never wavered.

"And where is Auralis?"

Alexis flinched, and this time, Kind's gaze dropped groundward.

"Sentrus Auralis," the Primus replied, "was deemed unfit for dress duty."

"And Kiriel?"

"Kiriel is as fit as she can be for dress duty," he replied. His tone set
the
tone; they would tell him nothing. And he did not have the time, today, to pry. Wasn't even certain what it was he would pry into; clearly Kiriel was uninjured, and there was nothing about her that he could point to as obviously wrong. But it was there, and it wasn't until they had fallen in step, two in front and two behind, that he realized what it was; she walked behind him, and he was not forced to control the urge to look over his shoulder with every other step he took.

They emerged into full sunlight; the Lord's gaze, today, was to be unhindered by merciful cloud, his heat unalleviated, Valedan thought, by the fall of rain. It was not one of the official tests, to cross from Western gates to the high city in full armor, but men collapsed from less. He wondered, idly, if anyone would.

They were met, in the small courtyard by the stables, by Mirialyn ACormaris. She carried, of all things, a large basket; he half expected to see flowers tilting the round wooden lid up. The thought of the Princess with flowers, however, was too odd, and indeed as he approached her, he realized that the basket itself was
heavy
. She bowed, a Northern bow. "Tyr'agar."

"ACormaris," he said, returning the bow in kind.

"If you would do me the honor, I would be pleased to escort you to the West Gate."

"Today?

"Yes. I am to deliver this year's tokens." She frowned; no matter how still he was, no matter how certain his expression, she always knew when he was confused. "Tyr'agar, I'm certain," she said, in the voice of the drillmaster and not the diplomat, "you remember what I told you of the Northern custom."

"You may be certain." Valedan muttered, "but it is with certainty that I
don't
remember."

She did not roll her eyes; but she tilted her face skyward a moment, as if asking for patience. She, called wisdom-born, rarely needed it; it was a gesture, no more. "We ride from the West Gate. You will see the city and its hundred holdings in a way that you have never seen them. They will be lined with men, women and children—and should you desire it, you might choose to give one of the spectators your token. They will be allowed, by the guard, to join the procession; in the case of smaller children, they are often taken in immediately, because the token itself is easily stolen, and likely to be so.

"Those chosen will follow their champion to the high city, and will be invited to view all events, as witness. As proof," she said, smiling somewhat bitterly, "that there are things that unite us all, be we richer or poorer."

"And you tell me this now because you do not wish me to embarrass myself there."

"Yes. I assume that someone will have kindly told your compatriots of the custom." Her frown was delicate. "It presents a security risk, and it always has. But we have yet to dispense with it as a practice. There was some argument—"

Valedan lifted a hand. "Enough. If this is apology, it is more than unnecessary; if it is warning, it is warning enough. I have the guards of the Kings of the Empire at my disposal; I have the legendary Ospreys—and their name is probably the
only
name that is known to my enemies here more intimately than my own— I have my wits, my own strength, and the just cause. You cannot protect me from all risks. If they choose allies and assassins as their gesture of good faith, they so choose. It will do them no good."

She held his gaze for a long moment, and then she offered him something rare: a smile. A nod. "You will surprise them all," she told him softly, readjusting the basket she carried.

"Them? Not yourself?"

"I? I am ACormaris," she replied gravely. "I am rarely surprised."

The ride to the West Gate was not so quick as all that; although no traffic was allowed in the streets of the city, Valedan realized that what the ACormaris had said had been true: The streets had disappeared beneath the feet of more people than he had ever seen gathered in his life. It evoked silence, muteness; he did not have the words to lend dignity to his surprise.

Still, they let him pass; he flew his flag, and the flag of the Crowns, and besides that was well-protected. One or two of the young children—boy or girl, he could not tell—let out a whoop and a cheer; they knew that at least one of the party was destined for the Challenge, and the heat and expectancy of the dawn had brightened, not dampened, their spirit. That cheer was caught hesitantly, but it was caught; it passed before them and behind them, a gentle wave, presaging the day to come.

He was not a devoutly religious man. And had he been, he would not have prayed; it was not the Lord's way to accept with anything other than scorn an approach of supplication. He had his sword. His armor. His guards. He had his claim, and the battle which would define his life or end it—and that battle,
that
was Lord's gift, and Lord's weight. How many men's lives were defined by a battle that would, in its turn, take and shape the lives of those thousands that he might never meet personally, might never otherwise touch?

He knew that he was not a devoutly religious man because he
hated
the gift; because it was, to him, a burden. Their cries, this unlooked for jubilation, eased the burden of this first day, this seventeenth of Lattan, in the year—in the Imperial year—four hundred and twenty-seven.

Without thinking—and it could only be without thought, because the laws of the City were in no wise transparent or unknown to him—he drew his sword; the crescent caught light and sent it scattering, a flash against stone and cloth, against wall and dirt, window and stall. There was a drawn breath, a sudden cessation of sound, and then when it returned, it was louder—and carried on voices much deeper and fuller than the high fluting of children.

They don't even know who I am
, he thought.
Who do they mistake me for
?

As if she could hear the question, and perhaps she could, Mirialyn said, "You are a hero come to test yourself against other heroes; in the eyes of these people, you are part story, part song. There are many men who come from across the Empire, often with little money, and few prospects. Each hopes to be found worthy of the Kings' Challenge; very few are."

"And the few," Valedan said, "are those who've had the time and the money to train well."

Again, the expression on her face was peculiar, almost bitter. "Remember that," she told him, as softly as she could over the street's noise. "In all of this, in anything that follows,
remember
."

Her words were too serious, but he was serious; it was a thing they had in common, this wisdom-born quarter-god and an expatriate Southern noble. He let them in, because he trusted her. There were few people he trusted, and they were almost all Northerners. Almost.

But trust was perhaps not a thing the Lord valued or encouraged. Certainly Baredan trusted no one; Ramiro trusted no one. Alina did not. He held the sword until his arm tired, thinking it foolish while at the same time thinking it wonderful that so simple a thing could cause this momentary happiness, this wave of excitement that seemed to pass from person to person as they traveled.

It should have passed. He should have seen the boy and moved on.

But Meralonne APhaniel felt his age. Felt it not as a matter of fact, an intellectual assumption that governed most of the Order's members, but as, at last, a thing beyond his control. For a brief moment he understood the folly of searching for immortality, although he had never been a man so trapped by that particular fear.

"What troubles you, Member APhaniel?"

Only one man in the Empire could lay claim to such a voice. Meralonne felt the fall of his shadow in the light of the climbing sun. Felt it pass though him, the touch of a ghostly hand, a hint of a brotherhood and a past long closed to him.