Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (69 page)

He watched her rise. "I am impressed," he said. "If I were in the South, ACormaris, I would almost suspect, by the speed at which you responded to the threat, that the threat was somehow manufactured by you as well."

She did not speak; did not choose to frame a reply to an accusation that was, in the end. no accusation.

He held out his hand.

"No, Ser Anton," she replied, her lips devoid of smile, "I will not choose the ring you wear; choose it yourself, as you chose mine."

He nodded, thinking that she was, in the end, a very perceptive woman. That she understood that women had no visible power, no authority, in the South, that they were considered fairer and weaker in many, many things. That by understanding that truth, she had used it against them all. For she
was
a woman, and she had donned the ring he had chosen without flinching. Any man here who now did less unmanned himself in front of his compatriots.

Cleverly played
, he thought, as he picked up a slender circlet of gold. And then, unbidden, another's face came to him, another's name.
Serra Alina di'Lamberto
. He placed the ring on his finger and turned to his students.

"Put them on," he said, in a voice that brooked no refusal— and no questions. "The test of the javelin will proceed when all contestants and their chosen trainers and guards bear such trifles."

Tyr'agnate Ramiro di'Callesta did not wear the golden circlet upon his finger; Baredan di'Navarre did. It said much about these two men, and that saying was lost on neither when they met to observe the contenders in the coliseum below.

What was interesting to both men was that the Serra Alina di'Lamberto was so adorned, although she had chosen, for such public display as Serras were subject to, to ring her hands with such gold and gems as had been given her by her family. It made the ring hard to spot unless one knew what to look for. Both men did.

"Is there truth," Ramiro said softly, "to the rumors?"

"There is truth," was Baredan's less stern reply, "to
all
rumors. But if you refer to the attack upon the guesthouses, yes. Your information is good, even here."

His sources of information within the Empire were unrivaled across the length and breadth of the Dominion, and both men knew it. It was Southern, to stand thus, knowing so much and saying so little. Peaceful, in its way, because it was normal. So very little was normal in the world these days.

He found himself missing his wife. Serra Amara the Gentle. And his wives, his concubines. He did not yet miss his sons; they had reached the age where the wildness of their youth was second only to their determination to prove that they were, in fact, unimpaired by that youth, and it was tiresome to argue with boys who could only barely refrain from speaking the words that might force him to kill them.

Yet he had been such a youth, and had become a man, having survived his father's increasingly justified wrath; he had hopes that his sons would do the same.

"My son," Baredan said, "would have appreciated this far more than I; he would come to it with new eyes."

"And not eyes weary of spectacle? General. I am surprised."

Baredan smiled, the curve resting easily on his lips. "The Northern air," he said. "It affects us all. All," he added, with a sideways glance, "except yourself and the Serra Alina. A sword is softer than that woman, and less sharp."

"I would not have suspected that the North could provide such ease of spirits; had I, I might have convened a meeting of Generals here, claiming neutral territory."

"And I would have refused such a request, thinking it either insult or trap," the General replied. "But I find it odd, to stand beside the man who, of all Tyrs, I least trusted—"

"Garrardi, surely."

"Garrardi is dangerous in his fashion, but easily predictable; his cunning is turned to his pleasure and his pride, not his power. But you interrupt me, Tyr of Callesta."

"To defend my honor, surely. But continue."

"I stand beside the man I least trusted, surrounded by the Northerners who follow the demon Kings I've fought against for half my life, watching a hundred youngsters heft spears across a manicured waste of greenery. It is… not what I expected." He laughed. "I have to be given
leave
to wear my sword, not to meetings between men who have much to fear from each other, but on simple errands, on a stroll from one end of this ancient palace to another. In everything, this life confounds my experience."

"And yet you sound suspiciously content."

"I am content. I feel the war in the air," he added. "I feel a battle. And it is not a battle of convenience—I say this now, who have never said this, either to the other Generals or to the Tyr we then served—but a battle that
must
be fought, against an enemy, finally, worth killing; worth dying
to
kill." He laughed again; it surprised Ramiro. Had they been in the Dominion, it would have worried him. Such laughter, unconcealed, was either ruse or an inexplicable loss of control—for they had never been friends, and given the roles they occupied, were unlikely to become any closer than they were now.

Not if they were wise.

"I feel young again, Tyr'agnate. I feel young, and on the edge of a battle that will define not only my life, but life itself. And he," he added, "bearing the blood of the Leonnes in his veins, has brought us to it. The demons have been called, and if the golden-eyed serve the demons in any form, then I am the Lady's son. not the Lord's. They cannot best us if we stand together, and so. for this war. we
will
stand."

Ramiro's gaze glanced off the General's shaded profile, and then down to where the contenders gathered.

Valedan kai di'Leonne had come up to the line drawn across the grass with fine, white powder. He bowed, courteously and with obvious grace, to the adjudicator who bid him wait. All this they could see clearly.

And this is the box who is worth such a war?

"The brawl with Anton's boy was costly." Baredan said, as if it needed saying. "But they watch each other now."

"They watched each other." Ramiro replied, "because that 'boy' has at least one broken rib: he will wail out the wrestling, but will ride and fight. If he cannot take the crown for himself, he will make certain that the kai Leonne cannot claim it cither."

Silence.

Valedan stood as the adjudicator rang the heavy, perfect bell. He drew his arm back, his shoulder stretching in the sunlight, his skin exposed a moment from beneath the white tunic. No armor here, nor any need of it. Not in the North.

There were three throws allowed with the spear. Two were for targets, and one for distance. The sun was in the wrong place for the former; for the latter, it mattered less. The kai Leonne lifted his hand to shield his eyes from sunlight. He stood a moment—a long, tense moment, and then he let The spear fly.

They granted him silence.

The rest of the crowd did not. At least in this, there was no difference between the North and the South.

"My eyes are not equal to yours." Ramiro said, lying baldly. "How did the spear fly?"

"Who cares? It's the landing that counts," the General said. "And he's hit the target faster, and more accurately, than any before him."

"Good." The Tyr smiled. "But I confess I do not understand why the measure of strength is the last test, not the first."

"In the North," a third voice said, "we value control over raw power."

Both men turned to face the Princess, Mirialyn ACormaris. She smiled, the smile reminiscent in many ways of Alina's.

The Tyr'agnate shrugged. "'At least you acknowledge that raw power has its value."

"Yes," she said. "In this world, at this time, there is no choice but to acknowledge that fact." Then she bowed, respectfully, to the Tyr'agnate. "I must deprive you a moment of your companion."

"Oh?"

Her gaze lingered a moment over his unadorned ring finger. "I beg your indulgence and your understanding," she said, "but it is a matter Southern, and it is to be resolved in the arena and beyond; you have chosen not to venture there. General Baredan?"

He nodded.

Followed.

Ramiro di'Callesta cursed, but inwardly. He could not trust himself to Northern magics.

The Serra Alina was waiting for them, and at her feet was the body of a man dressed in the Southern style; armored, although the weather was poor for it. Unarmed, however. He wore no flashings, no colors to mark him, no crest that might attach to a clan— yet the value of the armor he wore was such that the clans were certainly involved.

She looked up when Mirialyn entered the enclosed room.

"Valedan did well," the Princess said. "For the medium-range target, no one else has come close. I believe that Eneric will match—but not best—his throw."

"Eneric?" Baredan said.

"The Northern favorite," she said. "The man considered most, likely to take the crown."

"Ah. The man who won the River jump."

"Yes."

Alina, however, having received that much news, looked back to the body. "General," she said, "I beg your indulgence in this."

"This is a Northern affair," the General replied, knowing well that she needed no indulgence of his, save for form's sake—and knowing further that one did not withhold such indulgence from a woman of her reputation. "And you must, of course, feel free to interact in a method the Northerners find acceptable. I am not your brother, and not your husband; you are not my responsibility, Serra Alina, save in the way that all women in need of aid are."

And he knew that she would die before she required his aid, or the aid of any man. He bowed.

And she surprised him by bowing as well. "I am… less familiar with these things than I should be," she said softly. "My training with the Lamberto clan is not the equal of the training other women of powerful families receive.

"But this man is one of the men who made their attack upon the Tyr'agar's chosen witness. Or rather, he was."

"What is he doing here?"

She was silent for a moment. When she spoke, she spoke as if there had been no hesitation. An honor, he realized, but only later. "I asked to see him."

"Pardon?"

"I asked the ACormaris for permission to examine the body."

"And you felt that you might have some insight into the manner of death that the Northern mages and their experts did not?" He did not bother to hide the incredulity in his words.

"Obviously." Nor she her sarcasm. He was surprised. Refreshed by it. "However I am not completely familiar with all of the signs."

The signs. He froze, unable to mistake her meaning however much he might have desired otherwise. Then he pushed past the ACormaris, and knelt at the side of the Serra Alina.

She folded her hands in her lap as if they were a fan; lowered her chin, straightened her back and waited. Waited as he brushed the hair above the left ear lobe aside, turning the rigor-released flesh so that he might better examine it.

There, on the inside of the lobe, scored there as if by brand, was a single mark. A five-pointed star. He spit to the side and stood as if the touch of the mark against his flesh was beyond his ability to contain disgust for. It was.

"This mark," the ACormaris said. "Is it as the Serra fears?"

"It is
Kovaschaü
," the General replied. "And marked in such a way as to claim that credit."

"The
Kovaschaü
do not mark their victims," the ACormaris said, frowning. "Did they, we would have known what the marks meant on our own."

"They do not mark men who are not meant for marking, no. In the Empire, I imagine that such a mark would be anathema to those who would seek the brotherhood's aid to begin with. But from what I have heard, the brotherhood of the Lady's dark face will grant a death that you specify, at a cost that
she
specifies.

Easiest by far, and for that reason less costly, is to ask for the death and to allow them to openly claim it for what it is: a gift for the Lady." He let the hair fall, and sat back from the body, the warmth of the sun having deserted him completely beneath this sky of stone and wood. "We were meant to know this."

"Why?"

"Because," the General replied, "demonkind has failed far more often in its attempts than the brotherhood has."

The spears that had been passed before the eyes of the mages were passed beneath them again upon exit: they would, should the contenders choose the same weapons, be inspected again when they lifted weapon by shaft and walked up to the line drawn in grass. Easy enough to control that, here.

Easy enough to control everything. Valedan thought, save the flight of the spear itself. Wind helped him, or rather, its absence— but breeze or no, each contender was granted a space of minutes in which to ready his spear, minutes in which to throw it. The adjudicatory body, made restless and a little too sharp by the day's delays, were strict in their enforcement of these laws, and at least five men had been disqualified from the medium-range throw because they waited for the wind to lessen.

None, so far, had been removed from the long target; one man's public failure was another's—several in this case—lesson.

Still, Valedan waited, not so much counting the seconds as feeling them, sinking into them. The long target was more difficult than the medium target, and far more difficult than the test of distance. The Serra Alina likened it to the life he had chosen, and she was probably right.

He was aware that to his left, fifty feet away, Eneric was also lining up his shot—also waiting, playing the time out until it came close to the edge, to see how Valedan threw.

He recognized it, of course, because he did the same; they might have been one man in an imperfect mirror, caught waiting.

Waiting to see who would flex arm first, who would put shoulder behind motion, who would loose the shaft.

And how far it would fly, how true.

It was not uncommon in the test of the long target for all men to fail, but there were degrees of failure.

No wind, none, and the sun scorching its way into the unwelcome distance. He hated to squint; he squinted.