Michelle West - The Sun Sword 02 - The Uncrowned King (84 page)

"Ask," she said.

"After— After Vexusa, I would not have thought—I would not have thought that you would take the deaths requested by those who serve the—the Lord of Night."

Wind howled a moment from the folds of her robe; the bird upon her shoulder rose with a screech in its wake, settling only when silence had returned. He bowed his head.

"I choose to answer this question because I am aware that my brother did not return to the Hells; aware that he has not yet paid for the crime that he committed against my chosen. But
you
will not question me in that fashion again."

"Lady," he said.

"What you… dare… to accuse me of is a falsehood. I have taken no deaths from the men who collude with your enemy, unless it be their own."

"The eight."

"Eight, yes."

"But these—"

"No. These deaths were offered to me, and I accepted them, from a man of the place you call Averalaan." Wind was the voice of her ire. "We may meet again," she said softly. "But it will not be at your death."

He was not a young man anymore.

It did not break him to watch Tallos walk into the mist, with no further acknowledgment, no farewells, no hint of understanding. It did not hurt him because the loss was so much a fact of life it had become all that he expected.

Until Tallos turned back to him, and he could see, in the other-world, the light that danced along the thin trail of his tears.

"Has Sigurne died?" "No."

"Then I'm amazed you managed to gain entrance into my chamber," Meralonne said, his dry voice thin as old leaf. "She's let no one in except Dantallon and the boy who brings what passes for food in these parts."

"You are… well." the bard asked.

"And you are a liar," the mage replied. "Bring me my pipe."

"I'd as soon bring Dantallon a noose and a yardarm," Kallandras said, laughing. He could see that mage was shivering. "You recover well, Meralonne. I have seen men felled by—"

"Carelessness. Go on."

"By fevers such as yours who were racked for two weeks before they either recovered or succumbed."

"I have enough pride not to die making children's baubles. Not an end for me, I'm afraid." But he pulled the blankets up in hands that shook. "I will confess," he added, "that I am weary."

Kallandras bowed his head.

"And that I will not sleep until you tell me whatever it is you came here to confess."

"Confess?"

Meralonne coughed. The weakness would hold him yet; Kallandras did not think he would see sunlight without the filter of glass until well past the end of the Challenge. "I will speak," he said softly. "You are tired."

The mage snorted. It was an oddly comforting sound.

"Tonight, an assassination attempt was made upon Jewel ATerafin and upon the three Commanders: The Kalakar, The Berriliya, and Commander Allen."

The mage was still a moment, then the trembling set in and he stifled it. "Success?"

"None."

"Good. Why is this significant?"

"To you?"

"Clever bard. Yes, to me."

"Four deaths, Member APhaniel, and they were called for— and accepted—by a man in this City."

Meralonne's eyes were silver steel. "'
Kovaschaü?'"

"I believe so, yes." Neutral words. Safe words.

Safety could be such a lie.

"That would take money."

"Rather a lot."

"And the knowledge of how to reach the brotherhood at all."

Kallandras nodded quietly.

Meralonne swore. "Can you find Dantallon?"

"No," a stern voice said. The dragon, silver-haired and fragile, had returned to the den.

"Valedan, you've done well," Serra Alina said, her hands, as soft as her voice. She lay oil against palm, and then palm against skin, and where her hands passed, a warmth seemed to seep into the muscles of his back, his shoulders, his thigh. The bruises, she passed over. He wished she'd passed over the words as well, and said nothing.

Aidan was in the witness house; Aidan, whose wide eyes had seen both his victories and his fails with a kind of fascination that evoked, in Valedan, a sense of what he must have been like at twelve.

And
that
made him think of Ser Anton, which was uncomfortable enough—but from Ser Anton, his thoughts went to Ser Carlo di'Jevre, and that destroyed the lull of the Serra's hands. She knew it, too; her hands paused a moment; she lifted them from his body, gathered her strength, gathered her oils, and then continued.

As if she were in truth his wife, a wife.

Which she would never be, in fact.

Eneric of Darbanne had won. No surprise there. Had he the habit of placing bets—and had Commander Sivari less fierce an eye—he would have put his money on the Northerner. He had offered his congratulations, and that offer had been received with self-confidence. With pride.

But Valedan's attention had been drawn, time and again, to a man who had entered a challenger and become a witness: Carlo di'Jevre.

"Valedan," the Serra said.

He could not discuss this with her; he had tried. She was as severe a taskmaster as Sivari, but the bruises she left in their training exercises were more subtle. "Serra Alina," he said, groaning slightly as he rolled off the mats and found his feet, "my thanks for your efforts."

She did not mar the stillness of her face with a frown, but he felt the night grow darker in the stillness of his rooms. "And you will sleep now?" she asked coolly.

"Yes," he replied, "but let me take in the sea air a moment."

"Do you wish company?"

"Thank you, Serra, but no; tomorrow is the test of the horse, and I desire to gather my thoughts."

All lies, all of it. It was funny how two people could speak so pleasantly, mean so little by it, and still understand each other so well.

He went, as he habitually went, to the fountain of the blindfolded boy. Justice.

And there, in the darkness of moonlight and night sky, he found that there was no privacy.

"Where are we going?" Auralis asked.

"For a walk," Jewel replied.

"Damned long walk."

She rolled her eyes. "Where does it look like we're going?"

"To the High City." His voice made plain what he thought of that.

"I used to live in the twenty-fifth," she replied, "but I don't live there now. You're a soldier. I'm a soldier. Different wars."

"And?"

"I'm going back to the command post before I head out again."

"Avantari? "

"No. Terafin."

He missed a step, and then smiled. "That should be interesting."

Something in his words pulled her up as short as he'd been pulled up; she froze, for just a moment, as if a dagger's edge was at her throat, a man's voice in her ear. And her throat was dry, dry, dry. Nightmare crowded her vision: waking version, just as real.

"Jay?" Kiriel said, but Jewel shook her head and began to run.

"Mother's blood," Jewel said, the words short and labored.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I should've known—damn Evayne—I should have thought—"

"What?"

"She never does anything without a reason. If she'd just wanted to save
my
life, she could've dumped me outside the healerie doors in
Avantari
. She took me to
you
and to
him
. And you're here. What do you think that means?"

Kiriel fell silent.

Auralis said, "A fight?"

But she didn't answer, couldn't answer.
Healerie
.

Andaro heard him first. He was listening, after all, to the rise and fall of Carlo's chest, the quality of his breathing, the quality of his silence. Carlo was seldom quiet in this fashion, this thoughtful contemplative retreat to a place words wouldn't quite reach.

The idea that the Lady and Andaro were not his only audience had obviously not occurred to him; they were both disquieted.

And both unwilling to face the crowds, although the rider's test would demand everything Andaro had to give it come the dawn. And how much, he thought. How much was that?

Footsteps grew louder, although they were not by nature loud footsteps, not the heavy, cloddish Northern tread. He felt comforted by it, although he did not recognize the sound of the gait. They'd been trained to that; to recognize a man by the approach of his step.

And so it was that they stayed, silent and waiting, while Vale-dan kai di'Leonne approached the fountain in the otherwise empty courtyard. He came to its edge and stopped there.

They rose to greet him. Should not have, perhaps, but they rose anyway.

He surprised them both; he bowed, and the bow was low, completely Southern. "Ser Carlo," he said.

"We didn't realize," Andaro began, but the kai Leonne lifted a hand.

"'This is all the lake I have," he said, gesturing to the fount and its thin stream of ever falling water. "And compared to the waters of the Tor, it is not so very great." He turned to face the statue in the fountain's center. "But it was fashioned by the hands of an Annagarian maker, and the name he gave it was Justice.

"It seems fitting," he added. "And the water is sweet water, if not so wholesome as the lake's."

"This is yours?" Carlo said.

"It belongs to the Kings," was Valedan's reply. "All things in
Avantari
do. This fountain, these halls, the footpaths. They don't own people," he remarked, "but everything else that can be owned is theirs."

"And have you survived, with no serafs? How can you be served by people who neither fear you nor grant you the respect of devotion?" The words left Andaro before he could stop them, and once uttered, they could not be called back. He stared at this man, this Valedan kai di'Leonne, and surprised himself by seeing past the youth. He was, to the best of their knowledge, some seventeen or eighteen years of age; he might be older. Certainly not younger.

But the years that separated them—six at most, four at least— usually made themselves felt, made themselves known. Not tonight. Tonight, this boy was the kai Leonne.

Is this what Ser Anton sees in you
? Andaro thought.
Small wonder he is disquieted
.

"How have I survived?" Valedan shrugged. "Well enough. Perhaps there is less to fear in the Northern Court than there was in the Southern Court. These people," he added, lifting an arm as if to take in the entire Empire, "do not make their reputations by the behavior of the serafs they own."

Carlo shrugged, impatient; he was a clansman, but only just, and he owned no serafs. "Not all of the men of the South do, either."

"No," Valedan said. "I know." They were silent. At last he said, "You were sent here to kill me, as my father was killed." Not a question.

Andaro was impassive, silent. He would not be forced to a lie by this man.

But Carlo was… Carlo.

"Yes," he said, before Andaro could catch his glance. Intimacy, in honesty. Something to avoid.

"And now?"

Half-bitter, half-proud, Carlo looked down at his leg. "Now what?" he said. "I am as you see me; I've done what I've done. You judge."

"Because you can't?"

That raised hackles; Carlo's eyes narrowed and he drew himself up to his full height—a height that had not been seen since he'd stepped down from the only podium he would stand on in this Challenge.

Andaro felt comforted.

Until Carlo di'Jevre spoke. "How am I to judge?" he asked, his voice the low burning of fire's ember. "Your father was weak. His weakness weakened
us
. He led us not to victory in the war against
these
," his arm swung wide, as Valedan's had done, but the movement was faster, harsher, "but to defeat. The only man who had a measure of success in that war now rules us."

"By what means?" Valedan asked fiercely, eyes narrowed, expression half-hidden in the shadows cast by magelight and moonlight.

Carlo lost the height he'd gained. "I don't know," he admitted, turning his face to the Lady Moon. "I knew—I thought I knew— until I came to this sun-scorched land. And now—I just don't know."

"I owe you my life," Valedan said again.

"You owe the Lady your life," Carlo countered. "I wouldn't have raised sword to save
you
."

"Yet you did."

"For
her
honor," the swordsman shot back, his voice sharp as blade's edge, eyes as narrow. "For her honor, and for the Lord's."

Valedan bowed. "And whose honor did Leonne serve in the time of Darkness? Whose were Leonne's enemies? The Lord's. And the Lady's." He rose. "Carlo di'Jevre, I would be honored—"

"Be damned first," Carlo said.

But Andaro heard it: the waver in the voice, the division, the guilt and the desire. Carlo hid nothing when a weapon was not in his hands, an armed man before him. Even when he tried, as he tried now.

Valedan said smoothly, "I may well be. But not for lack of trying. I'm honored to have you here, in this courtyard, by this fountain." He bowed. "The Lady's Moon," he said, "is shining brightly this eve."

And darkly, Andaro thought, although he did not speak. And darkly as well.

Damn you, kai Leonne.

Night.

Moon in courtyard, impaled by wrought-iron fence. Often seen, from Terafin, but just as often accompanied by silence. Silence— in the streets of the High City, so close to the Challenge itself—was the one thing that money apparently could not buy, nor power ensure; even here, at the heart of the Empire's power, men and women flowed through the streets, the night itself their destination.

Jewel was used to running through crowds; she'd done it a hundred times before; a thousand. But it had been half a lifetime away, and if old habits didn't die—and they didn't die completely— they didn't cling as strongly as they could. Perhaps it was the night, the lack of easy vision, that made the run so difficult. Or perhaps it was the destination: Terafin. Running
to
Terafin always seemed fraught with this terrible lack of speed, this certainty of the terrible consequence of failure.

Kiriel and her friend followed. She was grateful; grateful enough that she paused, in the holdings and directly before the bridge, to wave them on. Best not to lose them, not here. Kiriel knew the way in broad daylight, but night?