The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 58

Alexis snorted. "They barely follow the old one. The Kalakar wouldn't dare."

Duarte exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath, and in some sense, he had. This had been easier twelve years ago. He wasn't sure why. Wasn't ready to examine his own motives or reactions either.

Alexis had been demoted in rank; she was once again a mere Sentrus-funny how most of the Ospreys were- and didn't have farther to fall. Which was not the same as having little to lose. The Kalakar had seen fit to discipline the Ospreys for their disgraceful performance as honor guards. She had not chosen to dismiss them, and the difference was lost on no one. It had been a trying day. A long one.

And it was the will of a malignant deity-which one, he wasn't certain, but he'd find out-that Alexis had decided to make it longer. He folded his arms against his chest, and tried not to think about how very lovely she was when she was angry.

Better to think about how deadly she was instead.

"Alexis, I realize that it's irrelevant, but you don't even like the girl, and a reliable source said that you were trying to decide whether or not to ask my permission to kill her."

"If I was going to wait to ask your permission," she replied a little tartly, "I couldn't dislike her that much." Her eyes narrowed until they looked like the dark edge of small blades. "And you're right. It's irrelevant." The smile hadn't quite vanished from the corners of her lips; Duarte allowed himself to relax. Slightly. "You know I don't like her much, and not just because she has no sense of humor."

Sense of humor, Duarte thought, was not among Alexis' many virtues either. Discretion in situations of this nature was among his.

"None of us are very comfortable with her, and I don't think that's likely to change much. She's just too dangerous, Duarte. Auralis can't bring her down in either of the two ways he's used to, and he's trying. Hard." She shrugged, but the sharp smile returned briefly to her face; there weren't many men or women who could put Auralis in his place-without even being aware that that's what they were doing. "But she seems to be true to her word when she gives it. And she's an Osprey, like it or not, because you were too gutless to tell The Kalakar you didn't want her, period. She's tried to fit in." Alexis shrugged. "Doesn't matter; she's in. And we, as Kalakar House Guards-and Ospreys-are going to be true to our own."

"The Kalakar is the Commander."

"And The Kalakar will not force answers out of any of us." The or else hung unspoken in the air, as most of Alexis' genuine threats did. "Speaking of which, when can we go and collect her?"

"Alexis, I suppose it would be too much to ask you to go bother Auralis?" One glance at her glacial stare was answer enough. "The healer felt that she'd be unconscious-as opposed to asleep -for the better part of a full day. Which means that if you show up before the third, you won't be welcome."

"So what else is new?"

"Alexis."

Meralonne stood over the bed of the healerie's only other occupant. His mage-sight saw the fine mesh of light that lay against her body like a crystal lattice, and he knew better than to touch her, although he thought, if he pressed the point, he might survive unscathed. He had no desire to press that point.

She was in her prime, this woman-not the timid, angry girl-child that he had first met, and not the woman who had grown from her, replacing hostility with confidence, and a precious but naive trust in his ability. But she was, he thought, a woman who might well be the age his apprentice would be, had she lived a life like any other.

He could still hear her denial, her anger, and, yes- laced around and between the hostile words- her pain as if it were yesterday. Meralonne was not Evayne; the years, such as they were, did not soften his grudges.

What can you tell me? he thought. Who are you, Evayne? For though he knew who she had been, that was a long time past. Experience always scarred and twisted a man, and this woman, his equal in power, had experienced much.

As if she could hear his words, she woke at that moment; her eyes snapped open, widened as if in shock. And then she sat up, seeing him, and seeing something else besides. Before he could speak, she leaned forward unsteadily, grabbing a thin, pale hand. He was not sure if he would have allowed her to touch him, had he been aware enough to step back. But he hadn't been, and her hand was shaking and cool where it gripped his. "Go with them," she said, her bruised lips moving awkwardly around the words. "When they go to Averda, you must travel with them."

"Must?" he questioned quietly.

"Yes," she said, and she coughed, and he heard the rattle of her chest. Fire, he thought. Fire's air. He lifted a hand, waving it to catch someone's attention.

"The healer, Evayne," he said quietly.

"No, no healer. Meralonne-we failed."

Dantallon appeared, like sun from the folds of cloud- or in this case, the mage thought, as the healer's accusing glare fell across him like a cudgel, like cloud across a clear sky. "Evayne," he said, his voice as stern as any angry Master's. "Lie back."

"I can't," she replied, and both men heard the wildness in her voice, the exhaustion.

"What were you doing, waking her?" Dantallon's tone was icy.

"I did not wake her," was the mage's mild reply. "But if you know her, you know that she does as she does.""Not in my healerie.""Do you lay wagers, healer?""No.""A pity. I-""Meralonne." Her hands, again, tightly curled around his own. "We failed. Don't you understand? We failed."

He understood, this time, that she meant those words to include him, and they had done very little in concert since she abandoned her training after their bitter, bitter argument.

In fact, they had only done one thing as allies.

On the last day of Henden, in the year 410. The dark days that year had been darker than the

Blood Barons who inspired them could have imagined.

She coughed again, but she did not release his hands.

He returned her grip, shunting the healer aside, all pretense, all deference, forgotten. "What do

you mean, Evayne? What do you mean, we failed?" He shook her, as if by doing so the

information would fall more cleanly out of her swollen mouth.

"I wanted to have proof before I spoke," she said. "But I couldn't be certain." Her voice held no hope at all. Her eyes held less. "And I wanted to believe that it meant something. His death. All the deaths."

"What do you mean?"

"The s.h.i.+ning City," she said. And then she did something that he had not seen her do for twenty years. She wept. "The s.h.i.+ning City has risen."

"Evayne-were that city to rise, we would know. You might remember that it resides beneath the streets of the old city."

"I've seen it," she said.

His face was the color of ash as he turned to the healer; the healer had frozen in place, unable to offer his customary indignation at Meralonne's rough handling of his patient, at Meralonne's arrogance and interference.

"Where?" he asked. "Evayne!" Then he shook her again, angry at himself for asking the wrong question. "When?""I don't know! I don't know," she said again.

"Then how do you know it?"She reached into her robes, wincing in pain as she pulled out the crystal shard that she had won so many years ago. Thrusting it forward, she said, "Look yourself, look! It's there-it has to be there-"

He lifted a hand and spoke three words before the healer could stop him.

She sat upright, as if struck; she had been, although the hand was not visible.

"Tell me," he said quietly.

"I cannot tell you more," she answered, and violet steel shuttered the inside of her eyes. The

glimpse of wildness was gone, and although the tears had not dried on her cheeks, he would not

have believed she had cried them had he not witnessed their fall.

"Dantallon," she whispered grimly, and then she lowered her face. "Askeyia will never return."

Her brow creased, her lips twisted; she closed her eyes a moment as she heard the healer's sharp voice, his broken breath.

"Evayne?" It was the only word that Dantallon spoke.

She did not answer him. Instead, she turned again to the man who had been, and never would be again, her master. "Your word, Meralonne. Your word that you will go South."

"I grant it," he replied, ignoring the nails that pressed so tightly into his hands they drew blood.

"What do you believe the danger to be?"

"The kin," she said faintly. "There will be deaths in the Dominion that will make the slaughter in Averalaan seem trivial by comparison."He met her eyes, then, silver to violet, steel to steel. There is more, he thought, and he knew, although knowledge and the seeking of it was his professed life, that he would have answers, and more, in the South, and that he would regret them.

Evayne rose, coughing; Dantallon lifted a hand to stop her. The hand shook. "Askeyia?"

"I'm sorry." She brushed past him, and then turned, her eyes red-rimmed. "This war will be won by heroes; it will make them; bards will sing their praises.

"But if not for the sacrifice of the faceless and the unknown, the unsung and the forgotten, we

could never have come this far; the darkness would be unbreachable.

"I swear that when the time is done, and I can walk among you again-" such a hunger in the words; such a visceral desire, "I will make their names known."Turning, she took a step.And was gone.It did not surprise Meralonne; he had half-expected it, was indeed surprised that she had remained for as long as she had, obliquely answering questions.

The obstruction that Evayne had formed was gone to air and silence, and when he looked across

at the healer, he could see the younger man's ashen face; the silent stiffening of half-round mouth seemed to whiten his lips.

"Who was Askeyia?"

"She was a student," the healer replied. "I came from Levee's House when I entered the Royal

Service. But I returned to it when he found those with the talent, to help ease them into the life of a healer." He paused. "She went missing."

"Missing?" "We thought-ransom. For the first two months." The healer shook his head. "As I no longer have a patient to protect, I should be going; I have things to attend to." He did not meet Meralonne's eyes.

The mage understood and let him go, questions unasked. For the moment. He was not a man who believed in coincidence.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

st of Lattan, 427 AA Annagar, The Tor Leonne.

Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi was in a fine mood when the hooves of his well-shod horse crossed the threshold of the gates to the Tor Leonne proper. The streets that wound up to the plateau had emptied of gawking merchants and common clansmen as Sword's Blood showed his leisurely paces; even the serafs knew the quality of his mount when they saw it, and they made haste not to cross his path.

Sword's Blood had cost a great deal, and many a lesser man had balked at the price, preferring, no doubt, to spend it on serafs, fields, and the collection of diminutive women that were so common in lesser harems. Not so Eduardo; he was a man whose life consisted of riding and swordplay, and he owned no less than the best. He brought no wife with him to the Tor, and at the last moment an unfortunate outburst on the part of the one sister whose common sense and elegance he was not embarra.s.sed by meant that he came, unattended by the more graceful s.e.x, to the Festival of the Sun.

Which was well enough. He did not intend to leave so empty-handed.

Oh, it had been three years. Three years since he had first seen the Serra Diora di'Marano. Young then, at thirteen years, she was beautiful beyond compare now-and he had been the first clansman of note to appreciate just how much that beauty would grow over time. Other women had been offered to him; the daughters of greater men. But Serra Diora had about her that perfect combination of silence, grace, and quiet wit that was so elusive.

Sword's Blood had called to him from the moment he had laid eyes on the horse; the Serra's call was no less strong-but the ability to satisfy the impulse not so simple. No man in Annagar could have appreciated Sword's Blood, and therefore no other man would pay the price. But while no man could appreciate Diora as he had-and would-many a man with a desire they did not realize was lesser could afford what her father, the Widan Sendari di'Marano, desired: influence. Power. Connection.

She had, in the end, been claimed by the kai Leonne as his wife. The Widan was apologetic but committed; no one refused the request of the Tor's heir.

Eduardo had attended the ceremony of joining under the Lady's sky. The stars had been cloud-strewn, the shadows dark. It had been, to his satisfaction, a grim evening, although the Widan lights and spells had done their work at alleviating the natural darkness. The waters of the Tor had never tasted so bitter as when they were raised, in celebratory welcome, to the kai Leonne and the woman who bore the t.i.tle of wife. His wife.

A year had pa.s.sed. Serra Diora, flawless that evening, grew more perfect-and to his abiding joy, she bore the kai Leonne no children. There was no marring of her form, although that form was too seldom seen. And that had been fortunate indeed. Had there been a child, all opportunity would be lost. A mother did not easily surrender her kin or forget the memory of their death.

When General Alesso di'Marente-par di'Marente- had first approached him, he had played the game of politics and power. And Eduardo had joined him with a decorous interest, a partial willingness. They spoke in the silence of two men, in the privacy of a room empty of even the most trusted of Tyran, and they did not speak for long.

But Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi already knew what his price would be. He asked for the part of the Averdan lands which bordered his own, fully expecting the General to balk. He did, but not overmuch; there was room to negotiate, which both men desired. Three days, four; no word. A brief and pleasant salutation was all that either man exchanged for the better part of two weeks. He remembered very little of the finer details that had been arranged in the end, save this: He was granted two thirds of all that he had asked.

But as he sat, blade against the sheen of perfect silk in his lap, he stared down at the flat, wooden circle that waited his mark. The sun-circles, as they were called, were the binding marks of men of the clans; the clansmen committed little to words, but much to the sight of the Sun. He raised his blade, turning it slowly by the hilt that it might catch the Lord's light and send it skittering along the marked wooden surface. Alesso di'Marente had already made his cut in the wood's face, and waited only the crosscut that would be the final gesture of commitment.