The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Read online

  “They wish to win this war, Tyr’agar. To destroy the Commanders will deal a blow to the North.”

  “Ah, yes. They fear the North.” It was a bitter statement. The South did not seem to be of concern. He would teach them the error of this assumption. “Cortano,” he said quietly.

  “Tyr’agar.”

  “I wish a small delegation to be deployed. I have received a letter, carried by a clansman of some standing; he awaits my reply.”

  “Ah.”

  “It is from Ser Amando kai di’Manelo.”

  Cortano frowned. “He serves the Tor’agar of Vellens, does he not?”

  “He does.”

  “His Torrean is deep within the boundaries of Mancorvo.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What does he wish, and what does he offer?”

  “He offers his allegiance, Sword’s Edge.”

  Cortano said nothing.

  “And I wish to reward that offer. I would send Kialli among my delegates; let them travel to the Torrean that Manelo now holds. If he can be of aid to us, let us use what he offers.”

  “You will court war with Lamberto.”

  Ser Alesso di’Alesso smiled thinly. “Perhaps. But I think not. In the end, with some loss, the kai Lamberto will not stand by the side of the Callestan Tyr; too much has happened between them, and the Callestan Tyr now travels in the shadow of the Northerners.”

  Cortano bowed. The hatred that Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto bore the Northerners was legendary.

  “Do not discount the threat he poses,” Alesso said softly, guessing at what Cortano did not say out loud. “The subversion of the Leonne Tyran was . . . distasteful to him, and if he desires vengeance, he is not a fool. He would not surrender the whole of Mancorvo in order to achieve it.”

  “And how will you then send word?”

  Alesso par di’Marente’s ghost haunted the plains fifty miles from the intersection of the disputed Mancorvan-Averdan border.

  Sendari met him as he traveled, horsed now—on a beast that Alesso himself had chosen and given, in public, to his most trusted adviser. He met him when his shadow passed over the trampled grass; met him when his horse cantered through the wide stretches between rows of tenting and the wooden structures that serafs had spent the better part of a month constructing and perfecting.

  He heard his laugh, saw the edge of his smile, saw the glint in the eyes of a perfectly still face; he saw him, horsed, and on foot, Terra Fuerre by his side, in the colors of Marente, a minor clan of the High Court. He saw him, not in the men who, little better than cerdan, had been gathered from the villages of the Terrean of Raverra, but in the men who commanded them; in their youth and the vibrancy of their quest for victory.

  Dark hair, dark eyes, strong jaw, broad shoulders that had filled out in the strength of early manhood—that had been Alesso.

  Of himself, Ser Sendari par di’Marano saw little. His home had not been on these fields, and his name had not been made upon them. His battles had been personal, his losses inflicted not by the harsh and sudden stroke of a sword or the pointed haft of a spear, but by the simple expedience of living a life in the Dominion of Annagar.

  Of loving those whose lives had touched his.

  When Alesso had last ridden to war as a promising commander of note, he had ridden under the banner of the kai Leonne. But his men had looked not to the Tyr; they had looked to Ser Alesso. And it was Ser Alesso di’Marente who had managed to salvage a retreat from a rout, saving face and lives in the process, and becoming worthy of the title General.

  The years were gone. Twelve, almost thirteen. Ser Sendari now wore the rubied sword that told the ignorant he had passed the hidden tests demanded of the Widan; his edge was the hidden power, the will, of the Sword of Knowledge.

  But he would never be the striking figure that Alesso had cut then; he would never have that breadth of shoulder, that wild determination, that terrible grace of cunning that had given Alesso the Tor Leonne.

  In his youth he had bitterly resented that fact.

  Now, he was above it; unlike the ghost of the young Alesso di’Marente, his own youth did not haunt him. Nor did his dead.

  But the living were treacherous.

  He could not escape them.

  Narro, great black beast with braided mane and braided tail, was restive. Sendari had given him leave to gallop three miles past the Northernmost edge of the encampment. But three miles for a horse of Narro’s quality was the beginning of a run, not the end of it; he was restive. The robes of a Widan fell across his flanks as he tossed chunks of grass-laden dirt to and fro.

  “Wait,” he told the horse, pulling at the reins.

  Narro accepted the command with ill grace. Sendari shrugged. There were none here to bear witness to his inability to exert perfect control over the beast, and the witness that would come would not judge him for the weakness.

  The sun had risen; he judged time by the fall of shadows. There were other ways of judging it, but this way served him best; he had developed, over the long month, an instinctive acceptance of the rhythm of day.

  He missed his wives. Many of the Tors who had gathered upon the plain had brought a wife or a concubine with them; those who had not had taken, from the Raverran villages, the companionship they required. Sendari found no comfort in the arms and the words of strangers, and beauty spoke not to his heart, but to something too cerebral to be easily comforted.

  That part of him was Widan.

  And the Widan’s knees tightened around the girth of his horse as he heard the distant sounds of travel. There were men upon the road.

  He nudged his horse forward; had to fight to hold him back. This meeting was not a meeting that he relished.

  He saw the standard first; it was lifted by the hands of a man he did not recognize from this distance. Unfurled, heavy enough to withstand the ferocity of wind, it caught sunlight and scattered it. Six rays above the full face of the rising sun.

  Adano kai di’Marano had come.

  Behind the standard, four men traveled abreast, their horses cantering in a unison that spoke of the quality of their riders. Those riders wore the half sun, with six distinct rays; it marked them as Toran. Behind them followed another group of four, and behind them, two men rode abreast. Sendari counted them; eight, two, eight.

  He waited; the distance between the riders and Narro lessened. Narro’s neck rose; his nostrils flared. Sendari straightened his shoulders; ran one hand through his Widan’s beard. Adano would know, if he saw the gesture, what it meant; the Widan was nervous.

  Only when the standard-bearer stopped did Sendari dismount. Upon horseback, the differences between himself and his kai were pronounced. Sendari wore a sword gracelessly; it fit him as well as any sword ever had. It was accoutrement, afterthought, a part of the uniform that spoke of coming war.

  But it was not his weapon.

  The ranks of the Toran broke as the two men in their center edged their horses forward.

  They wore Marano colors: emerald and night blue beneath the hooded visage of white hunting bird. Beneath its flight, the sun, the rising sun.

  He waited. Their horses slowed.

  The older of the two dismounted. His stride was long, his steps quick.

  “Sendari!”

  Sendari par di’Marano bowed; the bow was perfect, inflected with genuine respect. When he rose, he stood ten feet from the kai Marano: his brother, Adano, the Tor’agar.

  The sun had not aged him; the wind had not bowed him. He smiled, nodding at the glint of ruby and gold that divided their achievements.

  “Adano.”

  “Par Marano,” his brother said, extending his arms.

  The embrace was brief. This much Sendari expected.

  It was formal. This . . . he had not. And although Adano had chosen to travel with his eldest son—which was, in disputed terrain, an open gesture of trust—he did not summon his kai to his side.

  Compared to other cuts, other losses, this w
as shallow, but it stung nonetheless. The human capacity for pain, it seemed, was endless and subtle.

  Sendari stepped back and bowed, rising to the sight of Adano’s almost expressionless face.

  “We . . . have had word . . . that Ser Alesso has massed his armies on the Northern front of Raverra.”

  Sendari nodded. “It is true.”

  “No word was sent to the Tyr’agnate.”

  “No word was received from him,” Sendari replied, slipping with effort into the smooth neutrality of the High Court. “We do not trespass on the Terrean of Mancorvo; nor do we seek to feed or house our forces upon its soil. As such, word was not deemed necessary.”

  “Indeed.”

  “No word was received from the Tor’agar.”

  “There are some words that serafs cannot be entrusted to deliver,” Adano replied. He hesitated, and then added, “I sent word to you.”

  “I am not the Tyr’agar.”

  “No. You are par di’Marano.”

  “And Widan.”

  “Indeed. Adviser to Ser Alesso.”

  Sendari nodded.

  “And of the Serra Teresa?”

  “I have not seen her since the Festival of the Moon.”

  “Others have?”

  “Perhaps. No one in the Tor Leonne.”

  “Did you send her from the Tor?”

  “I?” Bitter word. “The Serra Teresa answers to the kai Marano, when she chooses to answer at all. I thought, perhaps, you had summoned her North.”

  “In the North, at the moment, she would be of value to me. But no. I did not summon her.” He drew his hands behind his back, clasping them there. “Sendari—”

  “Kai Marano?”

  “Is she dead?”

  “Not by my hand.”

  “Forgive me. I had to ask.”

  “What is there to forgive? There was little love between us.”

  “But not none. She is Marano.”

  “Not none,” Sendari replied. He met his brother’s gaze. Held it. “But it is not of the Serra Teresa that we meet to speak.”

  “As you say.”

  “The Tyr’agnate?”

  “The Serra Donna en’Lamberto received a letter,” his brother replied. “Or so she said to one of my wives.”

  “And its contents?” Sendari’s hand rose to his beard; Adano smiled in spite of the formality of his stance.

  “It was a letter written to a Serra, by a Serra.”

  “Ah. And your wife?”

  “She is well. She has hope that we will be spared the rigors of war in the future.”

  Sendari was weary.

  Adano knew it; he wore the same lack of ease.

  “You know the Tyr’agnate better than I,” Sendari said quietly, hands idly brushing the strands of his beard. “You have served him well since ascending to our father’s rank.

  “What do you think he will do in the coming conflict?”

  “It depends on the actions of Ser Alesso. The taking of the Tor Leonne occurred with no warning—none, at least, to the Lambertans. Mareo di’Lamberto is a man bound by honor, but he is not blinded by it. He is aware that Oerta and Sorgassa have fielded armies in service to Ser Alesso. That did not come without negotiation.”

  “Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto would never have condoned what occurred.”

  “And you expect him to do so now?”

  “I expect nothing.”

  “Ah.”

  Ser Adano bowed. “Understand,” he said, his tone a match for his brother’s, “that I have sworn an oath to Lamberto.”

  “Indeed. As Tor’agar you could do little else.”

  “He is a man worthy of such an oath, Sendari.”

  “And Alesso di’Alesso is not?”

  Adano met his brother’s eyes. “Sendari.” He raised a hand.

  Sendari subsided.

  “I am the kai,” Adano told his brother. “I have, as I can, aided you. I sent Teresa to the Tor at your request. I sent information about the events in Mancorvo as it was politic. I will not order you not to serve Ser Alesso. No man who fought in the war almost thirteen years ago would.

  “But I will not be forsworn.” His gaze was now unwavering. “Mareo di’Lamberto was neutral to your cause.”

  “Neutrality was prudent.”

  “Yes. And Mareo di’Lamberto is prudent. But it was not merely a matter of prudence. Now he is torn.”

  “He owes no loyalty to the clan Leonne.”

  “None. And when the last member of that clan comes at the head of the Northern armies, he owes less than none.”

  “The Northern armies have moved, and in number. They are almost certainly amassing—if they have not already done so—within the borders of Averda.”

  “In what numbers?”

  “We believe they have traveled with not less than twenty-five thousand men.”

  Adano’s silence was gratifying. It did not, however, last.

  “Mancorvo and Averda were not meant to survive the new Tyr’s rule under their current rulers.”

  Sendari offered no reply; there was none that could be offered without insult.

  Adano’s lips thinned. His smile held no mirth whatsoever. “Rethink that strategy.”

  “The strategy is not mine.”

  “No. But Alesso values your counsel.”

  “And Mareo di’Lamberto values yours, does he not?”

  “Yes. But he values it less than he values his clan. Less,” he added, “than he valued his brother. When Ser Alesso can draw and wield the Sun Sword, the Tyr’agnate will offer his oath and his services.”

  “And until then?”

  “I . . . believe that he will not move against you.”

  “That is all that we desire at the moment.”

  “Will you withdraw your troops?”

  “They are not mine to withdraw.”

  “They are amassed between the border of Averda and Mancorvo. It seems—to those with no information to counter it—that Alesso has not yet decided which Terrean he seeks to invade.”

  “In the end, Brother, he will invade only what he is not offered. He is the Lord’s man.”

  “Which Lord, Sendari?”

  Ah, it was out in the open. Sendari did not hesitate. “The Lord of Day.”

  “Then the Lord will judge.”

  Sendari bowed. He reached into the folds of his robes, and pulled from it two things. A letter, in a coded tube, and an oath medallion.

  Its wood had been broken by the edge of a sword’s single strike. “This is the mark of Terra Fuerre,” he said, his fingers brushing the rough runnel. “Tell the kai Lamberto that we will avenge what Mareo di’Lamberto himself could not avenge.”

  Adano took both scroll and medallion.

  “If Ser Alesso chose to travel, he might bear word himself.”

  “He is,” Sendari said, composed now, “occupied.”

  “And Lamberto,” Adano replied, “is not.”

  That drew a smile from Sendari.

  “Did you write the letter?”

  “I? No.”

  “But you know its contents.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I will carry it for you.” The Tor’agar Adano kai di’Marano turned to leave. Without looking back, he said, “Do not offer me safety, Brother. If, in the end, the man who styles himself Tyr’agar sees reason to invade, I will fight and fall with my liege lord.” He took another step, and then spoke again, the words drifting in the breeze of the plains.

  “And if, in the end, this comes to pass, I will acknowledge that you are Sendari di’Sendari; you are a clan in your own right.”

  If he had been a younger man—if he had been his younger self—Sendari would have spoken, then. But the enormity of the acknowledged gift was daunting, and he retreated, as men do, into silence, losing the moment.

  28th of Misteral, 427 AA

  Terrean of Averda

  Commander Bruce Allen surveyed the mouth of the straits. There were boats moored amon
g the docks that his soldiers had spent a week constructing; there was not a Southern ship among them. The trees that lined the river did so at a distance; those that had had the misfortune to grow where the army built its encampments had been cleared.

  In another four days, the last of the ships would arrive, and their cargo—men and supplies—would be left upon these wooden docks, their reflections broken by the rush of moving water. Nothing was still in the South.

  He shook his head. Nothing stayed still in the North either. Turning to the younger man who waited ten yards away, he gestured.

  The man turned instantly and began to cover the distance between them; the light of the medallion of the Order of Knowledge was a brief, bright flash as he moved.

  Commander Allen had worked with his share of magi in the past, and he could count on one hand the times that he had not found it frustrating. They were not military men; when inducted into the army for fieldwork, they responded as Members of the Order of Knowledge and not as soldiers in the Kings’ armies. They could be obdurate men, and when they felt that they dealt with inferior intellects—which, in the case of most magi, was almost always—they were curt when they tendered what they felt was due obedience.

  Gyrrick of the Order was therefore a surprise to him; a man who seemed to understand the chain of command, at least as far as it extended between himself and the Commanders he served. He spoke little, and when he chose to speak, he tendered replies that were brief and to the point without bordering on rudeness.

  It should have been comforting.

  Commander Allen found it mildly disturbing. And that made him smile ruefully. He let the smile linger as the man reached his side.

  “Member Gyrrick.”

  Gyrrick bowed. “Commander Allen.”

  “I wish a message to be delivered to Commander Berriliya.”

  Gyrrick nodded. His eyes, rather than closing, became glassy; his face lost all expression. The Commander waited.

  “Commander Berriliya is present,” Gyrrick said, speaking as if speech itself were foreign to him. “The Member Aldraed asks me to tell you that he has spent much effort purifying drinking water for the three vessels today; the communication—unless of course it is urgent—should be brief.”

  “Tell him that his warning is appreciated. I merely wish to know where the ships are.”