The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (29 page)

“I know as well that you were the coddled grandchild and child of two Tyr’agnati who had no desire to lose you; they were selfish men; they gave, to your brother, a sister who was too wise and too old to be of value in so simple a marriage.”

Serra Alina looked up and met the eyes of the wife of the Callestan Tyr. It was not what the Serra Amara had expected, and her own eyes widened slightly.

“Is that what is said?” Alina asked softly, although she did not otherwise change the line of her shoulders, the subtle slump of her spine.

If she had expected the Serra Amara to look away, she was to be disappointed. Brown eyes met brown and held them over the light of flickering lamp, the array of mourning flowers and cloth, the scant decoration of table.

Serra Amara the Gentle.

Serra Alina di’Lamberto.

They were almost of an age. They were both capable of a deep and abiding anger; Alina saw that now, clearly. She nodded.

“Many things are said of the Serra Alina,” the Serra Amara said, cautious now.

“And many of the Serra Amara.”

“Ah, yes. Serra Amara the Gentle.”

“You have never been called a viper in the court of the Lambertan Tyr.”

This drew a smile, almost unwilling, from the lips of the Callestan Serra. “Nor have you, in
this
court.” The smile dimmed. “It is the Lady’s time,” she added quietly. She rose.

This surprised Alina.

When the Serra Amara offered her hand, she accepted it, and rose as well. Together they left this chamber, this outer room of politics and meeting. “The Lady is restless this eve.”

“And the ladies, it seems,” the Serra Amara replied: “I . . . did not expect your arrival here.”

“And you accepted it with the grace due your station,” Alina replied softly.

“With less grace,” the Serra Amara said. “Come. I would visit the Lady’s shrine. Be my company.”

With her own hands, she slid open the screens that led to the outer courtyard. The screens shook slightly as they parted.

If she had surprised the Serra Amara, the Serra was not to be outmaneuvered; Alina had expected to fence with words, to use them to both reveal and hide her purpose here. But the Lady’s shrine was an invitation, a shadow gift, that she had not expected.

She had not visited such a shrine in over a decade.

It humbled her.

“I did not expect your arrival here,” the Serra Amara continued, when they had reached the shrine, had knelt, side by side before it; had bowed their heads in the evening’s colors, becoming for a moment one with them. “But I had warning.”

“Of course.”

The Callestan Serra reached into the folds of her sari and drew from it folded pieces of paper. “You must forgive me the scant light,” she said softly, handing them to the Serra Alina.

Her hands shook.

Alina noted this, and took what was offered, opening it to a familiar script. Women’s writing. Her brother’s wife. She read the letter carefully.

“Is it genuine, Serra Alina? Does it come from the pen of your kai’s Serra?”

Alina read it again. It was the carefully crafted plea of a woman who has lost her son, and who asks that her husband’s rage and desolation be overlooked by those who can.

She nodded quietly. “It . . . is her writing.”

“The script?”

“And the words. Serra Donna en’Lamberto
is
my brother’s wife; the woman he chose to spend his life with, to have his sons with.” She smiled almost fondly. “She was called gentle, in the Court of Amar.”

“Can it be read another way, given the death of my son?”

Alina did not turn to gaze upon the Serra’s face; she had no need to. The slight turning of the edge of her voice said everything. But she had been asked the question, and in the Lady’s presence, she answered it. “No.”

“Would she—”

“If, as you suspect, my brother’s hand is in this act, I will swear by the Lady’s mercy and the Lady’s judgment that the Serra Donna en’Lamberto knew nothing of the crime.” She placed the letter in her lap, beneath her flat palms. “She would never have countenanced it,” she added softly.

“And the Serra Alina?”

“I am no fool,” Alina replied coolly. “I understand what is at stake.”

“And that, Serra?”

This time, Alina did lift her head, did turn.

The Serra Amara’s gaze was full upon her.

“You know, as well as I, that if Callesta and Lamberto fail to come to an accommodation, we will not win this war.”

“Do I?”

“It has been said that the Tyr’agnate of Callesta knows the value of his wife.”

“Much is said of men and their wives.”

“Indeed. And had I not met you, Serra Amara, I might have discounted what is said. But you are . . . no fool. And I have watched the Tyr’agnate in the streets of the Empire; I have watched him in the folds of the Imperial Court. I have seen him handle his Tyran, and his par, as he pledges allegiance to a boy whose measure he has taken only in judgment.

“He is no fool, and he trusts you. You have met the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo.”

“On one or two occasions.”

“And of him?”

“He is a man bound by convention.”

“Indeed. Bound by Lambertan sensibility. It is possible—barely, and only just—that he might have considered the death of your kai the balance by which he would be willing to serve at your side in this war.”

“They were his men.”

“Yes.”

“His Tyran.”

“Yes.”

“You believed that his hand was behind this act.”

Alina’s gaze was upon the columns that bound the Lady’s shrine. “I did. Who else could give commands to the Tyran?”

She nodded. “It is so with my husband’s men.”

“Your husband’s Tyran are also his blood. He is the only man in the Dominion who has made, of his par, an oath-guard. I have often admired the courage of that decision.”

“And the wisdom?”

“Ah. The wisdom was only evident when they met in the Imperial Court. Ser Fillipo is cunning, and not without ambition.”

They were silent a moment, and then the Serra Amara said softly, “and now?”

“Now?”

“Now you believe that this assassination was not done at the behest of your brother?”

“I believe that it is a possibility. And yes, Serra, I have the desire to believe it that makes the belief itself suspect. You have no such desire. How do you see it?”

The Serra Amara’s brow lifted. “You are bold, Serra Alina.”

“It was always considered one of my failings.”

“Ah.”

“I did not lie to you. I did not come to persuade you of the possibility of my brother’s innocence. He will do that, or fail in that, when next you meet, if you afford him the opportunity. But I will tell you now that he will not stoop to lie. His is a game of politics that very few men are given the chance to play. He uses honesty and honor as weapons, and because they are his weapons, he is forced to display cunning in their use.

“If he was responsible, you will know.”

“You are saying that he will not lie?”

“He will not lie.”

“Ah.” The Serra bowed. “I . . . thank you, Serra Alina. And now I admit my own curiosity. Why did you choose to seek audience with me this eve? If not for your brother’s sake, if not for the sake of the man you have chosen to accompany?”

“It is for Valedan kai di’Leonne’s sake that I chose to come, but I do not speak for him. We have had no speech, formal or informal, no strategies by which he wished me to approach this meeting. He is not aware that I am here, and I am uncertain that he would understand my presence if it were to be revealed to him.”

“Is he, then, so very Northern?”

Ah. Now, she must tread with care.

But care and timidity were only synonyms for those without bold hearts.

“He speaks to both the South and the North,” Alina said quietly. “Had you asked me that question at any other place, I would have said he was very Southern.”

The Serra Amara’s smile was both slight and genuine as she acknowledged the Serra’s oblique compliment.

“But he chooses which part of his heritage to honor and which to reject, and although he asks my advice, he will not always take it.”

“Will he take some of it?”

“Indeed, and value that which he takes.”

“He will be a good husband.”

Alina hesitated a moment, although the hesitation was not visible. And then she, too, smiled. “He proposed to me,” she said softly.

The Serra’s brows rose at least an inch. “To you?”

Serra Alina nodded.

“You refused.”

“How could I do otherwise? If he wins this war, the wife he requires will be . . . a different wife. A younger wife.” She bowed her head a moment.

“You are Lambertan,” the Serra Amara said, speaking the clan’s name for the first time in weeks without rancor. “And you are, of course, correct.” She gazed at the columns which formed the confines of the Lady’s shrine; at the darkening sky. “Did you love your nephew, Serra Alina?”

“How could I do otherwise? He was raised in the harem that was my home.” She closed her eyes. “I have no sons, and I am no fool; I will have none. None but Mareo’s. I would have given anything of value I had to save him. But what does a woman have of value in a war?”

The words were bitter.

But they were Serra Amara’s words, her thoughts, on this eve. They sat, the divide between genders greater, for this moment, than the divide between bloodlines.

“What would you have of me, Serra Alina? You have answered all my questions; I have none left.”

“I would have you answer mine, Serra.”

“Then ask.”

“The kai Leonne is no longer content to come to the harem, to my chambers within the confines of the harem, when he seeks advice.”

“Ah.”

“No, it is not what you think. He . . . he has ordered me to be available.”

“You are.”

“Upon the field.”

The words robbed the Serra Amara of hers; she was silent. At last, she said, “Does he truly not understand what this means?”

“He understands that Ramiro di’Callesta values your advice. He understands that the kai Lamberto values his wife.”

“In their proper context.”

“Yes. But he values the appearance of context less than he values the advice. Understand, Serra Amara, that this was not a request. Any request of this nature that he has made, however obliquely, I have refused. He believes that he understands the cost he will incur, and feels that the cost of such an appearance is less of a difficulty than my absence.”

“He does not understand the South.”

“Indeed.”

The Serra Amara was again silent. Even in the privacy of this garden she was not alone; the hour of the night excused her frankness, but only to a point. She could not openly criticize the man to whom her husband owed allegiance, although that man clearly deserved such a criticism. Alina knew this, and waited.

“Will he avenge my son’s death?”

“Yes.”

“And if what you believe is true is not, in fact, true?”

“He will kill my brother.”

“You are certain of this.”

“I am certain that he will try.”

“He is young.”

“Indeed. And the young make our greatest heroes with cause, with reason.”

“Then I will aid you.”

Serra Alina waited.

“Bring your clothing and your personal items to my quarters. Bring them publicly. Make your display of obeisance, if you are determined to serve this man in the fashion he desires.”

“And?”

“I will take you into my harem. I will . . . open my doors, and its heart, to your use.”

“I am Lambertan.”

“You are merely a woman,” the Serra said, with another of her slim smiles. “As am I.”

“And I?”

“You will do what you intend; you will take up Northern dress, Northern clothing, Northern armor. You will braid your hair in the fashion of the North, expose your skin, stand with arms by your sides in the company of other such Northerners. You will be an object of scorn and derision and curiosity, as they are—but you will be a part of their foreign life.

“You will not be the Serra Alina di’Lamberto to any who does not already know of your existence and your value to the young kai Leonne.”

The Serra Alina bowed low, her forehead touched the soft moss on the stones at the foot of the shrine. Resting there, absorbing their cool in the stillness of this perfect evening.

Then she lifted her head.

“My brother,” she said softly, “the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, did not choose the war he fought thirteen years ago. He did not choose the battle in which his kai died, untested, and alone. He did not choose the moment of retreat and the moment of surrender.