The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 (37 page)

And she was a child of the Dominion; to the victors respect accrued, and it was a respect she felt without rancor or fear. The Lord had watched. The Lord had judged.

“Serra Amara,” Navello kep’Callesta said, from behind the opaque screen doors that hid the harem from the outer world. “They will be upon the plateau in the quarter hour.”

She rose at once, and her wives fell away in a quiet circle.

Maria smiled. “You look perfect, Na’amara.”

Eliana en’Callesta, the youngest and the most beautiful of her wives, merely smiled at Maria. “She
is
perfect.”

“Enough, enough from all of you,” Amara said, with mock severity. “I am needed now. But I promise that I will remember each word and each Northern gesture, and I will return to the harem this eve to share what I have learned.”

Maria’s laughter was high and soft, musical in her joy. She did not clap her hands; she was of an age where such affectation would seem strange. But the gesture was present in her stillness, in the accentuated lines at the corner of eyes that had once been the envy of every woman present. “Will she be there, Na’amara?”

“The Northern General?”

Eliana nodded.

“Yes. She is upon the road as we speak.”

“Will she look like a man?”

“In any way that is significant, she
is
a man. Think of her that way, and she will not be so hard to understand.”

Eliana nodded. She hesitated for only a moment, and then threw her arms carefully around the Serra’s shoulders.

Amara returned the embrace, and stood a moment, her forehead touching the forehead of a woman who was closer to her than her own daughters had ever been. “I will be safe,” she said quietly.

“It is not for your safety that I fear,” Eliana replied, her voice a whisper. She caught Amara’s hands tightly in her own.

Maria lifted the veil. “Will you wear it?”

Amara’s smile dimmed. She gazed at it, white gauze edged in the darkest of blue, and glittering with crystal, with pearl, with bead.

They watched her in silence. As so often was the case, the difficult questions were left to Maria.

Would she? She wore blue now, blue and white in all its variations. She had worn nothing but these colors since she had gazed upon the face of death, of her first real loss.

“Yes,” she replied.

The sparkle left the eyes of her oldest wife; left the step of her youngest.

“I have been unkind,” she said softly, as she reached for the length of the veil. “To you, of all people, who deserve so much more.”

“You have been no such thing,” Maria said, valiant now, her smile once again creasing the lines of her face.

“No?”

“Na’mari,” Eliana said quietly, “let her speak the truth. She
has
been unkind.”

Maria looked scandalized.

Sara looked away; she had been silent the whole of the afternoon.

“Na’sara?”

“Eliana is right,” Sara said, gazing at the floor. “You have been so distant, Amara. You have gone so far away we have been worried that you might never return.” She lifted her face. Slender, aquiline, that face was striking in its composition; she was not classically beautiful, had never been that. But the beauty that she did possess would never age or weather. “He was your son, but he was our son as well, all save Eliana, who might have been his sister if you had ever left them alone for more than a minute.”

Eliana blushed.

“He has suffered enough,” she continued.

“Who?”

“Our husband.”

“Na’sara,” Maria snapped. “Enough.”

“No, not enough. It needs to be said.”

“It does not need to be said at this moment.”

“But it does.” Sara turned to Amara, who stood rigid in the center of the room.

Amara said, cool now, her hands trembling beneath the veil, “I have not forbidden you our husband.”

“No. You have not. But who among us has ever been able to offer him comfort? We offer him pleasure, or amusement; we offer him indulgence. He has never needed anything else, and for your sake, for love of you, we have been honored to give what little he will accept.

“But he
needs
you. You are his Serra. And Amara?”

“Na’sara?”

“You need him.”

“Sara,” Maria said, an edge in her voice. “Enough.”

“And Alfredo needs both of you. Do not make him choose; he is angry enough, and he is at an age where his anger is a danger to him. All of our sons are with him,” she added softly. “All of our sons have faced the loss of their brother. Amara, please.”

Amara looked at the veil in her hands.

Sara, at last, fell silent.

“Na’sara.”

She raised her head, and the defiance in her features crumbled completely.

“Take this,” Amara said gently. She held out the veil.

The Serra Amara had chosen the venue at which dinner was to be served. She had opened the wall through which the moon’s light could be clearly seen among the rushes and the lilies in the large pond at the garden’s heart. The sun shed light and color as it fell; she had chosen the hour as well, and the serafs had busied themselves with the glass globes in which light lay trapped.

It was fire’s light; although the garden itself was home to the magical artifice of a light that did not fade, dim, or flicker, it was not to her liking; such a light was costly in its fashion, a symbol of the power of unnatural men. As a child, she had loved it; as a woman, she abjured it. Everything had a beginning and an ending.

Ser Ramiro di’Callesta saw this clearly as he approached the gardens at the side of the kai Leonne. Valedan’s return to the city had taken longer than either man had intended, and they carried the reason for that tardiness behind the silence of closed lips.

Word had come.

He would deliver it when the Commanders joined them.

Baredan di’Navarre had excused himself from the reception with obvious reluctance. “Offer my regrets,” he said, bowing deeply, “to your lovely Serra.”

“I fear that any regret I offer will be met with less welcome than you hope,” the Tyr’agnate replied, with an open grimace, a gesture of the confidence he felt in the third of the dead Tyr’s Generals.

It had come as a surprise to the General, who raised a brow in askance.

Ramiro’s smile was thin. “She has lost her son,” he said quietly.

Baredan’s grimace was reward enough. “Aye,” he said. “She is a woman who feels strongly all that she chooses to feel. But I envy you, kai Callesta. She will survive this; she will grow stronger.”

“Tell her that,” Ramiro replied, “and she will either love you as kin or revile you for your lack of feeling. Or both.”

The General laughed openly. “I have met at least one of your wives,” he said, as the laughter receded, “and if the Serra chose that wife, she cannot be harsh. Is she not called the Gentle?”

“Indeed, she is.”

“Then you are blessed, kai Callesta.”

“Blessed?”

“A real man has, from his wife, all facets, all truth; the best, and the worst, that she has to offer beneath the open sky. Had you been less of a man, she would be less of a woman; her grief would remain trapped behind the walls of her face, her anger hidden in the artifice of grace and seeming.”

Ramiro’s smile was genuine; he was pleased. “See to your men,” he said softly. “Take word; we will join you as soon as we may safely take our leave.”

“And the Northern armies?”

“I fear they will join you as well.” He gazed at the gardens, his shoulders lifting. In a scant few days, his wife had accomplished much. He turned to the General and offered him a deep bow.

Valedan nodded, his expression intense. He was young; the word of war had disturbed him, and he did not trouble himself to hide his concern. The gardens would be lost upon him; a pity.

Baredan left them.

Ser Miko met them as they approached the gates.

“The Commanders?”

“They arrived safely.” His bow was deep and perfect. “Ser Anton and Ser Andaro have been summoned.”

“Captain Duarte?”

“He waits within,” the Tyran replied. “With the Serra Amara.” He paused. “And the Serra Alina di’Lamberto.”

“Ah. Good. Kai Leonne?”

Valedan nodded again. His gaze passed between the trees whose branches had been so expertly pruned, passed over the flower beds that had been rearranged, the grass that had been cut back, the stones that had been moved into such a pleasing and peaceful array.

When his eyes found what he sought, he relaxed; the Ospreys were present.

You trust them
, he thought, surprised. Ramiro had taken their measure in the Northern capital, and having done so, he viewed them as a necessity, no more. They owed loyalty to each other; they swore no oaths to Leonne.

The North has left its mark on you, kai Leonne. Hide it well
. But he said nothing. His Tyran were present.

The doors opened before them. Serafs cast shadows in the sun’s light, long and thin. Ramiro removed his boots, exchanging them for the simplicity of bare feet. Valedan, without hesitation, did the same. He walked with unconscious grace, adjusting the weight of his step until it fell in near silence, his stride matching his host’s. They were almost of a height, but Valedan had not yet attained his full growth.

Tyr’agar Markaso kai di’Leonne had passed through the city of Callesta during the disaster of a war that had left its mark upon the two Northern Terreans. He had walked this hall, in a regal silence, surveying all that lay within it as if it already belonged to him.

He had offered the graces of the High Court, had bowed low before the Serra Amara, had taken refuge in her gardens and her hall; he had spoken, discreetly, with her wives, assessing them, judging the man who owned them by their appearance. He had smiled at the young kai Callesta, the oldest of Ramiro’s many sons.

“What will you do with the rest?” he had asked, speaking carelessly, casually, about the sons of Ramiro’s concubines.

Ramiro could see, over the distance of years, the sudden stillness in his Serra’s face.

The question had not been addressed to her directly; no man of the Tyr’agar’s station would have lowered himself to do so. But it had been said in her hearing, and she, servile in posture, but stiff as sword, had waited upon her husband’s words.

As his wives had waited—the wives who had born him those sons.

“They all bear the blood of Callesta,” he had said, cool to the question.

“The blood, yes. But only one among them has the right to bear the sword. What of the others?”

“They will all bear swords,” he replied, “in the service of Callesta. They will be brothers, oathbound and trusted, to the kai they will serve.”

The Tyr’agar had raised a dark brow. “I see,” he said softly. “Is that wise?”

“My Tyran all bear the blood of Callesta; all save a handful who have proved themselves in other ways. Judge them, kai Leonne, if it pleases you.”

The Tyr’agar had shrugged and passed on, but Ramiro had lingered a moment to meet the eyes of his wife. His wives.

There was a bitter pleasure afforded him in the method of the Tyr’agar’s demise, although he had never given it voice.

He looked now at the son, the one remaining son of his Serra.

He could not imagine that Valedan would ask so cruel a question. Could not imagine that it would bear asking. He was young.

And he, already as tall as the father, was infinitely more gifted. He had shown this to the Serra; had shown it to the Tyran who always graced the Tyr’agnate’s presence. Had shown it in the arena of the Demon Kings, when he had forced, from the lips of Ser Anton’s finest student, an acknowledgment of the truth of his title.

Ser Anton served him. Ser Andaro served him. Were it not for Valedan, a death would decide the silent war between those two. Yet they worked together, for Valedan’s sake, and if Ramiro was any judge, it was a harsh alliance.

Markaso kai di’Leonne had not been a man who knew mercy. Ramiro himself was not noted for that singular grace; it was considered a weakness among the men of the Dominion.

And Valedan kai di’Leonne chose to uphold it, again and again, as a strength.

Almost impossible to believe that the father and the son were of the same blood.

And that was the heart of the matter. It was almost impossible. There would be one test of its truth, and only one, and if Valedan, in ignorance, failed that test, the war was over. Callesta and Lamberto would be thrown to the Southern Tyr, Alesso di’Marente.

All of life was a gamble. All gambles presented the possibility of loss. He accepted it with equanimity.

“Tyr’agnate?”

He looked up. Smiled slightly, as if at an older son. His own, dead now, a ghost in these halls. “My pardon, Tyr’agar. I remember the last time a kai Leonne . . . graced these halls.”

Valedan’s face was as serious as youth can be. “You did not admire my father.”