Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (68 page)

Because Margret's unvoiced suspicion was—and this surprised him—correct. That the Serra Teresa could have met with her niece had she not chosen so drastic a course of action was not in question.

What he had not questioned until this meeting was the inverse: That she could have avoided the drastic course of action and in so doing, met with her niece. She had forsaken both brothers and the life she had led in order to avoid that early, simpler meeting.

He wondered idly if the Serra Diora di'Marano truly understood the depth of her aunt's commitment. For by avoiding Diora in such a fashion she had forced from Margret at least two things: an alliance, and the offer of hospitality. By taking advantage of that hospitality, and Teresa's aid in Diora's rescue, Margret opened herself up to the debt of Matriarchs. She would owe Diora and Teresa safe passage, at the very least, to the Terrean of Mancorvo or Averda for their part in the return of the Voyani heart.

Teresa, safely ensconced in her brother's harem, needed no such hospitality. But the Serra Diora would need it—and more. There was literally no other way that she could cross the Dominion in safety. No clansman would dare offer her shelter.

Whether or not Margret would honor that debt, on the other hand, remained to be seen.

How much do you know, Yollana ?

The sun was high. Beneath the wide brim of leather hat, the Serra Teresa hid her face from both the Lord's gaze and man's. But the Matriarch of the Havallan Voyani passed the masks Kallandras had brought for her, one at a time, into the shadows before the Serra's face.
/

The Serra did not speak, but Yollana nodded anyway; it was a conversation of sorts, but it offered no satisfaction to eavesdroppers such as he.

He would not have thought that Teresa would expose her abilities to anyone who could not divine them for themselves: the bard-born, those afflicted in a similar fashion. He was surprised; he had underestimated her, and the Serra Teresa was a difficult woman to underestimate.

"Serra Teresa. Matriarch." He spoke more to give them warning of his presence than to offer any politeness. They stopped in their inspection to acknowledge his interruption with a nod. "Are we closer to any understanding?"

Mikalis di'Arretta offered a frustrated nod in return. "Closer. But not close enough." He rose, agitated. "The Sword's Edge, and the Tyr'agar," he said speaking through his teeth in just such a way that Sendari knew immediately how little sleep he had been allowed in each of the past few days, "were ill-advised to set themselves against the Voyani."

Sendari looked up from the comfort of cushions and mats; this work, they did in the privacy of the halls reserved for the Sword of Knowledge. And Cortano's halls, muted and sparsely decorated, were nonetheless quite fine. Mikalis seemed out of place in the room; his face unshaven, his clothing unwashed, his hands flecked with dirt and clay, moist with sweat. He had no proper quarters upon the plateau. Sendari did, and his appearance—cool and exact—reflected that. "Perhaps. Perhaps they had a choice between the Court and the Voyani. You know the Lord's law: choose allies among the weak, and you will join them."

"I know the Lord's law," Mikalis muttered, "But let me add the Lady's advice: Choose carefully that which you designate as weak."

"That is not the Lady's—"

"It is the essence of her words."

The masks lay before him like a public accusation.

"Mikalis, you have my apologies. I have spoken to Cortano."

"About?"

"You have slept some three hours in the last two days, or so rumor has it."

"Rumor is not usually that accurate." The man grunted and sank back into the cushions, his restless pacing halted by the smoothness of Sendari's words. He gripped his neck in the palm of his hand and strained against taut muscle awhile.

"The dead drive the Sword's Edge now."

"The dead make bad drivers."

"Oh?" The sarcasm in the single word was mingled with something more raw and less complicated. It was something Sendari knew too well; he backed away, as was prudent.

Mikalis di'Arretta relented; he had that type of grace. "I want what any good clansman wants: revenge. I am not a great warrior; had I been, my early life would have been simpler. The only hope I have of thwarting our enemies is this, this work. I do it." As he spoke, he stared at his hands, turning them palm in and palm out as if they held some secret he could only define by such close inspection.

"Some of the older magics were based on odd principles, and it is generally thought that they were more religious in nature— and vastly less effective—than the magics we practice today."

"You believe this magic and that magic are connected?"

"Either that or the masks mean nothing; they're a clever trap to draw our attention from a different form of attack."

"I've considered that," Yollana said, wiping the sweat from her forehead almost absently. "But a shadow has fallen across all of these faces. Can you not feel it?"

The Serra Teresa met her eyes, tilting her chin and exposing her face a moment to the Lord's gaze.

Yollana laughed. "I forget myself. You are nothing at all like the Voyani, Serra, but the
Voyanne
has nonetheless scarred your soul; I recognize the look. And because I do, I treat you as one of my own."

"And I welcome such hospitality," the Serra replied, "when it does not involve the friendly blows I've seen you deliver to those closest to you."

"Who could hit such a face?"

But the Serra Teresa had fallen silent.

The silence stretched; her gaze had been caught by the gaudiness of the finest of the four masks. Feathers dyed in delicate blues and brilliant reds crowded eyes that were wide, gold-circled, round. The nose, beaklike, had a ferocity about its joining with the mouth; it spoke of cruelty, the essence of all power when it is unbridled by such a trifle as affection. She lifted it slowly, turning it front to back in a slow circle.

"What would happen," she asked the Havallan Matriarch, "if I were to wear this?"

"I wouldn't advise it."

"No?"

"No. I'd be hesitant to let most of the men and women in this camp even touch it."

"Could you make this mask safe?"

"Not safer than the replicas you've had made." "And the replicas?"

"They are as lifeless as the clay they are made of." "But these—could we have someone wear them?" "Sendari, I have told you what I know. I have examined these masks in great detail. I have drawn upon all the knowledge I've gathered in my life on the edge; I am only barely able to touch the enchantment. It's almost as if—as if—"

"You cannot remove these enchantments."

"No."

"Could you make this mask safe enough?"

Yollana's expression shifted. It was subtle work; the lines of her face—and her face was lined—grew heavier, deeper, as if she had momentarily freed all suppressed age. She had eagle eyes and she had vulture eyes; all Voyani women did. But it was not as hunter that she turned on Teresa now, although she had the intensity of the hunter that feeds a whole tribe.

"I forbid it, Teresa."

And the Serra Teresa, stranger, student—and if Kallandras was any judge of the quality of the interchange between the two, an excellent one—said quietly, "In this camp, that right is not yours."

"As if what?"

Mikalis was silent for a long time. At last, and with a hesitancy that Sendari understood the minute he began to haltingly speak, he said, "I do not know how you… express… your power. My first teacher—an older man who did not survive the fires—"

"You were taught by a Designate?"

"My clan was not as powerful as yours, Sendari."

"My apologies. I—please. Continue."

Mikalis drew breath. Reached, for the first time since Sendari had been in attendance, for the sweet water that had been drawn from the Lake at Alesso's command. That water refreshed, and while it did not obviate the need for sleep, it removed the effects of its lack for some small time.

"His name was Coramir."

"I do not remember him."

"You wouldn't. He was a Widan-Designate only after he was careless enough to get caught." An old anger burned briefly, lighting Mikalis' features from within. Sendari had never seen him so animated.

"But I digress. Coramir explained two things to me. First, he said that power was so personal even sex was uniform and bland by comparison." Mikalis' grimace was informed by affection, but it was a grimace. "Second, he said that our way of 'seeing' power sometimes narrowed what we saw."

"This is not so different from my own first teacher."

"He told me about his vision."

"
That
is very different."

"I will not protect him now; his voice is the wind's voice and he has no use for his secrets. His own use of magic was sedate, simple, subtle: His search for power was like his search for a book in the library of a very rich man. He might wander down the aisles, casually picking up title after title, perusing the contents and setting them aside."

"I am surprised that he managed to cast at all."

"He did. But… slowly.

"He said there were times when a book he picked up was written in a foreign language; it was still a book, it was obviously meant to be read—but it was not meant to be read by him."

"You think that is how he would have seen these masks?"

"Yes. And he would never have gone beyond them. He was convinced that the language barrier was a protection, a guard set by the Lady so that magic of malign nature might see no moonlight."

"I find it hard to believe that someone this superstitious was almost Widan."

"We all have our superstitions."

"My apologies, Ser Mikalis. I meant no disrespect. I was thinking out loud."

"I had great difficulty learning from Coramir in those early years. His vision was so enticing, I would look for 'books' when it came time to draw power and focus."

Sendari nodded. It was a common student's mistake, and it was a mistake that most students would never rise above. This was one of the main reasons most masters kept their paradigms to themselves.

"But my focus was much, much less civilized, much simpler. And I will tell you now because I cannot see what it reveals of me and my magics."

"I am… honored."

"No. We are desperate." But his smile, brief though it was, provoked the same from Sendari.

"I am a juggler, of sorts. I see power as small, round balls."

Sendari's brows rose.

Mikalis reddened. "There are reasons why our internalizations are so seldom exposed. When I reach for power, it has a curve. The size of the curve tells me much. Over the years, I have learned that if the 'ball' fits the 'palm' of my hand, I will summon a magic I can easily control. I can draw less—find something the size of a pebble; I can draw more, and find something whose curve matches the size of that basin." He was quiet a long time. "That basin, or perhaps something larger than that, will kill me if I am not careful."

"But there is more, and this is something I was able to… expand upon during my travels with the Voyani. I can sometimes touch the curve of another's power. Sometimes, when the mage is a man of Cortano's capabilities, I touch a wall, no more. He guards everything.

"Sometimes, when a mage has what I believe is
your
paradigm, then beneath the surface of the globe, I feel fire, flame, heat; it is uncomfortable enough that it makes any other discovery more difficult. But I still
feel
the roundness in my own hand, or in both. You are a powerful Widan, Sendari; more powerful in measure than you are in respect, at least among the Widan."

"You would do well to keep this to yourself."

"I would. I have. But not now. Not with the Lady's waters between my lips and the certain knowledge that when these masks are worn we will—"

"Yes?"

Mikalis hid himself behind the Lady's water. "Let me go back to the example of Cortano. His power is such that he guards
everything
. When I touch any spell of his working, I touch a wall; flat in every possible way. I am incapable of gaining information that he does not wish me to have: I do not know the intensity of his power, the cost of its use. Only a fool would try to gain more than that from Cortano."

"We are all fools, in our time."

"Aye, we are all fools at least once," Mikalis said wryly. The wryness twisted his lips for an instant, no more. "But I can tell you this. When I touch the power that exists as
potential
, the power that exists before his casting, I feel it."

"Lady's Moon," Sendari said softly. He was silent with the enormity of what he'd been told. Surprised that Mikalis had been open enough to speak of it at all.

"Yes. It is… hard work. Intricate and difficult. And it almost never applies to something that has been created. It is also," he added, his lips dimpling in pained smile, "the only reason I survived the test of the bridge. I am not, by nature, a man of power."

He met Sendari's eyes again.
Ah, Mikalis
, he thought.
And you think I am such a man
. It stung.

"I assumed that these masks were created by a master of just such magic," Mikalis said, unaware of the effect his words had.

"Interesting. I can feel nothing at all. No heat. No light."

"I know. I thought, until yesterday, that I could feel nothing. I thought that they were expertly protected. I was wrong. These masks are
not
magical as we understand them; they are not magical as the Voyani would understand them. They are a spell whose last component has not yet been cast: the potential, but not the finality."

"You mean—"

"Yes. They are not, in and of themselves, magical—but there is magic about them, half-finished, trapped, and waiting. When I touch this magic, this working, I feel something, in both palms, that is almost flat." He waited a moment.

Sendari sank slowly to the floor. "You mean—" "You are faster than I was. Yes. I thought they were protected, as Cortano is, from detection. I was wrong. It is not a flat wall I feel; the curve is there if I traverse the power for long enough."