siarl

“Siarl.” The unben’s voice was cool, as it always was.
“My lord grandfather,” she replied, dropping to her knees with practiced ease—the gesture made graceless by her stiff new armor.
A long silence stretched to the marble-arched ceiling, echoed back down to nestle at Unben Itebarl’s feet. Stiff cloth-of-gold rasped against itself, whipping away that precarious quiet. Itebarl sighed.
“You wish something of me, granddaughter?”
“But to give you a gift, my lord.” A lock of white hair slid against her cheek. Her breath seemed to roar in her ears, trapped by the heavy tangs of her helm. The weight of her sword pressed against her arming gloves, and set fire to her shoulders as she held it out, unwavering.
Itebarl rose, pearl-sewn slippers cat-soft on the inlayed lives of legends. Now he stood on Shabrad, trod on Hathile’s rayed head, obscured Machi atop Mount Triamb. Caltranis disappeared beneath his left heel.
The weighty hem of his robe swayed closer, a rippling, metal-bowing ponderousity. Padded slippers halted at the corner of her vision. She held her breath.
“Your offer of fealty pleases me,” Itebarl purred. “Your loyalty honors me. You have been a staunch subject since your birth. I will take your oath, granddaughter.” He took her sword in one hand, raised her to her feet.
In a trembling voice, Siarl said the words unspoken by any halfbreed for generations. And Itebarl the Peacemaker, father of Chamarl Elf-lover, drank them in.

That evening, Siarl took her place amidst the kshatriya, sitting at the foot of the table as an untried warrior. She kept her head bowed, as if to ward off the stares of her peers. She was naught but another kshatriya. There was no reason, in her mind, to look at her, a slim pale woman, her hair white as any muner’s, wrapped in rosepetal crimson silks.
The broad sash pressed firmly across her belly, lapping at her ribs and hips with a tight-wound familiarity. It was darker than dried blood, nearly black, and blank. Near the head of the table, the gray of Altrani-ksan’s sash was nearly obscured with embroidery—much of it scarlet and gold.
But I am Siarl-ksan now. Not Muneri Siarl, not Siarl from the border, not Siarl Halfelven, she told herself. Bright colored threads would soon enough crowd the smoky silk, and obscure the badge of her family.
A caeth knelt at her elbow, offering up a bowl of clear soup. The translucent jade of the vessel was thin enough to read through. Startled, Siarl accepted the young man’s burden.
Cupped in her hands, the delicate bowl was barely above skin-heat. She sipped it gingerly, rolling the half-familiar salt tang of miso on her tongue. Chamarl’s outlandish holding had no soil suitable for the miso-beans, and Imchaleen would not brook the expense of importing them. At home, the soups were flavored with allspice, not ginger, and tasted of the red meat that was so dear at the seashore Court.
“Ksan,” a cold voice drawled. Siarl jerked like a startled deer.
Coolly, she turned to look at him, her face stiff with a courtesan’s maskish smile. “Yes, Umerai-ksan?”
Umerai leaned over, breathing heavily, and stared at her. His dark eyes were discomfiting paired with his white hair, a reminder of some muner or muneri’s lack of judgment.
“It’s true, then,” he said abruptly, scowling. His breath smelled of cheap sake.
“Ksan?”
The old kshatriya bared his teeth. “My lord has gone mad,” he bit out, “letting stripling halfbreeds into his service merely because they are his blood.”
Siarl flushed hotly. “My lord,” she murmured, smiling politely over the table, “is still your lord, Umerai-ksan, and it is not a kshatriya’s place to criticize an unben’s decisions.”
She could feel his gaze upon her for the rest of the meal. It made the rich food sit uneasily in her stomach.

Another kshatriya, a young arobryn late come to Court to serve Unben Itebarl with his peacekeeping, joined her at the foot of the table the next day. His name was Aramnir.
They were called to train together, she and Aramnir. As she waited, shivering in the unheated salle, she was conscious of the puzzled glances the older boy was shooting her. Finally, Siarl could stand it no longer.
“Ksan, is there a problem?” she said sharply. The young woman felt a little guilty when he started and blushed, but curbed her sympathies and pinned him down with a blue glare.
“K-ksan,” he stuttered, surprised. “I’ve never seen anyone like you. Are a-all your k-kinsmen so…” The boy broke off, gesturing helplessly.
“Odd?” she threw at him. “Barbaric-looking? Uncouth?”
He shook his head. “B-beautiful.”
Siarl felt the heat rise on her face. Cheeks flaming, she ducked her head. “I am the unben’s granddaughter.”
Aramnir smiled at her. “I know. But you don’t look like him, ksan.”
“My mother,” she said awkwardly, “is not beautiful. But many of her people are.”
“Then you are the best of both worlds, ksan.” His eyes were blue also, blue against golden skin and hair as dark as a brinti’s.
She looked him up and down, appraisingly. “And you, ksan?”
“I?” His teeth dazzled white. “I am a ksan, son of a mere arobryn. I have come many miles to serve Itebarl the Peacemaker. I have crossed the Ashchang, and gone over the mountains. I am nobody in particular, ksan.”
Siarl blinked. “But the land beyond the Ashchang is not Itebarl’s.”
“Neither is the northern forest, but Chamarl-ksan settled there and had a daughter,” he murmured, and touched a finger to her lips. “Altrani-ksan is here. Hush.”
Outraged, intrigued, and bewildered, Siarl had no chance to speak to him further. Her bow to Altrani was late in coming, and for that she was worked harder than ever. She was too out-of-breath even to call to Aramnir before he slipped out the door.

Time slipped away while she trained, and Altrani’s ageless face never changed—never smiled, never frowned. Aramnir continued to be charming and shy by turns. It was the dead of winter when Itebarl finally called on his half-elven kshatriya.
His sharp azure eyes seemed to pierce her as she knelt again at the foot of his throne. The unben’s voice, when he spoke, was tense and controlled.
“Siarl-ksan, I have a task for you.”
“My lord, I am yours to command. But tell me the task and it shall be done,” she replied ritually, bowing her helm-damp head.
Itebarl sighed, though Siarl could not tell if it was from frustration or satisfaction. “The brinti are protesting the caeth tithe. I need you and Aramnir to convince them that it’s in their best interest to avoid an outright war.”
She bit her lip—would she never get a solo assignment?—but nodded, pleased in spite of herself. Brinti were hard-headed folk, easy to offend. It bespoke the measure of Itebarl’s trust in her judgment.

Aramnir, a vision of grim death in black-and-scarlet-lacquered armor, rode silently beside her every step of the way. His shy smile had shut off completely after he’d heard word of their orders, and it disturbed Siarl. Beneath his helm, his eyes stared into the silent fall of snow, senselessly.
“What is your duty when we reach the brinti, Aramnir?” she asked to fill the feather-edged silence. He looked at her wordlessly and rode on.
They made camp when the leaden skies tarnished, and the snow ceased to muffle the air. Aramnir was as silent as a caeth, huddled next to the brazier. The wind cut through the round felt tent with contemptuous ease.
But when the lanternlight had guttered down, he looked at her with intelligence in his eyes, and his face twisted. “Ksan,” he murmured, hoarse-voiced, “do you know what our lord has sent us to do?”
She stared into his face, and the taut angry lines of it made her shiver. “To convince the brinti to keep behaving like respectable subjects. Why?”
Aramnir closed his eyes and turned away. “It will be a slaughter.”
Astonished, she drew back. “But surely they will see sense, Aramnir. Ksan.”
He whirled and glared, ice-eyed. “See sense? It is their children they are giving up as slaves! All children,” he said softly, “after the firstborn son, unless they pay recompense tax, every year.”
The brazier popped, and she shivered. “Even if we do not care for the unben’s rule, we gave him our vow of fealty. We cannot—I cannot—break my word, Aramnir.”
As if exhausted, he lay down on the other side of the dim red light, eyes full of flames. “I am sorry,” the kshatriya mumbled. “I had thought…better of you.”
Siarl had no words left to say.

Something lay across her throat like ice. Groggily, the young kshatriya raised a hand to brush it away.
“Be still,” Aramnir hissed to her right, and she froze.
His boots scuffed as he rose. But why was he dressed?
“Martan, leave her be,” the kshatriya snapped. There was a dark figure crouched beside her. Suddenly aware that it was chilly metal next to her skin, Siarl tried hard not to swallow.
“Aramnir?” she whispered, pleading.
Flint snickered against steel, and the lantern lit. When the spots faded from her eyes, Aramnir’s handsome face looked down at her unhappily. “I am sorry,” he husked. “I thought that you, of all people, would understand.”
She stared up into Martan’s wolfish eyes and shuddered. “This is treason, Aramnir,” she said dully. “How will you ever come to honor?”
“It’s treason if I do, and treason if I don’t. They are my flesh and blood, Siarl-ksan. I cannot desert them now.” He swallowed. “My own siblings, Siarl, were given away like stray puppies, because I was firstborn. I cannot let it continue to happen.”
She turned her head a bare inch, half-closed her eyes. “And me?”
Martan glowered down at her. “We should kill her. She wants to see more of your kin silent and servile, Arram.”
“No!” he cried as the brinti raised the knife. When the rebel glanced back, Aramnir reddened. “She is faithful,” he answered his compatriot, sharply. “We cannot kill anyone for such a thing.”
Martan’s chin jutted. “So what do we do with her? We can’t take her with us, and we can’t leave her free.”
“The Milgwn.” Aramnir’s voice shook a little. “The White Fox. The Storm-Bringer. He can take her somewhere where she will never get back.”
The rebel looked at her with interest. “Would she survive him and his lightning and his dragon?” he asked idly, playing with his knife.
Aramnir glared. “The White Fox does not call down lightning on innocents. We’ll leave her nearby, make a snow-cave, and make his mark over it. She’ll be fine.”

They left her in that icy whiteness, wrists bound to ankles so that her only possible position was kneeling. The snow-cave was scarcely higher then her head as she knelt. Aramnir’s last kindness was leaving her wrapped in a white down blanket, a fragile bulwark against the curve of snow.
When the faint light dimmed, she started to shiver. The cold ate away at her layered silks and felts and furs, and though she had heard many a tale where the cold had lulled even warriors to a slow, dreaming death, she could not sleep.
When the sides of the cave were lost in color-sparking darkness, Siarl worked at her ropes. Her hands, cold and stiff and swollen from the ropes, and even working her fingers sent daggers of pain up her arms. She would have wept with frustration, but the tears might be deadly, frozen to her skin.
She stared into the darkness, and let her thoughts fill to brimming with endless fields of feather-edged snow.

Siarl thought that she had fallen asleep at last, and dreamed of release. The bleached, windswept man who lifted her out of the snow was framed by a charcoal-smudged sky, and more snow. But between the flakes, lightning leapt from cloud to cloud.
Snowstorms cast no lightning.
She was dimly surprised at the shadowy beast that waited for the pale man, black as soot against chest-high snow. It had wings that rippled blue as it moved. Red eyes watched her, impassively.
The wind roared and shoved her head back against his chest as she strove to move. Numbly, she let it, falling into a blessed blackness that made her ears ring.

Siarl woke, warm for a moment, slung across the dark dragon’s withers like a sack of meal. Annoyed, she tried to sit up. Tried.
“Stay,” said the quiet man, as she gasped and hung limply. Her fingers and toes were on fire. “We go to Ryslen now. You are lucky Trydan spoke for you, else I would have had to tuck you away on some other world. Lao Daemia would let you get home too easily.”
Her lashes fluttered shut, still heavy with ice. “Ryslen?” Her voice was alien, worn to barely a whisper. The pale man heard.
“Ryslen Weyr, where you will Stand for the dragonets’ pleasure,” he told her quietly. “It is winter there, you should not take too long to adapt. Tiyanni has been asking for a few good Candidates from our neck of the woods; you will do.”