by sun sword
She acknowledged the truth of that in silence, her hand around the ring that Alora had given her to bind her to the oaths they had sworn years before the birth of Diora.
So be it, she thought, as the anger took root.I will protect my niece from everything, Sendari. I will give her the life that was denied me, even if it does not serve Marano's interests.
Because I swore to protect Alora's child.
Because I so swore.
There was worse news to come.
"Teresa!"
Morning bright, Lissa pranced across the threshold of the sleeping room, looking like the coltish young woman she was, and not the demure wife she should have been. My weakness, the Serra thought, although she felt no real regret. She sat up, artlessly pushing the sleeping silks to one side of the mats upon which she made night's repose. She occupied the wife's chambers, and these rooms, no one but the sister-wives visited, not even dignitaries.
A sister-wife could be asked to entertain her husband's guest, and in any event, had to be trained in the arts necessary to do so discreetly; a wife could not. Not without insult to the clan of her birth; not without casting doubts upon the legitimacy of the husband's bloodline.
"What is it, Lissa? Do you feel the baby?"
"The baby?"
"I see," Teresa said wryly. "What is it, exactly, that you have come to tell me?"
"There's a foreigner in the Tor!"
"There are many foreigners in the Tor," was the indulgent reply. "It is the Festival of the Moon."
"Yes, but this one's special. He sang the morning anthem. I mean," she added, not noticing the sudden tension in Teresa's face, "that he petitioned to sing it, and he was allowed. By the Tyr'agar himself!" She took silence as encouragement because she was young, and continued. "He has hair like golden ringlets, Teresa, and he wears it like a crown; he's tall and lovely, and his eyes are bluer than the waters of the sea." The sea, of course, was poetic notion to young Lissa, who had never seen it.
"I don't suppose you heard the name of this paean of earthly beauty?" She should have reminded Lissa that singing fulsome praises of the beauty of a man not one's husband was a dangerous and unwise activity. Should have, but couldn't; the harem was barely a part of her thoughts. It had been crowded out by sudden fear.
"Yes. His name is Kallandras of clan Senniel." Lissa paused. "And he's asked for an audience with Ser Sendari. I think he wants to sing for us." She clapped. "A coup for Marano—to have the man chosen by the Tyr'agar begging to sing in our court!"
"Yes," Teresa replied absently. "Has Ser Sendari seen this Kallandras?"
"Not yet," was the quiet reply. "The request has just come, and Ser Sendari is in his chambers." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, as if she truly believed a whisper to be a secret. "He practices the Craft. Mellora saw him at it when she tried to visit. He told her we are not allowed to disturb him; not even the serafs are to enter to clean." At this, she wrinkled her nose.
"I see. Come, Lissa. Help me dress, and quickly. You must lead me to the young man before he decides that Marano is not a suitable clan to make such a petition of. We don't want him to go elsewhere."
Did I do this on purpose? Teresa thought, as Lissa practically scurried across the great room, decorum forgotten, to save Marano this assumed loss. Did I train you to be so guileless, so transparent, that you might never be a threat to me?
Or was it a different weakness, some love of an innocence that never lasted long enough? She did not know, and it did not matter; the deed had been done, and she would not undo it.
In the quiet of his chamber, with the curtains drawn to shed as much of day's light as possible, Sendari par di'Marano sat in contemplative silence. The fires were banked; he was exhausted. But he had accomplished much for the day, although there were no witnesses to it.
No man could call himself a follower of the Sword of Knowledge who did not display at least the talent of calling flame to earth; Sendari had taken to it quickly, much to his father's displeasure.
His father, Tor'agar Vendiro kai di'Marano of Mancorvo.
The oldest son, Adano, was much like their father; proud and windburned riding the plains of Mancorvo upon the finest horses the Dominion produced. He lived to fight, and to him a battle, with its attendant savagery, its viscerality, was all the freedom that he wanted or needed. A man's life. A man's life. Vendiro had been proud of Adano, blessed by him.
Of his younger son, he had had little enough good to say; Sendari was competent at arms, but he did not have the flare for it, nor the aggression. His fights in the ring were always of a more cunning nature—the strength of intellect over mere muscles. He had bested men his better with the scimitar. He had bested Adano, once.
He bore the scar of the battle after it, although it had paled into a silver line across his brow.
He rode—the clansmen all did—but again, not well, and he bore horses little enough love, although his mannerisms showed none of his distaste for their presence or their use.
No; he read, and there was little enough kept by the clan to learn on. He volunteered service to clan Lam-berto—the ruling clan of the Terrean of Mancorvo, and his father's liege lord—although again, the learning to be gleaned there was scant. Mareo di'Lamberto was cut from the same cloth—the same bolt—as Vendiro di'Marano; they had no patience for the more sedentary arts. Reading. Writing. Music. Of course, they had their court, and of course, that court had poets and musicians of great renown—but money, and the graces of their chosen wives, could buy what their inclination did not lead them to.
When had he first found the fire?
He could not remember the date, and that surprised him; he could not clearly remember a time without fire's voice. He had had it, certainly, upon the eve that he had first met Alora.
Alora.
It was such a bitter name; the saying of it conjured flame where he thought none remained.
Promise me, Sendari, he heard her say, the tone of her voice soft and pleading, although the iron beneath it was strong.
Anything. Anything, Alora—although they will think me unmanned to say it. He was used to being thought of as less than a man, and he was—he knew it even now—maddened by her in a grimly glorious way.
Do not walk this path any farther. We have what we need; you have your harem, and it is a fine one; you have your position with the clan Lamberto; you have your lands and fine horses for the sons that we will have. You are counted among the Wise; you do not need to have the Sword's edge.
They had had no sons. The plans of youth were often ended thus.
If I do not take the test of the Sword, I will never be Widan. I will be nothing but par di 'Marano and you will be nothing but the wife of a second son.
That is all of my desire. You will be, she had said, and her words cut and cut, Sendari, and you will be alive, and you will be the only man that I have ever—
He could not hear her say the word, not even in memory; it forced him up from the comfort of his cushions in a frenzy that was part anger and part humiliation at the lack of control. He did not want to think of Alora— but he had to. He had to. For he had given her his word, and by breaking it, he was breaking a vow that would have been more sacred than any vow given by man to the Lord, had she but lived.
Yes, curse her. Yes. Even knowing what he did. Had she lived, she would have held him, and he would have been powerless before her, and powerless before the clansmen.
But she died. She died, and the grimness of memory and longing and loathing had not yet buried her. If it ever would. He would be Widan. Before, had he taken the test and failed, there was a lifetime of Alora to be lost.
And after?
He had had few friends among the clansmen and the riders. But he had made one, Ser Alesso par di'Marente, a man of vision and a man who, in Sendari's objective opinion, was more than a match for his brother, his father, or the Tyr'agnate who ruled them both. Take the test, Sendari.
No. I will do what I can to aid you
. I will find you a suitable Widan, if that is what you require. But I have—I have chosen not to take that risk.
He remembered Alesso's anger. She weakens you, Sendari. She weakens us.
He should have lied; he lied to every other man. But not to Alesso.
Yes, my friend, he'd said. And it is a weakness that is stronger than any other weakness that any other man has been unmanned by. I love her. It had been Moon-night, and he had spoken freely.
Flame flew in the confines of the chamber of contemplation, wild in its hunger to consume. And then lightning joined it, charring and bright; wind came, and beneath that wind, a shadow. The man who would be Widan had the fires, yes—but he had more, the range of his knowledge broader and deeper than any of the sword-sworn suspected.
It was a storm that was over quickly, that exhausted his reserve without pushing it too deeply.
There were no witnesses. He was glad that the preparations leading up to the test of the Sword required an absolute concentration, for he would have been forced to kill any seraf—or concubine—who had been present for such an inelegant display. Which would anger the Serra Teresa.
Ah, sister, he thought, with little love but with great respect, had we been born in a different time, you with your voice and I with my craft, we would be living in Tor Sendari.
And what, his sister said, although it was memory, only memory, of Diora?
Diora was laughing. The sound of her voice, raised in merriment with the children of concubines, stopped Teresa a moment as she stood in the long, open hall. Her niece was usually so grave and so serious that she had the bearing and sophistication of a much older child, with a desire to be all that the clan demanded of its women.
Serra Teresa di'Marano would never have said it aloud, but she loved the sound of Diora's laughter, and as age took it from her, she missed it more and more. She stood, savoring it, hearing the way laughter matched what lay beneath voice so completely.
Then, squaring her shoulders and straightening the fall of deep green silk, she began to walk again. She might train Lissa to be guileless, but Lissa was only the daughter of a seraf; Diora was blood.
As she entered the circle, a seraf rushed to attend her. "Serra Teresa," the woman said, falling at once into the submissive posture, knees against the tiled floor.
"Olena. The children seem happy."
The woman paled slightly. "It is the approach of the Festival Night," she said, her voice steady. "I think it has infected them with its spirit."
"That must be the explanation. The children of Sendari are usually much better behaved than this."
"Serra," the seraf said. "Do you wish to speak with them?"
"I wish only to speak with Serra Diora. If you would have her escorted to my chambers."
* * *
"You sang well, Na'dio."
Diora, grave and wide-eyed, nodded in agreement with her aunt. "Thank you, Ona Teresa." Her eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black, were unblinking; Serra Teresa could almost see her unmarred reflection in their surface.
How to begin? She was a master at the manipulation of men and women, but children—children shifted like leaves in the wind, blowing this way and that at the behest of the adult to whom they last spoke. To tell her that it was to be "our secret" was a thing of the moment, and Serra Teresa was not naive enough to believe that a four-year-old girl, no matter how serious, could hold on to that concept for as long as it would take.
Especially not as this particular young girl found such favor in her father's eyes.
How to begin? How to tell her to lie, now and forever, to the man who was her father, to the women who were as mothers to her?
Stop, she told herself firmly. You will do as you have always done: What you must. Schooling her voice, she began to speak.
"Na'dio, you are special. No, do not bow your head, and do not be pleased. You are special in a way that no woman should be." Her tone was harsh, accusatory; she saw Diora stiffen and then pale. Good. "Your father is one of the Wise."
Diora nodded.
"He is not of a powerful clan, and he is not kai. He cannot afford to be dishonored. Do you understand?"
She nodded again, so serious that Teresa believed that she did, in fact, understand.
"When you sing, what do you feel?" She watched as Diora tried to put into words a singular feeling that could never be contained by them.
"Good," her almost-daughter said at last. "Happy." The child frowned. "Or not happy. The Sun Sword is not a happy song."
"No, it is not. And there are very few 'happy' songs, Diora. Only the serafs sing them."
She bridled, did this child of Alora and Sendari, looking for a moment so much like her mother that Teresa fell silent. The most terrible wounds were always caused in this fashion because, unexpected, they were impossible to defend against. She knew that Alora would not have allowed what she was about to do; it made it hard. For a moment. But she was the Serra Teresa di'Marano.
"I do not speak of the songs, however, but the singer. You can sing so that men will listen, will want to listen. No. Do not be proud of it. It is a curse," Serra Teresa said.
"Why?"
"What man wishes a wife who can, with a word, control his actions? And if there were such a man who was strong enough to believe that he could overcome his wife's power, what other men would be certain—could be certain—of it? Which Tor would follow such a Tyr, which Ser would follow such a Tor?
"Can a clansman be ruled by a woman?"
"No."
"Indeed."
"But I would never try—"
"Of course not, Na'dio," Serra Teresa said, hearing the truth in the intent, and mourning the intent that could not survive the harsh reality of adult life. "But I know it. You know it. Who else will know it?"
She said nothing, her brow ever so slightly creased. She was thinking. "Ona Teresa?"
"Yes?"
"Is this why you never had to leave Father?"
"Why—"
"You have the same song," Diora added quickly, her little voice almost an accusation, if such a thing were possible. "You never had to get married. You never had to leave Marano."
Never had to? The flash of hope in Diora's eyes was sharp and painful; innocence, and worse. For Diora knew that Teresa had the voice.
"You must never speak of this, Diora," she said, and her voice was as cold as the desert night. "You will anger your father greatly, and you will send me to the Lady's path far sooner than I wish to walk it."
Diora's cheeks grew pale; she knew that Serra Teresa spoke of death. Yet this one night, she did not fall silent; did not retreat into obedience as a good child must. "But you are a woman, and you are not hated. You honor our clan. Father says so."
"Have you—have you spoken to him of this? Have you told him that you can hear my song?" How long? How long had she known? The world shifted in Serra Teresa's perspective, as it had several times in her life. Each of these times, she had shed a little of the ability to hope. It was not different now.
"No. He's—he's been very busy."
What was important? Survival. And what was survival? Ah, the answer to that changed with the years. But she knew what the first step was, although she regretted it even as she took it.
"Diora, you will not sing again until after the Festival of the Moon."
And Diora, child of her blood and Alora's heart, had no choice but to obey, for Serra Teresa was indeed cursed and blessed both by the voice.
The foreigner was not as young as Lissa's enthusiasm might have led one to believe, although he wore his age well. In all other respects, Serra Teresa found her description to be accurate. And Serra Teresa, unlike the young Lissa, had seen the sea several times in her travels at the side of either Adano or Sendari.
He was not too tall, this man, and not too broad of chest—a feature which many women admired. Indeed he was slender and fine-boned, and his skin was pale, whereas many of the Northerners spent too much time under the sun'
s glare.
He also, she saw, knew how to bow gracefully.
It was almost a pity that she was going to have to have him killed.
"Serra Teresa di'Marano," he said, his voice the very epitome of respect, admiration, and deference. "I am Kallandras of Senniel, and I have come to request an audience with Ser Sendari par di'Marano at his earliest convenience." He spoke in fluent Torra, with an exotic inflection to the words that made him seem interesting rather than ill-studied—a foreign prince and not an ignorant barbarian.
She did not want to speak; she did not want to give herself away to this foreign man, for she knew, as Lissa did not, that there was no clan Senniel. There was, in the foreign tongue, a Senniel College, and it was a place in which those with the voice were schooled in song.
And detection.
She did not make haste to bow in return, for it was not necessary; her station did not demand that she treat him as an equal; indeed, it demanded that she do otherwise, although as the ranking woman—and the only member of the clan present—she was required to offer hospitality.
Her cerdan watched her closely, waiting for a subtle signal; she gave them none, and they relaxed a little. Weapons, readied, were lowered; they would not be returned to sheath until the man had left.
When a man not of the clan Marano came to visit the rooms the son of the Tor'agar occupied, and only women were there to greet him, there were always cerdan, obviously armed, in attendance. They stood between the visitor and Serra Teresa, although they were subtle enough to stay to the walls and mute their open contempt for things Northern. Had they not been, they would not be the Serra Teresa's guards.
The bard—for this is what the Northerners who came from Senniel called themselves—waited upon her reply, and she realized, grudging it, that she would have to tender one. Years of experience told her two things: first, that Senniel College trained minstrels, and not all of those who sang had the voice, the second, that this bard did. She could hear it in his words, and he had spoken few enough of them.
She was no novice herself at the intricacies of voice, and although she paused a long moment, when she did reply, all nuance, all trace of fear, was completely absent from her words.