by sun sword
"I am Serra Teresa di'Marano. I have heard that you sang the Lord's anthem at the opening of the Festival." She paused, saw that he had no interest in interrupting her, and cursed him mentally. "It is an honor that is rarely given to outsiders."
"I am not a stranger to the Dominion of Annagar," he replied, again flawlessly. "And I am not a stranger to song—even a war rally such as the Lord of the Sun requires."
Hospitality demanded that she continue with pleasantries. She was Serra Teresa. "You are no stranger to our language; you speak it as if you were born to it."
"Do I?" He smiled, and the smile was an odd one. Serra Teresa knew that it was voice alone that commanded and demanded, yet she felt herself smile in response as she met the blue, blue eyes of this golden-haired danger.
"Of course," she said. "Or do you accuse me of exaggerating for the sake of courtesy?"
"I have heard—all of Senniel has heard—the words of the poet Feranno. I do not accuse you, Serra. I merely observe."
She smiled then, because she knew the words of Feranno's poem by heart; written for her at the age of sixteen, it immortalized her beauty, the joy of her grace, her elegance in motion and stillness—and, of course, her song.
The cerdan were appropriately angered by the man's boldness; he did not have youth as an excuse, and he had no permission to pay court to the Serra, without which, his behavior implied, she was nothing but, at best, the daughter of the lowliest of the clans. But Serra Teresa lifted her fan slightly, as if at a breeze, although in the confines of the chamber the air was still.
Northerners, ignorant of the customs of Annagar, used flattery without care; they spoke freely, as young boys will, and because of this, they touched places in the heart that only the very young normally touched. Perhaps, she thought, I am overhasty. Perhaps his presence here is coincidence. I did not see him at the ceremony yesterday. It surprised her, but she accepted the fact that she did not wish to kill this man.
Glancing to the side, she could see the stiff jaw of Ser Armando, the senior cerdan in the room. He met her eyes, and while he did not relax, the very slight tilt of her chin was a dismissive shrug, a sign that she did not deem the stranger offensive, or at least not mortally so.
"Please, accept my humble apologies, Ser Kallandras of Senniel. If Ser Sendari par di'Marano knew that such an illustrious and important man had come to seek his audience, I am certain that he would speak with you at once—but he has left us strict instructions that he is not to be disturbed except in case of grave emergency, and we, his sister and his wives, do not have the authority to interrupt him for anything less, no matter what honor you might confer."
"It is I who must apologize," Kallandras replied, as graceful in seeming as a well-trained clansman. "For I would not have had you disturbed had I realized that you were alone here. But I must ask you to take a message to Ser Sendari, if it will not trouble you too greatly."
She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"Tell him that yesterday I heard his daughter sing, and it is she I wish to discuss."
* * *
CHAPTER TWO
There was something wrong with Serra Teresa's voice, but until he was escorted from the premises by cerdan who were, at best, coldly suspicious, he did not suspect what it was.
In fact, until he sat in a circle of contemplation, the harp in his lap, and Salla, the lute by which he had made his name, in her case, until he began to tap the strings in a series of building harmonics, drawing music from them, until he began to sing wordlessly, the answer eluded him.
Because in song, the voice often had its clearest expression.
And Serra Teresa's voice was completely devoid of expression.
Oh, the rise was there, and the fall; the quality and tone and texture of her voice were nearly flawless, and although he had not heard her sing—and suspected that he would not—he could well imagine that Feranno, poet of extravagant words and more extravagant sentiment, had in this single case no cause for exaggeration. But beneath the surface of the words she had spoken, there was an impenetrable distance, as if windows had not only been closed, but barred and boarded against those who might happen, while walking past, to look in.
And who, he thought idly, the strings playing the question back to him in different variations, cloaked their voices so carefully? Who could hear the nuances, the cracks between words in which a person might reveal the unspoken impulse behind the spoken word?
The mage-born. The seer-born.
Or the bard-born.
Kallandras was the most unusual bard that Senniel College had ever produced. He knew it, and acknowledged it with the curious flatness that he acknowledged most facts about himself: It was true, but of little interest. At thirty-two, he was no longer a remarkable prodigy as a bard-master—but he had earned his name and his title at a far earlier age, to the consternation of many of the older members of the College. Time had done its work, healing their annoyance; pride had done the rest, for Senniel's fame was spread far and wide on the wings of Kallandras' grace, youth, and beauty. And his song. His song.
It was his song that had moved the Tyr'agar Markaso di'Leonne. Not to tears—never that, among the clansmen— but his lovely wife wept openly in a rare public display, and she was not in gesture or tone reprimanded. Kallandras understood the subtle nuance of voice very well; had there been shame, or anger, in the Tyr'agar's voice, he would have known it, although no one else might, for the Tyr was not a well-schooled man in that regard.
How could he be, in the Dominion of Annagar, where the bard-born were scattered about like a lost tribe, their talents untrained, their abilities uninvoked? And, if he were honest, feared. He was lucky, in his way; Senniel trained the bard-born, but it did not segregate them, and he could conceal his power well beneath facade.
He knew how to use his youth, and when it began to fade, he knew how to use maturity. Neither of these were gifts the College fostered—but he had spent his time in many courts, and with many a noble, and he observed everything keenly.
It was the second day of the festival, and the sun had barely reached the height, as the Annagarians reckoned midday. He told the time by the shadow he cast along the circumference of the inlaid stone circle. The Tor Leonne was beautiful at this time of the year; a little cooler than during the Summer Festival—the Festival of the Sun— but also more prone to the rains that made the ground fertile. The trees here were small compared to those that grew in standing rings in the heart of the city of Averalaan where Kallandras of Senniel made his home, but in their season, they blossomed with both flower and fruit, gracing the Tor Leonne with a height of color and a sense of fecundity that were a stark contrast to the Dominion's desert regions.
During daylight, Kallandras often smiled; he smiled now, the expression lending youth to his face, and a semblance of innocence. They were masks, but much in the Dominion was—Kallandras had been to Annagar before. Once, as a bard.
And before that…
His smile did not falter, but the music did; his talent, when he did not consciously control it, betrayed him, voicing what lay beneath the surface of face and manner. Desert longing.
And now was not the time, not the place, to express it. Stilling his hands by habitual force of will, he set the harp aside. Serra Teresa.
"What are you wearing on Festival Night?" Lissa's voice was soft and thoughtful as she massaged Serra Teresa's shoulders with oils and a very delicate perfume.
"Lissa," was the quiet reply, "you've asked me that for the last three festivals that we've attended."
"I know," the girl—it was so very hard, at times, to think of Lissa as a woman—said brightly, "but if I don't ask, and you change your mind and decide it's all right to tell me, I'll never know."
"I am," Serra Teresa said dryly, "hardly likely to change my mind, as you say, about such a custom. It would defeat the entire purpose of the Festival Night." She smiled. "I will wear a mask."
"Everyone will wear a mask," was the
almost tart reply. Lissa did not—quite—have the flawless manners required of the harem. "But I think I would know you anywhere."
"Then you must guess, as any man or woman, when you see me pass."
"I would tell you," Lissa said, her voice so light the words did not sound wheedling. "I would tell you if you asked me."
"You most certainly will not." The Serra smiled indulgently. "I would never ask." The words were unnecessary. She enjoyed the saying of them for precisely that reason; they were a luxury, and if they revealed anything, it was the very real affection she felt for this particular concubine on this particular day.
The bells chimed, delicate in their insistence. Lissa rose at once, but Serra Teresa caught her wrist, sorry for the intrusion, and yet, sharpened by it. "I am expecting someone," she said quietly. "You must go now, by the back ways, to the Inner Chamber."
"But—but Ser Sendari is not to be disturbed—he won't—"
Affection for the girl was marred by impatience at the slowness of her wit. "Lissa, Ser Sendari will not be in the Inner Chamber. Go there, and wait for me. Speak to no one."
Wide-eyed, the younger woman nodded, and then her brows rose. "Are you—are you—" she dropped her voice into a shaking whisper, "is it a—a—guest?"
Oh, Lissa, she thought, impatience forgotten. Lissa often worried about the Serra Teresa; she often told her that she was the most beautiful woman in the Dominion, and that someday, she would make the most wonderful wife—as if, somehow, the fact that she had no husband was a mortal offense, and a deep hurt occasioned by the whims of foolish men.
"Yes," she told her young companion, "it is a guest."
"Oh, Teresa! But who?"
"You know as well as I that no man save Sendari is allowed, by law, into this chamber. Dear heart, it is not the dangerous entanglement that you believe; I am a Serra of clan Marano—who would insult my station by a presumption of that nature?"
"But the cerdan made no announcement…" Her eyes were full of romance and romantic notion. It was odd, but there were those who came from humble backgrounds who could cling in such ignorance to the folly of that naivete in a way that those exposed early to power never could. Odd, and charming.
"The cerdan have no reason at all to stop this guest."
"But I don't—"
"No, Lissa, and that is why I am so fond of you." Lissa bowed her head in genuine pleasure, for Serra Teresa rarely said as much as this. "Now. Hush, and go quickly."
The person who entered the Serra Teresa's chambers was tall and slender. A sari of a pale yellow, edged in orange, brown and gold, fell from across the left shoulder to the ground, hiding all but the tips of delicately woven slippers. The day was cool; over the sari, a hood and shawl were wound, and they, too, were of a pale color.
Serra Teresa sat in the half-circle chair in which she often passed her judgments when disputes among Sendari's wives came to her attention. She did not enjoy it, as the mat cushions were softer and of a more pleasant texture, but it gave her the advantage of height, and the presence of formality, both of which she desired. The room was almost deathly in its stillness; there were no serafs in attendance, and the Serra was rarely without.
Her visitor noted this in silence. "I have come as you requested." The figure bowed low, the hem of the silk touching the shadows cast by bent back.
"You serve the Lady," she said, making a quiet question of the statement.
"We all serve the Lady in our fashion," was the reply. It was true, but the assassins were her dark face, her final judgment—the death to her season of birth and growth. "What would you have of us, Serra Teresa?"
"There is a man in the Tor Leonne, a foreigner of some import. I wish him dead."
"Method?"
"Unimportant."
"He is a foreigner. Will this not cause difficulty?"
She shrugged. Because it was not an assassin's concern, advice, however oblique, was rarely offered. But thrice now, in subtle fashion and however indirectly, this same assassin gave his muted opinion, and for this reason, she favored this one, perhaps because she had no other link of familiarity, not even a true name. "They will have their difficulties soon enough, I think; such an assassination will be the least of their concerns." She did not fear to say too much.
Silence in the large chamber, a silence heavy with the significance of what the Serra had said. "Come. Time is of the essence." She rose, leaving the comfort of the chair behind, and walked toward the assassin, her face composed.
She had no fear, perhaps because she had been called upon, twice before, to render such a delicate service in the stead of Adano di'Marano, or perhaps because she knew that the confidentiality of these particular assassins had never been broken. Or perhaps for other reasons, some need to be known that even she could not fully understand or control. It was, after all, the season of the Festival Moon.
The figure lifted a hand, freeing it from the confines of sari and shawl. It was a man's hand, not a woman's, although in bearing and gait he might easily have fooled even the Serra. He had certainly fooled the cerdan.
Serra Teresa stood, lifting her face so that she might meet his eyes, that they might be on a level. His eyes were as dark as hers, night meeting night beneath the closed dome of the roof in a silence undisturbed by breeze or stream or speech. But the wind—she felt the wind's howl trapped just beneath the base of her throat. Not fear.
In five places, he touched her face, anchoring his hand with his fingers and his thumb. She did not close her eyes. He did. It was not an act of capitulation; between these two, there was no contest. But she wished to see the lines of his face as he somehow skirted the edge of the who that she was, seeking the information that he needed: the name, and more, of the victim.
Kallandras of Senniel College.
She was not prepared for what she saw: The widening of eyes grown completely black, the twisting of lips, the expression, silent, that usually accompanied a roar of anger or pain, an animal reflex. He pulled his hand back from her face as if burned by what he had touched, but although he moved with force, none of it was applied to her or against her.
Before she could speak, his face fell into an expression of neutrality, in the same way that folds of cloth fall into straight lines when lifted and pinned.
"I assume," she said softly, surprising herself with the wryness of a tone which she did not feel, "that this means you will not accept the contract."
"I would accept it if it meant certain death," he replied. "But I am merely a servant to the will of the Lady."
Although his face was still shuttered, she heard all that lay beneath it in the space between his words. Pain. Anger. A sense of loss, of betrayal so profound not even the slaughter of kin by kin could encompass it. It was so strong, she wondered idly if she would have heard it without the unique burden of her gift. Seeing his face, she doubted it. She doubted it very much.
You knew him, she thought. And because she was Serra Teresa, she was wise enough not to ask, although the curiosity was almost as strong as any she had yet felt. She and Sendari had that in common, if little else besides blood.
"Thank you for your time," she said softly. "I have troubled you needlessly."
He bowed, but did not speak again, hearing the dismissal in the words for what it was. But as he stood, he said softly, "I wish you well, Serra."
Of that, she felt certain, although he had never said anything so heartfelt before. This Kallandras, this bard, was an enemy of the brotherhood.
Yet he was alive, somehow, protected by the Lady.
The sun was high, and it was not the Lord who could answer the questions that Serra Teresa wished to ask.
A man could only push himself so far before he exhausted the reserves of power—whether physical or intellectual—that were required for any arduous task. Ser Sendari acknowledged this in the darkness of his chambers. This room, and this room alone, had a door, styled after those that closed the great vaults in the Tor Leonne. Elsewhere, the ha
ngings divided his temporary home, lending the air those sounds of movement and speech, both the subtle and the impossible to ignore, that were the heart of life.
He had had his fill of silence and study. Tomorrow was the night of the Festival Moon, but tonight was still a Festival Night, with all that that implied. Wrapping himself against the chill of the full evening, he paused once to gaze into the depths of the room which had become his personal battleground.
Books lay open, scattered with precise care to reveal just those elements that he needed; they were his keys, the sword that he must learn to wield. A goblet, half-empty, an earthen mug and a pail of sweet water, a platter with some sort of foot. A cushion. A stool. The trappings of power.
He smiled as he shook his head.
He left the residence by the seraf's entrance, to avoid Teresa and his wives. He did not wish to answer their questions, and he felt a twinge of guilt at avoiding his responsibilities to them. But in truth, it was not the frivolous company of the young and the beautiful that he desired this eve; he wished companionship of more substance.
On a Festival Night, it was there.
Merchants came to line the streets of the city; to tell fortunes to the foolish, to offer solace to the weary, and to sell their many, many wares. Those clansmen that were, after all, little better than serafs themselves, built awnings beneath which they served wine and water, spiced fruits and other delicacies under the face of the turning moon.
Upon the crest of the hill, the palace could be seen— and it was in the palace, the Tor Leonne proper, that the clansmen who mattered were ensconced for the Festival. There, the reputedly magical properties of the lake were enjoyed by those who curried favor or those who had been born to it.
Ser Sendari had not been born to it. Even if he survived the test of the sword—and in the privacy of his thoughts, where no face could be lost, he was willing to admit the possibility of failure—and became Widan, he would still be nothing more than par di'Marano to Adano's kai. All of his effort, all of his power, all of his finely honed knowledge would serve Marano, and therefore, Adano.