by sun sword
"Tell me, Serra. If you will it. It is the night of the Festival Moon, after all." He smiled grimly. "You know that I came to gather information, or you would not have tempted me with such a message. But that does not concern you."
"No."
"Then what?"
He was young for a bard of his stature. Young and distant. His eyes, wide and blue, held no acquisitive attraction, no contempt, no fear, no desire; he was Lissa's Sun Lord in the dead of the Lady's Night. Afterward, she would wonder—often—why, but she felt, as she met those eyes, that she could trust him with what she had to say.
Say? She opened her lips a moment, but the words fell away. "You are a bard," she said softly.
"Yes."
"Sing, then. Sing softly for me."
He raised a pale, perfect brow, and then he nodded.
She thought it a kindness until she heard the song that he chose.
"The sun has gone down, has gone down, my love
Na'tere, Na'tere child
Let me take down my helm and my shield bright
Let me forsake the world of guile
For the Lady is watching, is watching, my love
Na'tere, Na'tere dear
And she knows that the heart which is guarded and
scarred Is still pierced by the darkest of fear
When you smile I feel joy
When you cry I feel pain
When you sleep in my arms I feel strong
But the Lord does not care
For the infant who sleeps
In the cradle of arms and my song The time it will come, it will come, my love Na'tere, Na'tere my own When the veil will fall and separate us May you bury me when you are grown For the heart, oh the heart, is a dangerous place It is breaking with joy, and with fear Worse, though, if you'd never been born to me, Na'tere, Na'tere, my dear."
It was an old song, sung only after the last rays of sun were shining palely in the night sky, when it was safe to speak of both love for a child, and the terrible hope for that child's future. So very many died.
Serra Teresa cried, because the bard's voice was so very, very pure that it brought back the years that age had stolen from her, when cradled safely in her father's arms, she could sleep. Yet it was not for herself that she'd asked for this song, and she swallowed those tears, finding her voice, the voice, with which to join him. Serra Teresa di'Marano sang as the bard did, word for word—except the child's name she used was Diora's.
She saw his eyes widen as she sang, because in song she could not hide her curse and her gift. There was freedom, at the last, in that, for she did not sing during Festival Season, for fear that the bards would hear—and would speak of—what that song held.
Lifting a hand as the last of the notes died away, she began to speak. "It was at the Festival of the Sun. I was twelve. Part of the chorus of the opening day. He heard me."
"He?"
"His name was Robart; a bard from Morniel College." His eyes, when she met them, were perfectly still; they gave nothing at all away. "He was older than you are, Kallandras of Senniel, but far less wise. He had never visited Annagar before." She let the words trail away into silence, and then realized that she was waiting for his question, for the display of curiosity which would make the continuation of her story socially acceptable. But it was the Night of the Festival Moon, and she needed no permission, need practice no grace.
"My father, of course, feigned delight—but he did not act against Robart immediately. Instead, he invited him to our home in Mancorvo. He told the bard that such a talent—mine—was obviously much rarer in the Dominion than in the Empire, and offered to help Robart search the Terrean for children such as I—children whose voices could be trained to evoke emotion, and more. Even intimated, I believe—although I was not privy to all of their conversations—that he might petition the Tyr'agar for permission to found a bardic college within his domain."
"We wondered what had happened to Robart."
She had the curious feeling that he spoke more for her sake than his own.
"Oh, he searched. He found two children, but they were both boys."
He did not ask her what had happened to the boys. Meeting his eyes, she knew that he knew, that he understood the Dominion better than many of the people who were born to it. Who are you? she thought, not for the first time. He was like no Northerner she had ever met, and in her time in the Tor, she had met many.
"Robart trained me until my father felt I had learned enough." She was quiet a moment, thinking. Then, "I was sixteen years old when he died. I understood what it meant better than he, and I think before the end he heard what I could not tell him in my voice. But he thought he could survive it, somehow. He was not a wise man.
"When I was seventeen, five offers from clans of varying note had been made for me; when I was eighteen, another ten. My father refused them all. When I turned nineteen, there were more; it was not until I was a full twenty-one years that I was considered either too old, or too valued, and the offers ceased.
"I remained with Marano, serving either my father, or after his death, my brother."
"I wondered," he said quietly. "For you are di'Marano, and famed for it."
"I am Serra Teresa," she replied. "I have no husband, I have no wives, I have no harem and no place in which my will rules; no place of my own." She started to turn away, because she did not wish him to see her face, and then stopped because she knew that her voice told him more than the expression of a well-schooled Serra could ever give away. "I have no children."
"No? But you have sung that song before."
"Yes."
Silence.
"Serra, you did not try to kill me in revenge for Robart. He paid the price for his intervention, and I hear the regret in you for that death."
She smiled, almost rueful. It was not a genuine expression. "No, Kallandras of Senniel, I did not."
"Then why?"
"Because, you will tell my brother that Diora is bard-born; that she has the voice. And he studies the path of the Wise. He will know that for her voice to be heard so clearly, so early in her life, she must be a power."
"Yes. And a power such as the voice rarely takes. But if she is not trained—"
"She will be Annagarian, and she will have the life that she was born to, and she will be happy."
"Happy?" was the single, moody word. Serra Teresa heard the doubt and the bitterness and the scorn that weighted these two syllables. "Did it not occur to you merely to tell me that my own life would likely be forfeit should I choose to reveal what I knew?"
"No. Because to tell you that, I would have to tell you what no man in Annagar knows, save Sendari and Adano: that I, too, have that gift. You would have knowledge of Marano that would damage us greatly should you choose to reveal it at the wrong time, or to the wrong person." She lifted a hand, as if to implore.
Emerald caught the light, holding it a moment. Gold. The white flash of diamond. She raised her eyes to the face of the Festival Moon, and because it was Moon-night, she said, through gritted teeth, "I am no oath-breaker. What I have promised, I will do." The set of her face grew grim indeed; it changed her so much that no man would have recognized her, even though he knew her well. Only the serafs might, and they did not speak.
The bard turned away, looking not to her, but toward the moon's face. "I will not pursue this," he told her quietly.
"In exchange for what?"
He smiled. "What I want, Serra, you could never give me. But… I hear the winds of war, and the storm is gathering. Where will it start?"
"Mancorvo," she said flatly. "They will come through the passes."
"Impossible."
"It is true. The Widan have been summoned, and they will provide the necessary protections to guard the cerdan. A small force will begin systematically raiding and destroying the villages there."
"The whole of the Sword of Knowledge would have to be wielded in order to guard those passes."
"Yes," s
he said starkly. "And because it is Festival Night, I will tell you that the Tyr'agar is a fool for the command; he weakens the Dominion, and his own hold over it, because the Widan are not young and the passage will tax them greatly."
"And?"
She nodded. "The main body of the Tyr's army will gather in the cradle of Averda. They will wait until word of the slaughter of your people has had time to reach the right ears, to galvanize the Twin Crowns. Your armies will be directed away from the main body of the Annagarian army because the Kings and The Ten will not be able to ignore the damage the raiders do." Her voice was ice. "The Essalieyanese are weak of heart in matters of death."
He shrugged; there was no offense at all in the still lines of his face as he turned it skyward, exposing the pale line of his throat. "Look," he said softly, and she did, although there was no command in the word.
Skyfire.
He carried Diora in the circle of his arms, instead of perching her upon his shoulders. He wanted to see her face, but if he could, he could never give her this night of fire. Yet wonder lasted so short a time in the face of a child.
The streets of the Tor were crowded; wine and ale and water were splashed in careless libation at the Lady's feet—which for this one night were the whole of the Dominion. Storytellers, like merchants selling their wares, drew their tales to an overhasty end, breaking the circles and gathering their mats so that they might also watch this night of wonder, this gift of largesse from the Tyr'agar and his Widan.
Magic was in the air, and the silence that watches from behind the eyes of lives that are almost stripped of wonder. Sendari watched the clear night sky, thinking that in two days, the Widan he faced would not be wondrous, but terrible. Thinking that, in two days, he might leave her, as he always did, but this time with no certainty of return.
"Father," Na'dio said, and he realized that he was holding her a little too closely.
"Look up," he told her, knowing that there was never any certainty of return, no matter what the day, what the occasion. "Look now. It starts."
"I don't see anything."
But he could feel the winds rising, subtle in their current; the air itself seemed to twist with the pull of the Widan's art.
"Look," he said again, pointing while he balanced her weight with one arm.
This time, a rain of pale blue fire streaked the night sky as it fell. Because he held her as close as he could, he heard her intake of breath above the delighted murmur of the crowd. He wished again that he could see her face, her eyes, the child behind this mask.
Fire, red and green and gold, blossomed like living flowers with their brief, brief lives. Beauty burned itself into Na'dio's memory; he knew it by the silence, the stillness, the awed watchfulness. Ah, there—the plains eagle, golden-taloned, green-eyed, a hundred times larger than life as it passed above the crowd and dispersed into darkness.
Na'dio cried out in wonder, lifting her hand to follow its descent. As just such a child, he had watched his first skyfires on just such a night. But he had not perched upon his father's shoulders; his father was a warrior, and even upon the Night of the Festival Moon, his heart was given to other things. No, Adano had stood beside him, stalwart, amused, and protective.
Always protective; always aware that to be head of the clan was to be its defender. Had Sendari been considered weak because of his fondness for learned study? Only one man had dared to make jest of it in Adano's presence— and he, their mutual father. The memory of that time had scarred his heart; they were brothers, and the betrayal of such a man was not—quite—within him.
He pressed his child close again, hearing in the loud and noisy whistles, the sharp breaths, the glad cries, a type of silence that settled where such pale noise could not disturb it.
Forever, he thought.
But Alora's eyes were closed beneath the weight of both earth and four empty years, and she had promised him no less.
The stallion came next, and then, mythic, the dragon that spoke with the voice of the wind. More flowers, the Lady's tree, the mask of the night sky. He did not want to let his child go; he did not want to end the night that had begun with such a terrible vulnerability.
But the end was coming; he saw it, felt it, as the last of the great fires cut across the sky in a swath of angry red and gold: the Sun Sword. The weapon by which the Tyr'agar proved, yearly, his legitimacy. It was said that no man could wield this Sword who did not have the blood of the clan in his veins; as Widan, he would discover the truth. As Widan—
"What is it, Na'dio? What is wrong?" He felt her tense and shrink, as if the sword edge itself was descending upon her upturned gaze. "I have you," he whispered. "You are safe."
But she shook her head. He could not see her face; he did not need to. The leap of muscles, the little tremors, told him what he would find there. Why? "Na'dio, you have nothing to fear from the Sword of the Sun. It is not even real. Look, Na'dio, look. It fades as we watch it."
Her arms twined tightly around his neck; the mask pressed softly into his shoulder. It was late, he thought; she was tired.
But he felt the edge of worry, stronger because of the night. Diora was no coward, and no meek child, to be afraid of the sight of a sword.
"We will go back," he told her, regretting the words as he spoke them. "It is too noisy here, and I do not wish to share you with anyone but the Lady."
* * *
When they returned to the dwelling which Sendari di'Marano had procured for his personal use during the Festival, they found Illia and Irina waiting for them, their knees pressed to the floor, their hands in their laps, as if they were kep'Marano, and not en'Marano. Illia's face was pale but still; Irina's was tear-streaked and puffy. Sendari found neither pleasing.
He removed the safety of his mask, his features already hardening into the lines that time had etched there. He set his daughter down almost as an afterthought, the pang of their separation superseded by this unwelcome interruption.
"Speak," he said coolly. "What has happened? Why are you not in the Festival Streets?"
Irina pressed her head into her knees, but Illia spoke.
"Sendari," she said, as was her wife-right. "It is Lissa."
He thought he saw her flinch, but her expression was cast in a neutral alabaster that gave little away, which showed her quality, the quality of her training. Before he could speak, the child at his side interrupted him, the feathers that hid her face bobbing in agitation.
"What? What's wrong with Lissa?"
"Na'dio," Sendari said curtly, "go to the sleeping chamber and join the other children. I will attend to this."
But Diora—his Diora—did not move. "What's wrong with Lissa, Ona Illia? What's wrong with her?"
"Diora," Sendari said, his voice now quite cold. "You are to go to the other children now."
She froze in place, and then turned, lifting her masked face to him. "It is Festival Night," she said, half grave and half angered. "And I am still wearing my mask."
Irina looked positively shocked, but Illia, again, did not notice any infraction. Any correction. It was Festival Night. And her defiance was under the Lady's dominion. But Sendari was not pleased by this turn of events.
"Na'dio," he said, kneeling, "I ask you, as I have no right to order you this eve, please—"
The bells rang, shattering the silence.
Irina began to cry in earnest, and even Illia blanched. Sendari rose, lecture forgotten. "Take me," he said sternly. "Now."
The fires were over; night settled against the horizon like a blanket, or lovers' silks. Serra Teresa di'Marano rose and quietly pulled the mask down to once again cover her face. "Who are you?"
"Who are you?" He pulled his own mask down, hooding his hair and then completely obscuring the line of his jaw, the set of his pale features. "It is Festival Night," he added softly, "But I am not Annagarian, and if I follow a face of the Lady, it is not the moon's face. I do not believe that we will meet again this Festival." He bowed. "But I
am honored, Serra Teresa, for you have, indeed, the voice that the poet Feranno once ascribed to you with such a poverty of praise."
She was pleased in spite of herself, and the smile that she offered him was tentative, almost pained; she forgot, for a moment, that he could not see her face. Teresa, she told herself, you are far from girlhood; leave it be.
He bowed; as his head dipped, she lifted a hand, as if to touch him.
A scream shattered the stillness of the Eastern Fount, as cruel as the howl of the winds over the empty dunes.
That scream carried a name.
Lissa.
* * *
CHAPTER FOUR
"Serra?"
The bard's hand was on her arm, his arm around her shoulder. She looked up, searching his nonface, seeing only the red nose that was so ugly in the darkness. Had she stumbled? Had she fallen? The air was chill.
"Serra Teresa."
She pulled herself free as the cry faded. Tears coursed down her cheeks. They were not her own.
"Serra, I am sorry—but I fear that you must make haste. The enclave of the Mancorvan cerdan is across the Tor, and I do not think we have much time."
"What—what—"
He caught first one arm and then the other, pulling her to face him so that their masks touched. "Serra Teresa. Teresa. That cry—I have only heard that voice once before, but I would recognize it anywhere."
She knew, then, that she knew it, too. Diora. The name set her free; she pulled away from the weakness that gripped her and stood.
"Who is Lissa?"
She shook her head, curt now, controlled. The evening was behind her. And ahead—ahead lay the Lady's will. "Lissa en'Marano is the youngest of Ser Sendari's wives."
"I will leave you," the bard said softly, "for I have far to travel this eve, and much, I think, to accomplish. Lady. Serra. I wish you well."
But she was beyond the pleasantry of a simple wish. The fount, chosen because it was empty and distant, now seemed to mock her with its dead. Lissa. Diora had screamed Lissa's name, and she had, across the Tor, heard it. "Wait!" she said, casting the voice as Robart had taught her so many, many years ago.