by sun sword
"Yes?" The bard did not stop, but his voice did; she knew that he alone could hear her words, and she alone his.
"You heard Diora."
"Oh, yes," he said quietly. "I do not think any of the bard-born in the Tor Leonne did not hear that cry this eve." His words paused as his body disappeared entirely from view. "But I will say this: If there are other bards in the Tor, they will not know who it was that they heard. You know, Serra, and I." Again a lengthy pause. Then, as if he were a disembodied spirit, some sending of the Lady's will, "Someone, I fear, is dying."
She ran. She who had not run to make her first appointment with death this eve, did everything that she could to make certain that she arrived in time for this second, and unplanned, meeting.
She could hear Diora weeping as she shoved the gates open and ran through the courtyard, the sky-open halls, and the hangings that were meant to convey a sense of privacy in lives that had so very little of it.
Serafs scattered before her; she rode an ill wind, and they did not wish to be scoured by what she carried in her wake. It was well known among Sendari's serafs that the youngest member of his harem was also the Serra's favorite. Well known, as well, that this Lissa would not be the first wife to die beneath the open winds of a moon-filled sky.
"Ramdan."
The oldest of the serafs that personally served Serra Teresa bowed quietly at the outermost edge of the chambers. He held out a hand, and she placed her cloak and hat in it, pulling her mask from her face and throwing it to one side as if its touch burned. He was not an old man, not yet, but he had the dignity that a gulf of years granted, and he wore it well. She knew, as he rose from his bow, the items she had given him in his hands, that he had waited here in perfect silence for her return. He had an uncanny sense of her movements.
"What has happened?"
"Lissa en'Marano has taken ill."
"Ill?"
"Alana en'Marano believes that the child she carries has died. The young woman bleeds, and the bleeding does not lessen."
"Thank you."
"Serra, if I may be so bold?"
She allowed very few of her serafs to interrupt her— and never during the course of a normal evening. But the Festival Moon raged above; she did not even feel the icy regard that such evidence of poor training usually invoked. "Yes, but be quick."
"The healers have been called."
Her face almost broke then, in the bitter parody of a mocking smile. "And do you think they will come? Lissa is not the Serra, and they did not come for her." Ramdan's seraf face was utterly impassive in the face of her naked grief. He knew that she spoke of the woman whose name had been forbidden the clan.
"They came, Teresa."
Serra Teresa turned to see the haggard lines of her brother's face. Of Sendari's face. He held up a hand, palm out—a gesture of denial. "Don't," he said softly. Coldly. "There are things that even the Festival Moon cannot forgive." He turned away. "She is… not conscious, I think. Go to her, if you must. Say your farewells," She saw him struggle with his own advice. "It would," he said, failing it, "be fitting, after all. It was you she wanted in the end."
And he, too, spoke of a woman who was not Lissa.
But it was Lissa who was dying. Lissa who, chosen by Teresa, was not loved by Sendari. Sendari had only loved one of his wives; he chose to indulge the rest with a distant affection.
We all protect ourselves as we can, she thought, drawing herself up, hiding herself once again behind the mask of her face. The heart is a treacherous country. "Where is Diora?"
"With Lissa. She will not be moved."
"With your permission, Ser Sendari, I will tend to Lissa."
"And with yours, Serra Teresa, I will tell the serafs that we are to have late visitors. If," he added, his control less than hers, "they can even be found."
The silks and the cushions were covered in blood. Lissa was white, whiter than the ivory and the pale, perfect lilies that adorned the lake of the Tor Leonne. Her hair, dark, seemed a shadow that clung to her face, her forehead; her eyes were closed. Beside the youngest of the wives, the oldest sat, holding limp hands in two strong ones, and praying for the Lady's mercy.
Diora—Serra Diora—looked up from her weeping; the act was a physical thing, not a simple matter of fallen tears. Not the act of a fine Serra; not the display one expected of a woman of the clans.
Moon-night.
Serra Teresa walked to where Lissa lay, and touched Alana's bent shoulders. The older woman looked up, her eyes reddened with weeping as well.
"Ona Teresa?"
"Na'dio," Teresa said. "Must you stay?"
Mutely, Diora nodded. And then, swallowing as if something large and painful was caught in her throat, she whispered, "she wants me to sing."
"She did, love," Alana said, "but she won't hear it now."
"She will," was the child's grim reply. "I told her I would sing. I promised. I'll make her hear me."
Alana turned a weary face to Serra Teresa. "It's been like this," she said, nodding grimly and sadly at the young child. "She won't leave. I've told her to sing, and be done—but she won't sing. She insisted on waiting for you."
Mutely, Serra Teresa met the mutinous, the hungry, gaze of her niece. Thinking, then, that she was so very much Alora's child. Knowing that the geas that she had been bound by—the promise not to sing during the Festival—was about to be snapped by something older and stronger: Love, and the pain of its imminent loss. Worse still, knowing that Diora could have snapped that compulsion but had chosen to wait. To wait for her.
What did it matter now?
"Forgive me, Na'dio," she said, "for I have wronged you and Lissa both. Sing. Sing, and with your permission, I will sing with you."
Tears started anew in the young girl's eyes, and Teresa thought she could see her reflection, shining palely, in them. Had she ever been so young, to forgive so transparently and so easily such a wrong?
What, she wondered, was worse—to love and be hurt, or to love and have to hurt? For she had done both, and would again. Sing, she thought, and it was almost a prayer.
Diora knew two songs well.
In her little girl voice, a voice that had far more strength than it should have, she began. "The sun has gone down, has gone down, my love…"
The moonlight was strong in the harem of Ser Sendari di'Marano.
As she found her voice, Teresa gently pulled Alana away, and taking a seat, not beside, but behind the prone Lissa, she very gently cradled that young woman's head in her lap, stroking damp cheeks with the palms of her cool hands.
For the heart—oh, the heart—is a dangerous place.
She had sat just so, with Alora, just so; she had sat in the dark of a night, waiting for the healers to come. Waiting, wild with fear. Singing.
Alora had asked her to sing. Her voice broke, and broke again, as if it were a stream meeting rocks almost large enough to dam it—almost, but not quite. Because Alora had asked it of her, a last favor.
She never loved Lissa in that way, but the past met the present, making of each a harsh and terrible place.
Diora finished the last stanza alone.
The cerdan walked in, swords drawn, four abreast. The oldest man, bearded and grim—although whether it was with the nearness of death or the interruption of the evening's festivity, was not clear—bowed to her. These chambers were, after all, in the absence of a proper wife, her demesne.
"Ser Laonis di'Caveras has come at the request of Ser Sendari to view Lissa en'Marano. With your permission, Serra."
"Granted."
The cerdan bowed, quickly, putting up his sword— although, very properly, not sheathing it—before he moved to the side to take up his post along the walls. She noticed, of course. Even at times like this, she noticed the small details that spoke of good training, of grace under pressure.
Especially at times like this. For, looking at the cerdan, she could keep the pretense of hope alive for a few seconds longer. If, after
all, hope of such a painful nature was a boon, a thing to be craved, to be clung to.
The healer waited.
And she, as the presiding Serra in these hidden chambers, had no choice but to look at him; to meet the dark gaze that rested beneath heavy brows, a lined forehead.
"Ser Laonis," she began, but he lifted his hand curtly, forestalling her. She dropped her head at once in acquiescence, and he crossed the room, his pale robes a cold, bright halo.
"If you would, Serra?"
"Of course." Gently, carefully—and quickly—she lifted Lissa's sweaty head from her lap and slid across the cushions, pulling herself free from her chosen burden.
The healer's serafs came up behind her, and at his direction, began to unwrap Lissa's blood-soaked sari. He intended to examine her, but Serra Teresa could hear the hardening in his voice, and she knew that he expected a death this night.
Knew that he had no intention of stopping it.
"Na'dio," she said, catching her niece by the shoulders and pulling her away from Lissa and the healer. "You have sung your song. It is time, now, for you to retire."
"No."
"Diora di'Marano. You are in the company of clansmen."
Diora said nothing, her silence defiant and determined. Teresa knew that she could send the girl on her way with a single word. But she had already wounded with words once this Festival, and she could not bring herself to do so again. Not while the moon reigned, Lord forgive her.
The healer rose, grim-faced, his eyes shuttered. "Serra," he said, bowing low.
"Ser Laonis," she replied, waiting.
"Lissa en'Marano has suffered a miscarriage. She is hemorrhaging."
"Will she recover?" She laced the words with a bright hope that she did not feel, with a trust that she could not feel, and with a fear that kept her knees locked, her chin high.
His face softened. "Even if the bleeding is stopped, she has lost too much blood. She will sleep in the Lady's arms before the night is ended."
That was the answer. That had to be the answer. Teresa knew that her voice could not compel this man to the act that would save Lissa's life; no bard's voice could force that much, for that long, from anyone. Swallowing, she nodded.
But Diora spoke into the silence of his words. "Can't you heal her?"
"Na'dio—"
"He's a healer, Ona Teresa. Can't he heal her?"
"She is too close to death," the Serra said quietly.
"But she's not dead yet!"
"No. Na'dio—"
"But everyone knows that the healers can bring someone back if they're not dead. Everyone knows it!"
"Na'dio."
The young girl turned to face the older man. "Why won't you heal her?"
"I am a clansman," the healer replied icily. "Little one. Understand this: To bring this—this half-wife—back would mean that I would have to become her. I am a rider. She is barely free—and she is a woman. Would you have me be unmanned?"
"Yes," Diora said, her voice as icy as his had become. "What difference would it make?"
Ser Laonis flushed with anger and shock; Serra Teresa, watching him, did the same, although she knew that Diora did not understand the full import of her insult. She had never seen Diora so poorly behaved. "You are lucky," he said, "that it is the Night of the Festival Moon. You are lucky that you are a child, and you do not know what it is that you say."
"I do know what I say," Diora replied, with the steely gravity that was so unusual in a child of any age. "You're just afraid. You're a coward—and Father says that no real man is ruled by fear."
Ser Laonis spit upon the floor and turned to his serafs. "I did not come here to be insulted by an unmannered child. Serra Teresa, you will inform Ser Sendari that in future I will not come to his summons. You, bring water and cloths; I will wash, and we will leave."
"I'm afraid I cannot allow that."
All heads turned and four steel blades flashed in the light of a dozen lamps.
Perched in a window that faced the interior courtyard, clothed in shadow and bearing the exaggerated features of the clown, sat a man that only Serra Teresa recognized.
Kallandras of Senniel.
"What is this?" Ser Laonis said softly. "Treachery?"
"I assure you, Ser Laonis," Serra Teresa said, answering his question although it was not directed at her, "that the clan Marano intends no treachery this eve. This man—this reveler—is not one of us."
"Then you will, of course, have your cerdan deal with him." It was a command; Ser Laonis was personally powerful enough that he could give such orders and expect them to be obeyed.
"I?" Serra Teresa said, staring at the mask, at the glimmer of blue behind the open eyes. "But I am not Ser Sendari, Ser Laonis; the order to kill can only be given by Sendari unless there is a threat to my life or the virtue of his wives." She paused. "Is that not so, Karras?"
"It is, Serra," the cerdan so addressed replied, bowing.
"Then, stranger, have you come to threaten either my wives, or myself?"
"No, Serra Teresa, I have not."
His voice. His voice was night and darkness and a wild, wild wind. It chilled her, and she was old enough to be chilled by very little in the Dominion. Diora came to her side, unbidden, and stood within the circle of her skirts— except that she did not wear skirts this eve.
"Why have you come?"
"Not," the stranger replied, "to answer the questions of women, even such a one as the fabled Serra Teresa di'Marano." He lifted a hand then, and the light that flashed off cerdan swords was dull and harmless compared to the light that glittered upon his finger.
"Ser Laonis," the voice behind the mask said, "you have been granted a gift by the will of the Lady, and it is the Lady's night. Will you not use it?"
"For one who is not even full wife? You have already heard my answer. I will leave. Do not hinder me, or the clan Caveras will never again tend a Marano, on the field or off it, for as long as either clan lives."
"That," the stranger said gravely, "is a very long time, Ser Laonis. And who can say with certainty that the winds will not have carried your name so far from the lips of man that the deeds this night will be long forgotten?"
Ser Laonis stiffened, for although he was not born to the voice, he heard the hint of the stranger's music, and it was dark. "Who are you?"
"It is Festival Night. I am a servant of the Lady, no more and no less. We all are." The light upon his hand grew brighter, like a Widan mark gone awry. "Do you think that this youngling was meant to die? I think not. This is the Lady's night; if she wished to lower the dark shroud, she would have called Lissa en'Marano on any night but this one."
Serra Teresa felt something so sharp and so painful she thought for a moment she had been stabbed. And she had, but by hope. The bard's voice, it seemed, could touch even she.
"Your gift is a gift of the Lady's, not the Lord's; you will use it, as she desires."
"And you speak for the Lady?"
"Yes," the stranger said, jumping lithely out of the window's stone frame. "And I speak with the voice of the wind." His feet did not touch the ground, and light limned him, carried by the beginnings of the storm.
Alana drew the Lady's circle across her left breast at the mention of the wind; the serafs, terrified, fell to the ground at once. All, that is, save Ramdan, who stood behind his Serra in a silence born of years and determination.
Ser Laonis di'Caveras paled until his face was the color of the light that danced around the stranger.
"This is the night of the Festival Moon, and the Lady's face is upon you. Choose, Laonis, and choose quickly."
"I serve the Lord," Ser Laonis said, but he took a step back, raising his voice to be heard above the wind's howl.
"And will you live in the heat of a sun that knows no cooling night? You will live in a desert, Laonis, and the night's peace will be denied you."
"Who is she?" the clansman cried. "Who is she, to merit this?"
But the s
tranger had no answer to give the healer. Instead, he looked to the Serra Teresa, nodding his head before she could see the expression in the deep-set eyes of the mask—of the many masks—he wore.
He understood loss. He understood love. He understood what a bard had cost her; understood that she could not, cleanly, hate the man, that she had grown attached enough to someone who understood her gift and its compulsion that she still mourned his death beneath the surface of her ever-present resentment of the fact that his well-meaning interference had taken from her the life that she'd been groomed and trained for—the one chance that she had to be more than a "child" in someone else's harem. And he understood what Alora had given her in its place, and what Alora's loss meant.
Alora's death. And she had never mentioned Alora's death.
Was she a simple child, a simple girl, to be so moved by understanding? Was she a weak and simpering innocent, to crave so desperately a thing which made her so vulnerable?
Could she meet his unflinching eyes, without acknowledging the depth of this gift? The wind, she knew, would never mean again what it meant to the rest of the Dominion. His coming had cleansed its howl; had shown her the heart of the storm.
He spoke with the wind's voice, and she answered with her own, wordless.
Beneath her hands, Diora stirred, hearing in the ululation of her aunt things felt that came from a person far older and far more wounded than she. She looked up, her small hands reaching out for the clenched fists of the woman who had been, in all things, her mother. She who had sought protection from the wind, sought now to offer it.
Alora.
Diora.
Tears spilled down Teresa's cheeks, and she let them fall, unheeding. Let the voyani catch them and make of them a spell; let the clansmen speak of them as weakness, as infirmity, as age.
She offered them to Kallandras.
And he turned the wind in the palm of his hand into a sword that Ser Laonis di'Caveras bowed before. There was not a man in the room, nor a woman, who would not have bowed to that voice, that will, and that threat; not even she.
As if to mock her, and to steady her, the Lady chided her gently for such arrogance; for there were always those whose very nature abhorred a retreat from their given vows. She stepped back and hit the broad chest of her most trusted seraf, a man she had owned for almost all of her life. And he, unbent, would be unbending, a shelter of sorts whose steadiness should have required no reminder.