by sun sword
"I think," Diora said quietly, "that he's killed a wife. At least one. It's in his voice, in the way that he watches them." She was not thinking, not clearly, to speak so plainly. But she spoke as the buttons of the dress were, one by one, undone, and the silks laid across her standing body as if they were a clansman's shroud.
"You've seen his wives?" Sharp question, that; Illia's voice had thinned in the way that the Serra Teresa least liked.
"Yes—but at a distance. One of them—younger, I think, than I—is with child." She closed her eyes, recalling that chubby face, the shadows beneath the eyes, the pallor of skin gray with unease, even fear. Had he beaten her? She could not be certain; could not ask. She was, after all, a Serra, and the business of a Serra was not the way a man treated the women he owned. "I do not think he is pleased by it."
Silence, longer. At last, Alana said simply, "He saw his uncles slaughtered as a child. He sees a threat in his brothers—and that threat is real. He has killed two wives."
Illia's intake of breath was so sharp Diora almost laughed, although the well of laughter would have been a bitter thing. She was a Serra; she held her peace.
"Why did you not tell me?" The second youngest of Sendari's wives said to the oldest, her pale cheeks flushing with an unbecoming anger.
"What good would it have done? He will not kill this wife, and this is the only wife that we must concern ourselves with."
"How?" Diora asked, the single word forced from between pale lips.
"Na'dio, it is not necessary."
Diora heard two things when Alana spoke. The first, every wife in the harem understood: that she would not speak further upon the subject, no matter what entreaties were made or threats offered. The second, what every wife in the harem feared: that the deaths had been unpleasant, slow affairs.
"Why?" she asked softly.
To her great surprise, Alana caught her hands, both of them, and pressed them together between her own, holding them as if they were an injured bird; hard enough that she might stop them from flailing or fleeing, yet gently enough that she might offer no injury, no hurt.
"The kai Leonne has reason to fear his brothers. They fear him; they fear that he will choose his father's course, and have them executed when their father at last passes on.
"His life is not secure. Men who fear for their lives react harshly. He believed that these two, his wives, were in the employ of his brothers; he could not prove it, and therefore could not demand his brothers' deaths. But he sought to end the threat that his wives may have posed. Na'dio, he will not harm you. Because your life and his life will be inseparable; if he falls, you will fall. If he rises, you will rise. Your children will be his heirs, and it is their blood that will claim the waters and the crown and the Sword."
Diora left her numb hands in the hands of the oldest of her father's wives, the oldest of her mothers. "They weren't guilty," she said softly, only the barest hint of a question in the words.
"Does it matter?" Alana replied. "You have seen serafs killed all your life for their mistakes and their folly—or the mistakes of their masters. Did those deaths hurt you?"
Her hands, now, were a cage, not a nest. "Did they weaken you? Did you notice them at all?
"They are serafs, in every possible way. Honored, if their husband is honorable, and doomed if not."
"Alana—" Illia began, but Alana's glare silenced her.
Diora was cold. And perfect. She lifted her chin, raised her shoulders, arched her back ever so slightly. And she met the angry eyes of Alana en'Marano, hearing what had not been said.
That Sendari's wives were no more free, no more privileged, and no more protected than Ser Illara's. That they had been given no more choice in their fate and their disposition than his wives. That she, and she alone, was granted a measure of safety because of who she would be.
A clanswoman. The wife, not the concubine, not the sister-wife.
"Safety," Alana said grudgingly, "is for the dead." She released Diora's hands, and those perfect, fair hands fell at once to the young woman's sides. Then she turned and stalked out of the room, as graceless as a clansman come newly from the field.
Come injured from that field.
"Forgive her, Na'dio," Illana said unexpectedly. "This is so terribly hard for her." She lifted a string of tiny, perfect pearls that, end to end, was as long as her arm. "She thought—she hoped—that Sendari would never have to see you married. He refused the Tyr'agnate of Oerta." She reached up, and Diora bent, stretching her neck for the clasp of cool gold. "She has lost one son and two daughters, and the daughters of a concubine are always born for barter."
"But she thought you would be safe. And you will be. But it is not—it is not what she desired. You know that Alana has always worried."
Illia brought combs, jade combs, of a green that was almost blue it was so dark and deep. She wound them round with flowers, small white blossoms that had been carefully preserved in the waters of the Tor Leonne for just this purpose. She found a small footstool, and gained its squat height. There, she caught the long, fine strands of Diora's shining hair and began to bind them.
And Diora di'Marano turned her face to pale screens that hid from sight the waning of the day. For on this day, no sunlight was to touch her skin. She was to be given, unglimpsed, in all her finery, to the clan Leonne and the kai Leonne in the time between the Lord's dominion and the Lady's. For that was the time of men, and of the meeting of man and woman. They brought rings for her hands, more gold, the shimmer of opal on bracelet, the twine of worked metal in links wide as her delicate wrists.
She bowed her head, lifted her arms, spread her fingers, striving now to regain the calm and the poise for which she was known.
Wondering, as she did, where Ona Teresa was, and if she would see her at all before she was taken forever from the heart of Widan Sendari di'Marano's harem.
Dusk came quickly, a fall of stately hue across the horizon. The concubines of Sendari di'Marano had become quiet with that peculiar anxiety a mother shows for her children; only the Serra Fiona was graceful and perfect as befit her rank. She had, with the inattentive consent of her husband, procured a sari of such quality that she hoped in some way to stand out among the gathered clansmen, once they had had their fill of the so-called Flower of the Dominion.
But even she had to stare in a wonder so spontaneous it was, for a moment, devoid of envy, as the doors slid to either side of the great room, and the Serra Diora di'Marano stepped at last into the open air, Sendari's concubines carrying her train. Her head was bowed, and in the light of the dying day, the pearls seemed flat and unremarkable, nestled as they were within the sheen of her black, black hair; she was delicate, graceful—in all things, the embodiment of her title.
Awe gave way to movement; the Serra Fiona di'Marano was meant to accompany her husband, and he had stepped forward, reluctant and heavy, as if the years he had lived had somehow doubled at the sight of his daughter. He did not glance at his wife or his concubines; he did not so much as acknowledge the men with which his daughter was surrounded. They stepped to either side of her to allow him passage, and closed once he was within their circle. They were Adano's Toran, and Adano, one of the five Tor'agar who served the Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto, could be seen down the slope of the hill, waiting, his clan's crest a brilliant splash of color on a high pole.
"Sendari," Fiona said, as gently and reverently as she possibly could. "It is time." But her voice was laced with the first display of anxiety; there would be no palanquins and no horses for this walk, and the clan Leonne waited.
Ill-omened, to start the ceremonies too close to the Lady's time, or too close to the Lord's. But if they did not hurry, they would suffer those omens, and the clan Leonne was unlikely to be gracious.
He stepped toward his daughter and away from his wife, wondering for just a moment why he had chosen Fiona, she chattered so. He was awed, as Fiona was; as awed as the Toran that his kai had personally selected for his d
aughter's protection. But his awe was not a man's awe; not a woman's awe; it was the terrible wonder of a parent who sees, truly that his flesh and blood is not his flesh and blood any longer, but a thing separate, a thing unknown, a thing lost.
Na'dio, he wanted to say, but he opened his mouth upon a different word, two words. "Serra Diora."
Did she flinch? Did she stiffen? He could not be certain, and he realized it was because, indeed, the sun had fallen.
"Widan Sendari," she replied, waiting.
"I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you." He did not, could not, speak the words that he felt; there were no words for that.
But she seemed to hear them anyway, as she so often did, his perceptive, his beautiful daughter. "Father," she said, softly, so that even the Toran would have had to strain to catch her words, "I would never choose another."
They began to walk. He felt a perverse pride when he saw the pale face of his oldest concubine and realized that she held her tears at bay. She had become, on occasion, an embarrassment, and the Serra Fiona had petitioned him, twice, for her removal. He resisted her, for the moment, and he thought that he would continue to do so. Because Alana understood what Na'dio was to him; she was almost that to Alana. They were, in this, of a mind.
He heard the waters before he saw them; they walked a path that revealed the lake only at the last moment. The Tyr'agar had chosen the dwelling for that reason: it would shield his kai's chosen bride from the prying eyes of lesser clansmen until she reached the platform of the lake. Then, and only then, would they see what he gifted his son with.
What Sendari gifted the kai Leonne, however reluctantly, with. The Flower of the Dominion.
There was a hush in the air, an expectancy. The night was coming. Had night ever fallen so quickly? He wondered, unwilling to hurry his step. Unwilling, at the same time, to slow himself, for fear that she would pay the price of an ill-aspected union. And angry at himself for the suspicion. He was Widan, not common clansman. He knew better.
"Father?"
He had stopped, at the bend, the water yards away— and the clan Leonne. The smile that he offered her would have to do, and in the lowering light, he thought it might.
But she answered it by reaching up, quietly, and passing her arms round his shoulders. Pressing her head, with its awkward combs and pearls and jutting pins, into the center of his chest, as if to catch the sound of his heart. As if to bring herself as close to it as she could one last time.
He held her, moving quickly, catching her a moment in his arms. She raised her lips to his cheek, touched his wizened skin. Of their own volition, his arms fell away. He heard the good-bye that she had not spoken; was stunned by it.
In the terrible fog of the dusk, he let her go, as if he were not Sendari, but rather a man who observed him with a distant contempt.
Alana passed him, and Illana, carrying the train that trailed, like white shadow, above the greenery. He felt Fiona's hand at the crook of his arm, a gentle, unobtrusive pressure. He almost slapped her, but mastered the anger at her unwanted interference.
Because, of course, she was right. He followed, quickly, the Toran forming up on either side now, two walls, and not an unbroken circle. He saw his daughter's glorious robed back disappear around the bend, and then he heard it: the intake of thousands of breaths, the awed hush of a crowd.
He ran, then, quickly; came in time to see that even Ser Illara and the Tyr'agar themselves were dumbstruck by his daughter. The kai Leonne took a dangerous step forward.
The Radann kai el'Sol moved more quickly. "Not yet, Ser Illara," Fredero kai el'Sol said, his voice soft and yet completely implacable. "For she is the Flower of the Dominion, and you will not wrong her in front of the entire Dominion by acting as husband when the ceremonies have not been observed."
The kai Leonne's frown was a momentary thing; a shadow cast by a cloud passing quickly above in a strong gale. His hand fell to the side as he nodded his assent, but his eyes did not waver.
Those eyes—that expression. Sendari reminded himself that he was Widan; that this was the way of men and women. But he had never seen his daughter—could not see her—as Ser Illara did, as an object of desire, as a physical possession.
"Be steady, Sendari." Teresa's voice. Teresa's disembodied voice. A welcome interruption, which said much.
At least, he thought, I have the courage to face this. Where are you, o perfect sister? He straightened himself, found his pride, and wrapped himself tightly in it. He would not waver again. The deed had already been done when he had given his assent to this union. Acceptance came. Late, but it came.
He walked quietly past Alana and Illana and found himself at Diora's side. There, he caught her ringed hand in a firm grip, lifted it, and said, "Radann kai el'Sol, I present to you the Serra Diora di'Marano."
The Radann kai el'Sol bowed gravely; the sun and the lit fires that surrounded the platform in blown glass globes caught the light of the hilt of his sword, Balagar, as he did. The sword, passed from kai el'Sol to kai el'Sol since the choosing of Leonne by the Lord of the Sun, was a thing of legend—a reminder that in the world of men, legends still walked.
Turning slightly, Sendari saw that the Tyr'agar was also girded round with a sword, and he knew, as he saw the intricate, ancient sheath, that the haven of the Sun Sword was empty this eve.
This symbol was the symbol of Leonne power, this and the lake, water and fire. The crown was a bauble, an afterthought. To own the lake was a simple affair. But to own the Sword? To own the Sword, one must be Leonne. Or so legend said, but it was a well-preserved legend, and Sendari knew that fully three quarters of the clansmen believed it to be true.
As he passed the hand of his daughter into the hand of the Radann kai el'Sol, a curious emptiness filled him, and because it filled him, he did not recognize it immediately for what it was. He watched, as rapt as the clansmen that surrounded the platform and the lake itself, as the Radann kai el'Sol speckled Diora's perfect forehead with droplets of the water of the lake; as he brushed her eyelids with the kiss of life. He could not hear what the kai el'Sol said; nor could he hear what the Serra Diora di'Marano replied.
But whatever it was, it was enough; the Radann kai el'Sol reached out for the sword hand of the kai Leonne, and he stood a moment, bearing the right and the left hand, the man's and the woman's, while he watched the last rays of the sun color the lake and the sky with a glory that its height could not achieve.
* * *
CHAPTER NINE.
Touching the Radann kai el'Sol felt completely natural, like touching an uncle, or one of the Marano Toran who could, with honor, offer her aid when entering or leaving her palanquin. Her hand could rest in his, could stay there in safety, with no stain of dishonor, no risk of insult. Her fingers, thin and white and ringed, closed around his palm like a delicate trap, the instinct, the need for familiarity, tightening them almost before she realized that she had made her first mistake.
The blush rose in her cheeks; she lowered her head prettily to hide her momentary shame. She was Diora di'Marano, and she was the pride of the moment; she could not—would not—in front of so many of her clan's rivals be anything less than perfect. It was a little thing, of course, this clutching, this momentary blind desire for things safe and known—but he would understand what it meant, and she would.
He waited while she composed herself, and when she lifted her face to meet his eyes, his expression was distant, respectful—in all things proper. Yet he waited that extra moment before he began, and she thought, although it might be years before she was certain, that his hand tightened just a fraction as it held and covered her own.
And then, holding her hand, holding the hand of the Ser Illara kai di'Leonne, he stepped back between them, and thence behind, drawing them toward each other and placing the hands that he held—and the hand that held his—together.
Touching the Radann kai el'Sol was like touching the warmth of the god he served.
&nbs
p; Touching Ser Illara kai di'Leonne was like touching the heat. For the second time in less than an hour, she startled, shying ever so slightly. Where the Radann's hand had been firm, the kai's was tight.
The roar of the clans erupted around the lake, and the lake's hills and man-made valleys carried the sound, echoing it, giving it a depth and a height not normally reserved for human voice. The kai Leonne smiled, but the smile was not warm; it was not even triumphant; it was a quick thing, like the strike of lightning in the Northern rains—a natural occurrence, and a terrifying one.
She did not move—it would have been the wrong thing to do—but to be still she had to lock her knees and stiffen her neck and shoulders, giving her body a graceful, regal line, evoking a perfect distance.
It was not to his liking; she saw that immediately and had almost no chance to correct herself; he was upon her, around her, his hands upon her face, her neck, his own face so close to hers, so impossibly close, she thought she would never again be free of the smell of his breath, of the heat of it.
She heard the clansmen cry out again in glad approval at this, her first kiss, the first touch of a man who meant her the harm that men meant, but who had the right, by marriage, to offer it.
And in spite of herself, in front of the gathered clans, she was like kindling to his fire, and when he drew back, her body followed his as if the diamonds and pearls so painstaking beaded into the edge of her dress had become attached to the setting of his very fine robe. His smile was not kind, but it was not unkind; it was an expression, she would realize later, that was very much his own, and unperturbed by her, unresponsive to her.