by sun sword
One or two of the clansmen called out a suggestion, an encouragement, that again brought the blush to her cheeks; the Radann kai el'Sol brought his hands together in a thunderclap, demanding silence—or at least, respect. He was a tall man, and a forbidding one, and even in the poor light, he saw well enough to know who had spoken. Or so it seemed to Diora.
The Tyr'agar came to stand before her, momentarily displacing the son. "You are lovely," he said softly, too softly, the words devoid of warmth. "A pity, really, that you were born a Serra and not a seraf, or I would never have gifted so fine a creature to so unappreciative a son."
He bowed, and then caught her hand as he rose; where his son's grip had been tight, his was gentle—but it was more of a trap, for she could not pull away from this man, of all men in the Dominion.
"Welcome," he said, in a voice unnaturally loud, "Diora en'Leonne. Welcome to the clan Leonne. May you honor us all." And his fingers, beneath the protective curve of the palm of her hand caressed the flesh there lightly, gently. She saw the Lady's Night descending in his eyes as he leaned forward and very properly offered her the kiss of the clan leader, a light press of lips to forehead.
She turned to her husband, to her new husband, and saw his narrowed eyes upon his father's profile, and her heart, like the sun, began its descent.
The Serra Teresa di'Marano did watch the ceremony. But she did not choose to view it from the vantage of the lake, surrounded by the clan that had birthed her; nor did she choose, as she might have, to accompany her almost-daughter upon her final journey as a di'Marano. She watched the ceremony from the vantage of the smallest shrine to the Lady, nestled as it was upon a hill, and hidden behind a veil of slender trees. The shrine, she had graced with the strength of her prayer almost as soon as the sun had begun its descent; she paused now, as the Tyr'agar accepted her Na'dio into his clan. It was done.
Lady help her, it was done.
She clasped her hands together to still them; they shook terribly, and it mortified her, but she could not stop them. The sight of the ring, the single remaining evidence of her binding oaths, did not help. She almost removed it. Almost. It was far too fine for the rest of her apparel; it stood out, the one imperfection in an otherwise unquestionable affectation.
The finery of Marano did not grace her this eve, although it was her right. She wore a simple sari, albeit one of a very fine, very expensive color—a color that was, shade for shade that of the coming night, a deep blue untroubled by moon or star. She was the Serra Teresa di'Marano. She was alone. And she knew what she should be, what she must be, on this very special day. Perfectly composed, dignified, graceful—elegantly happy.
But her heart was as empty as Sendari's had become; she had realized it sooner, that was all. What she could offer was not fit for the clans, and it would trouble Na'dio to see it so openly.
She stood alone, which was less of a risk at her age than it had once been. Faithful Ramdan, she had sent away, and he, being seraf without compare, had condemned her decision with perfect grace: by obeying it. She was fond of him, in her fashion, but he was not blood. And blood was everything.
Ah, a lie.
A lie, on this fine summer eve.
Alora had not been blood.
Fires sprang to life in the air above the lake, reflected by the waters—the Sword of Knowledge, announcing itself, openly, to the clansmen, at the behest of the Tyr'agar. She heard, again, the hushed awe of the clans and smiled with quiet pride—for the silent awe was dim and short compared to the gasp that Diora di'Marano evoked.
"Serra Teresa."
She did not turn; she did not need to. That voice, she would recognize anywhere. "Kallandras."
He was a shadow in the shadows; she felt it although she could not see it. "You missed the ceremony."
"I heard your song."
"I know." He paused. "I would rather it had been a different one."
She knew what he meant, and after a grudging moment said, "Why? Why sing a cradle song for one who is about to leave childhood behind?"
"Because," the bard replied with his perfect, perfect voice, "that is often the time when one most needs to hear one. Such a song speaks to the heart."
"A child's heart, surely."
"All hearts, in part, are children's hearts. Hers, as yours, is secret now. Hidden."
"Do you need that, in the North? The hidden heart?" She did not deny the truth of his words, because he was gentle; because he was unlike the clansmen, unlike the concubines, unlike Teresa herself.
"Every man and woman has a hidden heart. Or two." She heard the shiver of strings, a light, a fleeting melody, and turned abruptly. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by the shrine; she had brought no lamp with her, and thought that, this eve, no lamp might be lit; the fires below were brilliant.
"This is not the Fount of Contemplation."
"No," she replied, twisting the ring upon her finger, staring at his barely seen face.
He sat lightly upon the Lady's altar. It was a shock, to see him sit so; she felt the stiffness of her widened eyes before she could control the expression. Or before she remembered that she did not need to; the Lady defended herself, and the Lady's lands were not the Northern lands, the Lady's followers, not the Imperial lords who were demon-ruled and glad of it.
"Did you do this?" he asked her. When she returned silence, he gestured broadly toward the lake itself. The sounds of merriment drifted toward them, carried by the breeze, the gentle face of the wind. "Did you… influence the Leonne clan in its decision, the kai in his choice?"
It was never safe to say all. Never. But to lie to a man who could hear the lie clearly in her voice, no matter how she might disguise it with clever, pretty words? "Yes."
"Serra, why?"
How can you ask me that? she thought, but she could not give voice to the question. Oddly, she felt betrayed. And then ashamed. These things followed each other quickly, naturally, stumbling together into a single, wordless whole. In the darkness of the Lady's night, she knew that she wanted to be understood by someone who did not hate her, envy her, fear her. Someone who was not Sendari.
Someone to whom she did not have to give understanding in return. Lady, she thought, are we all to be such children, always such children, at heart?
"I gave my word," she said quietly, "To the Serra Diora's mother."
"I had heard that the Serra Diora's mother died in childbirth."
"Yes. Died." Her head fell a moment, a sharp dip of motion; she held out both hands, palms up, before her face in the darkness. "But she knew that the child was coming. And she knew that the child was a daughter."
"Who was she, Serra Teresa? Who was Diora's mother? I hear of her in every word you speak, and yet you have never named her." He paused, and then added, "I see her shadow in the face of the Serra Diora's father; I see that shadow fall between you, in a land where the only ties that count are blood ties."
The Serra Teresa laughed, a bitter, silent laugh—as ungraceful, as ungracious, as she had yet been. "The only ties that count?" She lifted her hand then, unfettered by the ties that he had so carefully invoked, and as the mage-fires flared above the lake below in an incandescent display of color and pageantry, the emerald that Alora had given her—a stone gained by dint of plea and subtle misdirection from the man who was her husband—caught light, held it, fractured it.
"An oath ring," Kallandras said softly.
"And what do you know of oath rings? What do you know of the oaths that bind them, you who walk unhindered in any land you pass through? You have your voice, you have your training, you have your own name—"
She stopped; he had not moved a muscle; not spoken a word. But he lifted his hand, and she had seen just that gesture once before—it was a gesture that a decade did not erase from memory; rather, it sharpened and heightened. A ring lay there, clearer than diamond, and harder and wilder.
"No oath bound that ring to your finger," she said, when she could find her voice.
"The breaking of oaths bound it there," he said coldly. "And to truly break an oath, one must first make the oath."
Humbled, she lowered her hand; he held his aloft a fraction of a second longer, as if a strong wind pushed against his palm and then subsided. "It is an oath ring," she told him. "But not of a kind that is common in the Dominion. Oath rings are plain, a simple band, sometimes less—the twining of hair, the weave of silk knots. Those who wear oath rings—they are the Serras and wives of the clansmen.
"In the North, you speak of love, and even in the South, we hear it sung. We dream, as girls, that love will come and take us, treasure us, make of us women who can rise above the lives the Lord has decreed."
"There is the Lady," Kallandras said softly, so softly that, were she not cursed, she would not have heard.
"Yes. The Lady." She turned from him, her face a face now, not the mask that came so naturally to her.
"I was not his Serra. I was not his wife. I had no part to play in his harem." Her hands fell to her sides; she stood a moment, stiff, head bent, the weight of memory preventing all movement. "I had no part to play in any harem; I was too old to be a child in my father's harem, and too much of an asset to my brother to be granted a life of my own. You know this."
"Yes."
"I went to Sendari a year after his marriage. Adano— our kai, our much respected kai—sent me." The bitterness was now beneath the surface of her words; her words were like glass, smooth and hard and slippery. But they were as transparent, to Kallandras, as the globes of the lamp upon the waters.
He rose; she did not see his movement or did not care.
"Adano wanted Sendari to take the Widan's test. To face the Sword of Knowledge. He had spoken with Sendari about it. Spoken harsh words, in the end; Sendari would not be moved, although he loved—and loves—our kai much.
"Sendari knew, when he saw me, that I carried the word of the Tor'agar. He knew that I was sent because of my gift; knew, the instant I stepped from the palanquin, that I was Adano's threat; the only threat he would offer."
The ring was green in the darkness; green and blue. The color of water, the color of life.
"He was pale; I remember that. I was no happier."
She waited for some sort of comment, some condemnation—something to speak after or to speak against. He gave her his music instead. It was almost enough, but she waited a moment longer. "You are a Serra; he is par. You understood your roles."
"Yes. But understanding is not forgiveness, and neither Sendari nor I forgive much.
"He could not send me back without disobeying the Tor'agar—a slap in the face which he knew would force Adano to respond. But he could not allow me to speak with him alone."
"And you would not do this thing before witnesses?"
"No." There was scorn in the word; it left her voice as she remembered that she spoke not to a clansman, but to a Northern minstrel. "To do this before witnesses would be to shame Sendari in such a way that it would hurt the clan—and perhaps his chances for success in the test. They would not know the power of my voice—they would only see that he had submitted to the demands and the desires of a woman, a mere sister, in plain view of the Lord.
"He ordered his cerdan to have me placed, immediately, within the small harem that his Serra had gathered.
"It was his right. As brother, he had—and has— precedence." She raised her hand again, lifted it as if to touch the hand of a person just beyond reach. The tips of her fingers stretched out into darkness and fell. "I don't know if he thought it would be punishment to me. I don't know if he thought of me at all, or of Adano and Adano's anger. He is canny, and when he is absolutely controlled, I hear only hints of his feelings in the words that he covers them with.
"So I entered his harem.
"Had I been with the Tor'agar, nothing would have happened. Adano's palace is large, and the rooms within his personal quarters plentiful. I had very little to do with Adano's Serra, his wives, or his children. My rooms there were separate; I had cerdan to guard me, and serafs to serve me, and samisen and harp for company. I was occasionally asked to play for his guests, when his guests were those he did not trust; I was asked to play for his guests when he wished their influence to favor him.
"I was sent to tell Sendari to take the test.
"But as I said, I had no opportunity.
"What I did not realize was that I would have little privacy either. I had no separate rooms; I slept in the hall where his wives slept; I was given the silks that they were given; I was expected to eat when they ate, and to sleep when they slept. I was not expected to entertain my brother's guests in the more earthy fashions, but in all else, I was subsumed by the harem itself, under another woman's rule."
"I cannot imagine," Kallandras said dryly, "that anyone could rule you, be he man or woman."
"You have not lived in the South for long enough."
"No?"
"Have you?"
He offered no answer. She spoke. "I was angry, at first. Angry at Adano, for sending me to force from my brother what he would barely let me force from his horses; angry at Sendari for refusing to follow what seemed at that time to be the only reasonable path; angry at myself, for not realizing immediately that Sendari would neutralize me in whatever fashion he could without bringing harm to our brother's clan. To our clan. Because I was not a young girl, then. I was a woman."
"You are not old now."
She was not in the mood to be flattered by him, although she heard the truth in his voice. "But I found myself liking his wives—the concubines. The Serra herself, I did not meet for the first five days.
"Alana, in particular, I found appealing; she was like one of my father's wives. Not the Serra—not my mother; she was far too perfect. Alana was graceful, yes, and lovely, but she was plump and if she suffered in this life—and she did—it ground the edges from her, rather than sharpening them.
"She knew that I was trapped in the harem, although she didn't understand why, and she knew that I was… a stranger. To all harems. I had no sister-wives. She made hesitant overtures, peace offerings in the name of her husband. And I refused them, politely, every one."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't, now. Can you tell me that you understand the motivation for your every petty deed long after the motive has died?"
"Yes."
"I am not so… unlucky. I remember that I was not as… graceful as I could have been." She bowed her head; the seraf's hood dappled her forehead in soft folds as she seemed to retreat into it.
"But it changed when I saw her."
The shift in her voice came as no surprise to Kallandras; he listened, because he had been trained to listen, and because it was easier than speech. Even Salla lay silent in his lap; he could not trust himself to touch her strings. The Serra Teresa's loss was loss, and it reminded him, always, of his own. She was so very near to it now.
"She was beautiful, Kallandras, to me and to Sendari— but she wasn't beautiful in the classical sense. I am, and I was. Not Alora." There was no false modesty and no pride at all in the words that she spoke. There was distance, but not from him. "Her eyes were dark and large, but not round enough; her chin was too square, her lips too full, her face was wide. But these things together, in her face—they were melody and perfect harmony. She was short. I remember that she was short; I thought— I remember thinking—that Sendari's vanity must have forced him to search hard to find a woman who would, by comparison, make him seem so much the clansman in stature. It was not a kind thought, but we were not kind to each other, my brother and I.
"She said, 'You must be the Serra Teresa.' "
"I said, 'You must be the Serra Alora. I've heard… much about you.' "
"And she said, 'And I've heard that you were born with a gift that you hope to wield against my husband.' Just that." She shook her head, seeing the past, Kallandras thought, more clearly than she saw the celebrations beneath them both. "He told her."
; "She was his wife," Kallandras said and for the first time, understood what Alora di'Marano must have meant to Sendari.
"Yes. But not Adano's. Not mine. And while I watched this woman who was no part of me, she spoke again."
Alora said, "I have asked my husband not to take this test of his, this test of the Sword. I have no need of such proof of his power, and I will not take the risk. I wish children, his children, and I wish my wives; I have no other needs. If you have come here at his kai's insistence, then speak to me, Serra, because if you ask him, if you tell him, he will refuse you."
"And you rule Sendari? He obeys your commands?" "We rule each other, although I don't expect you to understand that." Her eyes were like black lightning in a sun-browned sky. "I don't expect any of the Marano clan to understand Sendari. They never have before." She turned and then turned back, always in motion, flickering like fire, or like cloth turned by wind. "But I understand him.
"He's given me his word, Serra Teresa, that he will not take this test."
"If you know of my gift and my curse, you know that his word won't matter."
"No, Serra, I don't know that. You think you do. We are willing to test this, this eve. If you can break him, he will do as his kai demands; if you cannot, you will leave, and he will no longer live under your threat."
"You are… bold for a Serra."
"And the desert fox is bold when he defends his mate."
Silence, then. The Serra Teresa di'Marano watched the Serra Alora en'Marano, wondering how it was that Sendari had managed to find this woman, how it was that she had managed to survive the courtship, how it was that the Lady had offered the solitary younger brother a companion whose love she would have heard in every word even had she not been born to the voice.
"You mean this," she said because she felt she must say something.
"Yes."
"How did he find you, Serra Alora?"
"Ask, rather, how did I find your brother? There is little love between you, or you would see him clearly."
"There is too much love between you, or you would."
"And whose sight, whose vision, is preferable?"