by sun sword
They met in the Pavilion of the Dawn.
Sera Diora left her attendants and the men that guarded her, and although she moved gracefully, even regally, with no sign of undue haste, she reached the side of her aunt in a moment.
She wore azure, and Serra Teresa silver and while, and as they embraced briefly, the colors of their two silk saris blended together in a perfect harmony that the Tor Leonne had not seen for almost ten days. Attendants and guards studiously turned their glances aside, but not before seeing the most beautiful woman in the world show a brief glimpse of the child she might once have been to the open skies.
Serra Teresa took her brother's daughter gently aside as the serafs made haste to arrange the firm mats and colored pillows that they were to sit among.
"Ramdan," she said quietly. "Bring the samisen."
The seraf so addressed was the oldest of all men present; his hair was a white crown with hints of the gray that might once have been black. But his eyes were clear, and his back unbent; he moved slowly but as if age were a mantle of dignity, not a weakness.
"Sendari says that you will be my companion," the Serra told her niece, "until the Festival of the Sun."
Diora sat, folding her legs delicately beneath her and taking great care to spread the folds of the sari so that it might remain free of wrinkles. She nodded, wordless, and Serra Teresa rewarded her with a smile.
Ramdan placed the long, slender samisen into his Serra's hands and stepped aside, falling away like a shadow from the brilliance of the two women who sat in perfect repose on this warm summer day. Serra Teresa gazed a moment at the strings and then touched them gently, pulling a quiver, but not a full note, from the movement.
"Do you still play?" she asked her niece.
They both knew the answer, but Diora smiled. "Yes, Ona Teresa."
"And would you play for me? The day has been quite long, and the week harsh, and I do not recall another's touch as sure as yours, or another's voice as pleasing."
Diora's blush was a pleasant fan of color. She was, in all things, Serra Teresa's most apt pupil.
"Ser Artana sends his regards to his sister."
"And his sister," Diora replied quite coolly, "returns his regards." Her fingers brushed the strings beneath her hands.
"Na'dio," Serra Teresa said, using a voice that only her niece might hear, "you think that things will never change between you. But he is your family, and you are both young."
"Yes, Ona Teresa," Diora replied dutifully. But there was an edge to the words, fine and sharp, that only those with great familiarity might note. As if to acknowledge this, Diora spoke again. "He did not come to the Tor Leonne with my father."
"No."
"I should have known, then." Her voice was soft and pleasant, her face, quiet and placid. "How could the Widan Sendari travel to the Tor Leonne for the Festival of the Sun without his kai—unless he thought the risk to the family too great?"
"Diora."
Silence. The samisen answered for her.
But Serra Teresa frowned as she watched her niece's fingers in their play across the strings. "Diora, what do you wear?"
Music. The refrain to a hymn of a clan long dead in the Tyr'agnate wars.
"Diora." The word, sharper now, where Serra Teresa was never publicly sharp.
The Tyr'agnate wars replied; the clouds parted; the breeze carried the warmth of the summer day, the smell of lilac.
"Diora."
"Rings," the younger woman whispered, fighting the compulsion without any sign of the struggle. "Three."
Serra Teresa stared at her brother's daughter for a long moment, and then she smiled, but the smile was laden with sorrow. "You are your mother's daughter," she said softly. "Those rings—they are oath rings."
The strings stilled as Diora laid shaking hands against them. She turned to her aunt, her eyes unblinking, her face still delicately smooth in its lack of anger, its lack of sorrow.
Training, Serra Teresa thought, warred often with youth.
"They are oath rings," the younger woman said, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin before she gave with dignity the information she knew Serra Teresa could compel. She touched the first ring, a plain band with intricate knotwork etched across its length. "This is Faida's." The next, silver, where the first had been gold, caught light as she lifted it; it was free of design, but set into the band, where they might not catch at cloth and hair, were two small stones, one sapphire and one night-heart. "This is Deirdre's." And the last, jade, a tiny ring with no marking and no stone. "This is Ruatha's."
"And the matching rings?"
"They lie buried beneath the dirt in a mound outside the Tor Leonne where any seraf can walk with impunity." She paused. "I heard rumors that serafs had, indeed, begun digging."
On another day, Serra Teresa would give a lecture on a true Serra's ability to rise above common rumor and gossip. "What oaths, Diora?" Serra Teresa whispered. "What oaths did you swear?"
Diora lifted a hand; three rings caught the light and sent it scattering as if it were dangerous. "They were private oaths, Serra; I took a vow upon it. I will not allow you to force me to break that vow." She turned her unblinking, defiant gaze upon the most dangerous woman in Annagar, and she waited.
Quiet reigned beneath the open sky. Then, gently, Serra Teresa took the samisen from her niece's lap. "Na'dio," she said, as she began to play the Water's song, "do not wear the rings upon your fingers."
Diora did not reply, but she folded her hands delicately in her lap.
"If you will allow me, we might make a chain for them, and if not a chain, we might braid them into your hair. But they are not fit for your station."
"I have no station."
"You are the daughter of Widan Sendari par di'Marano— and if he has his way, my dear, you will be Serra Diora Maria di'Sendari."
The birth of a clan. Diora understood all then.
Serra Teresa caught Diora's hands, unsettling the samisen to do so.
But Diora was stone. She had to be.
"It is not a woman's world, Diora. Do not seek to play a man's game in it."
"Yes, Ona Teresa."
A lone Serra sat unattended in the Pavilion of the Dawn beneath a sky of dusk and coming shadow. If serafs attended her at all, they were hidden in the confines of the pavilion, that they might not be an unnecessary distraction. The woman's dark hair caught the fading sun's light, as did the sheen of her silks. Her hands were smooth and unadorned—almost a child's, they seemed so soft and perfect.
Yet it was not the sight of her which had drawn General Alesso from his steps across the breadth of the Tor Leonne; no, it was the song which she pulled from the mournful strings of the samisen that lay perfectly balanced in her lap. Such a voice as she sang with, Alesso had never heard, and he felt, with each word, each syllable, that he was the gong being struck, and struck again.
The serafs at his back knelt noisily against the grass and dirt, bowing their heads at the heels of his boots. They even started to speak, to ask him what he desired, but they were well-enough trained to fall silent immediately at his gesture—which was good as he did not feel the desire to replace them.
Minutes he stood thus, listening, straining in dusk's light to see enough of the young woman's face to know her. Then, at last, he turned to the serafs who groveled beneath him. "That Serra," he asked softly, "who is she?"
Silence, and then a young woman raised her forehead. "It is—it is the Serra Diora en—di'Marano." She swallowed, but the General had already returned to his contemplation of the sweetest song in the Tor—perhaps in the Dominion itself.
When at last—almost an hour later—the music faded for the final time, the stars were gathered brightly above in a deep, clear sky.
So it was that General Alesso heard for the first time the song of Serra Diora, and he came away with a profound and uneasy understanding of why she was called the Flower of the Dominion. He did not speak of her song, but he did not forge
t it. He would never forget it.
The Widan Sendari rose to greet Serra Teresa, leaving behind his serafs, his attendant wife, and his work.
"Serra Teresa," he said, catching both of her hands in his and pressing them tightly. "It was good of you to come so quickly at my summons."
Serra Teresa curtsied deeply and perfectly, bending at the knees as if this simple movement were an art. "Our brother has graciously allowed me to pass from the capital to aid you in a most trying time."
"He has, has he?" The Widan's bark of laughter was short and sharp. "Ah, well. Adano will have Marano; he is kai, after all; I am par. Will he have you, Serra Teresa?"
"That is a matter," Serra Teresa replied quietly and meekly, "for the Sers of the clan to decide. I will, of course, abide by their decision."
"Of course." Sendari's face darkened a moment. "Fiona, take the serafs and leave us for a moment. I will join you in your chambers."
The young wife made haste to bow, not so much out of fear for her husband's displeasure, but out of fear for Serra Teresa's disapproval. For Serra Teresa embodied the art of the feminine graces, enough so that she recognized instantly where they were lacking.
Serra Teresa stood in compliant silence while the room was made, by each departure, a more secluded, a more private, space. Food and wine were left behind by the serafs who were most accustomed to dealing with the Widan's requests, but the screens were pulled fast, and oils were left in full lamps, in case the darkness came unexpectedly upon the two.
"Sit, Teresa," Sendari said. "Sit and tell me the news."
"As I said, Adano was willing to part with me for the moment. But he was only barely willing; things have become… difficult." She paused, then reached out for the delicate stem of a silver goblet. "Sendari?"
"Not for the moment, Teresa. What do you mean, difficult?"
She took a breath, and let it out at once. "News has traveled, Sendari. If you will forgive me, I must be blunt. Tyr' agnate Mareo kai di'Lamberto will not be attending the Festival of the Sun, as previously planned. Nor, I believe, will Tyr'agnate Ramiro kai di'Callesta."
"They must have been turned back on the roads," the Widan said softly.
"They were, as you know, already in transit with most of their court. Turning back was difficult, and rumor has it that it was not done without some cost and some… fear." Very, very few were the Tyr'agnati, in the history of the Dominion of Annagar, who had refused the trek to the Tor Leonne—or the Tor Paravo before it—for the Festival of the Sun. Not and survived.
"Impossible."
Serra Teresa nodded her head in acquiescence to the wisdom of the Widan. "As you say, Widan Sendari."
"Teresa, do not play these games with me. Not now."
"Very well, Sendari—but remember, it is at your command."
His smile was bitter indeed.
"I know the truth of di'Lamberto's refusal because I was there. Both I, and Adano, had gratefully accepted the request to accompany Mareo di'Lamberto as part of his court at the Festival of the Sun. We were on the road. We turned back." She paused. "Ramiro di'Callesta is far more cunning, and it may be that he will absorb this news and seek power in the Tor Leonne—but I fear that he may well feel that power, if it is here, will be his to lose, not to gain. He was not, after all, offered prior warning."
Sendari's face went completely slack as he stared into the surface of the sweet, dark wine, seeing perhaps a reflection, perhaps a crimson spill. "We expected some news to escape," he said at last. "The slaughter of a clan—even one so small and self-contained as Leonne— does not pass without comment."
"It is not just news of the Tyr's death, nor even the death of his kai. It is not of the slaughter of his children, nor even the slaughter of their wives, and their children."
Widan Sendari said nothing, but when Serra Teresa wordlessly offered him the goblet again, he accepted it. "More than that," he said softly. "No one has left the grounds. No seraf, no cerdan—and no member of any of the clans. No message was delivered by magic; the Sword's Edge himself made it impossible with the aid of his allies." His eyes became cold points, and his voice was sharp but completely even. Thus did a Widan gird for battle. "What news was carried?"
"The news that the Tyran betrayed their Tyr at the behest of General Alesso."
That news. To di'Lamberto—a clan known for its love of, its loyalty to, honor. Mareo di'Lamberto was not a political creature—in fact, if he'd been a man with lesser territory and a smaller army, he might have been called a fool. He would, without thought, turn back in disgust, Festival or no. Consequences or no. "No more?"
"It was enough." She paused. "And Adano is still alive."
If Adano was alive, no mention of the treachery of clan di'Marano had passed through the Tor. Sendari rose, the lines of his face hardening further into anger. "Baredan," he said icily. "General Baredan di'Navarre."
"I believe that it was, indeed, the General," Serra Teresa said. "Of the three, he has always been the eagle."
"Where was he traveling?"
"To Averda, although that is only a guess."
"Then you do not know for certain of Ramiro's refusal?"
She did not dignify the question with a response. The moment stretched, and when it was broken, it was broken by the Widan.
"Thank you, Serra," he told her quietly. It was a dismissal, but it did not anger her; she knew where he was going—and why.
But she was Serra Teresa. "Widan," she said, as he reached the screen. He paused, unused to interruption of any sort, from anyone, be they man, woman, or seraf.
"Yes, Serra Teresa?"
"She is Alora's daughter. In every respect."
His brows gathered a moment before it became clear to him who she spoke of. Diora.
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
21st of Morel, 427 AA
Essalieyan, Avantari, the Palace of the Twin Kings
Midnight.
The moon, full, hovered above the bay with a clear and watchful eye. Sea salt was in the air, carried by a breeze both high and warm through the streets of Averalaan Aramarelas. The stars were glittering, the sky clear; there was no sign of thunderstorm across the perfect horizon.
Yet it was the lightning strike that woke Valedan di'Leonne as he lay sleeping in the open spaces of the Arannan Halls. Something heavy fell across his legs and convulsed there, writhing. A man.
A dead man.
He woke with a cry, or he would have—the shock was so complete he could force no breath from his lips. Instead, he threw himself off his sleeping cushions, pulling his legs and thighs out from beneath whatever— whoever—it was that had fallen so heavily.
"Valedan," a voice said in the darkness. "Do not move."
He didn't recognize the speaker, and he could not have said why, later, he felt compelled to obey her—but he did as she commanded, locking his knees rigidly to stop their shaking. A ring of pale orange light, an inch wider than his feet on all sides, appeared across the ground.
Fire consumed the cushions that had been his sleep's comfort for the last eight months as the dead man rose, limned in red, red light.
Valedan found his voice.
The creature's lidless eyes flickered over Valedan a moment as the young man stood frozen ten feet away. But when he spoke, it was not to the boy. It was to the shadows.
"Do not interfere in what is not your concern, and you may be spared."
"And are the half-named kin to decide what is, and what is not, my concern?"
Fire flared, the heat almost scorching. Valedan crossed his forearms in front of his face as the intensity almost forced him back. But he did not move. He did not lift his feet. Because he knew, without knowing how, that to lift his feet was to die here, consumed by flames as hot as, or hotter than this. Having seen the cushions, he had no illusions whatever about how long he would last.
"You know the kin," the creature said, as the last of its human seeming melted away. Great wings unfurled, unco
mfortable beneath the ten-foot ceilings; long, obsidian arms glittered in the unnatural light of fire. Horns, black as pitch, and pale, long teeth filled out the contours of its face. The creature gestured for light, and it came; the room was harshly illuminated.
"Yes." Bereft of shadows, a small figure in robes the color of midnight nodded her hooded head.
"Then know this. You will not be killed by half-named kin. Be honored."
The woman lifted her hands to her face and pulled the folds of her hood down. Her hair was dark, and her skin very pale; her eyes were an unnatural shade that glittered no less dangerously than the demon's teeth. "I will not," she said gravely, "do you the honor of dying. Please forgive my manners."
Almost casually, the creature bent down and lifted a slab of rock with one crooked talon. Shattered bits of stone scattered across the floor as he gingerly balanced it a moment in the flat of his hand. It was half a good man's height and width.
Lightning struck again, and this time Valedan could see the source of it clearly: the hands of the robed woman. He began to murmur a prayer to the Lady; it was the Lord's time soon, but it did no harm to whisper Her name in the darkness. Valedan had no more time to react; the stone shattered, as if it were glass or crystal. Sharp shards of rock flew in all directions.
Not a single one of them hit.
"Very good," the creature said, its voice growing deeper and heavier by the word. "If I had the time to play, little human, I would take it. But duty calls." He turned, pivoting neatly on feet that should have been far too large for such a delicate maneuver, and sent a stream of liquid fire from his fingertips.
To Valedan.
Lady, he thought, numb.
But the fire split, passing around him in a narrow, narrow circle—a circle that gleamed momentarily orange in the bright light. Where the fire struck rock, rock melted. Valedan had never seen such a working as this, although he had met mages and the barely remembered Widan in his time.
The woman was chanting softly.
"I am impressed."
"It's easy to impress a demon," another voice said, coming out of nowhere. "They're such arrogant creatures they expect so little."