by sun sword
Alesso shrugged. "I thought, old friend. But I intended to take the risk; I did not see a reason to argue about it." The darkness hid the General's face, but it did not hide the anger beneath the facade of civilized words. Failure. Complete failure.
Sendari swallowed the words that he wished to speak. He knew what the response would be, and the time for argument had passed. He understood why Alesso di'Marente thought it worth the risk to ask—again—for the intervention of the Lords of that Court. He could not wield the Sun Sword while Valedan lived.
And perhaps, although Sendari would never speak the thought aloud, he might never be able to wield it. For both Marente and Marano sought power by means that were forbidden the clans when Leonne cast down the Allasakari, burning in a brilliant light the last of the shadows the Lord of Night had cast upon the land.
"It is a sword," he said softly.
"Old friend," Alesso said, giving warning, "it is the sword. You chose the Widan's path, and while you understand much, you do not understand all. The clansmen will see the Sun Sword in the swordhaven, and not in my grasp. Their whispered doubts will be carried by the wind across the Dominion." He rose. "Men of honor will follow me because they have no one else to follow.
"But they will know that I am not the Lord's Chosen. And they will know it until the last of the Leonne heirs is dead, and the Sun Sword is finally free to seek a new—a stronger—master."
Sendari shrugged. "We were prepared for this." I thought we were, he added silently. "But we are not prepared for the intervention of the Northerners."
"And it may be that we can avoid such intervention." Alesso stood. "I have sent for the Captain of the Tyran. I believe that it will be clear whose overzealous orders caused the deaths of the Imperial hostages." He rose. "I will give the orders," he added. Sendari thought he caught a flash of teeth in the darkness. "And I will be glad to be rid of him."
"When?"
"We will send riders in haste." He paused. "Sendari, do you think that we might borrow the services of the Serra Teresa? I will send my Tyran as her personal escort."
Sendari's smile was sharp and cold. "I'm afraid," he said, "that you will have to make that request of Adano. He is the kai." The Widan lifted the waters of the Tor as if to drink them; he froze there a moment, staring. "He will not leave Lamberto," Sendari said. "And I do not believe that it would be wise to send a rider to him."
"Granted." The General rose, displeased.
Sendari was also displeased. He did not rise.
Only when Alesso retreated into the shadows of the Lady's night did Sendari accept the fact that they had not discussed the disposition of his daughter.
Serra Teresa di'Marano sat quietly in the heat of the midday sun, a pearl-handled fan—the gift of a Northern poet—delicately closed in her lap. Silk the color of sunlight on water fell artfully down the gentle slope of that lap, and as she lifted the fan, it cast a half-circle shadow.
Serra Fiona en'Marano sat beside the older woman, self-consciously arranging—and rearranging—the fall of delicate, dark curls. She had chosen to wear a sari of dark, rich colors, and gold trailed the curves of her neck and the swell of her breasts. She was younger than Serra Teresa, and in her prime; she was, of the two, more delicate in feature and figure, and she was aware of the fact that the sun had not yet etched its lines in the contours of her face.
But Serra Teresa made her feel much younger than her age, which was awkward. It would also be enraging— although of course there would be no outward sign of that particular feeling—but she could not be certain that the Serra did not have this effect by mere presence alone, rather than by intent.
And why, Fiona thought with displeasure, should she feel awkward? She was, after all, Sendari's Serra, and the Serra Teresa a mere sister who had never, in the end, been deemed suitable by any of the clansmen who were in a position to make the offer for her.
"Ah, look, Fiona," Serra Teresa said, drawing the younger woman's attention.
The Pavilion of Restful Repose was situated beneath the growth of aged trees, and at its proper time, the trees cast full shade upon those who sought it. But the women were granted its use during the late hour of the day, when the sun had passed the point where the trees' greenery provided complete cover. They had not petitioned for its use because of the natural shade, however much they might notice the late noon lack; the Pavilion of Restful Repose was also situated on a rise which overlooked the main road that led to the waters of the Tor Leonne—and to the men who ruled it. From this vantage, one could command a clear view of the dignitaries who came to the Festival without being too forward or vulgar in self-display.
Fiona cast a quick glance to her left, but she could not see Serra Diora, and did not know whether that young woman had also been prompted by Serra Teresa. Serra Diora played the Northern harp very gently when the breeze was strong enough to keep the notes from carrying too loudly to the ears of the men who walked—or rode— below.
The serafs filled their goblets; the breezes were cool enough this day that they need not lift and wave their heavy fans in poor mimicry of the gentle wind. But they were quiet, to a man, and graceful. Only Diora chose not to have a seraf present—although, Fiona thought, that was the correct choice; as a wife returned to her father's clan, she had no serafs but those that he chose to lend her.
Of course Sendari chose to be far too liberal, but Diora did not seek to take advantage of his almost embarrassing affection, and for this one thing, Fiona was grateful. She wondered if Diora knew who her husband-to-be was. With Diora it was so hard to tell. Although the women in Sendari's harem were fond of the girl—and truly treated her like the only valuable child in the ensemble, much to Fiona's annoyance—Diora herself was not very open, not even when the curtains were drawn and no men were listening or watching.
Or perhaps, Fiona thought, without too much resentment, she is only shuttered to me. She found herself rearranging the hair at the nape of her neck yet again and forced her hands down as the banner of the clan Lorenza came fully into view. Although many of the members of clan Lorenza chose to wear the colors and the crest of their birth, only one man was allowed the legal unfurling of banners in the Tor Leonne; Fiona knew at once that the Tyr'agnate—what was his name? Ah, yes, Jarrani kai di'Lorenza—was present.
At the head of the procession were Tyran, four abreast. They rode, and they rode stallions that seemed built more for raiding than riding, but the horses themselves seemed, if not friendly, then at least well-controlled by their riders. They were of a color—a deep brown with black boots and mane—and Fiona suspected that these colors were not natural.
Behind the horsed Tyran walked two rows of eight men abreast; they carried swords and shields, and wore helms that gleamed in the mid-afternoon sun. They walked in step, and their colors were perfectly clean, without even the patina of dust from the road to mar their presentation. Behind these men came cerdan, and the cerdan bore palanquins with drawn curtains. No doubt, the Serra Maria en'Lorenza and her retinue. The Tyr'agnate's wife had died several years past, and he had never seen fit to marry again, although he was still surrounded by the comforts of his harem. No, this woman was the wife of Ser Hectore kai di'Lorenza—the man who would, in scant years, if Fiona was any judge of character—be Tyr'agnate. Hectore was a pleasant sight; a handsome man, with broad shoulders and an easy, obvious command of both men and beasts. His hair was dark, and his eyes darker; he had his father's height, but he used it to its full advantage. That was a man of the clans. Fiona craned forward slightly as the procession continued, searching for sight of him.
Yes. There he was, at his father's sword arm, his horse reined in so that there was half a body length between father and son. He had not changed at all since the last time she'd seen him—although distance often corrected the less capricious passages of time—and she took a half breath in spite of herself, feeling a certain envy for Serra Maria en'Lorenza. Then, aware that Teresa might certainly hear—and interpret—t
hat sound, she glanced away to the man who theoretically held the power of the Terrean of Oerta.
The Tyr'agnate was an older man—too old, in Fiona's opinion, to be Tyr, although he indeed retained the title and its privilege, but too strong to give in to death. His hair was a pale gray with hints of the color it had once been, and although she could not see his eyes, she knew that they were green. It was one of the striking things about him.
He rode with dignity and some bearing, but his gaze wandered from side to side, almost as if he were seeking something. It was said that he was doddering and suggestible. There was, in Fiona's view, no truth to the former accusation; the latter was left open. What was not, and had never been, in doubt was the extreme pride and affection that he felt for his sons. All men knew that sons were necessary, but between father and son there was sometimes an older man's envy—and caution—of another man's youthful prowess, and a younger man's impatience with the hard-won wisdom of years, and his desire for power stripped of those limitations. Hectore had been very much the younger man of that dangerous combination, but Jarrani had never been the older.
To the Tyr'agnate's left was a younger man, with a perfect chin, a sharp eye, and hair the color of a cloudy night. He did not wear hat or helm, which was foolish, and he sat astride his great mount with a particular stiffness. But Alef di'Lorenza could do very little that deprived him of the graceful presence and beauty that he had been born to. In fact, with the exception of Ser Mauro di'Garrardi, there was no more beautiful man in the courts of the clans.
But where Mauro was carefully neutral toward his cousin, the Tyr'agnate, Alef was devoted. Hectore had the ability to bind, with loyalty, the clansmen around him. Alef proved himself to be no exception.
As she studied the lines of his face, the center of the procession stopped, horses awkwardly held back by the reins of the Tyr'agnate. Fiona froze as those green eyes looked up the slope. They skirted her shaded face, her perfect hair, and fell upon the woman who sat at her side.
"What, is that Na'tere I see?" His full, deep voice carried against the wind.
Serra Teresa laughed, and the laughter was almost song, it sounded so right. She lifted her hand, and the sweep of colored silk that was one of many forms of modesty a woman might choose caught the light as she brought it to cover her mouth and chin.
The Tyr'agnate spoke a word or two to his kai; Hectore frowned but made no reply. Satisfied, although Fiona privately thought the son somewhat ill-mannered in his coolness, the older man shouted ahead to the Tyran; the force of his voice carried the command. They stopped at once, in a near-even line, and Fiona realized that only a very foolish man or woman could believe all that was said about this man's supposed dotage. What, she thought, did he want with Serra Teresa?
She dared a sideways glance at the Serra Teresa; the older woman's lips were turned up in a half-smile that spoke of a shared past. It was a brief smile, and Fiona was not certain that it reached her eyes. With Teresa, it was hard to tell; her face was the most expressive mask that Fiona had ever seen. And Fiona was herself no ill-trained concubine.
"Na'tere," the Tyr' agnate said, his voice still booming as his strides cut the distance between them.
She waited calmly, and then turned and whispered a word, behind the scant protection of her pretty fan, to the girl who sat to her left. Serra Diora di'Marano began to play. Fiona had thought, until the sound of the notes filled the air with a resonant clarity, that Diora had been playing all afternoon—but the sound that came from the harp now was no mere idle pleasantry, no waft of notes carried, airborne, by careless breeze. There was will behind it, and heart, and a turn of string's phrase that only a master could have executed so eloquently.
Even the Tyr'agnate seemed surprised by the quality of the wordless song that she played. He froze completely when she began to sing.
Fiona froze as well; she was certain, as she listened, that the winds themselves halted their passage a moment. Why, she thought, has Sendari never commanded his daughter to sing for us? For any of his guests? Pique—at the fact that it was Teresa, and not Fiona, under whose guidance the girl now lived—rose and asserted its dominant place, breaking the sweet quality of the younger woman's spell.
But upon the face of Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza there was no such pique; nothing rose to replace the quiet hush the wake of the young Serra's song left.
He was a man, but even so, Fiona thought she caught a glimmering at the edges of his eyes. For a moment, he looked his age; his lashes, frosted white, swept down over green, bright eyes.
"The sun," the old man said, as he bowed directly to the Serra Teresa, "is in my eyes."
"And so," the Serra replied, "you will tell me that I have not aged at all; that the wind has worn no lines, the sun no common freckles, across my skin; that I am all that you remember."
Fiona was surprised; the older man, less so. His laughter started the wind again as noise returned to the hill.
"You are," Ser Jarrani said, "more than I remember. My memory holds no such vibrancy—and no such ready wit." He bowed again. "But please, if you find my request not too bold, I would be honored by an introduction to the two ladies who wait so perfectly to either side."
"You are always bold," the Serra replied, "but we would be disappointed with less, because you are first among clansmen."
He laughed again, well-pleased.
"This, Tyr'agnate, is the Serra Fiona en'Marano. She graces Widan Sendari di'Marano's harem—and his life— with her perfect companionship."
Serra Fiona blushed perfectly and bowed her head, aware as she did that her hair caught the edges of sunlight and gleamed a moment like living silk. Aware also that his interest in her was perfunctory at best, but not annoyed by it. Too great an interest would be an insult to a married woman's husband.
"And this," Serra Teresa said, turning her fan, her gaze, and the Tyr'agnate's attention, to her niece, "is the Serra Diora di'Marano."
Jarrani raised a peppered brow a moment, and then it fell as his eyes narrowed. He had never developed a courtly mask. "Di'Marano?" he asked.
"Di'Marano."
The clansman bowed to Diora, and held that bow a fraction of a second longer than politeness or rank—for she had no true rank—demanded. "It has been many a year," he told her, attempting the smile of a paternal relative, "and you were not so tall, so fair, or so strong of voice then. I did not recognize you.
"But now I understand why you—"
The Serra Teresa's perfect smile froze in place a moment; the half-sentence hung in the air like the edge of a blade poised to strike.
He is going to refer to the dead Tyr, Fiona thought, paling completely. She averted her gaze.
"Why you are called," the Tyr'agnate continued, smoothing over awkward silence, "the Flower of the Dominion."
The Serra Diora said nothing, but lowered her head very prettily. Her fingers touched the harp's strings again.
"And I would very much be honored," the older man continued, "if, with your father's permission, I might hear the music you bring to a proper, Southern instrument. The Northern harp is pretty enough, but it does not carry the weight of our history."
"The honor," the Serra Teresa replied, very properly, "would be ours."
Ser Jarrani looked from the older woman to the younger. "Na'tere," he said at last, as Diora's wordless song opened a space for conversation, "at this moment I have two desires."
"And you will remember that you are in the company of women, with no cerdan in evidence."
Fiona felt a certain shock—or envy—at the older woman's boldness, for she was almost familiar in her term of address.
He laughed. "Could I forget, when you are among that company?" His laughter left a smile across both of their faces; genuine smiles, if momentary ones. "What was I saying before your impertinent interruption? Ah, yes, that I have two desires."
"And those?" she asked, in a most innocent tone.
"That your kai—what was his name, A
dano?"
"As you know well, Tyr'agnate. He is the Tor'agar Adano kai di'Marano, and he serves the Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto."
"Yes, that does sound familiar. In fact, it sounds like the name of the man who thrice refused the offer of a Tyr for the hand of an unmarried sister." The Tyr'agnate's smile was a grim one, if genuine. It softened slightly. "I would change that, in a moment, if I could. My first desire, Na'tere, has changed very little in the last two decades. You would be a wife worthy of the title, of the clan, and of the Terrean. Even now. Especially now."
She sat very still and said nothing at all, but her face was raised to catch both sunlight and the green light of his gaze; she flinched from neither. And then, slowly, she raised the fan in her lap until it touched the tip of her nose.
"My second desire, and a more attainable one: That your niece, the Serra Diora, might grow from being the Flower of the Dominion to the Lady of the Festival."
"Ah, Ser Jarrani, you are kind, and you flatter. To be named the Lady of the Festival is the highest honor that a woman can achieve among the clansmen. I fear that there are many, many women who will be held up as worthy of that attention."
"Yes," the Tyr'agnate said. "But when she sings, there is not a clansman alive who will not desire to have that voice raised in praise of the Lord of the Sun. The Lord himself must have guided me to this hillock and this meeting. It is his will."
"It is the will," Serra Teresa replied, "of a man of power."
"Teresa."
Serra Teresa lifted her chin and turned her face slowly to meet the gaze of the one man who was allowed to enter, unannounced, into the heart of her chambers.
"Sendari."
"I do not know what game you are playing, but you will cease at once."
"As you command," she replied smoothly.
Giving, as usual, nothing.
Sendari was weary and angry and aware that neither of these two could directly be laid at Teresa's lap. Alesso, he had chosen to avoid for the day; they were uneasy with the unspoken, and unable to put into words the difficulties that were growing between them. Or so he felt.