by sun sword
To come, from the day's contemplation and study, to the side of his wife; to hear from her stilted but genuine praise of his daughter's voice—a voice which, she said, in her least pleasing tones, could have served the Widan's cause, had it been but made known—was difficult enough. To forbid Fiona to speak further of it, for his own peace, had been grating.
But to hear—after forbidding further speech—that the Tyr'agnate Jarrani kai di'Lorenza believed that he had the right to propose that his daughter, his Diora, be put up on a platform with some ridiculous title, so that the whole of the clans might see and hear her—that had been far, far worse. He had slept alone that night, and had barely managed to contain his anger. He still had no desire to be confronted with the presence of his disobedient wife.
"Teresa," he said, the single word sharp enough to be a curse.
"Sendari?"
"What occurred yesterday afternoon?"
"Ser Jarrani was riding with his Tyran and his family; he happened upon us while we were making use of the Pavilion of Restful Repose."
"And that is all?"
"He heard Diora singing," she continued, and he knew that she knew what Fiona had said. "And he felt that she would be the perfect Lady of the Sun."
"And he said this to you, rather than to me?"
"The choice," was her grave reply, "is not yours alone to make, Sendari. You know as well as I that there will be a Lady of the Festival; you know, as well as I, that it is a singular honor to be so chosen—and you know, better than I, that this Festival, more than any other, the choice that is made, the Lady who is presented, will be critical. There is no Tyr," Teresa said. What she did not say loomed large between them: that the choosing of the woman, the unmarried woman, who would bear the title and the privilege of the Lady of the Sun, was—had been—the prerogative of the Tyr'agar.
"There will be no Sun Sword," the Serra continued, although the set expression of Sendari's face served as a warning. "You cannot afford to have a Festival in which there is no Lady—or worse, there is a lady who is poorly chosen, whether she be politically wise or no." She bowed her head to her knees. "Forgive my boldness, brother."
There was, of course, no contrition whatever in her voice.
"She will not be put on display again."
"She is the Flower of the Dominion. She is the woman that the Tyr himself chose as the worthy wife to the man who would have ruled the Dominion. She is alive; he is not. But think, the Flower of the Dominion is in blossom, and that is the implication that you might make clear: the kai of the Leonne clan was not man enough to hold her, to own her."
"Teresa."
"I will not continue, brother. You know the truth of the words I speak better than I, and I once again beg your forgiveness, if you find it in your heart to grant it, for my boldness."
Sendari felt cold, although the day was hot, even given the season.I will send her home, he thought, and then realized belatedly that home—in the Terrean of Mancorvo—was long lost. The war had already started.
"What is your game, Teresa?"
"I play no game, Sendari."
He knew the truth when he heard it; he knew that she spoke truth. And that was the trap with his lovely sister; she chose to speak as much of the truth as she could, whenever she could, and always to her own ends.
Serra Diora di'Marano sat behind the closed silk of perfectly made screens. The sun was low, the morning young; it was cool, or as cool as it would be during the daylight hours. This year, the sun's fire was hot.
The Northern harp lay, untouched, on a cushion by her lap; the samisen lay against her folded knees. Her fingers, moving in small, contained circles, touched neither. Instead, they traced a familiar path—three paths—each golden.
She spoke three names, or rather, her lips formed the syllables; she did not allow a breath to escape them.
It was hard; she realized that it would be harder still. And she pressed those circles into the flesh of her smooth, perfect palms as if they were talismans against her weakness.
She did not remember the large, friendly man who called Serra Teresa "Na'tere" with such impunity. She did not recognize anything about him but the strains of his voice, and even these were changed enough by time that they only felt familiar. Voices were always the first thing that made an impression with her; they were always the last thing that left her memory.
She liked him. She had not thought to like him.
A sound caught her attention; her hands fell at once to her lap, and rested there gracefully, as if the lap was the only proper place for a woman's hands.
"Na'dio?"
"Ona Teresa."
"Your father has requested that you do not venture out today. He… fears for the sun's heat."
"Yes, Ona Teresa."
"But, Diora, please. Remember who you are, and who you will be after this Festival's passage. Dress appropriately. If you need aid, I will send Ramdan to help you."
The younger woman nodded her acquiescence without turning to look over her shoulder. She waited a moment and then nodded quietly to herself. Only Serra Teresa could move so quietly that the screens themselves barely whispered the sound of her passage.
She chose silks the color of the evening sky, with golden fires and a white border to take away the depth of darkness. These were not the colors of the open day—not a young woman's colors—but as a woman returned to her father's clan, Diora was not in a situation for which they were acceptable.
Her hair, she left long, although with the help of Ramdan she added white flowers down the left side of her face, pinning them carefully against strands of hair stiffened for just that purpose.
A woman of the clans—an unmarried woman—did not travel without cerdan. There were no cerdan at her disposal, given her father's request.
And because she was the obedient daughter and the perfectly trained wife, she waited.
Radann Fredero kai el'Sol was a tired man, and a lonely one. His hair, this past month, had lost the black sheen of shadow that spoke of youth; gray had appeared in the darkness during which the clan Leonne had been lost to the Dominion of Annagar, and it had been growing steadily paler as the season progressed. He knew that the Radann in the ranks beneath him whispered about it when his back was turned, and tried his best not to be bothered by the words they did not speak to his face.
Because the words that were spoken were infinitely worse.
It is not right, he thought, as he bowed his head to one knee and held it there for just as long—for longer, if truth be told, than he had ever done with the Tyr Leonne, the man whose bloodline had rid the Dominion of the taint of darkness. But right or not, he bowed; it was the way of the Lord. Alesso di'Marente had strength and power; the fact that he stood, while Fredero knelt, was proof enough of that.
"In the absence of the Leonne clan, you are the voice of the Lord of the Sun." Alesso made the fact sound as flimsy and inconsequential as his actions over these last two weeks had made it. For this alone, Fredero would not forgive. He rose at the almost imperceptible, and impatient, dip of the General's chin. Permission.
"I am aware of that singular honor," the Radann replied neutrally.
"Yet you have done very little to prepare yourself for the Festival."
"You are aware, General, that the Festival of the Sun requires that the hidden devotions be performed by all of the Radann."
Alesso di'Marente shrugged.
"We have lost two men to the fires, and as passage between the Terreans has been restricted for the moment, there have been no Radann to replace them." The kai clapped his hands twice, sharply, and the temple servitors came at once to do his bidding. Here, in the Tor Leonne, the serafs did not wait upon the Radann; no slave, no indentured man, was considered fit to serve these most exalted of the Lord's servants. The servitors carried weapons, and engraved upon the hilt of each sword and dagger was the symbol of the ascendant sun, although the rays were an indistinguishable halo around the golden disk itself. Their weap
ons were sheathed, and would remain so, unless the kai el'Sol commanded otherwise. He did not, but instead nodded as the servitors lifted a decanter.
Alesso di'Marente accepted the hospitality of the Lord, taking the water that was so carefully poured into glass cut in just such a way that the light shone brilliantly through the liquid. "I am aware," he replied, his lips still glistening, "that you have had a difficult season." His tone was perfectly neutral, and his gaze was unblinking. "But I am confident that you will rise to the occasion."
Fredero waved the armed men to one side. These servitors were loyal to the Radann kai el'Sol—or at least, that was the theory. With serafs, insuring loyalty was a much easier process. But although the servitors were clansmen of little note, they were still clansmen, and they harbored ambitions. Fredero stopped himself from running a hand through his hair. He had never felt so weary.
This year, he thought, and felt the keen edge of a cold, cold wind. He wondered if it were fancy, or if the chill were a premonition—the shadow cast by the sun's light, that spoke of things not yet seen, not yet passed. His death.
And if it came to pass? Then he would face it as a servant of the Lord, and he would die on his feet. Or a lifetime of service would mean nothing, in the end; he would be sent to the whirlwind, with the rest of the weak and the undeserving.
"Which of the many things that the Festival requires brings you to us?"
"A thing of minor consequence."
Ah. Not the Sun Sword, then. "Name it."
"As you are the representatives of the Lord for this Festival season, it falls upon you to make the choice of the woman who will be the Lord's consort for the three days."
Had he been facing any man but the General Alesso di'Marente, Fredero would have been outraged. He was outraged now, but swallowed the anger, burying it before it had a chance to reach his face. No woman, no matter how politically powerful her clan was, could be considered a matter of such urgency that the kai el'Sol could be pulled from his chambers with impunity before morning contemplations had been completed.
"You have candidates whom you wish us to consider for this honor."
"Indeed."
"And they are?"
"There is only one, but she is the recommended choice of the two Tyr'agnati who have come to honor the Lord's Festival—and his commandment—by coming to the Tor Leonne this year."
"I… see." Fredero struggled to contain his anger; failed. He was well aware that General Alesso di'Marente knew, as fact, that the clan which had birthed him was no less a clan than Lamberto. Before he took the test and made the vow under the burning eyes of the Lord, he had been called Fredero par di'Lamberto; the fourth son of four steady sons. The younger brother of Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto, the only Tyr to openly rebuff the General.
He was also well aware of the fact that the General—as all the clansmen—knew full well that men of honor could serve only one master, and that master, for the Radann, was not blood but the will of the Lord. To step upon the path, to become Radann, they disavowed their birth, and the responsibilities, if not the affection, that that birth burdened them with; when they lifted sword and girded themselves again, they were el'Sol. Bound by word to the Lord himself—and to no other.
The implication was a slap in the face; worse. It called into question the honor of the vow taken.
The dark lashes that framed the General's eyes narrowed. The kai el'Sol said nothing. They stayed thus a moment, weighing, and then the General chose to speak. "The woman to be so honored is the Serra Diora di'Marano."
If he had hoped to shock, Fredero gratified him; his eyes widened involuntarily as the name sank roots in memory. Those roots did not have far to go.
The kai Leonne's delicate, perfect wife.
Widow, he corrected himself grimly.
"I trust that the recommendation will meet with your approval, and look forward to hearing from you before the sun reaches full height today."
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Widan Sendari was beside himself, although the emotion that disturbed him in the isolated chambers in which he honed and sharpened his craft was not easily named. His legs ached; he had been kneeling in the posture for almost two hours, if the sands were not thickened by the odd humidity of the day. The screens were closed and guarded from without by his most trusted cerdan; he was used to the total privacy that doors provided, but if one lived within the Tor Leonne, one could not insist upon changing the architecture on a whim, be it even a Widan's.
Flames leaped up, breaking contact with the black iron of the brazier that—barely—contained them. They shone against the floor, a passing orange glow that could, if unleashed, turn hardwood into ash in mere seconds.
He was master here. The fires fought him, but there was no contest; his hold over this element was unquestioned and unquestionable.
And always, when he sat in the quiet, partly darkened rooms in which he was master of the elements, it was the things that he could not control without doubt—the things over which his study, his speciality, his authority held little sway—which came to haunt him.
Diora.
She was ice and shadow; there lay, across her perfect, perfect face no hint of the child that she had once been. Even upon the eve of her marriage to the kai Leonne, she had shown him a glimpse of that younger self, a wisp of youth's impulsiveness and double-edged innocence.
What did it mean?
Oh, he writhed, asking the question, because he was a man to whom answers—or the getting of them—had become a force of nature, an obsessive desire. And because when he thought on it—and he attempted to dismiss it as women's affairs, things beneath his notice— he turned again to Alora. Alora's brief life. Her death. Her love.
He lifted his hands; clapped twice, guttering the flames that struggled against his command.
Where are they, Teresa?
Where are what, my brother?
The rings. She wore rings, the first night.
The first night?
Damn her. Damn Alora. Let them both flee to the winds of the afterlife, and cling together, as they once had.
The night that the clan Leonne perished.
She said something, and he realized that he was close to the edge; the desire to strike her was visceral. And he could; it was his right. But to start was to start; he did not know where the end to that drama lay.
Did not know if, truly, his anger did not lie in another decade, with another woman. Did she know his daughter as well as she had known his wife? Did Diora show her more, tell her more, let her see the vulnerability that he was certain lay somewhere beneath the facade she presented him whenever they came to be together?
He had left the Serra with her serafs; he had walked the grounds of the Tor Leonne, seeing nothing but the too-sharp sparkle of sunlight from the lake's waters, a sparkle not unlike the glint of lamplight over gold, over bands of gold, and had finally retreated to his circle of contemplation, there to immerse himself in the art which had made him a man of note and power among the clansmen.
She is her mother's daughter.
And in this room, without even serafs for company, Widan Sendari di'Marano acknowledged the fact that he was both afraid for his lovely daughter, and afraid of her, and he could not say which of the two was worse.
Fredero kai el'Sol left his circle of contemplation a much calmer man. Rising, he gathered his robes about him, fitting them with the broad golden sash of his office. He carefully lifted his scabbard from its resting place, and girded himself. The mighty among the clansmen were attended by serafs; the mighty among the Radann knew that men relied upon their own devices and their own strength—and were so judged by God. They could, he thought, with a hint of wryness, be counted upon to dress themselves decently.
He left his chambers, and as the servitors quietly pulled the screens wide, a breeze gusted in, carrying with it the scent of the rushes and the lilies that took their life from the waters of the Tor Leonne. For
a moment, he was the kai el'Sol, the man upon whose broad shoulders the worship of the Lord of the Sun rested.
The servitors bowed with a deep and perfect respect, and he judged that respect genuine. The Radann had survived darker days than these.
But those days, he knew, were the days before the coming of the clan Leonne. What waited now that that clan had passed? Peace was such a fragile thing.
"Kai el'Sol, the four par el'Sol await you."
"Thank you."
It was Marakas who had summoned the Radann; it was his right, as par, and it did not surprise the kai el'Sol. Marakas was most sensitive to the needs of the followers of the Church, and if the rest of the par—and the kai—felt that Marakas' attention strayed at times too close to the Lady's dominion, he was still much respected and honored among the Radann. Perhaps not as greatly feared as the rest, but that, too, was not surprising, although he was broad of shoulder and chest, and at least as tall as the kai. No, his was that rare demeanor among men of power: that of a gentle man.
But the kai el'Sol knew that when the need was great, Marakas par el'Sol could be counted upon both to wield a sword and to finish a battle. If he did not insist that lesser men live on their knees, he did not live on his. A difficult balance to maintain.
But there were other reasons that he was indulged in a way that not even the kai could be said to be indulged; other reasons why his excursions into the affairs of the common clansmen and the serafs caused most to glance in the other direction: He had a touch of the Lady's blood about him—both an unpredictable wildness and a strength. The Lady's hands. He was a healer born.
Not even the greater clansmen knew this secret.
Marakas had grayed early, a frosty patina over hair as black as the burning rocks, although the bronze of his sun-warmed skin did not give way easily to other signs of age. He was, and insisted upon remaining, clean-shaven, although at times it had proved inconvenient. His eyes were brown, although they were neither dark enough to be mysterious nor light enough to be interesting, and if they had a haunted air about them, no one was foolish enough to wonder aloud what they'd seen.