by sun sword
The chill that greeted her words was to be expected. The Serra Diora ignored it. "And the request?"
"Understand," the woman said softly, "that it is a request; there is no barter between us. The gift that we have chosen to give is given. It is yours; you may do as you please with it, although I would advise you to keep it."
"I see. The request?"
The woman touched her throat a moment, and then, her fingers shaking slightly, she pulled a pendant from its hiding place beneath the folds of dark fabric. The light of the crystal that hung heavily on a chain that wasn't even gold was so bright and clear it was hard to look upon. Serra Diora did not squint because squinting was an unpleasant trait that had been trained out of her many, many years ago. But she flinched as the light touched her face.
"Take this, Serra Diora. Take it, and when you meet my family, give it to my oldest daughter."
"How am I to know who your oldest daughter is?"
"You will know." She took a deep breath. "I do not think you will like her, or she you. But her name is Margret. This is a favor," she said again, as if it were necessary.
"I do not think that I will be given leave to search for your family," the younger woman said softly.
"You won't," was the tired reply. "I only ask that you carry this and return it to my family if you do meet them. It is older than the Tor Leonne," she said, as she stared unblinking into its heart, "and it would cripple us to lose it."
"You cannot carry it back to your daughter."
"No. I will never leave this place."
The Radann kai el'Sol coughed slightly, and they both turned at once, aware suddenly that to ignore three such men, even in circumstances as unusual as these, was a display of poor judgment, if not poor manners.
But Diora studied the woman's face for a moment and then, hesitantly, she nodded.
"Wear it," the woman said.
"But I can't with—"
"You can."
For the third time that night, Diora bowed her head. She let the pendant fall into the folds of her gown and nestle between her breasts. Because she heard the truth in the woman's words, and more: She heard the knowledge of a coming death, and the struggle to accept it with grace.
What could drive such a woman to this place, to those robes, to this room? For Diora heard the desire for life in the words that were heavy with death.
The Voyani did not interfere in the politics of the clans. But she was here. She was Voyani.
And she was right. The pendant, so large and so bright, seemed to dim and fade; she could feel its weight, but she could no longer see it. For a moment she hesitated, for she had seen magery before, and she feared it with reason. But then she drew breath, lifted her chin; was she not of the clans? She had made her decision the moment she had bowed her head before this stranger, and she would accept it.
The Radann were growing less patient by the minute. "Kai el'Sol," the Serra said quietly. "Forgive me. The dawn draws near; I feel that the honor that you have granted me is almost too great to bear, and it unnerves me a little." She drew a pretty breath. "But I will not dishonor your choice, or the Lord's." She rose. "Par el'Sol," she said, bowing to Samadar.
He reached out as if to touch her chin, to draw her face up, and drag her eyes with it. She met his eyes squarely, and his hand fell away. "I almost think, little Serra, that you know more than a Serra should."
She did not answer.
"What do you know of the Widan?"
Diora flushed. "What does any woman know of the Widan?"
"Do you know," he said softly, "if any of the Widan here practice the forbidden arts?"
Her expression did not shift at all, but she froze as understanding of the words seemed to permeate. And then she said, as her eyes flickered to the impassive face of the Voyani woman, "I think it not impossible."
"The Widan Sendari?"
"I am di'Marano," she said, her voice cool and stilted.
"Understand the seriousness of the accusation," Samadar replied. "We intend no insult to you, Serra Diora, by the asking."
"Intent or not, you have offered it. If my father, the Widan Sendari di'Marano, were indeed guilty of such an offense, then I, and all of his kin, would be destroyed by the Lord's light when it finally fell." Her hands rested in her lap, stiff as ivory. "But it is said that the Lord's light falls less gently again on those who betray their fathers."
"Serra Diora," the kai el'Sol said, "we are the Radann; we speak for the Lord."
She met his eyes for an unseemly length of time, and in the end, her lids closed and her dark lashes rested against her cheeks. "No," she said, her voice almost inaudible. "My father was not a practitioner of the forbidden arts."
"And the other Widan?"
"I do not know what the other Widan do," she said, her voice sweet, her eyes dark. "The Widan are not a brotherhood."
The Radann kai el'Sol nodded, as if her words only confirmed what he feared. "The dagger that you have been given is as old as the Leonne war," he told her solemnly.
"It is far older than that," the woman said serenely.
Diora was mildly surprised; the Radann Samadar par el'Sol, obviously irritated. Not even the clansmen interrupted the Radann kai el'Sol to draw attention to his mistakes.
But the kai el'Sol seemed somehow inured to her. "It was given to the Voyani by the—by the Lady. The Voyani fought their own battles against the Lord of Night. If you—if you are approached by a servant of the Lord of the Night, the knife will let you know."
"How?"
"I am sorry, Serra, but we—none of us—are privy to exactly what the blade does."
She turned her dark eyes upon the Voyani woman. The woman's smile was very sad. "I cannot help you," she said, "any more than the Radann. But it will succor you, Serra Diora. When we have left, give it only a taste of your blood, no more, and it will remain with you while you live."
"You do not wish its return?"
"I wish it," she said gravely, "to go to the person who needs it most. It has a name, among the Voyani. Lumina arden. The light that burns. You will feel its fire, Serra Diora." She bowed to the Radann, and lifted her hood, obscuring the feminine lines of her face. "Radann kai el'Sol, my power is at an ebb. Soon I will no longer be able to guard this conversation from prying ears."
The kai el'Sol nodded.
Diora looked up at his face, took a deep breath, and said, "The Widan Cortano di'Alexes. If any man knows the forbidden arts, it is he."
Samadar par el'Sol and Fredero kai el'Sol exchanged a bleak glance. The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was considered, by the court of the Tor Leonne, to be the edge of the Sword of Knowledge.
Ramdan and Alaya attended her, as did Sendari's wives. Alana stood at a distance giving orders; they worked in harsh lamplight because they were forced, this one day, to work while the Lady reigned. And while the Lady reigned, they were perhaps freer with their words than they would otherwise have been. The next three days would demand rigid formality from each of them; they were forgiven by the Serra Teresa for their lapses in perfect grace.
Her almost-daughter suffered no such lapse; indeed, she seemed steeped in unnatural silence, as if silence itself were strength.
The gown the Radann had left her was exceedingly fine; Serra Teresa was pleased with it, and very little impressed her. The silk seemed flawless—if that were possible—and the beadwork and embroidery masterful. She had seen many, many Festivals, and had never seen a dress so fine, so perfectly suited to its wearer, as this one.
The crown was set upon the veil that hid her face; no clansman was to have sight of it before the first rays of sun danced across the waters of the Tor Leonne. The ring had been sized for her slender fingers, and the necklace shone in the uneven light.
"Na'dio," Teresa said softly.
Diora carefully turned her head. The combs that held the veil were gold and pearl, but the warmth of them framed a face that seemed cool and remote by comparison. The older Serra shook her head. "Yo
u are the Consort of the Lord of the Sun, Na'dio. Such a face will only chill him."
Her niece answered with the voice, taking the risk almost recklessly. "I do not owe the Lord my joy, only my obedience."
"Na'dio," she said sharply, answering in the private voice.
"Ona Teresa," she replied, answering normally.
"Can you not smile, Na'dio?"
"When I have left the harem," she told her aunt softly. At times like this, Serra Teresa could see the four-year-old girl in the face of the young woman that she'd become. "Summon the Radann. I am ready."
The Radann were ready as well.
As the Serra Diora left her chambers, she noted two things. The first: That the man who led the guards who would have responsibility of her was no less a man than the Radann Marakas par el'Sol. And the second, that her father had not come to escort her, although it was his right.
* * *
The clansmen gathered at the Lord's Pavilion; the stretch of wood and cloth and banner that surrounded the east side of the waters themselves. The Serra Diora, protected from their coarse view by the veil and the imposing formal dress of the armed Radann, did not speak; speech was not expected. The men made way for her as she passed, and if they craned to get a glimpse, she did not notice in her contemplation of her duty to the Lord.
The Radann kai el'Sol was waiting for her; he stood alone upon the platform that was raised to the Lord's worship. Beside him was a curved chair, one that did not suffer from the high backs of the Northern pretenders. There were cushions to either side, and sweet water on a table that appeared to made of solid silver.
No less a man than the Radann kai el'Sol himself offered the Serra Diora a hand as she mounted the dais.
"Strength, Serra," he said in a voice that he hoped would not carry.
She smiled, or he thought she did; the veil obscured her face and in the predawn light he could not see her expression. And then she took the seat that was meant for her, waiting in the silence until the serafs she had chosen to attend her had artfully arranged the train of her dress. It was the second dress that she had worn that had had such a train—an open sign that she was to be appreciated for the beauty of stillness and not the grace of movement.
The Radann kai el'Sol offered her water, and when she accepted, poured it himself.
But it was Ramdan who brought her her strength, the only succor that she was allowed to publicly accept for the duration of the Festival. In perfect silence, he placed her samisen in her lap.
She looked up, her eyes wide, and the Radann Fredero kai el'Sol smiled sadly and nodded.
Hands shaking, the Serra Diora gently adjusted both dress and lap. Then, as the darkness in the skies above began to fade and the last of the straggling clansmen gathered, she began to play.
She did not sing a woman's song, but rather began the lay of the Sun Sword. And her voice was so beautiful, so achingly pure, that it was impossible not to feel, for just a moment, that the hand that wielded that Sword was the only just hand in a land of weakness and cowardice.
Only after the last of the strains of this first song had died completely did anyone stop to remember that the hand that had wielded that Sword was Leonne.
The Serra Teresa had not been chosen by the Serra Diora to serve as Consort's attendant. They had agreed upon it, and Teresa bitterly regretted the agreement the moment she heard the first strains of the lay. She stood beside her brother, the Widan Sendari, and even in the poor light, she could see his face quite clearly. Many of their meetings and their arguments had occurred at dusk or dawn, the time when the will of man reigns for a moment or two.
Men of power should never love, she thought, as she stole a glance at his rigid profile. He had almost chosen not to become a man of power, for the sake of love. By the time he had chosen to forsake the memory of the dead, the living had already sunk roots in his heart. She knew her brother as well as she knew any living person, and she could not say what the cost of tearing those roots out and destroying them utterly would be.
But she saw, in his face, the certain knowledge that he would have to try. She saw bleakness, an emptiness that not even Alora's death had left there.
Or perhaps she had never been privy to what Alora's death had left Sendari.
And what was this? Pity for the man who had not, in the end, been able to save her; who had hesitated out of anger, out of jealousy, to use the power that was his, Widan's title or no?
You will kill my almost-daughter, she thought, as the lines of his face hardened and then smoothed into empty neutrality. And you are beginning to know it.
Poorly played, Diora; you have taken too bold a risk.
But she was awed in spite of herself, for the power that Diora di'Marano put into that song was a power that surpassed any the Serra Teresa had ever known. If she had started her song for political reasons, or even personal ones, by the end of the last sustained note, there was the momentary transcendence that comes with, and from, a music that reaches beyond the known and into the hidden heart.
And as that last note faded, the first rays of sun glimmered and danced across the moving waters. The Lord had come.
* * *
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was not a friend.
It had been Cortano who, at the test of the Sword, had come closest to killing Sendari, and the spiderweb of milky white that lay across his hands was a gift of that meeting. Spells of defense were a subtle and tricky thing; offense was easy. But the Widan-Designate Sendari di'Marano had a subtle mind.
It was a dangerous game, to show superior power to a man who held power—but if a Widan did not show it, in one area or another, he did not cross the bridge; the wind consumed him, and the test of the Sword proved fatal.
He still bore scars, hidden beneath the folds of his robe; unexposed to the sun's glare, they faded slowly with the years. And they reminded him, always, that Cortano was not a man to be trusted.
If any man of power was.
"Sendari."
"Cortano." The younger man bowed, feeling his age as a lack of experience and wisdom. Feeling very much the apprentice. It was only Cortano di'Alexes who had this effect on him now; the rest, the winds had taken.
The chamber, usually full of the followers of the Sword of Knowledge, was conspicuously empty; a foolish man might have blamed that emptiness on the hour, for the Widan were known to study late into the Lady's night, and sleep long through the Lord's day.
Sendari was not a foolish man. As he rose from his bow, he examined Cortano's face. White hair framed it, and white hair fell in a spill from his chin down his chest. Only the heart of the beard itself was dark, a hint of its youthful glory. His eyes, that disturbing blue that seemed uncannily like the open sky, were unblinking. And narrowed.
"Sendari," the Sword's Edge said again. He sat on a chair, rather than the cushions that were laid about the room for the comfort of the Widan; Sendari was obliged to stand, a position which was generally reserved for inferiors.
He stood, with what grace he could muster.
"What happened this morning?"
"The Festival opened," was Sendari's neutral reply.
"Yes. I was there."
Silence.
Cortano frowned. "Sendari, your daughter sang the lay of the Sun Sword."
The Widan nodded.
"Why?"
"This may surprise you, Cortano," Sendari's reply was cool, "but my time here has not been spent attending to the needs of a single child in my harem. The girl was chosen for the Festival by Alesso, Garrardi, and Lorenza; she was approved with undue haste by the kai el'Sol. I was not consulted." He let his anger show; it was genuine enough. "I did not consider intervention either wise or necessary."
"Cleverly put," was Cortano's soft reply. He paused. "And with a single song, she has declared to the clansmen of Annagar—to those clansmen who made the trek or were allowed to make it—that it was Leonne who fought for justice. They will all be thi
nking that it was Alesso di'Marente who ended that fight. And they will be watchful now, where they might have been lulled.
"You argued for her life the night the clan Leonne perished."
"Yes."
"She is a threat to us."
"She is a girl."
The blue eyes had never been so piercing; Sendari felt as if he were standing beneath the open sky, bearing the brunt of the Lord's judgment. And who was the Lord to judge him? "If you fear her, Cortano, kill her yourself. I am not beholden to you; I do not serve you; I am not required to take your orders."
"I do not fear her, Sendari. I fear your attachment to her."
Sendari said nothing.
"Very well. If you will have it so. You will pay the price of her game if it becomes costly."
The Widan Sendari shrugged. "I was under the impression that we were to speak about matters of the Court, not matters of the Tor."
"You were correct." Cortano rose. "You are to take this word to the General: Isladar says the Lord had confirmed his initial estimate. By the Festival of the Moon the forces of the Shining Court will be at our disposal." Neither man mentioned the last war that had been called after the close of the Lady's Festival. "Regardless, Isladar does not wish the influence of the Radann to hold sway; we have given him our word that the Radann are in hand. Therefore, we will keep the Radann intact until such a time as he has tendered his troops."
Cortano was the man who had introduced the younger Alesso to the Shining Court; to the kinlords, Etridian, Assarak, Isladar; to the Allasakari, the men who became vessels for the shadows that without exception devoured them from within.
He had no wife, no heirs, no attachments; it made him a formidable opponent. No one crossed him; not even the Tyr'agar spoke against him. Cortano made it easy. He was not a man who desired power in its own right; not a man who desired a dynasty and the place such a bloodline would give him in history. He had serafs, but they did not speak; he had no concubines.