by sun sword
The Radann thought he was touched by the Lord of Night; they watched him like circling hawks. But although their accusations held a profound truth, they saw nothing.
Because the Widan Cortano was the first Widan in more than a hundred years who had the power of sword-flight: He could vanish from a place and appear a hundred—a thousand—miles away, with no one the wiser for it.
What does the Court offer you? It was a question that both he and Alesso had asked themselves—and each other—time and again. No easy answer came; in fact, no answer at all.
"I will carry word," Sendari said, "to the General Alesso di'Marente. Is that all?"
"No. I have carefully considered your report, and I believe that I know what the source of the power within the Radann temple is. I will have it removed today."
Sendari's nod was cool. "You… breached the barrier?"
Cortano smiled. He did not answer, and the lack of answer was not lost upon the younger man.
"One more thing."
Sendari stifled his anger, muting his expression, forcing it into neutrality.
"If your daughter sings that lay again, I will be forced to kill her."
The Serra Teresa regarded her brother in the silence of the early morn. The sun had not yet reached full height, and at the Pavilion of the Dawn, the serafs and attendants struggled with cushions, with instruments, with goblets of sweet water. They made little noise in the sweet coolness of the morning breeze as it swept in across the waters of the Tor, yet their steps seemed light and easy under the glare of the Lord's notice.
Because the Serra Diora di'Marano filled the valley with the beguilement of her voice. She had sung for two hours, the songs sweetly chosen paeans to a young girl's love.
And her heart was behind them, as it had been behind the song that had broken night's light; Teresa could hear the emotion reverberate recklessly in each word, each pause, each drawn breath.
"Teresa," Sendari said, making a command of the name.
She had expected no less. Ramdan followed her, holding a flat, large cloth between her exposed face and the Lord's light. Sendari gestured him away, and after a moment, she allowed her favorite seraf to be dismissed.
"She has drawn Cortano's attention," Sendari said, without preamble.
His sister could have chosen to feign ignorance; she could have dissembled; she could have shown fear—for he knew her well enough to know that the fear was suddenly there. But she was Teresa; she did not disappoint him. "It was unavoidable."
"He will kill her yet," Sendari said quietly.
She met his eyes then, her gaze unflinching—as masculine a gaze as Alesso's when Alesso's anger was both great and quiet. The darkness of her eyes was not a cool one, although her expression did not change at all.
"You are Widan, Sendari."
Angered, he said, "And what does that mean?"
"It means," the Serra Teresa said coolly, "that you place too much value upon the word of a Widan." She turned at that moment, and they saw the Radann kai el'Sol bow, from the kneeling position, to the dais upon which Diora sat.
"And you place too much value upon the interference of the Radann."
"Not the Radann kai el'Sol," she replied, lifting a fan and spreading its delicate ivory leaves. "He will not survive the Festival's end unless Alesso is more of a fool than he appears."
Silence. Sendari's anger was sudden, but it was not for public consumption. "The Serra Teresa is perceptive, as always."
"Our mother's gift." She pointed with the fan, tracing a graceful arc in the air. "Ah, see? They've come to pay their respects."
Tight-lipped, Sendari di'Marano watched as his oldest friend crossed the Pavilion of the Dawn, and was unexpectedly stopped by the Radann. His sister's smile, he noted, was quite cold. "If he Will not survive," she said, and he knew by the timbre of her voice that she used the voice, "he will make certain that for this three-day, Alesso feels his power." She turned to look at him, and their eyes met like the clash of swords.
"Widan Cortano is Widan," she told him. "As are you. What you are to each other, I have never attempted to understand. I have seen a man killed by the fire, and by the wind; both deaths at Cortano's command. I understand why you respect him. But although Cortano has the power of the Sword, Alesso has the power of the armies. Never in the history of the Dominion have the clansmen chosen to follow the Widan. The Radann, yes, although I fear this is not their season. Ah, that is a fine gesture." Sunlight glinted off the leaves of wet lilies as the General Alesso di'Marente laid them before the feet of Diora's attendant—Mia, Teresa thought, from the perfect grace of movement that followed as the woman carefully swept them up and offered them to Diora. "He could have offered gold or jewels, but they are to cold for such a day as this."
"Cortano is not a threat to be lightly dismissed."
"He is not a threat to be dismissed at all. And I have not dismissed him. What you cannot protect, my brother, I believe the General can." Her voice was ice; the sun did not touch it, or her, as she spoke.
For a moment, he could see the blood on her hands as clearly as if they were still wet.
Alora.
She saw understanding in his eyes; knew by his silence that he would not reply. "We both gave her our word," she said coldly. And that was accusation enough. Before it, he could say nothing at all.
While his daughter received honors and glory above all women, Sendari di'Marano retreated into the privacy of his chambers, hating the very touch of the open sky.
Thinking, and hating the thought, that he should have allowed Alesso to kill Diora when the opportunity had presented itself.
The first day passed in a blur of faces.
Diora sat beneath the gold-fringed canopy that declared her the property of the Lord. To either side were Illia and Alana, the two women she had chosen to attend her on this day; before them stood the Radann Fredero kai el'Sol and the Radann Marakas par el'Sol; to her left and right, Radann who served. She thought one of them to be in the pay of the Radann Peder par el'Sol, for his tone of voice changed when that man came to pay his respects, but it was not her position to offer advice to the Radann. Nor would it ever be; she was, after all, a woman, and women did not serve the Lord. But the Lord's servants might serve her three days longer. Just three days, and then she could rest.
Her fingers were tingling from the exertion of playing the samisen, but the instrument was both her shield and her love, and she was loath to put it aside.
And because she was so loath, she had it in her lap when the Radann came, carrying between them a limp and obviously injured woman.
Illia en'Marano gasped and lowered her face at once; Alana drew a thick breath and turned to her mistress. Her mistress was frozen, her fingers pressed tight against the strings, blessed strings, of the samisen.
"What is this?" The kai el'Sol said, stepping forward with a very real anger. "Larant—what have you done?"
The Radann Larant el'Sol met the kai el'Sol with a grim and level stare. Not, Diora thought, a friend. "This— this woman—was found in the temple of the Radann." He caught her chin and forced her face up.
Diora already knew who she would see. Nose broken, lips swollen, eyes darkened—the peculiarly striking but plain face of the woman who had visited her the evening before was almost gone. But her eyes, dark and bright, were the same eyes, and they met Diora's grimly. Fearfully.
Serra Diora di'Marano sat in stiff and heavy silence, her knees pressed together, her chin held as high as she dared hold it. She did not breathe.
"A—a woman? In the temple?"
She would never have thought that a Lambertan would be so skillful a liar. Or perhaps it was not a lie; there was an unmuted horror in the voice that he gave to the Radann, an outrage, an anger. Were they disappointed? She thought that at least one of them was.
"Radann Peder par el'Sol suggested that we make an example of her," the Radann Larant el'Sol said. "The magnitude of the crime demanded your attention. We apol
ogize," he added, with a regret that was only insincere if one knew how to listen, "for disturbing the Consort."
Diora knew how to listen. She knew that to be the perfect Serra was to look away, as Illia en'Marano had done. She looked, but not away; instead, her eyes hugged the curve of the Radann kai el'Sol's shoulders. They were tense; even stiff. She thought for a moment that he might ruin everything, throw himself upon the fires of an angry Lord. Thought it, and was glad.
But then he spoke. "Have her displayed by the gates, where the clansmen may see her."
"Kai el'Sol. Should we—"
"No," he said. "If she survives the attention of the clansmen, and their righteous anger, for the three days, let it be a sign that the Lord knows mercy. If she does not, she is not to be given to earth; burn her and let the wind scatter her unblessed ashes."
"Kai el'Sol."
"And Larant?"
"Yes, kai?"
"If you approach the Consort's Pavilion with such ugliness one more time before the Festival is over, you will join her."
The man paled. "But I thought—"
"You will summon me, Radann."
He bowed, dropping his victim. "Kai el'Sol."
"Go."
The Radann went, and only when they had disappeared from sight did the kai el'Sol turn to the Lord's Consort. "I am sorry, Serra Diora," he said, and she heard the heaviness of the truth in each word.
"As am I," was the Serra Diora's reply. "But come, Radann kai el'Sol, this is the Festival of the Lord, and the judgment of the Lord has been heard." And she touched the samisen. Let the chords become single notes, let the notes carry across the waters.
Marakas par el'Sol stared at the sun-touched waters for a long time, and when at last he looked away, he did not speak at all.
They ate, and they drank, and they presided over the beginning of the Lord's Challenge. The Serra Diora, carried by Radann upon a palanquin that was fine enough for a Tyr, was called upon to view those who vied for the Lord's favor. They presented their weapons to her, and they each craned to get a glimpse of the Flower of the Dominion.
Hair as black as the Lady's night, with a mystery and a beauty that only night would ever truly reveal, she was all that they desired to see, and when she blushed, pleasingly, and looked away, she was delicacy, she was grace.
The Tyr'agnate Eduardo di'Garrardi joined these men.
He rode into the open field on the plateau, and the clansmen parted to let him through—not because they recognized his banner, although it was impossible not to know that he was the ruler of the Terrean of Oerta, but because he rode Sword's Blood. The roan stallion's eyes were dark, and the lift of his head carried it well above the lesser horses that surrounded him. As he approached,
Diora could see the scars along his coat where he had entered into combat. It was said that Eduardo di'Garrardi did very little to control Sword's Blood when Sword's Blood felt it necessary to make a challenge. It was also said that the stallion had not yet lost a fight.
"Serra Diora," the Tyr' agnate said, as he dismounted and led Sword's Blood, by bridle, to the raised palanquin.
"Tyr'agnate," she said, grateful for the Radann who stepped, weapons drawn in gentle warning, between them.
"Kai el'Sol," the Tyr said, properly addressing the guardian and not the guarded. "It is obvious that the Lord values this Consort highly to demand that you personally attend her."
The Radann shrugged. "The Lord is not the only one to prize his Consort highly—but he is the only one who has that right." The frown was evident in his voice, if not his expression. "But you, Tyr'agnate—it is unlike you to interrupt the ceremony of the Lord's Challenge."
"Interrupt? You mistake me, kai el'Sol," he said, looking past Fredero to the woman who sat upon the shoulders of the Radann. "I intend to win it."
He drew his sword, and in the light of the clear sky, the blade flashed white.
"Alesso."
The General turned, and when he saw who called him, his expression cooled. "Sendari."
They stood a moment, watching each other like wary beasts of prey. It was the General who at last broke the silence. "We have not spoken for the past few days.'"
"We have both been busy." Sendari bowed. "But I have come with word."
"Ah. You play the messenger." Before the Widan could respond, he added, "And as usual, it suits you ill. Come, old friend. Take the water with me." Serafs came at once, dressed in the white, gold, and blue that were the Lord's colors. They set a silver pitcher upon the flat, low table, and then bowed their heads to the ground. They were dismissed, leaving the General and the Widan to sit in quiet isolation, measuring each other.
"We do not make good enemies," Alesso said at last.
"No," the Widan replied. He lifted the pitcher and poured, knowing that if he waited for Alesso, he would wait long. It was not that the task was beneath his dignity—the waters were, after all, from the lake of the Tor itself—it was merely a detail, in an afternoon that was full of too many details, each requiring his attention. They would be parched with speech—or the effort of stilted silence—before he thought to lift glass.
Sendari understood the failing well; had he not, many times, left food untouched while he embarked upon the study of the Sword?
He was silent as he sat in the presence of his oldest friend—a man who, by his recent actions, had become more of a stranger than the sister he almost hated. "Alesso, Diora has been promised to Garrardi." It was said.
A man did not like to discuss the disposition of his daughter with his friend; there was a wrongness to it, a feeling of things forbidden by men who followed the ways of the Lord. And neither he nor Alesso were such men, except as it suited them. But still.
"Yes," Alesso said, the single word curt.
Sendari felt the chill of anger settle about his shoulders; he lifted his chin and met Alesso's brittle stare. And then, of all things, the General Alesso di'Marente laughed. It was a bark of a laugh, sharp and harsh, and the bitterness in it reminded Sendari of youthful anger.
But all anger was youthful, in its way.
"I cannot lie to you, Sendari, except by omission."
"You endanger us, Alesso."
"Yes." He laughed again. "And if I were so enamored of safety, I would have remained the faithful vassal to the end of my days, toiling for a fat and mediocre Tyr." He raised a hand. "I could tell you that I am insulted that you think I would endanger our alliances and our plans for the sake of a woman—any woman. I could accuse you of valuing your daughter so highly that you think any man couldn't help but do the same. I could fence with words, Sendari, and it would solve nothing. Let us leave them behind. Between us, there should be truth."
"There is the matter of Diora."
"Yes," Alesso said. "And it would have been cleanest had she died with her husband." The accusation was in the words, but it was not a harsh one.
"She almost did."
"I know. You have helped me in all things, Sendari. And you know what I desire. You know also that we need Eduardo kai di'Garrardi, and you might as well know that we've already clashed once over the girl."
"I might as well," the older man said, and his smile was forced out of him by the General's will, not his own.
"Help me, then. She was made the Lady of the Lord for the Festival, and it did not displease me."
"You did not seek to consult me."
"No more than I would have consulted the Tyr about the timing of his assassination. You would have refused."
That was Alesso. Against his will, Sendari felt himself relax. "You have already killed two wives," he said coldly.
"Childbirth killed one," was Alesso's soft reply. About the other, he did not speak.
Sendari had never asked. He was silent a long time, thinking about Teresa's words, and Cortano's threat. "Alesso," he said at last, "she will not make a good wife."
"She was good enough for the kai Leonne."
"Yes. But there is something about her that ha
s become disquieting. If you would take my advice—"
"I won't."
"—you would search elsewhere. Did you hear what she sang at dawn?"
Alesso frowned. "It is always sung at the Festival," he said at last, with a feigned nonchalance.
"Yes. And at every other Festival, the Sun Sword is drawn. They remember it now."
"They would have remembered it anyway. You saved her life," the General Alesso di'Marente told his oldest friend. "Did you save her for a man who is willing to offer her dishonor before she has been lawfully given?"
Sendari was silent for a long moment; his face was carefully expressionless.
And Alesso di'Marente laughed. "She didn't tell you," he said softly.
"I have not spoke with Diora since—"
"Not Diora, old man. Teresa. She came to the rescue at the side of the Radann kai el'Sol."
"Very well. Enough, Alesso! We do not make good enemies. Let us cease this bickering." He paused, and then added, "And how exactly did you come to be aware of such an infraction against my family's honor, when I was not? I doubt very much that either the kai el'Sol or the Serra Teresa would come, with such news, to you."
"I wish, by the Lord's grace, that I could for once succeed in an attempt to omit the slightest of facts in a discussion with you. I was aware, of course, because I was there." The laughter left his face. "I would never dishonor you."
"I know." He drained his cup, and smiled. "And now that we've put this difference aside, there is another. What," he said sweetly, "of the last assassination attempt against the boy?"
"Sendari!"
Light and heat. Light and heat.
The sway of the fans her attendants held did little to quench the summer's hand; it was midday.
The Serra Diora di'Marano, Consort to the Lord of Day, sat beneath a canopy that was both fine and simple. Much of its workmanship was on the exterior: the dyes in the cloth that formed the tented dome, the engraving on the wooden beams that held it, the inlay of gold and pale wood and silver upon the steps that led to where she sat.
"They will rest," the kai el'Sol told her softly, as he stood stoically beyond the reach of the heavy fans.