Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  It had been a long time since she'd felt foolish. She felt it now, and it was surprisingly bitter.

  This was her home. This place, these walls that opened into no courtyard, no sunlight, no glimpse of open air or night sky or star.

  She would be lowered into the sheets and the pillows, and then raised like a crown for all to see, all to acknowledge. A plan that she had been the architect of, in the end. An end of her own making.

  She could not keep the bitterness from her face; the mask slipped for a moment as she faced a wall whose every flaw she had become familiar with over time. There were few indeed.

  Across the breadth of the lesser Tor, Margret of the Arkosa Voyani shared the same expression. Years divided their faces; the sun-lines and wind-lines that a life of travel under the open skies forced upon the Voyani, generation after generation, made a mark upon the older woman's face that the younger's had never felt.

  "Margret?"

  The bitterness fell into a familiar grimace, easing and changing the lines of her face. "'Lena."

  Her cousin slid into view—and slid was the right word. She moved, had always moved, like a particularly beautiful cat. Long and sleek in line, she picked her way through the Voyani as if they were mice, playing as she chose and quitting just as abruptly. In everything she did, there was such a lovely mix of danger and attraction that one couldn't help but love her—and feel stupid about it.

  "Well?"

  "Well what?"

  "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing in your wagon?"

  Margret rolled her eyes. "If you want to tell me, I'll find out."

  Elena made a playful face and swatted her cousin just that little bit shy of too hard. "Nicu," she said dramatically. "I'm avoiding him."

  "You're too hard on him, 'Lena."

  "Don't get motherly; it doesn't suit you. Besides, he's hardly a boy. He's past twenty this year."

  "You were hard on him when he'd no underarm hair to speak of."

  Elena shrugged. "Well," she said. As if that explained anything. Sauntering over to the window—for it was as fine a wagon as that—she pulled the drapes shut, plunging them into what passed for darkness here, at sun's height. When she turned, the playfulness had left her face entirely; she was all shadow, thin and straight as the blade Margret carried beneath her shirt.

  "Tell me," Margret said, folding her legs as she unconsciously took shelter on the flat of the bench beneath which so many of her mother's heirlooms lay locked.

  "You're not going to like it."

  Elena never prefaced a report with those words unless they were an understatement.

  " 'Lena."

  "Festival of the Moon this year."

  "That's what we're here for."

  "There are changes."

  "What changes?"

  "First: All merchants must register with the correct official in the Tor Leonne proper."

  Margret was quiet for a long moment. "Merchants?"

  "All merchants."

  "Unusual."

  "Worse."

  " 'Lena." Warning in those two syllables.

  "Some of the merchants have been detained after making their reports. Their caravans have been either searched or seized—or both."

  "Fair enough. We're carrying nothing contraband; we've picked up no runaway serafs, and obviously we're not going to this year." She shrugged; politics and expedience had always denied safety to one or two of the merchant clansmen. Not often during the Lady's Festival, though.

  "You would think that would guarantee our safety, wouldn't you?"

  Elena Tamaraan was the cousin to whom Margret was closest, but on days like this, the urge to throttle her was so strong it was profound.

  "Elena," she said, and her cousin smiled. Even in the darkest of times, actually forcing Margret to acknowledge all three syllables of her name was considered a small triumph. It was a joke they shared.

  When Margret was predisposed to have a sense of humor.

  "There have been three caravans taken so far."

  "Three?"

  "Yes. More significant: They are all Voyani."

  "Any Arkosans?"

  "No. Two Havallan caravans. One Lyserran."

  "Matriarchs present?"

  Elena was silent for a long, long time. At last she turned to face the curtains that hid them from the light of day. Her voice was so quiet, Margret could hardly hear it. But she already knew the answer, even though the question itself had been perfunctory.

  "Yes."

  "At the Festival of the Moon?" Margret drove herself up from her seat with the force of her full weight against the ground; she lunged around the darkened caravan like an injured beast. That was her way; it had been her mother's way before her. "They wouldn't dare!"

  "Do you want the rest?"

  "No, of course I don't want the rest!"

  "It's Yollanna."

  Silence. The beast was stilled. "Tell them," Margret said at last. "Find Adam—he's at the Eastern Fount of Contemplation; tell Nicu."

  Elena frowned sourly. "I was trying to avoid him, Margret. That part wasn't a lie."

  "I don't give a damn, 'Lena. This isn't the time for it. Tell them."

  "I'm not sure they'll let us pull the caravan back."

  "We're going to try."

  * * *

  Although the Serra Diora was under the guard of walls and silence and near-isolation, she was still considered a part of the harem of a now-powerful man; she was no seraf, to be forced to tend to her own needs or the needs of others. Minutes might pass before she was allowed company; if her father's mood was darker, hours.

  But serafs were never deemed company; they came and they went, delivering water, fans, food, changing pillows and sheets, sweeping floors that were already spotless lengths of wood grain, dark and light.

  So it was that Alaya, the Serra Fiona's favorite seraf, came in through the one entrance to Diora's two rooms. She bowed before she crossed the line that the screens marked, kneeling until her forehead touched wood, and then, when Diora returned a silent nod for the gesture, rose, stepped over that line, and bowed again. Her hair was perfectly black, a sweep of knotted braids that were tied at the ends by flower and ribbon; the mark of a young girl. Fiona's work, Diora thought, with a mildly critical eye.

  Just as her aunt would have done, had she seen Alaya. Alaya had been, indirectly, a gift from the Serra Teresa.

  The girl rose, reached over the grooved lip which held the screens, and lifted a lacquered tray, bringing it very correctly into view for the first time. She placed this in the room, and then closed the door—silently, perfectly. She was so well-trained, Diora wondered that Fiona could not see the Serra Teresa's hand in her.

  But Serra Fiona often saw only what she wished to see, and she wished to see her own power, her own ownership.

  Alaya set out the water; it was soothing to watch her work. Soothing until Diora saw that her hands were trembling.

  In a voice that only Alaya could hear—the voice that was Diora's birthright and birthcurse—she said, "Alaya, do you bring me news?"

  And Alaya, born under no such shadow, and aware of the fact that the screens were thin and the walls had ears, nodded. She lifted a pale face, and Diora saw that its pleasing whiteness was underlined everywhere by gray.

  "Did the Serra Teresa send you?"

  She shook her head now in the opposite direction: No. Then she spoke. "The Serra Fiona has sent you wine, Serra Diora; the day, she says, has been long, and if you would grace her with your acceptance, she would be pleased."

  Fiona. Fiona had sent her?

  "The Serra Fiona is gracious," Diora replied, letting the voice lapse a moment, so that others might hear. "Please. Tell her I am both… surprised and honored by her attention."

  Alaya poured the wine. It had a pungent smell, at this distance. I have not eaten, Diora thought. Alaya passed her the goblet in a shaking hand, and where their hands overlapped, skin and paper mingled. Paper. Fiona had written.


  It did not escape her notice: the goblets were Fiona's finest ware; the carafe in which the wine was contained, its deep, rich red glinting off silvered surface, one of the most expensive serving pieces her father's wife owned.

  "If you desire it, she will send food as well; it has not escaped her notice that your interview deprived you of a meal."

  "I—would be honored. I find I am hungrier than I thought I would be. Tell her—tell her that she has my gratitude."

  Alaya bowed, ashen. But she bowed perfectly; the tremble, now that there was no weight against her arms or palms, had vanished.

  Only when she was gone—had been gone for the space of at least five carefully counted minutes—did Diora look down at the paper in her hand. It was thin and fine, and traced with the delicate spiral of Fiona's unmistakable calligraphy.

  The words, such as they were, made no sense at first; they were a fog of skillful, pretty lines. They reminded the younger Serra of her own days spent under the tutelage of Ona Teresa, learning the art of a pleasing hand, that she might one day return the letters of a suitable Tyr or Tor; that she might communicate perfectly with the wives of such powerful men; that she might impress, upon all, the gifts of the daughters of Marano.

  But the daughters of Marano did not write letters in secrecy to disgraced members of the clan—disgraced and disliked rivals, if she were truthful.

  Fiona now pitied her, where once she had resented, but pity alone was not enough to make Fiona risk not only the wrath of husband, but also of new Tyr, of the Sword's Edge.

  The paper made a slight noise as she unfurled it further, willing the words to make sense. They did, but they were devoid of the prettiness that she had come to expect; they offered no greeting, no apology for inadequacy, no news of the trivialities of daily life; no joy, and no spite, no affection, and no rivalries.

  There is no time. If you have not heard, this Festival of the Moon, there will be a Lord of Night to preside the Lady's temples. There will be a change in celebration; the masks that are worn at the Festival will be of a handful of prescribed faces.

  More, there has been difficulty.

  The Tor Leonne proper is now the… guesthouse… of Yollanna of the Havalla Voyani. She is alive, at the moment. She is not unharmed.

  1 have sent word to the Serra Teresa di'Marano, but 1 fear it will arrive late.

  That was all.

  It was enough.

  Serra Diora di'Marano sat in the empty room and very slowly slid paper between skin and silk, so as not to make noise. Let it absorb sweat and moisture; let it remain hidden, although in fact the truth would be carried by wind and word across the breadth of the Tor Leonne by morning.

  She was silent for a time; the dead were with her, although the sun was high.

  So, she thought, the windowless world becoming both larger and smaller around her, it comes. The Lord of Night. General, Sword's Edge, you have played this Festival poorly.

  And she smiled, although it was a smile edged with fear and uncertainty.

  Now Serra Teresa would come.

  And before the Serra Teresa, her task was clear.

  The Voyani were the sworn enemies of the Lord of Night and Yollana of the Havalla Voyani the most famous of the four Matriarchs. How to plan?

  In silence. While waiting.

  She bowed her head, and when she lifted it, the lines of her face were unblemished by worry or fear.

  This wagon had been in her family for four generations. The wheels had been changed more times than she thought she could count, and the walls had been replaced or repaired at least once during living memory, but the glass in the windows had been passed from one set of repairs to another—an heirloom and a statement.

  "Margret."

  She turned at the sound of her aunt's voice. "Ona Tamara," she said quietly.

  The older woman wrapped a protective arm around the younger woman's shoulder. "We've had… word."

  "I know. I know it. Elena told me—"

  "No. We've had word about Evallen."

  Ah. Here, now, the truth could no longer be veiled. No longer had to be veiled. She was numb with it; had become numb with the hiding of it, the inability to seek solace or comfort. A new experience, for her. Probably one she should get used to.

  Margret thought a moment, wondering what her mother would say or do now. Her mother was Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani, and needed no one. But she, she was only Margret. A Matriarch without the Matriarch's Heart: the stone. The line of blood.

  "Tamara," she said at last, "come." She pulled away from her aunt and led her up the steps into the wagon, not certain how much longer she would be able to do even that. The wagon—it was the most distinctive of the Arkosan vehicles. It would half-kill her to leave it behind—and she wouldn't consider it at all if she wasn't certain that it would kill her to take it.

  But Ona Tamara understood what it meant, this journey into darkness, and as Margret turned to face her in the covered room, the first thing she felt was the sting of open palm against exposed cheek: Her aunt's palm, her own cheek.

  "You knew." Her aunt's accusation held a fury that a simple slap wouldn't dissipate. Margret took a step back, but made no move to defend herself. How could she? Had she been her aunt— her trusted, her valued aunt—she would have been furious. Might have pulled dagger where dagger would have helped nothing.

  Ona Tamara was known throughout the caravan for her gentle temper. She left her weapons sheathed. "Margret. Look at me."

  Margret looked. Looked at her aunt as she had never just looked at her mother, her bitter, her temperamental, her often angry mother. Their eyes, dark and dark, so similar in shape and size, met.

  "How?" And then, after the silence had lengthened, Tamara said, "That clanswoman."

  She wanted to let her aunt go on; her aunt, who had the freedom to express what she herself had struggled so hard to hide. But she heard herself, her voice dulled and weak even to her own ears, say, "No, Ona Tamara. No. It was—my mother."

  "Tell me."

  "I didn't understand it, not then—but she knew. My mother knew what she was doing. What she was going to."

  "And she would leave you with the care of the clan—" Silence. Again silence. Tamara was known for her quiet temper, but she was also known for the sharp edge of her observation. She was no one's fool. Aye, the Lord had stained her, and the winds had made furrows in her flesh that grew deeper and more distinct with time—but nothing could reach the wit that lay hidden beneath simple flesh.

  In the darkness, her aunt paled.

  "The heart—"

  "Yes," Margret said grimly. "You understand. You understand why I could not speak of it."

  "Where is the heart?"

  "It is—it is safe, I think." She paused. "That is what the clans-woman came to tell me. Where it is, and that it is safe. But I don't think even she knew what would happen this Moonlight."

  She had turned from her aunt, in the darkness; turned to the wall and the window. The familiar arms of the older woman enfolded her shoulders again.

  "Margret," she said quietly. "You are free now."

  "Free?" Bitter word; it choked her, to say it. "Free in the Tor, when the clansmen have started to hunt us? Free in the Tor, when the Lord of Night has finally shown his hand again? I have no heart, Tamara."

  "You have your own," her aunt said gently, "and it has borne the weight of grief far too long in silence. Grief drives a man mad," she added quietly, "when it is contained. It must be shared. It must be spread. It must be carried by the family. Grief is our measure, it is our strength, it is our community." She pulled her niece to her, and Margret resisted for a fraction of a second, no more.

  "But she's dead. Grief won't change that. I have the responsibility—"

  "Not even Evallen would have taken that responsibility. Come. She was your mother, but she was our Matriarch. We have the right, and you—"

  Margret began to weep. She turned, blind, seeking comfort, and she foun
d it. Only later would she remember that she had offered none in return to her mother's sister, her mother's much loved, and much loving, younger sister. Tamara offered, and Margret took what she could, although it wasn't quite all that she needed.

  "We will have our vengeance," Tamara said, over the storm. "Remember, chia, remember what is said: Only the living can give meaning to a death. We will give this death meaning, all right. They will pay."

  The Widan Sendari di'Marano felt the chill of wind in the stillness of a room that might have been at home in the iciest remove of the Northern Wastes. Twice now he had gone to the wastes, and he had discovered this about himself: that he would rather face the heat and the parched, dry death of desert sand than the ice and the wind of the North.

  But these two men, his mentors in endeavors of power, felt otherwise. He watched them uneasily; the man who now ruled the Dominion and the man who ruled the much less wieldy Sword of Knowledge. The sun had darkened Alesso's skin, but the wind had not worn it much; he was unbowed in line by the burden he had chosen to heft. Shoulders straight from right to left, he stood, his hands behind his back—and as far away from the exposed hilts of his swords as they could go. He was not given to finery on occasions of war—and he wore no finery here; a statement.

  A statement that was not lost upon the Sword's Edge. Cortano di'Alexes wore robes that were deceptively simple; they were expensive indeed if one knew how to look for the signs, but they did not draw the eye to their wearer. Dark and gray, with hints of gold that somehow never quite came to light, they draped from shoulder to foot. Evening wear.

  Not for the first time, Sendari found much about these two men that was similar.

  "I tell you now," Alesso was saying for the third time, "the kai el'Sol will not cooperate. Whatever has led you to believe otherwise is illusory."

  The words were not heated; they were cool. But they were incautious enough to hint at the depths of Alesso's anger.

  Unfortunately, they were spoken to the Sword's Edge, a man known for the implacability of both his temper and his pride. Cortano's pale hands stroked his beard rhythmically, as if it were an instrument. There was a faint crackle of magic around the edge of his fingertips; Sendari suspected that it was not entirely a conscious use of the power that the Sword's Edge commanded. That would be a challenge too great for Alesso to ignore.