Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court

by The Shining Court

  "Good. The Serra Teresa."

  "When I arranged the Festival of the Sun, she arranged the final details, but it was in the details that the Festival was made. It was Serra Teresa's coordination, Serra Teresa's expertise, and Serra Teresa's knowledge that graced these grounds so memorably.

  "I wished to have the Festival of the Moon to myself. I wished the world to know that it was Serra Fiona en 'Sendari, the chosen wife of the Tyr'agar's first counselor, who arranged for the displays and the ceremonies of Moon night.

  "But so much has changed in the Tor I—I do not feel I am up to the task. And if there is a failure, it will be attributed to your house. This is your first year. I did not—I could not—take that risk. I tried to tell you," she added, "but you have been so busy with the Sword's Edge and the Tyr'agar you have frequently forbidden interruption by any of your wives." She bowed her head, although she did not flatten herself to the ground again. "I am sorry, my husband.

  "The Serra Teresa has never granted me my due, but I must grant her hers: There is no one in the Dominion who could do as well by the Tyr'agar as the Serra Teresa di'Marano.

  "I should have mentioned it. I should have said something at once. But we have had so little time together—"

  "Enough."

  Watching the tears—and they were few and delicate—trail the length of her face did not, in fact, lessen the desire to kill her. But it changed the nature of the desire into one he had lived with, on and off, since the birth of their son, and the nature of that desire was more weariness than passion.

  He had thought that marrying a stupid woman would save him from the fate of his first marriage. And to all eyes, Serra Fiona was the finer choice: Younger, more beautiful, exquisitely graceful in all things and—more important—able to bear him a son.

  Alora had always regretted that. When she regretted nothing else, that one lack shamed her. Had he desired a son? No. He had loved Alora's child as he had never, and would never, love another child. Mother and daughter.

  Everything came back to them.

  Ah, the Festival of the Moon was coming. He could feel the Lady's fingers in the shallows of morning; her grip was tight and cold; as merciless as he felt himself to be. No; more so.

  "I am not pleased, Serra Fiona," he said coolly. "But in this case, I cannot argue with your motivation. I will… greet the Serra Teresa when she arrives, and I will give her permission to remain within my harem.

  "But in matters of such import you are, in the future, to consult me. To make certain that you remember this fact, you may remain here, and in that position, until the Serra Teresa does arrive."

  She looked, of all things, grateful. Relieved.

  Perhaps, he thought, as he turned from her, she was not as stupid as he believed.

  15th of Scaral, 427 AA

  Voyani encampment

  They came by day, gathering in a silence that was almost funereal. Grim-faced, clad in their hair-bracelets and the dusty shades that were Voyani mourning, they gathered at the heart of the encampment. No wildness, here; no drinking, no discussion, no little burst of conversation that meant an entertaining argument was about to start. The Voyani tied back their hair, removed all rings but oath rings, hid or removed their necklaces, their bangles, their silks. Thus did they protect themselves from the envy of the newly dead: they made their lives as unattractive as possible.

  For three days and three nights they would dress in their poorest clothing, and hide their adornments; they would walk hand in hand only with the youngest of children, and mute all displays of open affection; they would speak openly of their sorrows and their losses.

  Because the dead, of course, could see everything that could be more easily concealed from the living, and seeing how they had to live, the wind-taken would leave their lives with less regret, and the wind of their passage would be the breeze and not the sand-laden storm.

  There were two exceptions to this unspoken rule, this governing convention: The Matriarch and her cousin.

  Margret had chosen to face the wind's envy. She was not, after all, going to kill her cousin, and there was nothing beyond that to mourn.

  Oh, to be angered by his betrayal, yes. To be saddened for his mother, yes. But to mourn?

  She wore red, a brilliant color that drew all eyes, trapped in the shape of a long-sleeved shirt. She wore a gold-embroidered sash— the sash that had been part of her mother's unofficial uniform. She wore her birth-ring, her adult-ring, the necklaces that had been a gift for every year of life she had managed to survive, each of them flattened gold that varied in length and weight. Some years were better than others.

  Nicu wore his birth-ring, his adult-ring, and his normal clothing—although the blood that had dried there would be hard to remove.

  He was anchored to the ground by a large collar, but beneath that, beneath that she saw glints of gold. He cast a short shadow; the sun was almost at its height. This was an act of the Lord; such floggings—extremely rare among the Voyani—were always performed as close to the sun's height as possible.

  "Matriarch," Uncle Stavos said, stepping forward. "He's secured."

  I can see that. But she bit back the sarcasm that was second nature to her—or first nature if you asked Nicu or Elena—and settled for the formality the somber situation demanded. "Thank you."

  He bowed. Then he rose and barked a quiet order to another man. Andreas stepped forward and handed her the whip. Her hands shook as she took it.

  "Steady," Elena whispered.

  She shouldn't have looked, but she did, glancing to the side to meet her cousin's eyes. They were shiny-bright, the dark bird's baubles.

  "Elena—"

  Elena shook her head. Turned away. It was only then that Margret realized that she was doing everything she could to avoid looking at Nicu's bent back. His bent, unbroken, unscarred back.

  She pulled her arm up. Back. The whip came with it.

  She sat on her mother's knee; Elena sat beside her. But her mother only had two legs. Nicu sat on the ground at her feet, throwing his long hair out of his eyes. He'd refused to let Aunt Donatella cut it; he wanted, he said, to be like Margret and 'Lena.

  The Matriarch had the best stories. Everyone said so. And on days like this, with no clansmen, no clan war, no merchants to fleece and no townspeople to scare with hints of a dark future, she was actually willing to sit down and tell one.

  Margret got to pick the story. She picked, of course, the one she liked best. The three brothers. Because she was young, and not yet the Matriarch's daughter in anything but name, she was indulged by parent and unrelated adult alike. All Voyani children were.

  And the particular indulgence she always craved when she was told this story was that the three brothers be called Nicu, Margret, and Elena.

  Her mother would begin:

  There was a contest in the heart of Raverra, for the Tyr had decided that his daughter would marry not the usual court-born high clansman, but rather a clansmen beloved by the Lord, and he therefore set a challenge that would kill almost all of the challengers, weeding out the strong from the week.

  At that time, the Arkosan caravan was passing through the Tor Leonne, for during any Challenge, there are fortunes to be told and money made, and the three brothers—who, the Matriarch said gravely, and this was Margret's favorite part—went everywhere

  together, were in the Tor Leonne when this contest was announced, and they saw not only the Tyr but a rare, rare glimpse of the daughter he wished to marry off.

  That single glimpse was enough.

  "Look at her! Have you ever seen a woman so beautiful or so perfect?"

  "She is a clanswoman," the oldest brother said. "And she is not for us. She could not walk the Voyanne. There are women within Arkosa who are as beautiful, and as accomplished in their own fashion. Look elsewhere, Brother."

  Nicu was the name of the handsome brother who approached the Tyr to win the hand of his beautiful daughter. He was in love, and sick with it, and i
f he did not win the hand of the beautiful Serra, he would perish. His two brothers, Elena and Margret, had forced him to eat what they could, but they knew the Lady's grip on their brother's heart was hard, and cold, and permanent.

  The whip fell.

  Elena was the name of the smart brother, Margret the mysterious wise one. Years later, Margret would understand why her mother smiled that odd, lovely smile whenever she told them the names of the three brothers, but at that time it had all made sense.

  Margret and Elena loved their brother more truly than most of the Voyani love their kin, and they saw, clearly, that the Tyr was not pleased with Nicu's suit.

  "He will try to kill our brother," Elena said to Margret.

  "Yes. But Nicu loves his beautiful, cold daughter, and if he does not have her, he will die. Therefore, we must do what we can to help him win his goal."

  Elena told him what he must do: Who he must watch, and who he must never turn his back upon.

  "You must be careful," he said, "of the daughter. She has your heart, but you do not have hers. You are Voyani, and not the clansman she has come to expect, and you will never have the finery she desires."

  "But she is so delicate and so perfect!" Nicu replied, seeing nothing. "And in time I will win her heart, not just her hand. Tell me what I must do."

  "Do not partake of any food the Tyr offers you," Elena replied. "And although you wish to please her, do not partake of any that the daughter offers you either."

  * * *

  She drew her arm back again, her face dry as stone and just as expressive.

  Margret, the oldest, was silent.

  But he loved his brother and wished to see him happy. "Here," he said quietly. "Take this sword."

  "But it is your sword, Brother."

  "Yes. And it is special; it has both a gift and a curse. Wield it, and you will never be defeated in battle."

  "But you never use this blade!" her brother Nicu said, lifting it, marveling at its perfect edge, its perfect crescent curve. He had never looked at the sword so closely before, for his brother so seldom fought.

  "There are some battles," Margret said—and she had never understood this part as a child—"that are best not won." He was, her mother told them, very, very wise.

  It made sense to none of the three who listened, but it was Margret's favorite story anyway.

  The whip fell.

  Nicu grunted, and his back, his unbroken skin, was red with welt and blood that had come to the surface in the wake of leather's passing.

  It came to pass, her mother would say, the moon in her words and the sun in the warmth of her lap, that Nicu took the sword, and entered the Challenge, and won every battle set for him by the Tyr, no matter how difficult.

  The Tyr was a proud and powerful man, and he saw that the young Voyani was going to win the Challenge unless the rules of the Challenge were changed. And although he had desired a man beloved of the Lord, he was still of the clans, and he wished his daughter to be given to no Voyani.

  Nor in truth did the daughter wish it, for the three brothers were Voyani, and she would be forced to live their life of hardship on the endless road.

  And she said to her father, "You have asked for a man beloved of the Lord, Father, and indeed you have found three. Let us now ask for the second proof: a test of the rider."

  And so it came to pass.

  * * *

  She lifted her arm again. Again. Again. She counted each stroke as it fell and she forced herself to watch.

  "They will try to trick you, Brother," the middle brother, Elena, said. "And we are not so fine at riding as we are at walking; we value the strength of our own feet, and we stand on them well."

  But Nicu would not eat or sleep, and at last Margret came to him. "They will not allow you to bring your own horse," he said softly. "But bring your horse this." And he held out a very strange leaf. "Give it to him and he will obey your every command almost before you have made it, for he will understand your word as if you spoke his language."

  "Do not," Elena added, "use a saddle. They will bring you a horse that is ready to mount; tell them it is the way of our people to ride bareback, and remove the saddle over any protest they might make."

  He cried out. It was not quite a scream. She had thought, she had prayed, that he would remain silent. Confronted with the failure of prayer, Margret of the Arkosan Voyani hesitated a moment.

  But only a moment.

  It came to pass that Nicu, with the leaf in hand and the advice of his brothers, rode the horse the Tyr had chosen. The horse was wild and willful, but when it accepted his offering of leaf and was free from saddle and bridle, it carried him like the wind carries sand.

  "You see, Daughter," the Tyr said, for he was an indulgent father, "the young man has won both the test of the Sword and the test of the Rider. I have given my word to the whole of the Tor Leonne, and I will not be forsworn. In three days, you will become his wife."

  Because she was a very fine Serra, she said, "Yes, Father." And planned.

  Elena did not lift a hand; did not raise her voice, did not speak. But Margret felt her cousin's presence one step to the left, and she wondered if Elena the wild felt, at this moment, as sick, as angry, as horrified as Margret the Matriarch.

  There were two bitter Voyani things, her mother had said, that every child endured. There were three things that every Matriarch endured.

  * * *

  The night of the race, victory was celebrated across the length and breadth of the Tor, but nowhere near as loudly as it was in the Arkosan camp.

  And it was to the Arkosan camp that the Serra, accompanied by only two of her father's Tyran, came. She wore fine veils and a very fine sari indeed, but her expression marred her beauty.

  Nicu heard of her presence at once and came to her, leaving his brothers to the Lady's shadows. But the Lady's shadows are the strongest weapon of the Voyani, and the brothers found places to hide in it, that they might listen to the Serra's fine, fine words, for Margret and Elena were wise men and did not trust the clansmen.

  First death.

  The family was everything, and when someone betrayed the family, they died for it. Every child knew that, and accepted it as a hard truth.

  But what every child did not know is that betrayal comes not from the hated and the scorned—if they exist among kin at all— but rather from the loved and the trusted.

  Margret had seen her first death.

  She wanted to raise her hands a moment to stop Nicu's trailing scream from reaching her ears. She was almost done. She wasn't certain she would be able to finish. Important, not to lose count.

  "Seven," a voice said, words carried by wind to a place that was deeper than hearing. "Six more, Margret. Be strong." Kallandras' voice. A stranger's voice.

  She should have felt anger at his interruption. She couldn't. He was the only person in the camp who could offer her any help at all, because his help was invisible and unnoticed by the men and women who would follow her into death, if she demanded it. Not even Elena could interfere, and Elena was the woman that she depended on for almost everything.

  The Serra's hair was as dark as the Lady's Night, and it fell about her face like a gleaming ebon mantle; her skin was white as the softest of silks. Her eyes were dark and filled with mystery; she was delicate and she was perfect.

  Nicu of the Arkosans, the youngest of the three brothers, stood frozen with desire and fear. She crossed the distance that separated them, and then, lifting her face an inch from his, exposed her lips by pulling the veil back. He bent, his own lips drawn down to hers by the gravity of youth, and she lifted her delicate fingers to his mouth.

  "You have faced both of the contests of my father's making, and you have won his permission to marry."

  He nodded; her presence had deprived him of not only clever words, but any words.

  "But although no daughter's permission is ever needed in a marriage, I will promise you this: I am not chattel, to come and go
at the whim of just any man. I have seen you, Nicu of the Arkosa, and I think it is possible that in time you might love me."

  "I love you now," he said.

  Her eyes widened delicately, deliberately, and she smiled. "Would that that were true."

  "It is true," he replied, stung.

  "You love others far more than you love me."

  "There are no others, Serra."

  "I would have you prove that to me."

  "Prove it?" Nicu said, catching her delicate wrist in his strong hand.

  "Yes."

  First death.

  Every child who survived the clansmen's raids and the family wars that occurred once a generation or two between the Voyani bloodlines learned to wield a sword in the defense of their families and their futures. They trained, usually with Uncle Stavos or men like him, large bears with easy tempers and a penchant for a humorous comment at the expense of a poor student.

  And every child who had witnessed death was shocked the first time—the first time—they dealt it. Some were savage and wild, some angry, some deliberately cruel. The measure of the man could be taken in the manner of the first death.

  Margret's first death had been all business, and after the witnesses had scattered word of it all over the caravan, she had finally been accepted in truth, as she was in fact, as the Matriarch in waiting.

  But, Lady, afterward, after the victory celebration, after the eating, the drinking, the song and the dance, she had retired to the woods around the camp and she had been so sick she thought she would never recover.

  She could still see the blood of that clansman on her hands, and on his face, where the sword had left the mark that killed him.

  "You love your brothers more than anything in the world, and they treat you as a child. They tell you what to do and you do it without thought.

  "If they were to tell you to leave me or to disgrace me, you would do it, and I will not live with that shadow, Lady forgive me."

  Ah, the younger brother was wild with love of her. Crazy with it. "I love no one as much as I love you. I will send them away."

  "They will return," she said coolly. She nodded to one of the Tyran, and he handed her a stoppered flask, a very, very fine one. "This is Lady's sleep," she said, as she took the flask into her own delicate hands. "Only grant your brothers her sleep, and I will be your wife and will serve you faithfully no matter where we travel, and on which road. Do not grant them this sleep, and I will seek it before I will marry you."