But the laugh must have startled the Serra, for she fell silent immediately and did not speak again until they had passed the gates.
"Diora."
The Serra Diora, dressed in a simple sari, knelt before a mask. It was a simple mask; it had a bird's face. As a child, she had thought it was an eagle's, but it was softer than the harsh-beaked hunter; not so wide-eyed as the owl. There were feathers in abundance across the face, some gold along the edges, and upon the beak itself. It was almost gaudy; it was certainly not the mask she would choose for herself now.
And yet, it was here, buried beneath layers of clothing, kept safe from Festival to Festival, from home to home. Aie, it had even survived the death of her wives. She should have known, then. She touched it hesitantly, her fingers brushing bent feathers.
Remembering, as if the sharp, brittle quills of such dress feathers were keys that had opened a locked door, the Festival of her fourth year, when she had been carried upon her father's shoulders through the streets of the Tor. More clearly than she remembered events of a month ago, she remembered the flash of the blades in darkness where he had paused to show her the dancers; she remembered the food he had bought for her, a light pastry with a very sweet syrup in the center, made by Northerners who had come to visit the Tor. War was very far away from her then.
She remembered that her father did not come home the next day. That all of her mothers were worried about him; that none of them would tell her what they were worried about. But she could hear it in their voices: they thought that her father was going to die.
She had tried to talk to Ona Teresa, and Ona Teresa had forbidden it; she had said it was dangerous to her father. And so she had spent a night in fear, until at last she had crept out of the harem room where the children slept. She remembered the walk between their room and his, because Alana would be angry that she was not asleep, and she didn't want Alana to be angry.
No one caught her. No one. She curled up in her father's rooms, determined to wait until he returned to them. That night had been at least as dark as this one. She had prayed and prayed and prayed to the Lady—but it was no longer Festival, and she knew that the time when the Lady would listen best had passed.
She had no candle for light. She walked in the dark, her hands touching familiar walls and screens with a sudden understanding that all familiar things seen in shadow were mysterious and frightening. And yet… she had not wondered then what she herself was like, seen in shadow.
She had found her father's room. And sleep had found her there.
But so had her father. Her clearest memory of that evening was her father's hands, red and raw and bleeding, his face, scratched, beard singed, his robes torn. It should have horrified her. She should have been frightened. But he was alive. He was alive; the Lady had given her all that she had asked for.
Such an easy thing to ask for. Her father's life.
"Na'dio?"
"I am… here, Ona Teresa. I am almost ready to leave."
"Time your flight carefully. We are not yet at the Lake."
There was a pause, and then the Serra Teresa added, "Kallandras does not answer me."
He heard the wind's howl; his hand sparked and flashed with its voice. A moment, no more, he ached to walk the same path that the kinlord walked; but higher, faster. He missed the wind's voice, and when it came to him, when it spoke all of his names as if those names belonged to the wind alone, he heard nothing but its song, desired nothing but its music.
But he had been tested by greater desires, and he had survived far greater losses than simple denial. He sang his regret, and the wind churlishly shredded the words into syllables and single notes.
But it did not, in its caprice, choose to betray him to the Lord who now gave it freedom to play.
Freedom to play?
Kallandras frowned.
"He will be here, if he is needed. I am… almost ready. I will meet you by the gate, unless I am detained."
Diora lifted the mask to her face and after a long pause, spent staring at the flat curves of the interior of that birdlike face, she settled it upon her cheeks and tied the ribbon around her hair with shaking hands. She pinned it, wrapping it in her hair so that it could be lifted but not easily dislodged.
There was a small mirror in this room, for this was the room in which she was to prepare for the wedding on the morrow. She paused a moment to look at her face in the mask a child had chosen.
And then, because she was no longer a child, she looked away. She would have set the mask aside, but it was the only one she had; the only one she could be certain was not in some way ensorcelled.
And it had stayed with her, year after year, for so long, she felt that it was meant to serve this final purpose.
She had chosen her clothing well; it was serafs clothing—but of a fine cut and a fine cloth. The role of seraf was a part that she could play with ease, for in the end, upon the plateau, there was very little difference between the wife of Tyr and the seraf of one until she bore a child. And if that child was a girl, her status changed little.
But the freeborn mother of a son had power; no son who was to inherit title and clan could be tainted by the shadow of slavery.
And she would not think about sons. Not now. Not here, so close to the grave of the only son that she had ever had. All of her ghosts were restless tonight.
Festival Night.
Freedom.
She gathered a blanket—the only other possession she would take with her—and began her final journey.
The Tor was alive with people, more crowded than she had ever seen it. Here and there, the wildness of the evening had given way to more personal meetings than she desired to witness. She wondered how the grounds would look on the morrow; if the delicate dwarf trees to the east of her father's residence would be trampled under the heels of the masked strangers who now strode like giants across the landscape. Robbed of daylight and Lord's judgment, they, too, were free.
And to spend that freedom being so carelessly destructive seemed a profound waste.
But not all men were free.
As she left through the screens her father's serafs were accustomed to using when they needed to fetch sweet water, she saw the cerdan near the front of her father's home. They had elected to remain in defense of the harem, and they looked like men under siege. She wondered if any would die attempting to approach the dwelling.
She wondered how many men had died when her harem had been attacked. And how many had just gracefully given way so that the women and children they were to guard could be brutalized and slaughtered.
The rings on her fingers were large and cold; she started to shake and curled those hands into fists. Lady, Lady, please. The Festival Moon was so strong, and she had spent almost six months in isolation. Please, not that, please.
But it returned to her. Not the sight, not the smells, not the fire on the Lake. Not even the screaming, although that had been a living nightmare.
But the sound of her son's neck snapping.
The sound of Ruatha's raw, raw voice, twisted around the syllables of her name. It was overwhelming because she could not forget it; her gift had taken the memory and made it as much a part of her as breathing. She could turn away for a day or two; she could think of other things—but always, unexpectedly, it returned to her.
She had not cried that night.
She did not cry this one.
She swallowed truth until she thought she would bleed from it, and she walked, elegantly, gracefully, demurely, to the only thing that offered her the hope of true freedom.
She could see the outline of trees and flowers in the silver light of the moon. And she could hear the exhortations of the kai el'Sol as the Lake caught his voice and cast its echoes across the plateau like a net. She heard samisen strings, and that stopped her for a moment because it had been so long since she had played and known the ease that comes only with the wordless expression of music.
And it was Festiva
l Night.
But she was the Serra Diora di'Marano, and the Festival's freedom held a different promise. She slid her way between people, bumping up against a sword here and a hip there, brushing expensive silk and rough twill, running her finger through silky, thin hair when the head of a small child appeared near her hand.
But the crowd lessened as she approached the home of the Radann upon the plateau. The Radann, who served the Lord, and were not known for their fondness for revelers. They were not hostile, but they did not welcome intrusion, and even on a night when anonymity and safety were theoretically guaranteed, accidents did happen.
The crowd had guaranteed her anonymity; as she left it behind, she became more conspicuous.
Lady, she thought, her hands trembling as they once again became fists. Lady, guide me. I am your servant. No. That was not true, and when one begged a boon from the Lady, it was best to be honest. And yet she was not certain what honesty was anymore.
She had saved her father's life.
And she had begged the Lady for a chance to avenge herself against the men who had destroyed her family. Perhaps, having been given that single chance, she had failed the test, and would be given no other.
Diora!
Aiee, Lady, she thought. Do not judge me, do not condemn me, for that alone; in all else I have proved true to my vow. Please, Lady.
Diora!
Please.
She walked blindly and without the grace for which she was renowned; she had left behind all of the things by which she would be easily identified.
But there was one thing that she could not leave the plateau without. For she was still alive, and while she lived, she planned.
The Serra Diora di'Marano made her way to the Swordhaven. There were no Radann to guard it, and none needed; she reached for the torch in the iron ring, and taking it in a hand that she had to work to steady, she opened the door into what should have been darkness.
But the sun had descended, and now resided within the blade itself, for when she opened the door, she was almost blinded by the radiance of a Sword that had become its name.
From the heights above the city, the Kialli Lord could see two things clearly: Anya, who had evaded his power and his command, and Isladar, who stood beside her, human child in his arms.
"How dare you? " he bellowed, and the wind came rushing to him with the glee of a wayward imp. He sent it out, with his words.
And when it returned, it bore a message. "Have a care, Ishavriel. Anya is almost beside herself with rage, and if she chooses to fight us, she will riot return alive to the Shining City.
"I have tried to convince her to leave, but it appears that she has promised the child I now hold—the child you made her drop—safety. It has a meaning to her that I do not understand, and I would be… gratified… if you would enlighten me. If, that is, you understand it yourself."
Lord Ishavriel roared with frustration.
And beneath him, quivering like animals, the mortals heard his true voice. "It is time!"
Margret almost slid the mask over her face. Almost.
But she hesitated and as she did,, the people around the Fountain—and in the streets—seemed to start like rabbits or small animals exposed to birds of prey. They recognized magic, if they recognized nothing else, and the little fears that had built surfaced between the cracks in the silence.
As people ran or moved away, she heard a young boy ask his Oma if the fire flowers were about to blossom across the heavens. And his Oma in reply scooped him into arms that seemed too frail to carry his boisterous weight and started to flee—
And something in Margret spoke. "Wait!" she cried.
The old woman teetered and turned, and Margret held out a hand to her. "To me," she said. "Quickly."
The stranger hesitated and the creature above them, tall and slender and beautiful in a chilling way, spoke again. She did not understand what he said, but she understood from the rhythm of his syllables that something was about to happen that neither she nor the other Matriarchs would like.
And yet. And yet the time was not right.
The old woman reached out. Margret caught her hand and dragged her across the incised circle, where she sat, heavily, on the edge of the Fountain. "Don't touch the water," Margret told her, almost gently. "And whatever you do, don't step back across the circle."
The boy peered out from the safety of his Oma's familiar hug. "Why not?"
"Because, you see that bad man up there?" Margret spoke with cheerful grimness.
"Yeah."
"Well, he'll kill you."
"Oh. Oma, will he really kill me?"
The old woman frowned at Margret, and Margret nodded.
"Yes, Na'simo, now shush."
He fell silent. Margret turned her face toward the moon, but her attention came back to the creature that hung suspended above the city.
In the distance, the screaming began.
The Serra Diora entered the Swordhaven as if compelled. The door swung shut at her back; she set the torch in its place in the ring on the wall and then approached the braziers. They were cool; the Radann had overlooked the heating of the fire and the burning of incense. That they had overlooked these pleasant duties to do battle in the streets of the Tor made their mistake not only forgivable but commendable, although in truth she wondered if the Lord cared at all for incense and ceremony.
The whole of the haven was silent. The Sword was white; the light it cast a visual cry. But of what? She could not be certain. She walked quickly to the altar's stairs, and knelt there. I have no incense to offer, she silently told the Sword, but I will offer you something more important in its stead: freedom, and a chance to be what you were meant to be.
Wielded by a man with Leonne blood in his veins.
The Sword did not brighten, but it did not darken either, and because she desired a sign, she accepted its neutrality as the permission she sought.
Did they bar and lock this door? Never. For although it had been attempted, no man alive had ever survived the Sun Sword's touch when he had come with intent to steal.
Very well. It was truth; she accepted it as such. But she was not a man. She was the wife of a dead Tyr, a weak fool who had not, in the end, done Sword or clan—or family, Lady, family—justice. In a single evening, he had been destroyed, and his family unmade.
But for six months, the seraf granted freedom solely to be thrown as a sop to the Northern Imperials had survived. For had he been dead, Alesso di'Alesso would have taken the Sun Sword as he had taken the Lake and the Crown.
She reached the Sword, and there she knelt, pressing her forehead into her hands. This was the final test; if she perished here— as the kai el'Sol had perished—she would be truly free. At the side of Marakas par el'Sol, the stone that was weight and responsibility had burned a warning into perfect, unseen skin.
She had thought it a warning of the Enemy's presence, but she felt it now, as something else. It was still painful. Perhaps still a warning.
And it made no difference.
She touched the Sword. Lifted it from the gold-and-jade pedestal crafted for its use. There were two scabbards, and although the Sword was to travel to war, she chose the dress scabbard to house it. She could not carry both, and if she survived here, it would be necessary for the Sword to be recognized instantly.
No plain sheath would accomplish that.
Forgive me, she said to the blade, but this is not an act of vanity; it is an act of war.
The blade did not reply. But she, who had lifted it from the waters of the Lady's Lake after the dissolution of Fredero kai el'Sol, took silence as assent, if not approval, and she slid the blade, taking care not to touch its edge, into the curved crescent of a sheath heavy with gold and jewels. The sun was eclipsed; the room was cast back into the meager light that a flickering torch could bring. It took Diora a minute or two to become accustomed to the shadows; she took that time, holding the weight of the Sword in both hands. Then she wrapped it
in the blankets that she had taken from her father's steps and turned.
There, at the base of the steps, a torch casting orange light against the wrinkles and contours of his aged face, stood the Widan Sendari di'Sendari.
Her father.
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Her hands clutched the mask; she held it as if it were a shield and not a burden. The old woman and her son huddled against the Fountain, caught between the water that Margret told them—as gently as possible—not to touch, and the edge of the circle that she told them—less gently—not to cross.
Had it been within her power to spare the child, she would have cut off all sounds of screaming, for the screams were obviously human, and the terror in them could not be disguised or explained away.
She wanted to know what was happening but she knew, now, that to leave this circle was death. Her own, and the rest of the Matriarchs; they were bound; the points of an oath. But she wasn't certain what she'd promised yet, and that made her uncomfortable. Her wrist ached with the touch of the fire.
No screams could continue forever, and the ones that they were forced to endure grew distant or worse: they broke into sobbing terror. The child's face was not invisible; she wondered, briefly, if in this evening's work he would lose his parents. The same thought must have crossed his grandmother's mind, for she clutched him tightly and the shape of her eyes slowly changed as she bowed her head, tucking her grandson's hair beneath her chin.
Margret wondered how many other grandchildren she had, but she didn't ask. What point was there?
The woman was singing.
She was singing a cradle song into the ears of her frightened charge, and his arms, tight around her neck, relaxed slightly. The song promised what she could not promise: safety. And it offered what she could offer: love. Comfort.
Margret had never seen these two people before, and if she survived this night's work—if they all did—she would never see them again. But they seemed a microcosm of her own family.
Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court Page 81