To the Serra Diora di’Marano, grander rooms were offered. The light that had been denied the rest of her companions was offered to her; she was granted high windows, and a seat of stone by their edge. But the seat itself was cool in the open breeze, and the window looked down from a height.
She had lived her life in Marano and in the Tor Leonne, and had been surrounded, always, by things of beauty and grace; in this room, with its vast ceilings, she found little that was familiar. The floors gleamed, flat and new; the walls were adorned with hangings, gold embroidered everywhere above the standard of the clan Clemente.
But this was not the harem’s heart; she was certain of it. There was one door, and it, hinged and wooden; there were no sliding screens, no slender halls, no passage to and from the rooms of the Serra of the Tor’agar and her wives. No; these were men’s rooms, and to her surprise, she found that she missed the orderly maze that lay at the heart of any harem in which she had dwelled, however briefly.
But few were the men who thought their wives in need of protection within their own strongholds; such doors as these were made for one purpose, and one alone: to keep intruders out.
Or to keep guests in.
Ramdan was by her side; the Tor’agar had, as was customary, failed to notice the seraf’s perfect presence. But to Ramdan, silk saris had been offered, and fans that were larger and more valuable than the simple fan he had carried in the folds of his desert robes.
Those robes had also been replaced; he wore instead the loose, wide legs of seraf pants, the long, wide sleeves of silk that denoted his value. His hair had been cleaned and drawn back across the lines of his silent face; his hands had been washed. The dust of the road no longer troubled or disturbed him: he looked every inch the man that she had known for the whole of her life.
He had helped her dress; had taken from her the robes that had served her so well in the Sea of Sorrows. But he had not allowed those robes to be carried away; he had seen to their cleaning himself, and had seen to their care. She wondered if she would ever have cause to wear them again, and was not certain, now that she felt the softness of silk, saw the brilliance of blue and white, of silver and gold, that she desired to do so.
And yet there was a freedom in the anonymity and necessity of those robes that she had never otherwise known. She took the fan that Ramdan offered; she allowed him to brush out the strands of her gleaming hair. It had been a long, long time since she had had the luxury to see it thus tended.
When he was finished, he bound it carefully in combs of gold and jade; her combs. She had never asked him what he had chosen to take with him when he had decided to flee the Tor Leonne in the service of Ona Teresa. She never would; the bounty of the generosity of his choice was like a small miracle and she did not wish to shatter the delicacy of that illusion.
But she was fully clothed, fully prepared, when the knock at the door came. It was dull, that knock; heavy and thunderous, a plodding sound. Bells, gongs, things that were musical, had called her attention in the High Courts. Still, she straightened at the sound of the door, arranging herself with care upon the thick mats laid out before the room’s single table.
The hinges creaked as the door swung wide. It was not a pleasant sound.
She bowed her head, listening; a single set of steps approached her, and it was mercifully free from the sound of metal.
“Serra, I would be honored by your company, if you would grant me that privilege.”
She looked up then, lowering the fan to expose her eyes.
The Tor’agar stood just in front of the open door. He did not seek to close it, and beyond the thick frame, she could see the shadows of Toran reflected in the gleam of wooden floor.
She understood, then, that he granted her as much respect as he could, given that she had no cerdan, and no brother or father who might otherwise protect her. And she bowed her head, acknowledging both her helplessness and her debt.
“Accept my apologies for the roughness of your surroundings. I cannot offer you rooms in my harem; you travel without kin, and without cerdan of your own, and it would bring no honor upon you.”
She said nothing.
“Speak,” he said quietly, “if it pleases you. And speak freely; I will take no offense, and hope to offer none.”
“Among my companions, the Radann Marakas par el’Sol has offered his protection in the stead of my clan, and I have accepted it.”
“The men of the Lord are not often given to the protection of Serras,” he replied gravely. “Such matters, to men who have no wives, no mothers, no sisters, are often beneath notice.”
“The oath of a Radann is never beneath notice, be that oath given to one as humble as I.”
He raised a brow. “Perhaps.”
He knelt on the opposite side of the table, and clapped his hands.
Serafs entered the room at once; they carried wine, water, and food. The food itself was spare; fruits from the trees of the North, soft bread.
“I must ask you, Serra Diora, how you came to travel to Mancorvo.”
Very delicately, and with great care, she poured wine for the Tor’agar; when he lifted his goblet, she poured for herself, but she poured little and she drank less.
“I am not captive,” she said softly. “I do not know how quickly word travels, but at the Festival of the Moon, the Tor Leonne was . . . besieged . . . by strangeness, and many, many people were ordered to flee.”
“And you?”
“I was offered the safety of flight,” she said, her voice gentle, musical, her words paced and imbued with a lightness and grace that had been absent from them for long enough they felt strange. “And I accepted what was offered; I did not know what would come of the night, and it seemed the Lady guided my steps.”
“A prudent answer. I expect no less. But I am not unaware that it lacks . . . content.”
She bowed her head at once, assuming the submissive posture. But she did not touch ground with her forehead.
“You travel with strange companions,” he said, accepting the apology. “The Matriarch of Havalla. A Northern bard. A woman who is of import in the Empire. The Radann par el’Sol. Not even in stories and the idle whim of poor poets does such a fellowship often gather.”
She was already weary of the interview, of the games inherent in the words. Margret, she thought, with a pang, you have caused me some injury. It is not so easy to sing in a cage as it once was.
But necessary. Very necessary.
“Where do you travel, Serra?”
“I think the Radann par el’Sol might better to be able to answer your question.”
“He serves a kai whose loyalties seem well known,” the Tor’agar replied. His voice had cooled, but he was not yet angered; she had said nothing that was improper. “Yet he is here, not at the side of Peder kai el’Sol, and more significantly, you are here.” He lifted the goblet and drank slowly, his eyes never leaving her face. “And it is not my guess that the Tyr’agar would willingly surrender you to any other man. You are of import in this war, and he is no fool; he is well aware of it.”
“I am not a warrior,” she said quietly, as if it were not self-evident. “And of war, I cannot speak.”
“Indeed, it is not of War that I have asked you to speak; I merely seek to better discern your intention.”
“I would travel,” she said quietly, “to my father’s kai.”
It was not the truth, but she lent it the force of her gift, honeying the stark words with the patina of honesty.
“Ser Sendari has sent you to Adano?”
“He is aware that I travel North,” she replied.
“Is he not the closest and most trusted adviser to the Tyr’agar?”
She said, simply, “I do not know. I am not a part of the counsel the Tyr’agar chooses to keep.”
“And yet it is said that Ser Sendari almost doomed his clan by refusing to grant your hand to the kai Leonne. It is just possible that he might see this as wise.” He smiled.
The smile did not touch his eyes, and it did not enter his words.
“If,” he continued, “Ser Sendari di’Sendari thought there was no danger of war in the Terrean. And I do not think that even he could be so . . . optimistic. Come, Serra. I was witness to your act after the death of the kai el’Sol, and I ask you again: What is your intention?”
“Let me first ask, if I may be so unforgivably bold, Tor’agar, the same question.”
“You are indeed bold,” he replied, but this time he did smile. A dangerous smile, but one that transformed his face, lending it a beauty that had been absent. “It amuses me. It is rare.
“I do not know what you have heard; given that you came to us from the shrouded hills of the dark forest, I cannot say for certain that you have heard much. The armies of the Tyr’agar have gathered. He has at his command the whole of the First and the Second army. The Third is scattered, and although some part of it has been gathered in his service, it has been left at the border. I do not believe he trusts the loyalty of those men; they served General Baredan di’Navarre, and rumor indicates that the General might still live.
“But it is clear that the Lambertan Tyr has no love of the Tyr’agar. Clear, as well, that he has less love of the Averdan Tyr. What is not clear—to many—is what will happen to Mancorvo. War is almost upon us, and many who now govern lands within Mancorvo believe that should a change of rulers be fated, they might preserve their clans—and their power—should they choose to ally themselves with the Tyr’agar.”
And are you such a man? She did not ask.
“Word has reached Clemente that some measure of alliance was offered to Ser Mareo kai di’Lamberto. No word has reached Clemente of his response. But while many see the Lambertan Tyr as hopelessly honor bound, I have seen him in battle, and I have seen him in the political arena. If he is bound by honor, it does not make him helpless; he is canny.”
“What would you have of me, Ser Alessandro?”
“The truth,” he replied.
“I hold the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo in the highest regard,” she said softly, “and I owe a debt that no Serra could possibly hope to repay to the man who was once his brother.”
He stiffened. “I owe that man a different debt,” he said at last, coldly. Anger, there. A deep anger.
“The winds will make him pay it,” she replied. “Or the Lady, if any hope of the Lady’s mercy is true. He is beyond approach or reproach now.”
“Indeed. But he dared much in this Terrean because he trusted the rulership of his brother.”
“The Radann claim no family ties.”
“Also true. And it was not family that he trusted; it was its sense of honor and justice. But such ties as exist among those born to Lamberto are at least as strong as blood; he disavowed the kinship that was obvious, but he could never disavow what he was.”
“Would you see the Lambertans fail, then?”
“In truth, Serra Diora, it would not ill-please me.”
She was silent.
“But I have always been pragmatic. Had the Tyr’agar intended to ally with Mancorvo, he would not now have his men stationed in the South and the East. If I were to guess, I would say that he originally offered some part of Mancorvo, and some part of Averda, to the Tyrs of Oerta and Sorgassa in return for their support. Any of the four Tyrs could choose to claim the Tor Leonne; it is clear that no one of them has, and it would take much support for the par of a lesser clan to do so. His offer to the Tyr’agnate of Mancorvo, while more recent, may change the balance of this alliance. But much depends on the reply that the Tyr will tender.
“Lorenza and Garrardi are therefore of import to the Tyr’agar, and against their support, a clan of Clemente’s rank—and I labor under few illusions—is of little consequence. But not all that is of consequence is decided by either men, horses, or wealth. The more powerful of the clans will stand by Lamberto, for their own purpose. But a clan of little note? Such a clan might be left to rule as it has ruled for a century, if it offers its allegiance to another Tyr.
“You would be a gift,” he added softly. “A gift and a sign of good faith, should I choose to return you to him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
SERRA Teresa.
Kallandras.
You are well?
We are both well. Yollana is . . . injured. Were it not for the cost to him, I would have her accept the offer of the Radann par el’Sol. The loss of her left eye . . . She turned to look at the older woman; sleep had come, and in its wake, the rigid lines of indifference had smoothed themselves into wrinkles and crevices. The weight of age descended with that sleep, and Teresa thought that waking would not lessen its burden.
But old, she was beautiful; she had done much in the name of duty, and would do much, much more if she survived. It was a harsh beauty, perhaps a Southern beauty, and there was no softness in it.
Where are you? she asked softly.
I have been given quarters adjacent to the Radann par el’Sol’s. I believe we are in the Northern wing of the building; we have been given no windows, and cerdan patrol the halls with almost annoying frequency.
There are no cerdan here.
Ah. The Tor’agar does not wish to invoke the wrath of Havalla. He has some wisdom. Where is Diora?
I am not certain.
Kallandras’ voice fell silent. She waited, but it did not return. Instead, she heard the sliding of screens, and saw that a young seraf—a girl barely of age—knelt beyond the grooved wood, her dark hair falling across bent shoulders. She was not perfect; her posture was a shade too awkward, and her knees too thick to support it for long.
But she lifted her face, and the Serra saw it was a sweet face, a gentle one, rounded and curved with the chubbiness of indulged childhood. Whoever the Tor’agar’s wife was, she was obviously not a harsh mistress.
The girl waited a moment in a growing, awkward silence, and Teresa realized that the seraf did not know how to address either of the guests. She could not use the honorific Serra, for it was known that the Voyani took ill to the titles of the clansmen, but robbed of that title, the child had no other to offer.
Poorly trained, indeed. And yet Teresa felt little contempt for the quality of her training; the hesitancy, marked and easily seen, was somehow endearing. I have been on the road too long, she thought critically.
“Child,” she said. “Have you come with a message from the Tor’agar?”
“Oh, no,” the girl responded quickly. “I have come from Serra Celina en’Clemente. She bids me offer you wine and fruit, if you will have it.”
“We would be grateful for any such sustenance; we have come late from the road, and we are weary.” It was entirely untrue; Yollana would be deeply annoyed to be indebted in even this small a fashion. But the Matriarch slept, and the Serra Teresa reigned for the moment.
“The Serra also wishes me to say that baths have been drawn, with hot water, if you desire it.”
Teresa frowned. “My companion, as you see, is much exhausted from our travels.”
The girl’s eyes looked toward Yollana and froze there. The wounds had bled through their bindings.
“But tell your mistress that we are greatly honored by the offer of the bath, and if she would not feel insulted, I, at least would be grateful to accept the kindness of that offer.”
The girl nodded at once, falling into the subservient posture. She could reach the floor with her head by rounding the curve of her spine, and only by so doing. Again, Teresa wondered at the Serra who had trained her, and her curiosity was intense. The Tor’agar did not seem a man prone to accept a lesser Serra as his wife.
; The doors slid shut.
“I heard all of it,” Yollana snapped, but only when the sound of footfalls had receded into silence.
“My apologies, Matriarch. But there is no way, with grace, to refuse the offer of the Serra Celina en’Clemente.”
“And you don’t want to, do you?”
Teresa said nothing.
“You want to go and bathe and sit in the heart of a harem. You want to feel at home.”
“I will never be at home again in the heart of any harem,” Teresa replied. She let the truth seep to the surface of her perfect words. “But I am curious. And it may be that we might gain information—and some small advantage—from such a meeting.”
“Small advantage indeed. The women of the clans have no teeth and no claws; they exist at the whim of their husbands.”
“That is the law,” the Serra Teresa replied, and this time she offered the Havallan Matriarch the most perfect of her smiles. “But the Serra Diora di’Marano is such a woman. Tell me, Yollana, that she is without power; tell me that she is no more than pawn.”
“Aye, aye, I understand your point. And I note the false humility you show when you fail to mention your own name. Learn to speak plainly, Na’tere. Learn to speak like a Voyani woman. You would find life among my kin much easier.”
“Indeed. The Matriarch Maria of the Lyserra Voyani is treated with suspicion because of her inability to shed a lifetime of grace.”
“A lifetime of subservience,” Yollana snapped.
The Serra’s smile grew more perfect, more graceful. It was the only way she could clearly express her annoyance. “If you prefer it, I will rescind my acceptance.”
Yollana snorted. “No. Go. But leave me here. I couldn’t stand to listen to the endless, pretty words that Serras use. But I caution you, Serra, to remember what you are supposed to be while you are here: my kin. My cousin.”
Teresa bowed. And her bow, unlike the seraf’s, was perfect. Age had not lessened it. Nothing would.
The Serra Celina en’Clemente was waiting in the baths. The tubs, wide and deep, were filled with water; the room itself was covered in a fine, thick steam. Serafs waited with towels and the broken beads of fragrant oils; they were, like the girl who had come to Yollana’s room, of less than perfect quality. They were not all young; one was older than Ramdan, and the damp in the room caused her movements to slow. All this, Teresa noted in a glance; she accepted the aid offered as she shed the robes of the Voyani, and sank into the blessed waters.
The Riven Shield Page 57