But she was ill-prepared for the Serra Celina’s first words.
“Serra Teresa di’Marano, I am honored to have you as a guest in my harem.”
She sank shoulder-deep into the waters; let them lap against the point of her chin as she lowered her head in a slight bow, an acknowledgment of the Serra’s words.
“It has been a long time since I last saw you; no doubt you have little memory of that day.”
“I confess that I have, indeed, little memory of it, and it is my profound hope that your memory of that meeting is kind.”
“Could it be otherwise? You have defined courtly grace in the Terrean of Mancorvo for many years. Your serafs, those trained and chosen by you, have been in high demand, and held in high esteem, for those years. I was never so lucky as to own one, and I hope that you do not judge my own serafs by the standards you helped define.”
She listened with care, accepting the oil that the oldest of the serafs offered. The skin that had not been exposed to the Lord’s harsh glare was white, as white and perfect as it had always been; the contrast between her hands and her stomach was almost shocking.
“Did the Tor’agar recognize me?” Teresa asked quietly.
The Serra did not reply; reply enough. But the woman’s voice held no malice; it held open curiosity and genuine respect.
“You come to us in a time of war, and I apologize for the conditions in which you find my domis; the grounds have been all but destroyed by the heavy feet of armed men; even the trees—the oldest of trees—were not spared.”
She nodded.
“The woman you travel with—is she as she claims?”
“She is Yollana of the Havalla Voyani,” the Serra Teresa replied with care.
“I saw her once. She was not so old then, but she was always terrifying. I was a foolish girl,” the Serra Celina added, “and she had the Voyani Sight.”
Something in her voice caught the Serra Teresa’s attention; she turned to face the Serra Celina, and found green eyes intent upon her. “You are aware of the recent history of our clan?”
“I . . . have been much absent from Mancorvo of late,” Teresa said, gentling her voice. “But I confess that I was surprised to see Ser Alessandro wearing the symbol of the Tor.”
“He was not Tor when you last resided with your kai,” the Serra Celina replied. “I take no offense, Serra Teresa. Although Clemente holds the rank of Tor’agar, my former husband, Ser Roberto kai di’Clemente, was not a man overly concerned with the grace and nuance of the High Court; he was seldom seen upon the plateau of the Tor Leonne, and seldom seen in the Court of Amar. He was like his father, Ser Rogos, in that. A practical man.
“A man,” she added, speaking with both sorrow and obvious affection, “who was not embarrassed by the quality of my serafs.”
“It is said,” Teresa said quietly, “that the quality of the master—or the mistress—is best judged by the affection the seraf feels for him, or her, and I do not doubt that your serafs hold you in that particular warmth of esteem.”
The woman blushed. She was, Teresa thought, a few years younger than Teresa herself, but vastly younger, and vastly more protected, than the Serra Teresa di’Marano had ever been allowed to be. Not a weapon, this woman, not a sword to be lifted at the behest of a clan.
“You are still Serra here? Ser Alessandro has taken no wife?”
“He has,” Serra Celina replied quietly—too quietly. “After the death of my husband, I was uncertain of my fate. I bore my husband two sons, but only one survived; I gave him daughters,” she added. “And he was perhaps foolish in his affection for them. Only one has married.
“Ser Alessandro is kai,” she continued. “My second son was born to me late, by the Lady’s grace, and . . . he was young . . . to be without regent. When Roberto died, Alessandro approached me, and he asked me to remain in the harem, with my son, and my wives, for he said Clemente had need of continuity, and a Serra who understood her people. I accepted his offer, as you can see. Ser Alessandro has confirmed my son as the clan’s heir.”
“You tell me much about your husband,” Serra Teresa said. “There is much to respect in his action; there are few who would follow the old ways as closely as he has.”
“Yes. And yet you saw the bowmen upon the curtain wall when you approached.”
She nodded again. “The kai Lamberto would be ill-pleased by their presence, for he despises all things Northern.”
She nodded again. “I have said as much, but my husband is a man who takes no counsel but his own.”
The Serra was silent. “Serra Celina,” she said at last, “what does your husband intend for us?”
“It is to speak of these things that I have asked you to join me,” the Serra replied, “for there are things I feel you must know.” She drew a deep breath, tilting her face up and into the comforting wreaths of steam.
“There have been rumors these past months; they have traveled across the Terrean, by merchant caravan and by Voyani caravan alike. I . . . am a simple woman. I have had some small business with the Voyani, Arkosan and Havallan, and although they are a rough people, they have been courteous and helpful when I have asked for aid.”
And what aid, she thought, would a Serra be unwise enough to ask of the Voyani? Or do you not understand the debt you incur when you accept their favor?
“It is said,” the Serra continued, lowering her voice, “that the Tyr’agar now deals with the servants of the Lord of Night; that he intended to honor the Lord at the height of the Lady’s festival.
“Serra Teresa, you were within the Tor Leonne during the Festival season. Is there truth to these rumors?”
“There is . . . some truth to these rumors. Understand that it is unwise to speak of any rumors that involve men of power and the wars they play.”
Serra Celina en’Clemente nodded earnestly, and Teresa knew, by the quality of that nod, that she in fact understood no such thing. She was not a girl, but Ser Roberto, and Ser Alessandro after him, had either been kind, or foolish, enough to allow her to retain the sweetness and the naïveté of youth.
“The kai Lamberto would never deal with the servants of the Lord of Night. Never.”
That, indeed, was truth. “No,” the Serra Teresa replied gravely. “Not while he drew breath. Not Mareo kai di’Lamberto, and not any of his children, nor his brothers.”
“Aye,” the Serra Celina said, rough word that showed her breeding. “And it is the brother that lies at the heart of the difficulty. My husband’s cousin was killed by the kai el’Sol over the matter of a simple village seraf.”
“The kai el’Sol was not a man to step outside of the bounds of law,” Serra Teresa said quietly. “And I find it hard to believe that he would kill a man of rank over his treatment of a simple seraf.”
“She was not a seraf in name. But in all but name. She came from the poorest of clans.” Serra Celina frowned. “My husband—my former husband—was a gentle man. He sought wives among the villages within our domains, but . . . he never sought to . . .” She bowed her head. Lifted it. “Ser Alessandro has said very little, but word has come to me from other sources.”
The Voyani, Teresa thought. Perhaps the Serra Celina was not so simple as she appeared.
“The kai Manelo had taken an interest in the girl, but the girl was married.”
“Ah.”
“And her husband . . . was injured . . . by the kai di’Manelo. The kai el’Sol accused him of attempted murder, and they fought.”
That—that, Teresa thought, was more than believable. “Ser Alessandro was fond of this cousin.”
“They were kin.”
“And he now seeks war with Lamberto over the death of his cousin?”
“Not war,” his wife said softly. “But his uncle, the kai di’Manelo—”
&
nbsp; “The Tor’agnate?”
“Yes. He was outraged by the death of his kai. He has never recovered. He, as my husband did, ventured to the Tor Leonne for the Festival of the Sun. It was not to the Tyr’agnate’s liking.”
Adano, Teresa thought, had turned back.
“Understand, Serra Teresa, that I care for my husband. He has been like a brother to me; he is a kind man. He has made no demands of me, and he has been kind to my wives. There is little that I would not do for him, if he but asked. But I do not wish him to fall into the Lord of Night’s shadow, and I fear—” She dropped her head into her hands. Lifted her face. “You travel with the Havallan Matriarch. She will not be detained, no matter what he might decide to do with the others. You must tell her—” She hesitated now, on the brink of treachery, her pain writ clearly upon the large, grand lines of her open expression.
Black hair clung to the sides of high cheekbones, and trailed the edge of her chin, the long line of her neck; she was lovely in a fashion, and Teresa thought she must have been more than lovely in the full bloom of a distant youth.
“You must tell her that the Tor’agnate Amando kai di’Manelo has allowed the armies of the Tyr’agar free passage through his lands. They rest there now, waiting the orders of Alesso di’Marente.”
Again, her eyes were wide, round. “I would not tell you this. I am aware of what it might cost. But it is said that, in the lands of Manelo, the cattle sicken and die. The horses will not remain upon the plains. And the serafs in the village have been plagued by unexplained diseases and injuries that swords alone cannot explain.”
Teresa bowed her head. Lifted it. “You serve the Lady,” she said softly. “We are, neither of us, warrior-born; the Lady requires no warriors. But she requires bold heart and dedication, and you have that in great measure.
“I thank you, Serra Celina, for your warning, and I thank you for the grace of your hospitality.”
“My husband,” Celina said, “has not yet allowed the armies of Marente passage into Clemente. He is Tor’agar; Amando is Tor’agnate, and he serves another. But . . . he is kin. And there is pressure upon Clemente. In rank, there is no question of superiority; Alessandro is Tor’agar, and in theory the more powerful of the two. But Amando has planned these many years for personal war, and he is well provisioned and well armed. If he threatens war . . .”
“Please, Serra Celina, say no more.”
The past.
Amelia, his Serra, his only wife; their son, Jonas. Their deaths, at a distance, while his hands waged war in the name of a clansman of the High Court. Easy to remember them here, in this spare, harsh room. Easy to remember all of the dead.
Fredero.
The dead.
When the knock came, muffled by the thickness of wood, Marakas looked up. Remembering the past, the gift of the past, and the burden of the responsibility for it. The death of a single man—a single unimportant man—had given him back his life’s gift and his purpose; he had not thought, in truth, that he might be forced to pay for it. Or rather, had thought the debt paid by the life of service that had followed, year after year.
But he did not flinch.
Instead, he drew back, away from the door. “Enter,” he said, pitching his voice so that it might carry.
The door opened, but only slightly; no one obeyed the word that strayed the gray area between command and permission.
He moved toward the door, then, and saw that a seraf knelt inches from its frame. A man, and not one comfortable with these heavy, graceless doors. He looked up as Marakas approached, light in the halls gleaming along the streaked black of his hair.
“The Tor’agar,” he said quietly, “requests your company.”
The halls of the domis were of stone and wood; Marakas was aware that beyond them, in the heart of the complex, a more graceful dwelling resided, for as he followed the seraf, stone gave way to wood, and wood at last to the screens and the sliding walls of a rich man’s home. Flowers adorned wooden tables, wooden pedestals; water lay in gourds from which lily petals hung. And beyond these, in the longest of halls, shields, adorned with the symbol of rank and the colors of clan, rested above the last door. A shield. A shield of fire.
The seraf bowed at once to floor; Marakas glanced at his back, but did not choose to abase himself in a like fashion. He waited, his hands at his sides, his sword’s curve part of the fall of his robes.
The door slid open; the seraf’s hands moved it effortlessly in its recessed track.
Beyond it, seated upon a low dais, was the Tor’agar, Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente. To either side, as much adornment as threat, stood men who wore the crest of his house: Toran. There were only two.
But there was no low table in this room; no hangings, none of the details which graced a hall that was intended for the hospitality of guests. There was a long, wide door upon the West wall, but it was closed; light came through the opaque cells of heavy paper.
“Radann par el’Sol,” the Tor’agar said, voice smooth and cool. “I bid you welcome to the stronghold of the clan Clemente.”
Marakas bowed, then. When he rose, he said, “Tor’agar, you honor me by your welcome.”
The seraf did not rise. The Toran did not move.
Ser Alessandro’s gaze was bright and dark in the silence.
“Enter,” he said softly. “We have much to discuss.”
There was no way to refuse the command. Nor was Marakas inclined to try. He stepped past the bent back of the unnamed seraf; the door slid shut behind him, punctuation to the decision and flow of movement. The room stretched out, from door to wall, as if it were a long and narrow passage between the heights of the mountain chain to the North of Mancorvo.
He approached the Tor’agar, not as supplicant, and not as ally, nor as penitent. But he was grateful for the absence of the rest of his companions. The Northerners might not understand the significance of this meeting, but the Southerners—the Serra Diora di’Marano—would. He wished to spare her the uncertainty, although he was not at all certain she was a woman who could be spared anything; had she not been among the Arkosans when the Tor Arkosa rose from the empty plains of desert death?
Had she not bent, hems drenched in the blessed waters of the Tor Leonne after the kai el’Sol’s sacrifice, to retrieve the fallen Sun Sword, her arms strong in spite of the terrible weight of grief and loss?
He approached Ser Alessandro, and when he stood ten feet from the dais, he bowed stiffly and allowed himself to kneel. But his back was straight; he placed his hands upon his knees as he lifted his chin. Readiness, not supplication. “Tor’agar. You requested my presence.”
“Indeed. We have matters to discuss; I am certain that you have questions you wish to ask, and I bid you speak freely here.”
Marakas nodded. “We have been grateful for the hospitality offered by the clan Clemente,” he said, neutral now. “The road traveled from Raverra was . . . a road that I would not willingly travel again, and my companions were much in need of rest.”
“I would hear, one day, of that road—although I fear that such a tale would be costly.” He frowned. “But the circumstances that drove you to take such a road are also of interest, for it is a road not suited to those in your care.”
“You refer to the Serra,” he said quietly.
“I do.” He rose; the Toran did not move at all. Marakas marveled at their composure, for the serafs of Clemente did not possess it. “She is of value, par el’Sol.”
He did not reach for Verragar, but he heard the sword’s voice, the whisper of its keening edge.
“I have sworn oath, upon one of the five, to protect her,” Marakas replied.
“From me?”
“From any man who would deter her from her final destination.”
“Ah. And that? That is the question, is it
not, Radann par el’Sol? You have traveled the Terrean in the past,” he added darkly, “on your errands of honor, at the side of Fredero kai el’Sol. Will you travel upon such a path again? You will find the going more difficult with the passing of the kai el’Sol.”
He shrugged. “A man is bound by his oaths,” he said softly.
“Spoken as a clansman who has never seen the High Courts.”
“Or a clansmen who has never valued them highly.” Dangerous words; dangerous words to speak in the presence of a Tor.
But Alessandro smiled. Sharp smile, that, but it transformed his face. “Do you remember me, par el’Sol?”
“I remember you,” Marakas replied softly. “I remember the honor you offered your dead.”
“I bear the scar.”
“And I; not all scars take root in flesh.”
The Tor’agar lifted brow. “You have grown canny with words since last we met.”
“A duty of my position.”
“Indeed. I admit that I am surprised you retain that position; Peder kai el’Sol is not the man that Fredero kai el’Sol was. I would have said that he would have had you replaced with a more political man—a more ambitious one.”
“I am not without ambition.”
“You could not be, and still be par el’Sol. Men serve the Lord.”
“Men,” Marakas replied, taking the first of his great risks, “define the Lord.”
Silence, then. One of the Toran turned to look at his lord, but Ser Alessandro’s gaze was now fixed upon the Radann.
“The Lord,” Alessandro replied, “values victory above all else.”
“Does he? Were that true, the servants of the Lord of Night might have been given his blessing to march across the face of the Dominion.”
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