Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (13 page)

"Yes. His name is Kallandras of clan Senniel." Lissa paused.
"And he's asked for an audience with Ser Sendari. I think he wants to
sing for us." She clapped. "A coup for Marano—to have the man chosen by
the Tyr'agar begging to sing in our court!"

"Yes," Teresa replied absently. "Has Ser Sendari seen this
Kallandras?"

"Not yet," was the quiet reply. "The request has just come,
and Ser Sendari is in his chambers." She lowered her voice
conspiratorially, as if she truly believed a whisper to be a secret.
"He practices the Craft. Mellora saw him at it when she tried to visit.
He told her we are not allowed to disturb him; not even the serafs are
to enter to clean." At this, she wrinkled her nose.

"I see. Come, Lissa. Help me dress, and quickly. You must lead
me to the young man before he decides that Marano is not a suitable
clan to make such a petition of. We don't want him to go elsewhere."

Did I do this on purpose
? Teresa thought,
as Lissa practically scurried across the great room, decorum forgotten,
to save Marano this assumed loss.
Did I train you to be so
guileless, so transparent, that you might never be a threat to me
?

Or was it a different weakness, some love of an innocence that
never lasted long enough? She did not know, and it did not matter; the
deed had been done, and she would not undo it.

In the quiet of his chamber, with the curtains drawn to shed
as much of day's light as possible, Sendari par di'Marano sat in
contemplative silence. The fires were banked; he was exhausted. But he
had accomplished much for the day, although there were no witnesses to
it.

No man could call himself a follower of the Sword of Knowledge
who did not display at least the talent of calling flame to earth;
Sendari had taken to it quickly, much to his father's displeasure.

His father, Tor'agar Vendiro kai di'Marano of Mancorvo.

The oldest son, Adano, was much like their father; proud and
windburned riding the plains of Mancorvo upon the finest horses the
Dominion produced. He lived to fight, and to him a battle, with its
attendant savagery, its viscerality, was all the freedom that he wanted
or needed. A man's life. A
man's
life. Vendiro
had been proud of Adano, blessed by him.

Of his younger son, he had had little enough good to say;
Sendari was competent at arms, but he did not have the flare for it,
nor the aggression. His fights in the ring were always of a more
cunning nature—the strength of intellect over mere muscles. He had
bested men his better with the scimitar. He had bested Adano, once.

He bore the scar of the battle after it, although it had paled
into a silver line across his brow.

He rode—the clansmen all did—but again, not well, and he bore
horses little enough love, although his mannerisms showed none of his
distaste for their presence or their use.

No; he read, and there was little enough kept by the clan to
learn on. He volunteered service to clan Lam-berto—the ruling clan of
the Terrean of Mancorvo, and his father's liege lord—although again,
the learning to be gleaned there was scant. Mareo di'Lamberto was cut
from the same cloth—the same bolt—as Vendiro di'Marano; they had no
patience for the more sedentary arts. Reading. Writing. Music. Of
course, they had their court, and of course, that court had poets and
musicians of great renown—but money, and the graces of their chosen
wives, could buy what their inclination did not lead them to.

When had he first found the fire?

He could not remember the date, and that surprised him; he
could not clearly remember a time without fire's voice. He had had it,
certainly, upon the eve that he had first met Alora.

Alora.

It was such a bitter name; the saying of it conjured flame
where he thought none remained.

Promise me, Sendari
, he heard her say,
the tone of her voice soft and pleading, although the iron beneath it
was strong.

Anything. Anything, Alora
—
although
they will think me unmanned to say it
. He was used to being
thought of as less than a man, and he was—he knew it even now—maddened
by her in a grimly glorious way.

Do not walk this path any farther. We have what we
need; you have your harem, and it is a fine one; you have your position
with the clan Lamberto; you have your lands and fine horses for the
sons that we will have. You are counted among the Wise; you do not need
to have the Sword's edge.

They had had no sons. The plans of youth were often ended thus.

If I do not take the test of the Sword, I will never
be Widan. I will be nothing but par di 'Marano and you will be nothing
but the wife of a second son.

That is all of my desire. You will be
,
she had said, and her words cut and cut,
Sendari, and you
will be alive, and you will be the only man that I have ever
—

He could not hear her say the word, not even in memory; it
forced him up from the comfort of his cushions in a frenzy that was
part anger and part humiliation at the lack of control. He did not want
to think of Alora— but he had to. He had to. For he had given her his
word, and by breaking it, he was breaking a vow that would have been
more sacred than any vow given by man to the Lord, had she but lived.

Yes, curse her. Yes. Even knowing what he did. Had she lived,
she would have held him, and he would have been powerless before her,
and powerless before the clansmen.

But she died. She died, and the grimness of memory and longing
and loathing had not yet buried her. If it ever would. He would be
Widan. Before, had he taken the test and failed, there was a lifetime
of Alora to be lost.

And after?

He had had few friends among the clansmen and the riders. But
he had made one, Ser Alesso par di'Marente, a man of vision and a man
who, in Sendari's objective opinion, was more than a match for his
brother, his father, or the Tyr'agnate who ruled them both.
Take
the test, Sendari
.

No. I will do what I can to aid you. I will find you
a suitable Widan, if that is what you require. But I have
—
I
have chosen not to take that risk
.

He remembered Alesso's anger.
She weakens you,
Sendari. She weakens
us.

He should have lied; he lied to every other man. But not to
Alesso.

Yes, my friend
, he'd said.
And
it is a weakness that is stronger than any other weakness that any
other man has been unmanned by. I love her
. It had been
Moon-night, and he had spoken freely.

Flame flew in the confines of the chamber of contemplation,
wild in its hunger to consume. And then lightning joined it, charring
and bright; wind came, and beneath that wind, a shadow. The man who
would be Widan had the fires, yes—but he had more, the range of his
knowledge broader and deeper than any of the sword-sworn suspected.

It was a storm that was over quickly, that exhausted his
reserve without pushing it too deeply.

There were no witnesses. He was glad that the preparations
leading up to the test of the Sword required an absolute concentration,
for he would have been forced to kill any seraf—or concubine—who had
been present for such an inelegant display. Which would anger the Serra
Teresa.

Ah, sister
, he thought, with little love
but with great respect,
had we been born in a different
time, you with your voice and I with my craft, we would be living in
Tor Sendari
.

And what
, his sister said, although it
was memory, only memory,
of Diora
?

Diora was laughing. The sound of her voice, raised in
merriment with the children of concubines, stopped Teresa a moment as
she stood in the long, open hall. Her niece was usually so grave and so
serious that she had the bearing and sophistication of a much older
child, with a desire to be all that the clan demanded of its women.

Serra Teresa di'Marano would never have said it aloud, but she
loved the sound of Diora's laughter, and as age took it from her, she
missed it more and more. She stood, savoring it, hearing the way
laughter matched what lay beneath voice so completely.

Then, squaring her shoulders and straightening the fall of
deep green silk, she began to walk again. She might train Lissa to be
guileless, but Lissa was only the daughter of a seraf; Diora was blood.

As she entered the circle, a seraf rushed to attend her.
"Serra Teresa," the woman said, falling at once into the submissive
posture, knees against the tiled floor.

"Olena. The children seem happy."

The woman paled slightly. "It is the approach of the Festival
Night," she said, her voice steady. "I think it has infected them with
its spirit."

"That must be the explanation. The children of Sendari are
usually much better behaved than this."

"Serra," the seraf said. "Do you wish to speak with them?"

"I wish only to speak with Serra Diora. If you would have her
escorted to my chambers."

"You sang well, Na'dio."

Diora, grave and wide-eyed, nodded in agreement with her aunt.
"Thank you, Ona Teresa." Her eyes, so dark a brown they were almost
black, were unblinking; Serra Teresa could almost see her unmarred
reflection in their surface.

How to begin? She was a master at the manipulation of men and
women, but children—children shifted like leaves in the wind, blowing
this way and that at the behest of the adult to whom they last spoke.
To tell her that it was to be "our secret" was a thing of the moment,
and Serra Teresa was not naive enough to believe that a four-year-old
girl, no matter how serious, could hold on to that concept for as long
as it would take.

Especially not as this particular young girl found such favor
in her father's eyes.

How to begin? How to tell her to lie, now and forever, to the
man who was her father, to the women who were as mothers to her?

Stop
, she told herself firmly.
You
will do as you have always done: What you must
. Schooling
her voice, she began to speak.

"Na'dio, you are special. No, do not bow your head, and do not
be pleased. You are special in a way that no woman should be." Her tone
was harsh, accusatory; she saw Diora stiffen and then pale. Good. "Your
father is one of the Wise."

Diora nodded.

"He is not of a powerful clan, and he is not kai. He cannot
afford to be dishonored. Do you understand?"

She nodded again, so serious that Teresa believed that she
did, in fact, understand.

"When you sing, what do you feel?" She watched as Diora tried
to put into words a singular feeling that could never be contained by
them.

"Good," her almost-daughter said at last. "Happy." The child
frowned. "Or not happy. The Sun Sword is not a happy song."

"No, it is not. And there are very few 'happy' songs, Diora.
Only the serafs sing them."

She bridled, did this child of Alora and Sendari, looking for
a moment so much like her mother that Teresa fell silent. The most
terrible wounds were always caused in this fashion because, unexpected,
they were impossible to defend against. She knew that Alora would not
have allowed what she was about to do; it made it hard. For a moment.
But she was the Serra Teresa di'Marano.

"I do not speak of the songs, however, but the singer. You can
sing so that men will listen, will want to listen. No. Do not be proud
of it. It is a curse," Serra Teresa said.

"Why?"

"What man wishes a wife who can, with a word, control his
actions? And if there were such a man who was strong enough to believe
that he could overcome his wife's power, what other men would be
certain—could be certain—of it? Which Tor would follow such a Tyr,
which Ser would follow such a Tor?

"Can a clansman be ruled by a woman?"

"No."

"Indeed."

"But I would never try—"

"Of course not, Na'dio," Serra Teresa said, hearing the truth
in the intent, and mourning the intent that could not survive the harsh
reality of adult life. "But I know it. You know it. Who else will know
it?"

She said nothing, her brow ever so slightly creased. She was
thinking. "Ona Teresa?"

"Yes?"

"Is this why you never had to leave Father?"

"Why—"

"You have the same song," Diora added quickly, her little
voice almost an accusation, if such a thing were possible. "You never
had to get married. You never had to leave Marano."

Never had to? The flash of hope in Diora's eyes was sharp and
painful; innocence, and worse. For Diora knew that Teresa had the voice.

"You must never speak of this, Diora," she said, and her voice
was as cold as the desert night. "You will anger your father greatly,
and you will send me to the Lady's path far sooner than I wish to walk
it."

Diora's cheeks grew pale; she knew that Serra Teresa spoke of
death. Yet this one night, she did not fall silent; did not retreat
into obedience as a good child must. "But you are a woman, and you are
not hated. You honor our clan. Father says so."

"Have you—have you spoken to him of this? Have you told him
that you can hear my song?" How long? How long had she known? The world
shifted in Serra Teresa's perspective, as it had several times in her
life. Each of these times, she had shed a little of the ability to
hope. It was not different now.

"No. He's—he's been very busy."

What was important? Survival. And what was survival? Ah, the
answer to that changed with the years. But she knew what the first step
was, although she regretted it even as she took it.

"Diora, you will not sing
again until after the
Festival of the Moon."

And Diora, child of her blood and Alora's heart, had no choice
but to obey, for Serra Teresa was indeed cursed and blessed both by the
voice.