Michelle West - Sun Sword 01 - The Broken Crown (29 page)

"Yes," he said softly. "And Jevri?"

"What?"

"The Tyr'agnate Mareo kai di'Lamberto will be present, with
his Serra. And the Serra Carlatta di'Lamberto will attend as well. She
has always loved the glitter of ceremonies such as these."

Jevri showed a rare smile then, one that Fredero echoed
although he knew it was a vanity.

In another life, another time, the Serra Carlatta di'Lamberto
had been his mother. He knew no family now, but the Lord—yet he
retained an affection for the past that had started him upon his
exalted road.

Exalted?

He smiled wryly as he waved the men, with their garment, out
of the open courtyard. Wondering, curious as all men must be, about a
woman known to all as the Flower of the Dominion, but seen in the end
by very, very few.

The Flower of the Dominion sat in the shade and the shadows of
the Pavilion of Restful Repose. The samisen lay, strings still, in her
lap; she was silent, as if the playing alone had given her voice.

"Na'dio," the Serra beside her said, and the young woman
bestirred herself. "Tell me."

"It is… nothing, Ona Teresa."

"Nothing? Then come, play for me. In three short days, I will
no longer have the pleasure either of your company or
of your voice."

And her company
was
her voice; they both
knew it. They were hidden, these two, in ways that even the most
carefully graceful, the most exquisitely mannered, of Serras were not,
for they shared this mutual gift and curse: that their voices, when
brought to bear, could sway men of action momentarily to their will.

Shade kept the sun from the silks that they wore; shadow made
of the Serra Diora's hair a midnight darkness, a black that seemed
almost blue. For three more days, she would wear maiden's hair, long
tresses unadorned by complicated combs and adult adornments.

Three days. Less.

The sun had already begun its long descent.

The Serra Diora di'Marano began to strum the strings of the
samisen, but she did not sing, and the music itself became a natural
sound, a thing that melted into the background, rather than drawing
one's attention.

"Na'dio?"

Her aunt was almost never this insistent; she traced the
strings with the tips of fingers slightly hardened to their use, and
then stilled them, unwilling to speak, or afraid to. Because to her
father, her much loved father, she could offer a lie that would calm
nerves and ease fear; to her aunt, she could not. For Ona Teresa heard
everything that lay hidden beneath her words—just as she heard, in her
aunt's voice, the same. They were vulnerable to each other, and the
Serra Diora did not wish her aunt to know-how much she worried.

How much she did not want this marriage, this union that the
Serra Teresa di'Marano, by dint of will and subtle politicking, had
brought to be.

Diora knew that the Serra Teresa's life had been blunted by
her own desire for a harem, if not a husband, for a life with
sister-wives of her choosing, children of her birthing, a world of her
making.

Diora did not desire these things, and did not understand how
a woman with her aunt's subtle mystery and power could. She loved the
harem of her childhood greatly, although she had never truly warmed to
her father's chosen wife, and all of those women—every one—would be
taken from her by a man that she had met the requisite two times: Once
during the Lord's dominion, and once during the Lady's.

There had been no touching, of course; there were far too many
outsiders for that. But the Ser Illara kai di'Leonne—the kai, the heir
to the Dominion—had found her comely enough, and by his nod, and the
nod of the Tyr'agar, she knew that she was very close to being
betrothed. In the Lord's sight, she had played her harp, and in the
Lord's hearing, she had given voice to her song, speaking not of a
woman's charm, or a woman's love, but of a great warrior's deeds:
Leonne the Founder.

It was untraditional. It was unfeminine. Unbecoming a meeting
of a young woman and a young man who might, if the young man's clan
granted approval, marry.

She had thought, perhaps, that that might be the end of it,
but no—the Tyr'agar, or perhaps his son, had proved insistent.

Meeting during the Lady's dominion had been a muted affair,
although the ceremonies surrounding it had been more precise. She could
recall, clearly, the Tyran with which the kai Leonne had been
surrounded; she herself had been guarded by the Tor'agar Adano kai
di'Marano— her uncle—and her father, Widan Sendari par di'Marano. Her
aunt had taken the palanquin at her side, and Serra Fiona had been
chosen as her father's companion.

Although her father's words were gracious, perfect greetings,
they were not friendly; she could hear, beneath their rare musicality,
reluctance, anger, worry. Perhaps, just perhaps…

But the Serra Diora was her father's daughter in almost all
things; she was no fool. The Tyr'agar's offer was no offer, and to
refuse it—she forced herself to sound pleased with the union whenever
her father could hear her speak.

And because she was young, she believed that she had fooled
him completely. She had no desire to destroy his clan, or to be the
cause of his clan's destruction; she was fond of Ono Adano in her own
way, although she detested his son.

"Na'dio."

The Serra Diora di'Marano lifted her head and let the strings
lie. In truth, the samisen was a mournful instrument, and she greatly
desired the Northern harp; it was the companion of her youth, and her
youthful lessons.

Of the many lessons she had learned, this was first: to speak
without being heard; to pitch words so that they traveled to one
listener, and one alone, no matter who else might strive to catch them.
"I do not wish to be like Fiona."

The Serra Teresa was too well-mannered a woman to show her
derision. Her smile was gentle and graceful. "You will never be like
the Serra Fiona."

"He has his harem," Diora continued quietly. "And his
concubines. I did not choose them. I do not know them. They don't know
me. How will they feel, when I come to the heart of their dominion, to
rule?"

"They will feel," she said, "as Alana did when Alora, your
mother, first arrived."

"And that?"

The lips of the older woman turned up in a rueful smile. "They
will resent you, and fear you, depending on the strength of their
security in their husband's affections." The smile dimmed. "This
husband will not be a mere par to a Tor'agar; he will be
the
Tyr'agar, when his time comes, and with the Lord's blessing.

"Truth, Diora?" The older woman paused a moment, staring into
the glimmering light that could be seen through the windblown leaves
from their place upon the Pavilion of Restful Repose. Diora could
almost taste her hesitation—and she knew that she would not like what
she heard, for Ona Teresa rarely called her Diora, and only when her
mood was heavy or grim. "Very well. I will give you truth.

"For the concubines of a Tyr'agar, life is more… difficult.
The Leonne blood runs in the veins of all those who are born to the
husband—to
your
husband—and the blood itself is
legitimate, whether it is recognized as such, be the children born of
concubines or no. Leonne has ruled these lands for hundreds of
years—but the crown has not always been passed from Tyr'agar to kai in
a straight line. There have been factions. There have been internal
revolts.

"In fully one third of all cases, when the kai Leonne becomes
the Tyr'agar, he has his male half brothers executed. It is not done
lightly, but it is also not done by a man who is secure in his power.

"The current Tyr'agar has lost one war, and that, badly; he
has lost lands, and respect, and he is… ill-loved. His son, Ser Illara,
is young, and perhaps he will remove the shadow under which his father
has placed his clan by his failure. But perhaps not. It is likely, in
my opinion, that he will have his brothers killed in one way or another
by the time he takes the Tor Leonne."

Diora said nothing although she made her own vow: not to meet
these brothers if her aunt was correct. Not to like them.

"It is quite likely that you will be feared and hated in your
turn—because yours sons will displace their sons, and perhaps, in the
end, murder them."

"I'd not—"

"And
if
that is what it takes for your
sons to survive, you
will
see it done. Trust me,
Diora, Na'dio—there is no connection so strong as that of blood to
blood, and of the blood connections, none so strong as that of a mother
who protects her children."

"And they would not kill me?"

"They would not dare. You are the Serra. Their lives are
measured by yours, once you are given the harem—or wives would too
often die mysteriously.

"But when my mother—"

"Hush. You know what I mean, when I speak." Diora saw her
aunt's ivory hand curl a moment, as if at a spasm of pain. "And your
father is not the Tyr'agar; your father is so far away from being a man
of import that it didn't matter."

"It seems so—cold."

Serra Teresa frowned.

"Diora," she said, the word sharper than was her wont, "you go
to the harem as woman, not as child; do not expect any in the harem to
treat you as anything else. You will not
be
a
child, you will be
my
niece, and there is no
better training than the training I have given you.

"Win them over with your gift. You know how."

But in Father's harem, I'm loved
, Diora
thought bitterly,
through no artifact of gift or curse or
will
. But she did not speak it. Because she knew what Ona
Teresa would say: that love was for children, and only for children. It
was, of course, another lie—because the Serra Teresa di'Marano had
loved the Serra Alora en'Marano as dearly, as deeply, as had her
husband. Diora knew it, and knew that her father knew it as well; she
did not know if Ona Teresa understood just how much of her loss she
spoke with, on those rare occasions when she mentioned the Serra Alora
en'Marano, dead these fifteen years.

But of course she must know it; she had trained Diora to
listen, and to listen well, to the voices of the men and women that
surrounded her; to understand, clearly, that those voices spoke in a
far deeper and a far truer way than the words in which they were
wrapped and covered.
We all have weaknesses
, she
thought, looking at her aunt from the corner of her eye as the shadows
darkened her face.

"Na'dio," her aunt said softly, the edge gone from her voice
as if it had never existed at all although the sting of its cut still
lingered. "The desire to be loved—it is a false desire, a madness, a
weakness. If you let it, it will control your life, and it will lead
you down roads, in the end, that even the damned don't travel." So
soft, her voice. So soft and so completely certain.

The Serra Diora began to play the samisen in the wake of that
terrible certainty.

1st of Emperal, 426
AA 
The Tor Leonne

The Radann kai el'Sol was not allowed to see the Flower of the
Dominion; nor was Jevri, his servitor. While the kai el'Sol was
disappointed, he was not surprised. The man whose genius had been
brought to bear in the creation of the dress itself was beside himself
with frustration and not a little annoyance.

"What do you mean, we
can't
see her?
Who's going to do the final fittings? Who's going to take the dress in,
or take it up, or alter its train, or—"

"Jevri,
I
have no objections to your
presence. I believe the
Tyr'agar himself has no objections, as she is not, technically, a
member of his family until two days hence. But the girl's father and
the girl's aunt have insisted that she will remain within the harem—and
bound by harem conventions in the strictest sense of the word—until the
day of the wedding itself."

"But he's not even a ranking clansman!"

"He's Widan," the Radann said, with just a hint of distaste.
"But more, he's protective. This marriage and this match—it will make
his family; I'm certain he's intelligent enough to see that for
himself. He doesn't want anything… untoward occurring. She is heavily
guarded now, all of the time. There are those who might—just
might—consider taking inappropriate action to deflower the Flower; it
would be more of a blow to the Tyr'agar and his family than a simple
assassination, especially were word of it to come out after the
wedding. Ser Sendari simply seeks to protect the interests of his clan,
as any prudent man must."

"I don't care about his clan—the work—the time we've spent—"

Fredero laughed. "I assure you, Jevri, the dress itself is
obviously a work of art. There's nothing that can be done to it that
will rob it of its glory."

The Serra Diora di'Marano did not like the Tyr'agar. She did
not trust him. Neither of these reactions surprised her; she rarely
liked or trusted any of the clansmen. She had not expected that the man
who ruled them all would be an exception, and she was not disappointed.

The mats beneath her knees were hard; she became aware of this
because she had been kept kneeling for some time. To show her, she
thought, her place and her value to the clan itself: beneath those who
ruled, but tolerated in their presence. It was less than she had hoped
for, but more than she might have been granted before the wedding. She
said nothing; did nothing; was in all things pliant. When she was asked
to rise, she would unfold slowly, taking care to move as gracefully as
if in delicate dance; she would make her way to the foot of the
platform upon which these two—the Tyr and his wife—looked down upon the
waters of the Tor Leonne, there to find cushions that matched the pale
color of the silks she wore, and she would wait until one or the other,
the Tyr or the Serra, bid her play or sing.