Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (67 page)

His smile was a glimmer of his old smile; thin and easily broken, but present.

"Will you?"

"Will I what?"

"Will you know when we arrive?"

The smile deepened. She'd hated it, back home: it was the smile reserved by adults for children who had done something precocious, and she was
well
past the age where precocious described any part of her behavior. But because it was familiar here, and because she—weakling that she was—desperately craved the familiar and the
real
, she accepted it almost happily.

"They have not come for me. Calliastra came for you. I see that Corallonne was wakened as well. Truly, Jewel, I thought that I would define the path we took. I would not have risked you otherwise. But there is something in you that sees far too clearly, and
here
those who see clearly are clearly seen.

"Your question is a wise one. No. I do not think I will know we have arrived before you do."

The words slowly made sense, and when they did, she didn't like them. "You do realize," she said, slipping into irritable incredulity, "that this is the worst case of the blind leading the blind I've ever seen?"

He laughed. His laughter filled the canyon the pass had become while she slept, and the rocks shivered with the passing touch of his voice.

15th of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

"Kallandras."

He would not have said he had been waiting for her, but when he heard her speak he felt no surprise, none of the minor shock that accompanied unexpected recognition. His gentle inquiries— guarded and admittedly few—had led him to believe that the Serra would not make the trek to the Tor Leonne for the Festival of the Moon, no doubt a punishment of sorts devised by the younger of her two brothers.

But the Festival of the Moon was
her
festival.

"Serra Teresa."
The Serra's voice carried her presence across the miles that separated them, and it was only many years of experience with the voice—and the dialogue of bards—that prevented him from falling into a flawless Southern bow.

"Forgive me,"
she said, her words so completely controlled they changed the meaning of the word power,
"for this late interruption. I had not expected to see you at this Festival, and I myself—

"I am newly arrived in the Tor Leonne. I have taken little time in my journey and perhaps I have been imprudent; I sought out no information until after I had completed the first of my errands. It seems that the city is not to be graced with the presence of the Voyani."

"Your information is correct; it is not safe for the Voyani to venture into the Tor Leonne, greater or lesser, at the moment."

Her silence was the silence of thought, not leave-taking.
"I find myself in an awkward situation,"
she said at last. "
And I ask your pardon if the awkwardness and the urgency conspire to rob me of grace."

"Serra Teresa,"
he replied, completely truthful although such flattery seldom was,
"I cannot think of the situation that would rob you of grace."

"Southern grace, then,"
she replied, and he heard the momentary smile in her perfect voice.

"I would forgive you much."

"I had intended—I had hoped to find Yollana of the Havalla Voyani within the Tor."

"Ah. Was she expecting you?"

"She had received warning that I might travel upon short notice; word does not travel quickly or perfectly between the clansmen and the Voyani."

"I can carry word to Yollana for you, if you wish it."

"I do,"
the Serra Teresa replied.
"But I find myself, nonetheless, in an awkward position."

"May I be of assistance?"

He read the hesitation in the pause, but the answer itself was firm.
"Yes."
And bold. Surprising.

"Only tell me how."

"I… if you are able, I would be honored if you would meet me in the city."

"The honor would be mine. Where in the city?"

"Perhaps by the Eastern Fount of Contemplation?"

He heard the levity in her voice; for his own part, he laughed, and let the wind take the sound to where she stood—wherever that might be.
"Most certainly. But I warn you now, I desire a kinder reception than I received on the previous occasion I agreed to meet you there."

There was much about that night and this that was similar. The night was cool but clear, the wind evident in the way it brushed strands of hair into and out of his eyes. He could see by the light, but the shadows were longer than he would have liked, and he did not desire the attention a lantern would lend him.

The Fount itself made more noise than he did; water trickled up and down in a thin stream encircled by a stone basin. Once, there had been gold highlights across the stone's face, but time and desperation had worn such adornments away: the rock remained, and the water it contained.

He paused by it a moment; there was a single person by the Fount, and he, seated cross-legged in the center of the circle of contemplation. The circle itself was scuffed and dusty; that would change in scant days as the men and women responsible for the city's face worked their way from the center out in preparation for the Festival.

For a festival, he thought, that would be quiet and strained enough that the wild honesty it encouraged might never come to pass.

"Serra Teresa," he said quietly.

The person in the circle shook off silence and stillness. "I would not have thought I was so easily recognized; I have taken pains to be otherwise."

"There is very little about you that is easily hidden," he replied, bowing in the correct Southern fashion for a man meeting a Serra whose family outranks him when that family—father or husband—is present.

"Say, rather, that there is very little you miss."

"At your insistence, Serra." He rose. "Remember, I have seen you dressed in such a fashion before; the years are not enough to distance me from that experience." He offered her a hand; it was a Northern gesture. He was mildly surprised when she accepted it. "I have taken the liberty of finding you accommodation."

"Let me take the liberty of accepting it." Her voice was grave, as still as the waters of the Lake on a windless night. He saw the moon in her eyes, or across their surface. She paused, and he saw her lips move, but heard only the movement of wind.

"Ramdan?" he asked.

"Yes, and two of my brother's cerdan."

"That… would be impolitic."

"I have considered this. I accept the risk."

His turn to pause; his turn to turn voice to wind.
"Margret."

She could not reply, but he knew how to' leave pause for reply between his words.
"We will have not only the Serra Teresa as visitor, but also her oldest servant and two of her cerdan. Prepare yourself, if this displeases you, and tell Yollana."

He turned back to the Serra. "I believe it is time that we leave this place."

"I put myself in your hands, Kallandras of Senniel."

"Follow, then." He turned moonward, then back, seeing much in her face and the Lady's that was similar. "You will not be returning."

A brow rose, dark against white; no skin was as pale as hers unless it belonged to a Serra of clans that could afford to keep her, unspoiled by sun and obvious labor, within the confines of a harem. "I am so very obvious."

"Ah." He smiled. "I take no credit where credit is not due; it was Yollana's guess."

Yollana met them as they approached the camp's outer edge. Her arms were folded in such a way that she could prop herself up on a cane by the weight of her elbow, and her face, at this distance, was as sour as wine left to air. She stood not ten feet from Margret, and Margret, flanked by Elena and Tamara, waited impatiently, arms folded across her chest, a younger version of Yollana, whose similarity at that moment was marred only by the lack of a cane. She had no other obvious guards, no brothers who had stepped out of shadows to add their strength to hers.

But Kallandras knew there were at least two men with crossbows in the shadows the wagons made of moonlight. He assumed they would be trained on the cerdan who followed at the Serra Teresa's back.

"You took your time," Yollana said, as they approached. Kallandras noted, with some wryness, that she reserved the sharp edge of her words for him; to Teresa, she offered a surprisingly genuine nod of head, as much acknowledgment as a Voyani matriarch ever gave an outsider.

"Accept my apologies, Matriarch," the Serra replied. "It took… longer than we had hoped to leave the Tor without pursuit."

The older woman shrugged. "It's not my caravan," she said. "You can grovel to the Arkosan Matriarch to your—or more likely her—heart's content, but do it on your own time." Her gesture belied the careless sting of her words; she stepped forward and. reached out to the Serra Teresa.

Without hesitation, the Serra Teresa offered her both hands. Those hands, ringed and ringless, locked as the women stood facing each other.

Yollana was not diplomatic. They were, in Kallandras' opinion, the most powerful people in the small clearing. He wondered, privately, if that was why Margret had chosen to denude herself of guards: Yollana, Havallan, was nonetheless
the
Matriarch in the camp, and the younger woman wisely wished to spare herself exposure to the too obvious comparison.

"Aie, Na'tere, look at you. You're indecently young."

"It is the moon's mask, no more. The Lord's gaze has treated you no less harshly."

Yollana's laugh was a crow's laugh; jarring compared to the softness of Teresa's. "And you lie so poorly; I expect better from a clansman." She lifted her head, but not her hands, and looked beyond Teresa's shoulder. "Ramdan. You're still in her service, then."

He bowed.

"You've not thought the better of my offer?"

Teresa smiled. "Matriarch, you embarrass him."

"Ha. I've tried. It's not possible. Now you, maybe you could."

"I," the Serra replied, with perfect gravity, "have never tried. I will leave you to your contest of dignity." It was, Kallandras noted, the Serra and not the Matriarch who pulled her hands free first. She looked up, past Yollana to the woman who waited, arms pressed more tightly against her chest.

"Matriarch."

"Serra."

The Serra Teresa offered a very correct Southern obeisance, but the perfection of its lines was ruined by the clothing she wore; men's clothing, all, and made for the road.

He did not require his training or his gift to read Margret's mood; it was written—poorly and plainly—across the breadth of her face. He had passed desert nights, without the benefit of Voyani hospitality or shelter, more warmly.

He had expected no less; Margret's feelings toward the clansmen were legendary among the four families. He had not often met her mother, but Evallen of the Arkosans had considered it a point of concern; she herself, as any Matriarch, had no great love of the clans, but she understood their uses, and when necessary was able to "hold her nose," as she put it, and deal.

And as she spoke, her glance had passed over her daughter, lingering there just long enough for a man of Kallandras' training to note her unease.

"Serra," that daughter said. "I did not expect to find you here."

"I did not expect to be here," the Serra replied smoothly—and without rising.

"Have you been to the plateau?"

"Briefly, Matriarch."

"And did you—did you speak with your niece?"

He heard the fear and the loathing, the desperation and the terrible hope, that weighted each word.

"We could not speak freely," the Serra Teresa replied. "She is kept in isolation, and she is watched."

The hope left Margret's face; its absence hardened the lines around her eyes, her mouth. "Then why have you come at all?"

In the moonlight, Yollana's face was blanched of emotion, but Kallandras knew her well enough; the older woman was angry at the exchange.

"I was forced to either come in haste, or come late," the Serra replied. "There was no opportunity for me to attend the Festival of the Moon otherwise."

"I don't care if you attend the Festival," Margret's voice was low. "But you—you of all people—have access to—"

"Margret." Yollana's bark was, for Yollana, mild.

"Matriarch?" A warning there.

Yollana heeded it as she heeded all else. "Don't you understand what you see?"

"Exactly what do you expect me
to
see?"

"The clanswoman has traveled without her retinue, and in unseemly haste."

"Yes?"

Yollana smacked her forehead with the heft of her palm. Had she been dealing with one of her own, Kallandras knew it wouldn't have been her head she smacked. "She has traveled without permission."

"She—impossible! She's a
clanswoman
. They barely breathe without permission, and when they draw such a breath, they do it so no one notices."

She was, Kallandras thought suddenly, absolutely correct.

"Someone will notice," Serra Teresa said quietly, unmoved by Margret's distaste. "There is much between us. Evallen."

The younger Matriarch opened her mouth and closed it quickly. Wise. "What do you want, then?"

"Shelter, for the moment; a chance to help you in your current struggle."

"Oh?"

"We desire the same thing."

Margret's laugh was bitter and a little overlong. "And that?"

"The liberation of my niece. She has what you require, and she has capabilities and depths that you will find useful on the road you must travel."

"I'm not taking
her
with me. I only need what she carries."

The Serra Teresa bowed.

Margret turned and began to walk away. Turned back. "You can stay until we get it." Kallandras had seldom heard words more grudging.

"She is … perceptive,"
he said as Serra Teresa rose.

"Oh?"
The word was cool. Private.

He understood a warning when he heard it. He had offered her the private voice; he offered her silence in its stead.