The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 76

"But the Dominion-"

"The mines are in Mancorvo," Serra Teresa said, her perfect voice showing no hint of her extreme frustration.

It must have shown somehow; Alana en'Marano leaned over and cuffed the young seraf on the back of the head. "Don't argue with the Serra," she told the girl, in a friendly tone that was still laced with windblown sand.

"She's twice as smart as the rest of us combined-a match for Sendari on a bad day."

"Alana," Serra Teresa said softly, well-pleased but disinclined to show indulgence, "he is your husband, and more, the father of the young lady whom you are dressing. Show appropriate respect."

She could hear quite clearly the words that Alana muttered beneath her breath; no one else could, with the exception of Diora. She let them pa.s.s with the barest hint of a smile.

Because to do less than smile was to show things she did not wish to reveal.

Illia en'Marano-still the most sensuously graceful of Sendari's wives for all that she was now closer to thirty than twenty-lifted the curtain of Diora's hair thoughtfully. "I believe the Serra Teresa is right," she told Alaya, but very gently. "The pearls, or the opals, would be softer, and they would still be very fine."

Diora said nothing; she had not spoken a single word since the dress itself arrived. Mute, she had made her way to the harem's chamber, and mute, she had allowed the wives to remove her morning clothing and dress her in this stunning gift from the Radann to the woman who would honor the Lord by her presence.

The Radann had once before gifted her with a similar robe-a robe not quite as fine, and not quite as costly. Grimly, the Serra Teresa bowed her head. You wanted this, she thought, as she lifted an ivory fan. Be strong enough to bear it, or we are all doomed.

She played the Northern harp, and it was not the small instrument, but the large one, that she sat behind. The sun's rays adorned her hat and her shoulders, glinted off the fall of her robes as if they were liquid and not pale silk. Her hair was bound in a series of three combs, each a shade of green with hints of gold and a dark blue stone that must have come from the North.

Her hands were perfect and pale when they came to rest or pause, but they did not pause often. An hour, as the sun made its way toward its exit, had pa.s.sed while she sang; her voice did not change or deign to notice the pa.s.sage of that time.

He noticed it by the slow spread of pink across the horizon, by the cooling of the air, by the change in the breeze. And he did not move, because if he rose to leave, there was just as good a chance that he would approach her instead. She was not attended. He had seen her arrive in her spare and simple sari almost by accident, and were it not for the harp that she carried, he would not have noticed her at all.

But the fact that she did carry it, that she chose to struggle with its weight when he had never once seen her less than perfectly graceful, caught his attention.

He had women, and if he desired, he could have many more. He would have to have a Serra after he took the Tor, for neither of his previous wives had survived to produce a living kai. What, he thought, as he watched her lift and struggle with a harp that she obviously did not wish to scratch or damage in any way, possessed you to come here without a seraf? He almost laughed, she seemed so willful, so determined.

And it was in the willful, in the awkward, in the graceless huff of breath and the strands of hair that escaped those combs, that perfect sheen, that he realized just how dangerous a trap she had become-and he had thought of little else these past few days.

For these movements were hers, they were private, they were akin to those she might make when perfection of social rule gave way to a different perfection, a different communion. She lifted a hand, brushed the strands of hair back behind her ears. Ran her tongue along her lips twice. Closed her eyes.

And then, as he stood and watched, she began to sing. The harp's accompaniment joined her, but the damage had been done, the weapon planted; he could not have moved had he needed to.

Until the moment he saw the Tyr Eduardo kai di'Gar-rardi approach the pavilion from the West. She saw him as well, and her hands stilled the music of the strings; silence descended, where song might have been safer. She became the Serra Diora di'Marano at once, and if her silks were a bit wrinkled, and her hair slightly windswept, it only made her more appealing.

She froze; he had come without seraf or cerdan, and she had come without seraf or cerdan. As a married woman, it would have been her death, and his, had his rank been unworthy of note. She was not a married woman, and he was not an unworthy man.

"Serra Diora," he said, bowing quite low.

"Tyr'agnate," she said, and the word was both respectful and cool. Her hands fell from harp strings to lap. She rose for long enough to extend him the courtesy his rank demanded; when she lifted her face again, her cheeks were slightly crimson.

"I would prefer," he said, as he began to walk toward the dais, "that you call me Eduardo. It is what you will call me, three days hence."

She bowed again, for in the Dominion, a Serra did not argue with a Tyr'agnate. Cerdan did, or fathers, or brothers. But she did not call him Eduardo. Instead, when she lifted her head, and saw how close he stood, she said, "I am the Consort of the Lord of the Sun; I am not unmarried for the next three days. I have been claimed. You are a man of the clans. You will not dishonor me."

He raised a dark brow, surprised and not entirely pleased-but not entirely displeased either. He walked past the harp that stood between them, and stood above her, looking down.

"My dear Diora," he said, reaching out to brush her cheeks with the barest touch of his fingers. "The women of the clan Marano have long been known to harbor willful, even wild, spirits. Yet you have always been so perfectly graceful, so entirely feminine, I do not believe that I have seen that wildness in you. Until today." He looked up at the sky, the deepening sky. "Until this eve."

She could not struggle against him; she could not cry out, although, if she wished to refuse him, she might attempt that refusal in quiet, measured tones. He knew it, and he knew that she knew it: For many a woman had been dishonored in the Dominion, and if the man so responsible was weak enough, he might pay the price of that insult if it became widely known-but a woman always suffered, if the a.s.sault were public knowledge. Better to weep in silence, to stifle cries of pain or pleas for mercy than to call for help and have it arrive too late. Serra Diora was from a family that had too much to lose, and her position was a high one; the fall would be fatal.

If he chose it, she would accept it, like it or not.

And he did not care if she liked it or not. Not now; Sword's Blood had not carried him willingly to begin with. But he carried him now although he still suffered no other man to ride him. She saw it in his eyes; he saw her freeze; saw her lips part as if she thought to deter him with words. As if he had already made the decision instead of hovering so dangerously over its edge.

"Garrardi."

He had a moment to compose his face, but he chose not to take it, turning instead, his hand still

against the velvet curve of the Serra's upturned cheek. "Marente."

"What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same question."

"Obviously," Alesso di'Marente said, "1 am here by the whim of the Lord. It is the day before

Festival's start. The Serra Diora di'Marano, at your request, has been chosen by the Radann as the Lord's Consort. She is not to be touched until the Festival is over.""And you've become such an ardent follower of the rules the Radann lay down." The derision was clear in the tone of the Tyr'agnate's voice. "I am not a fool. Why are you here, alone, without your escort?"

"I do not have to explain my movements to you."

Eduardo di'Garrardi drew away from Diora and the pavilion, his attention focused on Alesso, and

Alesso alone. "No, General, you do not. But the Serra Diora di'Marano is not yours, and she will not be yours. Or have you forgotten your word?"

"I forget nothing."

"Then say it. Tell her."

The General's face suddenly shuttered; the angry light gleaming beneath the surface of dark eyes

went out. All anger left his voice, all command. But in neutrality there was a hint of the howling wind, and it was cold. "Serra Diora," he said, bowing stiffly and with great respect, "it is your father's wish that, after the Festival of the Sun, you be given to the Tyr Garrardi as wife." He turned back to the Tyr'agnate. "Will that do, Eduardo?"

"No." The ruler of the Terrean of Oerta looked down a sharp nose, his eyes as narrow as blades. "I want more. Tell me, Alesso, that you will not touch her; that you will not try; that it is your will that she be my wife."

"And if I say it, will you cease your insulting attempts to arrive before the ceremony does?"

"Ceremony is for those who don't have the power to avoid it. It is not an insult-it is a statement of fact. A few days here or there will not make a difference."

"They will make a difference," a new voice said. "In the eyes of the Lord."

The glare that bridged the two men snapped as they turned to face the Radann kai el'Sol and the Serra Teresa di'Marano. Servitors accompanied the kai el'Sol, and cerdan, the Serra Teresa; as well, three men that had the look of Marano serafs, they were so silent and graceful.

"Serra Diora, forgive me," the Radann kai el'Sol said, and he bowed as deeply as if she were in truth the Lord's Consort, although the morning sun would not arrive for many hours. "I detained the Serra Teresa, or you would have had a proper escort." He nodded to the servitors, and they left him immediately.

Their weapons glinted in the sun's fading light as they came to stand between the two men and the Serra.

"Diora," the Serra Teresa said, in a voice that only the two women could hear. "You are unharmed?"

"Yes," her niece replied, the voice shaky but clear. "The General was-was here unexpectedly. I'm-I'm sorry I called you-I was-"

"You were intelligent," the Serra Teresa said softly. She turned her gaze to the Tyr and the General, and her voice was like the desert night. "Tyr'agnate. General Alesso di'Marente. The Serra Diora begs your forgiveness, but she is fatigued, and it is vital that she be refreshed; she must greet the dawn's light as the Consort.

"If you will excuse us?"

Alesso di'Marente bowed at once, and he bowed very, very low. The Tyr'agnate nodded, the anger still coloring his cheeks and his gestures.

But the kai el'Sol stepped forward. "The Serra Diora will have Radann as her personal guards for the next three days. She will appear nowhere without them, either in public or in private. If you wish to speak with her, you will come to me and I will arrange it."

The Serra Diora raised her face, and for a moment, she looked genuinely alarmed. But she did not appear to be frightened of the Radann kai el'Sol. "Radann-"

His breath was not long enough to give her room to speak unless she forced her words between- and over- his. She was the Flower of the Dominion.

"If you, or any of the clansmen who follow either of you, lay a hand on her, or stand close enough to offer insult, I will order the Radann to kill. Do I make myself clear?"

Alesso seemed almost amused. "Perfectly, kai el'Sol. Eduardo?"

"Indeed."

"Then I believe that we will escort the Serra to her father." He turned on heel, and then stopped.

"Radann kai el'Sol," the Serra Teresa began, her voice as soft and soothing as any woman's had ever been. But he held up a hand to still her words, and she, too, was true to her training.

"You are her father's friend," he told the General. Then, as if wisdom had finally caught up with him, he stopped, his jaws clamped over lips that might otherwise have continued to move.

Teresa did not remain with Diora once they had reached the safety of Sendari's harem. The Radann did, but they remained outside of the sliding screens that were her world, their swords drawn, a sure sign of their willingness to use them.

There were things that people did not share when they desired the illusion of control, and among those was fear and its aftermath. Diora desired to be alone, and Teresa quietly acceded to the unspoken request. They knew each other well, the older woman and the younger, because they had walked many of the same roads.

In the darkness, Diora sat without benefit of lamp or torch or moon, because it was in the shadows of the Lady's night that she found the only safety she sought: privacy.

Her cheek was ice where Eduardo di'Garrardi had touched it. But the intervention of the General had not filled her with relief. It was not until the Radann Fredero kai el'Sol had arrived that she felt any certain sense of protection.

Alesso di'Marente had seemed amused by the arrival of the Radann; indeed, she would have believed that he was.

Until she heard him speak. He was good at masking what he felt; she was certain that only she and Ona Teresa heard what lay beneath the words. An anger that cold and that implacable was always wielded. She was not sure who would die for this evening's work-or when-but she was certain that someone would.

And she was afraid that it would be Radann Fredero kai el'Sol. Her plans depended on him. He could die after Festival's Height, but not a moment before, if he had to die at all.

Yes, of course. That was it.

She was afraid that the plans that she had made-plans so close to bearing fruit-were about to be uprooted by the gale and tossed against the cliffs, as the rest of her life had been, in a single, bleak night.

But she did something that she had not done since Serra Teresa arrived at the Tor. In the limited privacy of her room, she caught her hair and pulled it down, and unraveled it from the three rings that the night muted. They were cool in her hands, and weighty. She put them on. She needed to wear them again.

Because she liked Radann kai el'Sol.

Because she had so desperately hoped that he would not be a man that she could like.

He woke her before dawn.

The one other man who would have dared lay dead well over a month. Her father did not come here, although it was theoretically his right, and she had no serafs.

In fact, the Widan Sendari di'Marano could have refused her visitor entry. It would have been a hollow gesture; his men stood on either side of both screens-the ones that opened in, and the ones that opened into the private interior garden. The Serra was not given a room that could be reached by anyone who happened to approach the building from an exterior wall.

But she knew, when she heard the tentative knocking upon the frame of the door, and not the bells or the gong, who it was. She rose, wrapping herself quickly and carefully in the silks appropriate to greeting a man of rank, and then she said, softly, "Enter."

The Radann kai el'Sol stepped across the threshold, carrying an oil lamp that burned quite brightly.

Augmented, she thought idly. She was the daughter of a Widan; use of magic, especially those enchantments linked to fire, were as familiar to her as the Tor Leonne.

The Radann's bow was deep, and he held it a while.

"1 am sorry to wake you, Serra," he said. She heard the weariness in his voice and wondered if he had slept at all. "But you must have these, and you must be prepared before sun's first light. Today, you greet the dawn as the Lord's Consort." As he spoke, he held out a hand; one of the Radann who followed him stepped forward.

In the darkness of the room's shadowy light, Diora thought there was something wrong with the man. He was bent, too bent; age was not something that was allowed to demean the Lord's service.

She rose, and as she did, another Radann entered the room, pulling the hood from his face. She recognized the Radann Samadar par el'Sol in the bright light cast by the lamp.

Ah. That was it. The Radann who stepped forward with the ancient, lacquered box was still somehow of the shadows, and in them, although the light cast by the lamp was bright indeed.

"Radann kai el'Sol. Radann par el'Sol," Diora said, kneeling very correctly.

"Serra Diora," the par el'Sol replied gravely. "May I approach? I mean you no harm."

She had always been wary of the Radann, and of them, most suspicious of Samadar. He had survived far too long not to be canny, and the wisdom that mellowed many a man-and caused, by that mellowing, their deaths- had not gentled Samadar at all. "Of course," she said softly.

A fourth man entered the room behind them. He, too, pulled back his hood. Marakas par el'Sol. A man whose inclusion into the Hand of G.o.d she had always found curious. He was not a dangerous man in the traditional sense of the word, and if Samadar had survived the years by being as hard and sharp and cold as a blade, she didn't understand how Marakas had survived at all.

But he had. She smiled hesitantly as their eyes met. "Par el'Sol. I am indeed honored to have three such men attend me this festival morn."

"The honor," Marakas said gravely, "is more ours than SS.

you know." He offered her a perfect bow. There was, in these men, more respect than she'd seen since the death of Illara kai di'Leonne. It troubled her.

The kai el'Sol had busied himself removing the emblems by which the Serra Diora's t.i.tle would be known for these three days. First, a crown, a work of gold and Lord's gold and sapphires that would sit heavily upon any brow. It was elegant in line, a Southern artifact, not an ornate and ugly Northern gift. He handed the crown to Samadar, and Samadar crossed the planks of the floor in silent grace.