Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (61 page)

He was not in a foul mood now, but she had no way of reaching him.

Not true.

All right, she amended, her grandmother's sharp words forcing a different truth from her, she had no way of reaching him that she was willing to attempt. Not here. Not in this place. Not when she couldn't even move—and best not to think about that. Truly.

Don't judge her
, a different voice said. Avandar's.
She is the victim of her nature: her mother seeks and grants love and her father seeks and grants death, of a type. She can no more change what she is than either of her parents can: they are eternal. We are mortal
. She stiffened.

Get out
, she told him, or hoped she did, the words as distinct as she could think them.
Get the Hells out
.

Silence.

"He brought them to me," Calliastra said softly. "When he stopped loving them, he let me love them a while."

There was malice and madness in the words, and beneath both a terrible hunger, not only emptiness—vast and perfect and completely natural—but a fear of emptiness, a desire to fill it. Imagine it, the goddess had said—for what else did you call the child of two gods?

Avandar's unwelcome answer hit her like a crossbow bolt:
The Firstborn
, yes. That was what they'd been called. Imagine being born to darkness and born to love. Imagine that love always ended, and always in death, before any of its promise had been fulfilled. Better a god of lust as a parent than one of love. Better, she thought suddenly,
any
other god.

Jewel was speechless with something that was akin to pity but larger. And pity? Gods, why pity? This woman was a monster, she could see that, nature or no.
We are all so much slower to judge
, she thought,
when beauty is involved
.

15th of Scaral, 427 AA

Tor Leonne

Sendari stared at the bent head of his wife as sunlight dappled her hair, lending it silk's sheen. That hair trailed down her shoulders, pooling like liquid against the surface of outdoor mats. She had chosen, this morn, to wear white, white and gold with a touch of a lovely turquoise that removed the colors from the Lord's Dominion. He should have been suspicious, then. The Lord knew that he had suffered all his adult life from the intervention of women he could not trust.

Wearing a sari that had been his gift when he had been granted a clan's name, she had seemed particularly lovely. She still did; the supplicant posture was absolutely correct.

But Sendari was a man who could appreciate loveliness without being moved by it at all.

The rocks in the garden, the small stunted trees, the flowers whose tints were delicate, rather than gaudily brilliant, moved him more at this moment than the Serra Fiona.

He had never been so close to killing a wife. He might stand on the other edge of that act but for two things: First, he had learned, over time, not to act in anger. Second, and more relevant, he had promised himself—in a youth that was so distant from him there were times when he could not believe it was his own—that he would never make killing an act of passion. The seeking of knowledge, yes. Love, yes. Not death.

"How
dare
you?"

She spoke to the mats when she finally spoke.

"I am sorry, my husband. I am truly sorry. I did not realize that the Serra Teresa was not welcome in your harem."

"How dare you invite her—from Mancorvo no less—without my
explicit
permission?"

"I have no excuse, my husband. I am sorry. I judged poorly."

"And she is to arrive when?"

"This evening, if the roads permit; tomorrow, otherwise. She sent word."

"Not to me."

He watched as her pretty, feminine fingers curled slightly around the handle of her closed fan. She had taken to ground so quickly she had not divested herself of her adornments.

"I am sorry, my husband. Forgive me. Forgive me. But the Festival draws near, and it is my duty—because the Tyr'agar has no wife and he has chosen to grace your house with the responsibility—"

"I-am-aware-of-my-responsibilities."

"Yes, my husband. Forgive me. I—I—there is so much to do for the Festival of the Moon; so much has changed in the Tor. The Tyr'agar has cut down the trees and widened the paths; he has changed the pavilions and the platforms by the Lake. What was designed for perfect beauty and privacy has become… more open.

"I am not worthy," she continued. "I have tried to prepare the Tor, but my skills—" She swallowed. He heard it, rather than saw it.

Eyes narrowing, he said, "Fiona, you may rise."

Nothing in his voice offered comfort; he knew it when he saw her lovely face. He wanted to see her speak.

Tears had darkened the corners of her eyes where kohl gathered in the creases sun had worn there, year after year finding some minute purchase that spoke of time's passage.

"Continue," he said softly. "And Fiona? Do not attempt to lie to me."

"No, my husband."

"Good. The Serra Teresa."

"When I arranged the Festival of the Sun, she arranged the final details, but it was in the details that the Festival was made. It was Serra Teresa's coordination, Serra Teresa's expertise, and Serra Teresa's knowledge that graced these grounds so memorably.

"I wished to have the Festival of the Moon to myself. I wished the world to know that it was Serra Fiona
en 'Sendari
, the chosen wife of the Tyr'agar's first counselor, who arranged for the displays and the ceremonies of Moon night.

"But so much has changed in the Tor I—I do not feel I am up to the task. And if there is a failure, it will be attributed to your house. This is your
first
year. I did not—I could not—take that risk. I tried to tell you," she added, "but you have been so busy with the Sword's Edge and the Tyr'agar you have frequently forbidden interruption by any of your wives." She bowed her head, although she did not flatten herself to the ground again. "I am sorry, my husband.

"The Serra Teresa has never granted me my due, but I must grant her hers: There is no one in the Dominion who could do as well by the Tyr'agar as the Serra Teresa di'Marano.

"I should have mentioned it. I should have said something at once. But we have had so little time together—"

"Enough."

Watching the tears—and they were few and delicate—trail the length of her face did not, in fact, lessen the desire to kill her. But it changed the nature of the desire into one he had lived with, on and off, since the birth of their son, and the nature of
that
desire was more weariness than passion.

He had thought that marrying a stupid woman would save him from the fate of his first marriage. And to all eyes, Serra Fiona was the finer choice: Younger, more beautiful, exquisitely graceful in all things and—more important—able to bear him a son.

Alora had always regretted that. When she regretted nothing else, that one lack shamed her. Had he desired a son? No. He had loved Alora's child as he had never, and would never, love another child. Mother and daughter.

Everything came back to them.

Ah, the Festival of the Moon was coming. He could feel the Lady's fingers in the shallows of morning; her grip was tight and cold; as merciless as he felt himself to be. No; more so.

"I am not pleased, Serra Fiona," he said coolly. "But in this case, I cannot argue with your motivation. I will… greet the Serra Teresa when she arrives, and I will give her permission to remain within my harem.

"But in matters of such import you are, in the future, to consult
me
. To make certain that you remember this fact, you may remain here, and in that position, until the Serra Teresa does arrive."

She looked, of all things, grateful. Relieved.

Perhaps, he thought, as he turned from her, she was not as stupid as he believed.

15th of Scaral, 427 AA

Voyani encampment

They came by day, gathering in a silence that was almost funereal. Grim-faced, clad in their hair-bracelets and the dusty shades that were Voyani mourning, they gathered at the heart of the encampment. No wildness, here; no drinking, no discussion, no little burst of conversation that meant an entertaining argument was about to start. The Voyani tied back their hair, removed all rings but oath rings, hid or removed their necklaces, their bangles, their silks. Thus did they protect themselves from the envy of the newly dead: they made their lives as unattractive as possible.

For three days and three nights they would dress in their poorest clothing, and hide their adornments; they would walk hand in hand only with the youngest of children, and mute all displays of open affection; they would speak openly of their sorrows and their losses.

Because the dead, of course, could see everything that could be more easily concealed from the living, and seeing how they had to live, the wind-taken would leave their lives with less regret, and the wind of their passage would be the breeze and not the sand-laden storm.

There were two exceptions to this unspoken rule, this governing convention: The Matriarch and her cousin.

Margret had chosen to face the wind's envy. She was not, after all, going to kill her cousin, and there was nothing beyond that to mourn.

Oh, to be angered by his betrayal, yes. To be saddened for his mother, yes. But to mourn?

She wore red, a brilliant color that drew all eyes, trapped in the shape of a long-sleeved shirt. She wore a gold-embroidered sash— the sash that had been part of her mother's unofficial uniform. She wore her birth-ring, her adult-ring, the necklaces that had been a gift for every year of life she had managed to survive, each of them flattened gold that varied in length and weight. Some years were better than others.

Nicu wore his birth-ring, his adult-ring, and his normal clothing—although the blood that had dried there would be hard to remove.

He was anchored to the ground by a large collar, but beneath that, beneath that she saw glints of gold. He cast a short shadow; the sun was almost at its height. This was an act of the Lord; such floggings—extremely rare among the Voyani—were always performed as close to the sun's height as possible.

"Matriarch," Uncle Stavos said, stepping forward. "He's secured."

I
can see that
. But she bit back the sarcasm that was second nature to her—or first nature if you asked Nicu or Elena—and settled for the formality the somber situation demanded. "Thank you."

He bowed. Then he rose and barked a quiet order to another man. Andreas stepped forward and handed her the whip. Her hands shook as she took it.

"Steady," Elena whispered.

She shouldn't have looked, but she did, glancing to the side to meet her cousin's eyes. They were shiny-bright, the dark bird's baubles.

"Elena—"

Elena shook her head. Turned away. It was only then that Margret realized that she was doing everything she could to avoid looking at Nicu's bent back. His bent, unbroken, unscarred back.

She pulled her arm up. Back. The whip came with it.

She sat on her mother's knee; Elena sat beside her. But her mother only had two legs. Nicu sat on the ground at her feet, throwing his long hair out of his eyes. He'd refused to let Aunt Donatella cut it; he wanted, he said, to be like Margret and 'Lena.

The Matriarch had the
best
stories. Everyone said so. And on days like this, with no clansmen, no clan war, no merchants to fleece and no townspeople to scare with hints of a dark future, she was actually willing to sit down and tell one.

Margret got to pick the story. She picked, of course, the one she liked best.
The three brothers
. Because she was young, and not yet the Matriarch's daughter in anything but name, she was indulged by parent and unrelated adult alike. All Voyani children were.

And the particular indulgence she always craved when she was told this story was that the three brothers be called Nicu, Margret, and Elena.

Her mother would begin:

There was a contest in the heart of Raverra, for the Tyr had decided that his daughter would marry not the usual court-born high clansman, but rather a clansmen beloved by the Lord, and he therefore set a challenge that would kill almost all of the challengers, weeding out the strong from the week.

At that time, the Arkosan caravan was passing through the Tor Leonne, for during any Challenge, there are fortunes to be told and money made, and the three brothers—who, the Matriarch said gravely, and this was Margret's favorite part—went
everywhere

together, were in the Tor Leonne when this contest was announced, and they saw not only the Tyr but a rare, rare glimpse of the daughter he wished to marry off.

That single glimpse was enough.

"Look at her! Have you ever seen a woman so beautiful or so perfect?"

"She is a clanswoman," the oldest brother said. "And she is not for us. She could not walk the
Voyanne
. There are women within Arkosa who are as beautiful, and as accomplished in their own fashion. Look elsewhere, Brother."

Nicu was the name of the handsome brother who approached the Tyr to win the hand of his beautiful daughter. He was in love, and sick with it, and if he did not win the hand of the beautiful Serra, he would perish. His two brothers, Elena and Margret, had forced him to eat what they could, but they knew the Lady's grip on their brother's heart was hard, and cold, and permanent.

The whip fell.

Elena was the name of the smart brother, Margret the mysterious wise one. Years later, Margret would understand why her mother smiled that odd, lovely smile whenever she told them the names of the three brothers, but at that time it had all made sense.

Margret and Elena loved their brother more truly than most of the Voyani love their kin, and they saw, clearly, that the Tyr was not pleased with Nicu's suit.

"He will try to kill our brother," Elena said to Margret.

"Yes. But Nicu loves his beautiful, cold daughter, and if he does not have her, he will die. Therefore, we must do what we can to help him win his goal."