The Sun Sword - The Broken Crown Part 89

"We are the Lord's servants. We obey the Lord's will. He makes no exception.

"I offer this as proof." And to her horror, Fredero kai el'Sol gripped the Sun Sword firmly by the hilt.

And drew it.

She stepped forward, the motion involuntary, and Eduardo di'Garrardi gripped her arms, drawing her back. She could not struggle without losing all dignity, all power; she stilled at once, and the Tyr'agnate was forced to release her.

The Radann par el'Sol-all of them-watched in tight-lipped fascination. And she realized, as she looked at their set faces, that not a single one of them was surprised.

Nor were they surprised when the Radann kai el'Sol began to burn. But by the reflected fire in the eyes of Marakas par el'Sol, she knew that he alone grieved.

The fire was not one that came from without; she saw it first in his eyes, and second between his lips as he opened his mouth to draw breath, or to scream, or both. She wanted a good death for him, for he had had the strength to choose this death, but there was only the reality of fire, and she knew-as all the clansmen did-that the fire burned from the heart out. That all that would be left of this, a man of honor, was ashes that the winds would scatter forever.

Thus, the Lord's law.

It seemed to go on forever, this burning, this terrible fire. She thought that it would, for if the fire first consumed the heart, it was a burning that must, by its nature, be without end, for his heart seemed vast and boundless.

But the legends must lie, for the fire blossomed from his chest, devouring flesh, emptying his body of what little life might remain within it. Shining raiment became a garment of flame, and then a thing of ash, a thing without shape. The waters boiled a moment, steaming with the heat of the unnatural flame.

With no hands to support it, the Sun Sword fell, unsheathed, into the waters of the Tor Leonne.

Lady, Lady be merciful. Keep him from the winds, who takes this step in your service. Lady show mercy. Lady, please.

She almost forgot the words that she had come this far to speak, so intent was the prayer. But she was a Serra, and she was Diora, and she was the Flower of the Dominion, grieving for her dead in the only way she knew how.

Before the last of the flames had consumed even the crystal with which the kai el'Sol's robes had been beaded, she walked into the waters of the Tor Leonne. Eduardo di'Garrardi could not stop her, nor the Tyr'agar, nor the man who had been her father; they were transfixed.

To stand in the lake itself was a crime, but she stood, for the Festival's Height had not yet pa.s.sed and on this day she was still the Consort of the Lord of the Sun.

Hands shaking, she knelt-or so it first appeared. But she had not stepped into the waters to kneel; she merely bent to retrieve.

The flat of the Sun Sword rested in her palms as she brought it out of the water's cradle. "I am Serra Diora di'Marano, the Lord's Consort," she said, pitching her voice so it carried the width and length of the Tor Leonne, stretching her abilities so that she might clearly be heard by not only clansmen, but serafs and Serras and those who tended the grounds. "And I say to you, clansmen all, that I was promised, in the eyes of the Lord, to the man who would be Tyr. Where the kai el'Sol has given his life, I give less, for he was a man of honor, and I am a simple Serra. But in honor of the laws of the Lord, and in honor of the memory of Ser Illara kai di'Leonne, I say to you that I will never survive to marry a lesser man-a man who cannot wield this Sword."

She turned to Alesso and Eduardo and Jarrani, wielding the Sword although she never once touched its hilt.

Eduardo's anger was instantaneous, but quenched- slightly-by the pallor of Sendari's suddenly aged face. "A Serra does not choose her husband," he said, his voice a growl. "You have developed too fine a notion of yourself, little Serra, if you feel that you may dictate to us."

"And you," she said coolly, "have developed too little esteem if you feel that you cannot meet the challenge of a simple Serra."

"Enough, Garrardi. You demean yourself," Jarrani said, beneath his breath. His eyes, as he met the unblinking gaze of the diminutive Serra who held the Sun Sword, were dark and clear. "You will revoke that vow. Now." He would have taken a step forward, but it would have carried him into the lake itself.

"No, Tyr'agnate, I will not."

"Sendari."

The Widan shook his head, almost wordless. "Na'dio..."

"Force is only one form of strength," she said evenly. "There are others."

Alesso was like the Sword itself: Steel. But he stepped where Jarrani could not, for he wore the crown, and the waters were not forbidden him.

She turned then, for the shadows the sun cast once again started to lengthen. "Clansmen of Annagar, I appeal to you, for yours is the power, and mine the supplication. If you will it, I will remain di'Marano until one of these three men can in honor and truth draw this sword from its scabbard. You know that any woman of honor cannot dishonor her husband's memory by taking a lesser man in his stead. Lend me your support. Tell the Tyrs that you have heard the Lord's Consort, and you find her words fair."

Kneeling, she plunged her hands into the water, that their shaking might not be seen. But when she rose again, she drew from the Lake of the Tor Leonne the Sun Sword's scabbard. With perfect grace, although both sword and scabbard seemed unwieldy in her delicate hands, she joined these two. But she did not rise.

The clansmen did. Their voices carried her words, filling the hollows of the gently sloped hills, removing, temporarily, all the silence behind which a man might hide.

The Flower of the Dominion for the Tyr of the Dominion.

She faced Alesso without so much as a smile.

And then she turned once again to the clansmen, but not before she met her father's gaze, and held it, and saw in it his knowledge of a truth that he had never seen before: that she was Alora's daughter.

And that she bore Teresa's blood.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE.

Moonlight. Stars. Pale reflection on water that would not be still. He saw all of these things with new eyes. Saw all of these things without seeing.

He had won, and he had lost, and it was the loss that was the freshest wound. At his side, as silent as the reflection across the waters, but darker and humbler, the only man not of his kin that he counted friend: Sendari di'Marano, Widan. Father.

The sun's height was as far away as it could be; the darkness carried all of the sky with its weight and its freedom. "Cortano?"

"Beside himself with rage."

"She is your daughter," Alesso said. "And if anyone's kin could outsmart the Sword's Edge, it would be yours." He said it with affection, but there was no answering smile, no chuckle, no wry grin. Just darkness and silence.

There was much to be angry about, certainly. They had all been bested by a woman. They had seen to their enemies within the court; they had taken precautions and caused all of the right deaths. Only Cortano had seen a glimmer of danger in the song of a willful girl, and he had seen it late; she was already the Lord's Consort, and guaranteed of His protection by the kai el'Sol.

Thekaiel'Sol.

Garrardi made it clear-before retreating to the pavilion which served as his home when he chose to grace the Tor Leonne with his presence-that political concerns were not his concerns; he would have Sendari abide by his given word. Cortano and Jarrani argued against him, in a terse, short way; they knew, as Alesso and Sendari did, that by her actions this Festival, Diora di'Marano- Diora en 'Leonne-had given herself a role as vital to the Anngarian Tyr'agar as either the crown which graced the Tyr'agar's brow or the Sword which he dared not wield.

Throughout the argument, Sendari had been uncharacteristically silent; he was silent now; the water lapping against small rocks made more noise than he.

"Tell me," Alesso said.

The Widan stared at the waters a long time before answering; long enough that Alesso thought he would not. But when he spoke, he said, "She will never be yours, Alesso."

There was no possessive anger, no heat, in the words, no parental protectiveness. He spoke as Widan, cool and distant. Alesso grimaced. "Am I that obvious?"

"Is it obvious that you think you can make this work in your favor? Is it obvious that, as you intend to wield the Sun Sword at the end of this war, you are not nearly as angry as you should be?" Sendari snorted. His exasperation was as close as he had yet come to humor since the close of the Festival.

"I see."

"Alesso," the Widan said, the exasperation leaving his face and taking the momentary warmth with it, "I know my daughter now. She will never be yours. What she wants, and why she wants it -I cannot fathom. But she works against us. And it is not in furtherance of her goals; I believe her goal is to oppose us."

"And what would you have us do?"

Sendari was silent. At last he said, "We have been so long at the work of the Lord that I have forgotten the moonlight."

"Sendari-"

The Widan turned to his friend in the darkness, and Alesso took a step back as he saw, in the moon's light, the lines of Sendari's face.

"Go," he said, "and seek the Lady's solace. I will be waiting, and I will still be Tyr'agar."

"And is it enough?"

"To be Tyr?" Alesso shrugged and turned back to the lake that was now his most prized possession. "I don't know, old friend," he said softly. "I don't know."

The shrine was not neglected, but neither was it well tended; the serafs had been instructed to stay their hand until the Festival-and the attention-of the Lord had pa.s.sed. Tucked away in a corner made of trees and tall rocks, the small monument of weathered stone stood at the northernmost part of the lake; here, the Tyr'agar and his family came to pay the Lady her due.

Sendari found the steps, built into earth and greenery, that led to the shrine, but not without difficulty; the lamp he carried was a pale orange glow, and his eyes-his eyes could not easily discern what was path and what decoration that led nowhere.

He felt betrayed by Diora.

And he felt as if he were her betrayer.

Both of these, he thought dispa.s.sionately, were true. Oh, not by the law of the Dominion; in the Dominion's law, she was guilty, and there was no mitigating circ.u.mstance that allowed a daughter to act not only against her father's wishes, but against her father himself. But the Dominion's law was not the law of the heart, not the law of the Lady, and it was to the Lady's shrine that he now repaired.

Sendari, give me your word that you will be as you are, for it is the man that you are that I love. Tell me that you will not seek the Widan's t.i.tle, the Widan's art.

I promise. Alora. What word I have, I give you.

There were no words that could be said that could cut a man as deeply as his own. They were his words; he had walked away from them, thinking that he could just disentangle himself from the past, that he could leave it behind. But the words were a weave, and their mesh was of a thin, fine mettle; they pulled and cut.

Na 'dio...

Father, will you always love me?

Always.

What did it mean? What was always? Was it significant that it was only the child that had asked the question, and only to the child that he had given the word? He set the lamp on a stair a moment and ran his hand over his eyes; he was getting old, to see so poorly. To see so much so poorly. Had he left her, or had she left him? For he was not the father of her youth, nor she the daughter of his memory.

Why? Why, Na'dio?

He picked up the lamp and continued the slow climb.

But when he reached the shrine, and stood beneath the peaked roof that protected the altars, he saw that he was not to be alone beneath the Lady's Moon. The Serra Teresa di'Marano stood in the shadows cast by another lamp, almost as if waiting. For him. He wanted to withdraw, but he froze a moment, or perhaps drew breath too sharply; she turned.

"Sendari." He gestured, sharply, the mage-light crackling from his hands as he struggled for focus. She did not flinch; her expression, the epitome of neutrality, allowed for no display of fear or worry. Or perhaps she knew him too well. A silence descended around them that would not be broken by any listener, casual or otherwise, who did not possess the art, and the craft, of the Widan.

"Teresa."

It was always tangled, this meeting of kin. He felt that he had never liked his sister, that he had,

in fact, hated her. But she was his sister, and blood of his blood, and he could not easily walk away from her. Just as he could never have killed Adano. It was a weakness.A terrible weakness."Sendari," she said again. "I did not expect to see you here again."Did he hear too much in her words?"This is not a game, Teresa.""Oh, but it is. Because it is war, and men of power play at war as if it were a game that requires everything they can give it."

"And women?"

"There are no women of power in the Dominion," she said softly. As if it were fact. As if she

believed it.

He wanted to strike her. Instead, he set the lamp upon the altar, illuminating the carvings across

its face. These were contemplation carvings, circles and spheres and patterned mandalas whose whole purpose was to give concentration in the place of anxiety. Or anger. Or fear. "How long?" he said, staring at the surface of the rock. It was more giving than the face of his sister. "How long have you known?"

Her silence was too long; he glanced up quickly, furtively, and saw that she was paler, if no less composed. But she did not lie to him. "Since the Festival of the Moon, Sendari. The Festival in which you chose to forsake your vows to Alora en'Marano." She, too, looked down. "I would have told you, brother."

"And you did not?"

"No." She started to speak, and then fell silent; he saw a glimmer of anger, and something that

might have been guilt. They did not expose themselves to each other. Or rather, she did not expose herself to him. He knew that her gift told her what lay beneath his words-all the anger, the fear, the lies, if he chose to attempt them.

"Why, Teresa? Why did she do this? She must have known what it would cost."

Her eyes widened as he spoke, and then her face softened slightly, losing the quality of edge that

made her seem so like a fine weapon. "You could ask her," she told him quietly. "I believe that she would answer, if you ever chose to ask."

Silence. Then, "I chose to ask you."

"And if I answer, as I see fit, you will answer a question I pose of you?"

"Perhaps."