“Serra Amara and Serra Donna are not the same.”
“No.” She knelt then.
He frowned.
“Na’donna, it may be months until I next see you. Will you spend the scant hours left us speaking of things unpleasant?”
“Out of the most unpleasant things, gardens may grow, and peace and repose may be found there.”
She so seldom showed signs of steel. But it was there, if one knew her well enough to see it. “What is of such import, Na’donna?”
She rose. “I have a letter,” she said at last. Hesitance marred the pretty words.
“And is what you have to say so unpleasant that you trust it only to ink and paper?”
She met his gaze, her lashes lowering like half-veil. “It was not,” she said at last, “written by me.”
He was on his guard then. “Who sent you this letter?”
“The Serra Amara en’Callesta.”
He relaxed, but only marginally. “So,” he said quietly. “You wrote her.”
She nodded. He did not ask her what she had said. “And what does the Serra Amara say?”
“You might read it, Mareo.” She drew the letter from the folds of her sari and held it out to him; he could see the fine grain of the paper that the Serra Amara had no doubt made with her own hands.
His hands remained folded in his lap.
She waited; in that, she was as all Serras but the very youngest. After a moment, the words in the air between them lessened in force and impact by the quality of the silence, he looked away from the brush-stroked lines.
“Tell me about this letter,” he said at last, wanting very much to speak about almost anything else. They had so little time.
“It is political,” she said quietly. “And it was done by her hand. No other hand, save one, is both so bold and so elegant.”
Because he did not wish to hear his sister’s name spoken again, he did not ask her who the second person was.
“Were it informal, Mareo, she would have written it in ink, with feather or quill; she meant to make a statement.”
“A long statement.”
She said nothing.
“Humor me, Mareo.” She added delicate plea to the smoothness of voice; no whine here, no grating, annoying snivel.
“I have always humored you, Na’donna,” he said, relenting.
She knew that there was often a price to be paid for such surrender, and she was cautious now. Her eyes hid nothing.
“But humor me, Serra Donna. Translate for me.”
“She speaks of the Serra Alina di’Lamberto.”
“And the Northerners?” he said, hearing the name. Hating it. Always, always, she returned to haunt him.
“Yes,” she said, speaking starkly. Aware that her response was not the response he expected.
“So,” he said softly. “She admits their treachery openly. I am not a Serra, Na’donna. I am not given to delicacy and introversion. Tell me.”
“The Serra Alina was given leave, by the Northern Kings, to travel,” his wife said quietly. “And she chose to travel. The Serra Amara does not say why.”
“And she traveled alone?”
“No.”
“Does the Serra Amara choose to divulge the names of her traveling companions?”
Silence again; heavier now. “You might read what is written, Mareo.”
Yes. Yes, he might. But his hands closed the more tightly over the rolled parchment, changing the curve of its shape. It was so unlike Na’donna, to force him to admit that he could read what was written within.
“It is not in the Serra’s language,” she said quietly, as if divining the momentary pettiness of his dissatisfaction. Still, she spoke gently, almost apologetically.
“I do not think that the Serra Amara en’Callesta would have chosen to write this letter to the wife of the man who killed her son. She is . . . careful . . . Mareo. But she offers no accusation.”
“No. Of course not. Women have no place upon the field of battle.” The words were heavy with irony.
His wife rose. The incense in the brazier had burned to ash, but the sweet ghost of its scent lingered. She turned her back upon him, tending it with care. Showing him that grace had not left her hands, her arms, the gentle tilt of her neck.
“Na’donna, speak plainly.”
Back turned to him, face hidden by work that would have been better left to seraf hands, she obeyed.
“I think that it is no coincidence that you have gathered a third of your men. I think that it is no coincidence that you travel with Jevri el’Sol, and those men you could gather in haste. I think that the presence of the Havalla Voyani, here, in Amar, is proof enough that what we face—what you face—is not the battle that we had intended.”
He hid nothing from her.
But she saw without seeing; her hands cupped the brass base of the small, lightless urn.
“And I think that your greatest challenge is in none of these things. No, the Serra Amara did not choose to openly speak of all that she knows; no more would I, in such a time.”
“If ever, to that—”
“If ever, to the Serra Amara, who sees much and forgets nothing.”
He accepted the gentle correction.
“The last of the Leonne clan has taken the field.”
Silence was a gift. A cold gift, like the edge of a sword that has not yet been drawn in battle.
She hesitated, and then she withdrew the hands that steadied her. But he gazed now upon the pale blue of her sari. It was a meager gift of color, but she would not face him; he was denied the warmth of her eyes. “The Serra Amara thinks highly of him. Highly enough that she was willing to mention the name of the sword he now bears.”
“The sword?”
“It was . . . it is . . . the kai Callesta’s sword.”
Ah. “And the boy is already so much of a Callestan pawn that he was willing to take the sword?”
“It was not offered him,” she replied. “He asked for it, Mareo. When he paid his respects to the first of the fallen, he asked it, as a boon.”
“He asked it?”
“So she says. And I believe her. Not to sing his praise did she write this letter, but his praise is there, if one reads what is written; she took no pains to hide it.”
“He did not travel from the North alone.”
“No. He travels in the company of Ser Anton di’Guivera.” She paused while the name played itself out in the cadence of her voice, in its soft echo. “She says that Ser Anton di’Guivera speaks highly of the kai Leonne; that he serves him completely, and with regard. He also travels in the company of Ser Baredan di’Navarre.”
“Both good men,” Mareo said softly. Stiffly.
His wife nodded quietly. His words did not catch her; did not disturb the graceful flow of her words. “He has taken the pledge of allegiance offered him by Ser Ramiro kai di’Callesta—and his par, Ser Fillipo par di’Callesta.”
“Ser Fillipo?”
She nodded.
“Continue.”
“He is waited upon by the Serra Alina di’Lamberto.”
He knew what she would say next. Almost raised hand to stem the flow of her pretty words.
But he was not a coward; he bore the weight that settled around him, and within him, as if it were inconsequential.
“He has come with the Northerners. He has chosen, as his cerdan, a Northern unit.”
“You do not speak with anger, wife,” he said, cold now. Angry himself. “You do not speak with the quiet outrage that . . . I might otherwise expect. Why?”
“Because . . .” She turned away again, withdrawing her hands, almost withdrawing the pleasant cadence of her voice. “She speaks, last, of Northern ignorance, of Northern folly. The words are her words,” she added quietly, “but I see Na’ali in them.”
He almost rose, then. He almost said, Do not use that name in my hearing. But she sat, so pale, so stiff, her hands in shaking fists; stricken, as he was. Just a
s he was. “Yes,” she said without preamble. “She speaks of the death of our son.”
The sound of clenched fist made no noise in the harem.
It made no noise in the chambers given him for his use by the Tor’agar of Clemente. But the paper did, bending and folding at his whim, as much like a Serra in seeming as it was in substance.
Pretty strokes, but bold, as Donna had said. He read the letter by lamplight, unwilling to expose its contents to sun. He had not yet reached a decision.
But Serra Donna had.
It caused him pain, as all old wounds did in their time. Am I now to surrender the life of my son to . . . these? Am I now to be unmanned, to be weakened in blood and oath?
They thought him a child. My son. My oldest son. They thought to spare him. Lady, it was almost beyond belief. Would have been. But his wife believed it, and his faith in his wife was one of the few unshakable tenets upon which he had built his life. They killed him, Na’donna.
She could not answer. She was ensconced within the safety of Amar, in the heart of the harem that was hers to rule, the Havalla Voyani by her side as protection against the servants of the Lord of Night. And he had not chosen to ask the question that troubled him now, for he knew what her answer would be; she had given it, when she had given him the letter.
“Was that wise?”
Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente looked up; met the unadorned lids of his guest. Although he understood that some magic had transpired that could burn away all trace of hair and yet leave no mark upon skin, he found the sight of a hairless man disturbing.
But it was not for this reason that he chose to look away.
Wise? No, he thought. How could it be? His statement was almost a challenge to the authority of the Tyr who had, with his army, saved Sarel from the forces of the distant General Marente.
But he had chosen to take the risk; had taken it. Did not—yet—regret it.
“Ser Alessandro?”
“For a man who speaks little, you have a love of words,” he replied, shading his own with something akin to smile. “And like many men with such a love, you ask a question to which you already know the answer.”
He was rewarded by the Radann’s smile, and surprised by how it robbed his face of years. Seldom was joy considered a thief, although in the Dominion it carried with it the weight of hidden debt.
“It was not wise.” He shifted in place, and regretted the motion almost before it was complete. The wound he had taken was not yet finished bleeding. Perhaps, exposed to sun, it might. But he exposed little to sunlight, this day. Although the flowers of the garden were pink and white, and the leaves themselves beryl, emerald, jade, he walked a while yet in the lee of the Lady’s shadow; the colors that spoke of the Lord failed to move him.
Thus did he acknowledge the greatest of his debts.
“But I have often been accused of lack of wisdom. In youth,” he added, the momentary sting of his cousin’s death swift and unlooked for, “and even as an adult.” No, he thought again, testing his past, finding in it much pain but—at last—little anger. We are done with the past, par el’Sol.
“And as the kai Clemente?”
“I am little interested in the ways of power; the cost is high.”
Marakas fell silent.
It was the hand of the par el’Sol that had raised the Tor’agar, fallen, from the field of wreckage and cracked, broken ground, and the Radann was almost shamed to admit that he had become political enough to use his gift. The healing was brief; he could not do more without the Tor’agar’s consent—or knowledge. But he had, now, a sense of the man that Ser Alessandro kai di’Clemente had become.
He therefore did not speak with the Tyr’agnate; he knew that Alessandro, injured or no, would say all that need be said. Thus was the past laid, at last, to rest.
“What will the Serra Celina say?”
Alessandro’s smile was a small revelation. A window had been opened briefly; a gesture of truce, or perhaps even peace.
“She has spent the evening in the company of the Serra Diora; she approves of my decision.” He shook his head, turning. “She has spoken little of what occurred in the harem,” he added. “But she has spoken enough. No wise man hoards debt, and I have incurred a great debt in the passage of a single evening.” He closed his eyes; for a moment, the battlefield of Damar encompassed the whole of his vision. Moonlight was kinder than sun; it veiled the sight, muting the harsh colors of the dead. But veiled or no, he knew their names. All of their names. He shook himself. “I count my debt thus: to the Havallans, to Marano, and to the Lambertans; to the Northerners, who owe no allegiance to the South; to the Radann.” He inclined his head.
“I count you in no debt, Tor’agar.”
“No. You wouldn’t. But a man measures the worth of the gifts offered and the sacrifices made; he does not let the whole of the tale reside in the hands of others. It is my debt, Radann par el’Sol.” Again, he offered a weary smile.
Marakas found it moving.
“Perhaps I speak to alleviate some little debt. You asked of the Serra Celina, my wife. Let me speak of her, briefly. The Tyr’agnate waits, and if I am not mistaken, he has not yet made his decision.
“After the death of my kai, my cousin, the Tor’agnate Ser Amando kai di’Manelo, wished me to dispense with Serra Celina; he did not feel her a suitable Serra for a man of my capabilities, for he desired to see me take my place at Court, which my father and my brother had chosen to forsake. We discussed this for some time before I returned to my domis, and the winds that night were almost silent.
“She was waiting for me. Had she been canny, she might have had her son by her side, but she wished to cause him no pain. She was pale, par el’Sol.” His face rose a moment in the slowly moving shadow, the contours of nose, of cheek and chin, catching some hint of the light. “Delicate, not in seeming, but in truth. All of her ferocity—and there is little of it—is bent toward the protection of those she has chosen to care for: her serafs, her wives, her children.
“My cousin’s words were much with me, that eve. He spoke to me not as distant kin, but as father to son, and in truth, we had more in common than my father and I. He was not overly fond of my father, and he likewise held my brother in lesser regard.
“I saw the wisdom in what he said. She is not a wise woman; she is no longer counted beautiful among the men of this land. She was oft indulged by my brother, and clearly indulged by her father before him.
“I saw the opportunity to remake Clemente in my image, and not in the image of my father or my kai. They were not men comfortable with the High Courts; they were seldom seen in Amar, and seldom upon the plateau of the Leonne Court. But should I choose to take my rightful place in the Courts, I might better be served by a woman of cunning and grace.
“I intended to tell her as much, and she saw that in my posture and my expression. But she did not plead or argue. She bowed her head a moment; her hair was unbound and it formed a curtain, a veil, between us.
“I thought she might speak. I knew if she did, it would be difficult. But she had often spoken on my behalf when my kai was annoyed with my pretension and the company I chose to keep. I could not bid her be silent.
“And she asked me only one question.”
Marakas nodded, unwilling to break the flow of the Tor’s words with his own. Words in the Dominion were rare, especially given during the Lord’s time. His silence acknowledged their gift.
“She said, ‘Will you grant us the use of your mother’s domis?’ Her hands were in her lap, and they were not still; they were not perfect. She could not school her expression, and I knew it cost her much to say the words. She looked lovely to me then.
“I did not answer the question she asked. My mother had been dead five years, and the domis that she occupied had seen no use. It was not small, but it was not the harem in which she had presided during my brother’s reign. I asked her, ‘What of your son?’
“And she said, ‘He knows
what waits.’ Just that. But it was enough. There was death and mourning in her voice, and a dignity that I had not thought she would possess.”
Marakas did not speak. But he, too, bowed his head a moment. The son was not yet of age, but heir to the father, and if Ser Alessandro was to rule without question, he could not then leave that boy alive.
Yet he had. Clearly, he had.
“I do not love her as my brother loved her. But I do not love her less; she was as sister to me while he lived. I bid her rise, I bid her summon her son. I drew the sword of Clemente and spoke its secret name in the harem’s heart. It was . . . a test. But she rose, and she left the room while I waited, and when she returned, her son came with her.
“And he seemed to me to be my brother in his youth; dour and determined to go to his fate shorn of dishonesty. He was then twelve years of age. Not yet a man, but by his quiet action, no longer a boy.”
His hand fell to his sword as he spoke.
“Ser Janos kai di’Clemente knelt before me, exposing the back of his neck. ‘Do you offer me your life, Ser Janos?’ He looked up at me, his eyes Roberto’s eyes, his expression . . . mine. But he said, ‘For the good of the clan, I offer it willingly.’
“‘Then offer it upon your feet, boy. Offer it with sword in hand.’ He had no sword of his own; no named blade. I . . . gave him mine.”
Marakas closed his eyes. This was, he thought, a song. Not the song of the Serra Diora, nor a song that might play well in the Courts in which the Lord ruled at his harshest. But there was a beauty in the simple meter of a man’s voice, a man’s memory, that hallowed the words. That made them. All of his judgment was undone; he repented of it, of his anger in the past, of his accusations. All. He took the gift of beauty offered him, and he treasured it; he would always treasure it.
“He was no fool; he rose at once, clumsy now, the grace of acceptance forgotten. He looked younger than his years, where a moment before he had looked beyond them.
“‘I will have no wife, but the Serra Celina,” I told him. ‘And, Na’jano, I will have no kai but you.’”
The Riven Shield: The Sun Sword #5 Page 77
