Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (66 page)

"Nor, I fear, will you."

Silence.
"You are not staying in the Tor?"

"No."

"But I—"

"I will be here for the Festival of the Moon, child,"
Serra Teresa replied.
"But I will not help to plan it; I will not wear the silken sari or bear the silken fan; I will not wear gold or jade or… emerald. I will have no retainers save one, be protected by no Tyran."

"I… I do not understand."

"It is time, Na'dio, that we leave the Tor Leonne."

Ona Teresa.

She had trusted her aunt as she had trusted no one but her wives. She considered the words, hearing the command inherent in them. Hearing the fear, the wildness beneath their surface.

Her aunt, she thought dispassionately, was worried. Afraid.

"When?"

"When?"

"When do you desire my departure from the Tor?"

"This eve."

"The night of the Festival Moon is one week away, Ona Teresa."

"The night of the Festival Moon will be, I fear, far too late. I am coming for you, Na'dio."

There was only one thing she desired more than she desired the feel of the moon's breath across her upturned face. She had planned, after all. There had been so little else to do.

"Ona Teresa."

"Yes."

"Not tonight."

The silence was long. Full. At last it was broken, and Diora felt her breath return to her in a rush although, until that moment, she hadn't realized she was holding it.
"Na'dio, the games played here are—"

"Men's games. Yes, I know. And you have cautioned me against their play."

"Indeed. I will caution you again, but your victory at the Festival of the Sun speaks for itself. If you are not ready to leave, I will accept that. But I must warn you: I am not nearly so certain of my ability as you are of yours. The night of the Festival Moon will be a__difficult night."

"It will be the night,"
Diora said coolly,
"before my wedding."

"Yes. And preparations for that wedding will necessitate the presence of far too many people. Will you not reconsider?"

"I… cannot. I cannot leave the Tor without taking an old friend with me, and she—she will not be ready to leave until that night."

"Na'dio—"

"Will you tell me the price of failure?"
Diora said, soft as the moon's light and just as cool.

The pause was as long as the question had been.
"No."

"I cannot leave here alone, and my friend is not yet ready to travel. I can make no plans until the Festival itself—and perhaps not even then. It is a moon night, but the traditions and the freedoms of those nights have not been offered to me this year."

"I will wait,"
the Serra said.

"Thank you, Ona Teresa. I—"
She fell into silence. Silence had always been her only protection.

"Yes?"

"I—I should tell you something you may not be aware of."
Her aunt waited with the patience of a Marano.
"Kallandras of Senniel, Kallandras of the North."

"The North, as the South, prepares for war—and that war, I think, will be
the
war. If you have not heard, Ser Anton di'Guivera now serves the last of the Leonnes. He will travel South in the boy's company."

"I have heard_little. But I remember the first time I saw Kallandras: It was during the Festival of the Moon, in the year that the Tyr'agar declared war against the Empire."
She did not add, because she did not need to, that that declaration, and the loss that had followed in battle, had probably cost the Tyr his life and his line.

"Yes. He is here?"

"I do not know where he is, but he is in the Tor Leonne, or very near it. His voice is strong."

"Thank you, Na'dio. I will bespeak you later. You have planned, and I have planned, and as all plans must, they will require revision."

The silence was long, had been far too long.

"Ona Teresa?"

"Yes, Na'dio?"

"I… must sleep."

"Sleep, then."
Pause.
"I am here, and I will not leave you behind."

The silence was terrible.

"Ona Teresa?"

"Yes, Na'dio."
Not a question.

She could not ask. She could not see the moon, had been forbidden the harem's heart and the comfort of the women who had been her mothers in the absence of the one who had died birthing her, had been given to sunlight only when those responsible for the deaths—the deaths that drove her like the sand-laden storm— decreed it. And she could not ask for what she desired, not quite. Was she not the Serra Diora di'Marano? Was she not her aunt's perfect daughter?

So she chose to ask a different question, and in its fashion, it was just as terrible.

"Did you know?"

The silence, as always, was marked. The Serra Teresa di'Marano understood her meaning at once.
"You have never asked me that question."

"No."

"Were you afraid of the answer?"

"Can't you hear it?"
Diora asked.
"Can't you hear it in my voice?"

"I hear much, Na'dio. Much. But you are distant; perhaps that protects us both. Let me answer. Listen well. Understand that we two cannot lie to each other; our gifts are too strong and our training too poor.

"No. I did not know. I believe your uncle, Ser Adano kai di'Marano, did."
Her voice was smooth, cool, distant; perfect in every way.
"But I am also certain that he did not understand the whole of the game; it will hurt him much when he finally does."

"And will he?"

"He, of the three of us, comes closest to being a fool. But not, sadly for him, that close. Yes. He will."

Diora's fingers ached. She had always played the harp or the samisen when they spoke in such a fashion, and the absence of music—as comfort and retreat—had created a hunger that was almost as great as the one that had driven her to ask the question of her aunt.

She did not acknowledge it.

She had been taught well, and taught most by the woman to who she spoke.

"Na'dio,"
that woman said, voice soft as the river silks, and strong as the desert wind.
"You must sleep."

"Yes."

Silence. And then, perhaps because captivity and silence changed all rules, perhaps because her knowledge of voice and word was so much greater than Diora's own, she offered her almost-daughter what the younger woman could never have asked for: she sang.

The sun has gone down, has gone down, my love, Na'dio, Na 'dio child.

And in the cradle of that voice and those words, time unwound in the dim and cramped room. The Serra Diora di'Marano offered her aunt no greater acknowledgment than this: she slept.

When she woke from her sleep, there was fruit in her hands. Round and unblemished, like the ideal of an apple and not the fact. She had not been hungry until she felt the firm curve of fruit against her palms. After which she was, of course, starving. She expected no less. It was what would have happened in a dream, and often did, things turning on an event or a sensation, branching in a way that felt totally natural while you were trapped in it, but made no sense when seen at a safe remove.

That was what had been bothering her, dimly, since she had first seen her Oma. She had not, in fact, felt as if she had truly been awake since she had left the streets of Averalaan.

She felt, more than saw, the grin of a big, gray cat.
Not as stuuuupid as you look. But that would be imposssible
.

She hated cats.

So: she could doubt reality while hunger gnawed away at all other sensation. She could doubt that she'd seen Duster; that she'd seen her Oma, that she'd seen someone who claimed to be the daughter of darkness and love—
liar
—but there was one thing she could not, did not, doubt: That Avandar had killed wives. Children. Friends.

He is master here.

Aristos' stone voice, grating and rough, which was fitting given his fate.

He's not my master.

What is he, then ?

He had saved her life more times than she cared to count; enough that she had long since stopped questioning The Terafin's wisdom in choosing Avandar as her domicis.

The hunger that had curled her over with its strength was gone as she thought of the woman to whom she owed everything in her present life. The woman that she would never see alive again.

You promised her
, her Oma said sharply.
And you know how I feel about promises
.

Does any Voyani feel any differently?

She snorted.
You've got the blood but not the upbringing
. I
feel promises are important
. They
feel promises are important as long as blood ties bind them. Don't forget it. You've got power, but you've not the blood
—
you belong to a family that
left
the
Voyanne/or
the safe streets of the Northern city
.

Safe. Safety was the child's dream.

And sometimes, the adult's. She looked up from the food in her hands and saw the only companion she had on the road if you didn't count a disembodied voice or two.

His back was her wall. His shoulders, broad, were unbent; his neck was straight, spine more like spear than like bone; he stood, unarmed, the way an armored member of The Terafin's Chosen would have stood had they been guarding The Terafin herself.

She wanted to ask him how old his children had been. Remembered what Corallonne had said, and didn't doubt it: he had given them a kinder death than they would have offered him. But even so. Had Duster tried to kill her, what would she have done? Everything in her went against the killing of kin. Well, her own at any rate.

Beneath her, spread out and wrinkled in a way that would have made silk merchants cry, his outer robe. She hated this road. She could not clearly remember falling asleep. Could not, in fact, remember whether or not she had fallen asleep in the cradle of his arms.

"Avandar?"

"Jewel," he said in a low voice, turning toward her. "You've been—" He stopped, tensing as his gaze fell to her hands and what they carried.

"I haven't eaten yet," she said, the wryness of her smile instinctive. It surprised her when he relaxed visibly. "You do realize I'm starving, don't you?"

"Of course."

"And it would be a bad idea to eat?"

"That food, and here, yes. Although I am by no means certain that the intent was harmful."

"Which means you know where the food came from."

"There is only one place it could have come from, on this road," he said softly. "But there are worse people to meet than Corallonne." He looked back—or forward—and Jewel saw Calliastra's shadow.

"I suppose if I ask you if we're there yet—"

"I would tell you that you'll know when we arrive."

"I was afraid of that."