par
di'Marano. Adano, the kai of the clan, had a living wife, and no need
of his sister's aid. At least, she thought grimly, not in the affairs
of the harem. With her brothers, she had a polite and reserved
relationship; they served the same interests, no more and no less.
She had had no suitors—at least, so Sendari and Adano claimed.
She knew better, of course, but knew also that no suitor was grand
enough to take her from the clan Marano, whether she wished it or no.
So. As a woman, she had no place in the rulership of the clan;
unmarried, she had no husband, no children and sister-wives of her own
to guide and instruct and protect. She existed, like something outside
of the natural unfolding of time, for poets to make a mystery of.
What did she have?
Loyalty to the clan, of course. Loyalty to the two men who
protected her from the life she might otherwise have led. Loyalty to
Sendari's harem, and even affection for some of the sub-wives she
herself had chosen for her brother's use. But care? No. She had
listened to her grandfather well, and the event of his death had driven
home the truth of his words. A valuable lesson. Very little of the
activities that defined her life had the ability to move her.
As if in denial of that, the sun flashed bright across her
hand. She looked down to see it: finely crafted, so beautiful in
design, so expensively jeweled, that it should have been a husband's
morning-gift. A ring. Sendari had asked her once where that ring had
come from, and she had demurred; Adano had not even noticed. The only
woman who would have answered was dead four years and more, in
childbirth, or so it was said.
Diora was Alora's child.
Serra Teresa di'Marano listened, breath held, as her heart
kept an awkward, uneven time to the samisen strings. And then, as Diora
di'Marano began to sing in her clear, soft voice, she froze completely.
There was a strength in her voice that no child—no natural
child—could ever have. It wasn't possible; it shouldn't have been
possible. Diora—her Na'dio—was only four.
But like knew like, and in that instant, she knew that her
niece, the child that she had never had, and would never have, bore the
curse.
Serra Teresa di'Marano was afraid, and she had named the fear.
She found Sendari by the Lady's shrine. The moon's face was
almost full in the clear night sky on the end of this first day of the
Festival. He was not, the man she wanted to see—or rather, she wished
to see no men at all, and of them, he the least. Her private
supplication to the dead and the lost could not be spoken in his
presence, and she wished to be free of the words, even if only the Lady
and the open sky could catch them.
But she was patient, the Serra Teresa; she knew how to wait.
"Serra Teresa," Ser Sendari said, bowing very low.
"Ser Sendari." It was always thus with them, and perhaps it
was better so; false affection, or worse, true affection, weakened one.
Had they not both learned the truth of that, time and again? She bowed
in return, and held the bow, not grudging him the respect. Although he
was two years her junior, and Adano four her senior, she favored
Sendari.
He was, after all, following the path of the Wise. The Sword
of Knowledge had opened its doors to his study, and he had become a
blade in their service; he missed only the final tempering, the edge
gained by the test of fire. Already he had learned to twist elemental
fire to his use; to call it to hand, and to light the lamps and the
contemplation fires.
"What brings you to the shrine this eve?"
"Festival night," she replied. "It is the custom."
He glanced around as if to make a point; the pavilion was
empty.
But she did not offer him another explanation, and he did not
demand it; what good would it do? She could not be made to answer a
question that she did not wish to answer.
He had night thoughts of his own, perhaps. Sendari had always
been a deeper man than most.
A strong breeze blew through the pavilion,
di'Marano. Adano, the kai of the clan, had a living wife, and no need
of his sister's aid. At least, she thought grimly, not in the affairs
of the harem. With her brothers, she had a polite and reserved
relationship; they served the same interests, no more and no less.
She had had no suitors—at least, so Sendari and Adano claimed.
She knew better, of course, but knew also that no suitor was grand
enough to take her from the clan Marano, whether she wished it or no.
So. As a woman, she had no place in the rulership of the clan;
unmarried, she had no husband, no children and sister-wives of her own
to guide and instruct and protect. She existed, like something outside
of the natural unfolding of time, for poets to make a mystery of.
What did she have?
Loyalty to the clan, of course. Loyalty to the two men who
protected her from the life she might otherwise have led. Loyalty to
Sendari's harem, and even affection for some of the sub-wives she
herself had chosen for her brother's use. But care? No. She had
listened to her grandfather well, and the event of his death had driven
home the truth of his words. A valuable lesson. Very little of the
activities that defined her life had the ability to move her.
As if in denial of that, the sun flashed bright across her
hand. She looked down to see it: finely crafted, so beautiful in
design, so expensively jeweled, that it should have been a husband's
morning-gift. A ring. Sendari had asked her once where that ring had
come from, and she had demurred; Adano had not even noticed. The only
woman who would have answered was dead four years and more, in
childbirth, or so it was said.
Diora was Alora's child.
Serra Teresa di'Marano listened, breath held, as her heart
kept an awkward, uneven time to the samisen strings. And then, as Diora
di'Marano began to sing in her clear, soft voice, she froze completely.
There was a strength in her voice that no child—no natural
child—could ever have. It wasn't possible; it shouldn't have been
possible. Diora—her Na'dio—was only four.
But like knew like, and in that instant, she knew that her
niece, the child that she had never had, and would never have, bore the
curse.
Serra Teresa di'Marano was afraid, and she had named the fear.
She found Sendari by the Lady's shrine. The moon's face was
almost full in the clear night sky on the end of this first day of the
Festival. He was not, the man she wanted to see—or rather, she wished
to see no men at all, and of them, he the least. Her private
supplication to the dead and the lost could not be spoken in his
presence, and she wished to be free of the words, even if only the Lady
and the open sky could catch them.
But she was patient, the Serra Teresa; she knew how to wait.
"Serra Teresa," Ser Sendari said, bowing very low.
"Ser Sendari." It was always thus with them, and perhaps it
was better so; false affection, or worse, true affection, weakened one.
Had they not both learned the truth of that, time and again? She bowed
in return, and held the bow, not grudging him the respect. Although he
was two years her junior, and Adano four her senior, she favored
Sendari.
He was, after all, following the path of the Wise. The Sword
of Knowledge had opened its doors to his study, and he had become a
blade in their service; he missed only the final tempering, the edge
gained by the test of fire. Already he had learned to twist elemental
fire to his use; to call it to hand, and to light the lamps and the
contemplation fires.
"What brings you to the shrine this eve?"
"Festival night," she replied. "It is the custom."
He glanced around as if to make a point; the pavilion was
empty.
But she did not offer him another explanation, and he did not
demand it; what good would it do? She could not be made to answer a
question that she did not wish to answer.
He had night thoughts of his own, perhaps. Sendari had always
been a deeper man than most.
A strong breeze blew through the pavilion,
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