sun's rise of the third day."
Alora
. He had not spoken her name aloud
for over four years. It was understood, between them, that the name of
Serra Alora en'Marano died when she had, her head cradled in
Teresa's arms, her babe mewling pathetically for food. Sendari allowed
no mention of her.
We both took oaths
, she thought, anger
warming the surprise. "It was an oath given to a woman," she said, each
word cold and hard. "You are not strictly honor-bound to keep it."
His face showed her nothing, nothing at all. But he had been
expecting this, and she, she was still off guard, as if she were no
more than a girl on this moonful night.
"It was given to a wife," he answered. "Why do we argue,
Serra?"
"Why indeed? You are Ser Sendari, and you will meet the test
of the Sword whether I will it or no—a dead woman's words
notwithstanding."
"And you," he said, the words as sharp as hers were cold,
"will protect my child if I fail the test. You have the means to do it,
Teresa, and you will do it." He paused. "Or does the breaking of one
oath warrant the breaking of another?"
She said nothing to that; nothing at all. "I wish you the
Lady's favor and the Lord's strength," she said, bowing very low. She
turned, then.
"We both loved her," Sendari said, as if he could not resist a
fourth strike at the heart of the woman who was his sister. "And we
have both paid."
She acknowledged the truth of that in silence, her hand around
the ring that Alora had given her to bind her to the oaths they had
sworn years before the birth of Diora.
So be it
, she thought, as the anger took
root.
I will protect my niece from everything, Sendari. I
will give her the life that was denied me, even if it does not serve
Marano's interests
.
Because I swore to protect Alora's child.
Because I so swore.
There was worse news to come.
"Teresa!"
Morning bright, Lissa pranced across the threshold of the
sleeping room, looking like the coltish young woman she was, and not
the demure wife she should have been.
My weakness
,
the Serra thought, although she felt no real regret. She sat up,
artlessly pushing the sleeping silks to one side of the mats upon which
she made night's repose. She occupied the wife's chambers, and these
rooms, no one but the sister-wives visited, not even dignitaries.
A sister-wife could be asked to entertain her husband's guest,
and in any event, had to be trained in the arts necessary to do so
discreetly; a wife could not. Not without insult to the clan of her
birth; not without casting doubts upon the legitimacy of the husband's
bloodline.
"What is it, Lissa? Do you feel the baby?"
"The baby?"
"I see," Teresa said wryly. "What is it, exactly, that you
have come to tell me?"
"There's a foreigner in the Tor!"
"There are many foreigners in the Tor," was the indulgent
reply. "It
is
the Festival of the Moon."
"Yes, but this one's special. He sang the morning anthem. I
mean," she added, not noticing the sudden tension in Teresa's face,
"that he petitioned to sing it, and he was allowed. By the Tyr'agar
himself!" She took silence as encouragement because she was young, and
continued. "He has hair like golden ringlets, Teresa, and he wears it
like a crown; he's tall and lovely, and his eyes are bluer than the
waters of the sea." The sea, of course, was poetic notion to young
Lissa, who had never seen it.
"I don't suppose you heard the name of this paean of earthly
beauty?" She should have reminded Lissa that singing fulsome praises of
the beauty of a man not one's husband was a dangerous and unwise
activity. Should have, but couldn't; the harem was barely a part of her
thoughts. It had been crowded out by sudden fear.
"Yes. His name is Kallandras of clan Senniel." Lissa paused.
"And he's asked for an audience with Ser Sendari. I think he wants to
sing for us." She clapped. "A coup for Marano—to have the man chosen by
the Tyr'agar begging to sing in our court!"
"Yes," Teresa replied absently. "Has Ser Sendari seen
Alora
. He had not spoken her name aloud
for over four years. It was understood, between them, that the name of
Serra Alora en'Marano died when she had, her head cradled in
Teresa's arms, her babe mewling pathetically for food. Sendari allowed
no mention of her.
We both took oaths
, she thought, anger
warming the surprise. "It was an oath given to a woman," she said, each
word cold and hard. "You are not strictly honor-bound to keep it."
His face showed her nothing, nothing at all. But he had been
expecting this, and she, she was still off guard, as if she were no
more than a girl on this moonful night.
"It was given to a wife," he answered. "Why do we argue,
Serra?"
"Why indeed? You are Ser Sendari, and you will meet the test
of the Sword whether I will it or no—a dead woman's words
notwithstanding."
"And you," he said, the words as sharp as hers were cold,
"will protect my child if I fail the test. You have the means to do it,
Teresa, and you will do it." He paused. "Or does the breaking of one
oath warrant the breaking of another?"
She said nothing to that; nothing at all. "I wish you the
Lady's favor and the Lord's strength," she said, bowing very low. She
turned, then.
"We both loved her," Sendari said, as if he could not resist a
fourth strike at the heart of the woman who was his sister. "And we
have both paid."
She acknowledged the truth of that in silence, her hand around
the ring that Alora had given her to bind her to the oaths they had
sworn years before the birth of Diora.
So be it
, she thought, as the anger took
root.
I will protect my niece from everything, Sendari. I
will give her the life that was denied me, even if it does not serve
Marano's interests
.
Because I swore to protect Alora's child.
Because I so swore.
There was worse news to come.
"Teresa!"
Morning bright, Lissa pranced across the threshold of the
sleeping room, looking like the coltish young woman she was, and not
the demure wife she should have been.
My weakness
,
the Serra thought, although she felt no real regret. She sat up,
artlessly pushing the sleeping silks to one side of the mats upon which
she made night's repose. She occupied the wife's chambers, and these
rooms, no one but the sister-wives visited, not even dignitaries.
A sister-wife could be asked to entertain her husband's guest,
and in any event, had to be trained in the arts necessary to do so
discreetly; a wife could not. Not without insult to the clan of her
birth; not without casting doubts upon the legitimacy of the husband's
bloodline.
"What is it, Lissa? Do you feel the baby?"
"The baby?"
"I see," Teresa said wryly. "What is it, exactly, that you
have come to tell me?"
"There's a foreigner in the Tor!"
"There are many foreigners in the Tor," was the indulgent
reply. "It
is
the Festival of the Moon."
"Yes, but this one's special. He sang the morning anthem. I
mean," she added, not noticing the sudden tension in Teresa's face,
"that he petitioned to sing it, and he was allowed. By the Tyr'agar
himself!" She took silence as encouragement because she was young, and
continued. "He has hair like golden ringlets, Teresa, and he wears it
like a crown; he's tall and lovely, and his eyes are bluer than the
waters of the sea." The sea, of course, was poetic notion to young
Lissa, who had never seen it.
"I don't suppose you heard the name of this paean of earthly
beauty?" She should have reminded Lissa that singing fulsome praises of
the beauty of a man not one's husband was a dangerous and unwise
activity. Should have, but couldn't; the harem was barely a part of her
thoughts. It had been crowded out by sudden fear.
"Yes. His name is Kallandras of clan Senniel." Lissa paused.
"And he's asked for an audience with Ser Sendari. I think he wants to
sing for us." She clapped. "A coup for Marano—to have the man chosen by
the Tyr'agar begging to sing in our court!"
"Yes," Teresa replied absently. "Has Ser Sendari seen
Similar Books
