Part 28 (1/2)

”He was not there. But-”

”But?”

”Word traveled. Be as gentle with him as you can in your thoughts, in exile. Please. For me.”

”What word?” She was still Alina, still sharp and hard-edged. But she was perhaps much like her brother; she was not immune to the pleas of his wives, where orders failed to move her.

”They demanded the kai's surrender.”

”I know.”

”No. You don't. The cerdan, the Tyran-they were present when the demand arrived. The Northerners sent word to the Lambertan General.”

”The General?”

Donna nodded. ”The letter said, in substance, that they would cease all hostility. If . . .”

”Lady's blood.”

”If the General was willing to surrender the kai into their custody.”

For the first time since she had heard of the death of her nephew, Alina's eyes were also heavy with tears. She held them back.

”They demanded his surrender.”

Alina closed her eyes. ”Just his?”

”His.”

”And his men?”

”They would not countenance it. Who, of the Lambertan men, could have done so with any honor at all? Had they demanded the surrender of the General, he would have offered it, and gladly, in return for the promise of safety for his men and the kai. It would have destroyed him personally. It would have destroyed his ability to lead our men in the future. But he would have done it.”

”But he could not give them the kai.” There was no criticism at all in the words. ”Na'donna-”

”They killed my son,” the Serra whispered.

This time, this time Alina said nothing at all. She rose instead, leaving the very empty pretense of servility behind. Crossing the room blindly she wrapped her arms around the Serra Donna's shoulders.

In that fas.h.i.+on, in silence, she offered the Serra Donna her promise to forgive-as it was possible-her brother for his anger and his crime.

She remembered this clearly. The years had not dimmed the conversation. But they had explained it.

The kai, by Northern standards, was not considered to be of age. No boys led Northern armies; no boys led Northern units. The kai Lamberto, heir to the vast Terrean of Mancorvo, was not considered adult; he was not considered the person in authority upon the field.

The Northerners had therefore chosen to send their word-their perfunctory word-to the man they felt was in charge.

Ah.

She bowed her head. They had expected a surrender. They were not so bloodthirsty that they had expected to be forced to slaughter any man who would not flee.

But what man would, when the future of the Terrean had been entrusted to them?

For this, for this misunderstanding, her nephew had died, and her brother had been permanently scarred, enraged, embittered.

It was in the past, but the past formed the root of the present, as birth informed life.

And her life? She bowed her head to the ground again, waiting. Waiting in this foreign hall, in the stronghold of her brother's enemies.

Enemies that he had made because the Callestans had chosen to treat the war as another form of politics; had opened up their borders to trade and treaties; had forgiven the North for its trespa.s.s, its act of willful murder.

A seraf paused in the hall before her. He fell to the ground, his posture matching hers in both grace and suppleness.

”Serra,” he said gravely, ”the Serra Amara en'Callesta will speak with you now. Please accompany me.”

The Serra Alina was no fool. She expected anger.

And because she expected it, she had chosen to dress in the most demure of fas.h.i.+ons. Her hair fell straight across her shoulders, unadorned by combs or flowers; her sari was white, her sash blue. These had been bought at some expense, but she had felt expense necessary; she was certain that the Serra would know when she had obtained these things, and from who.

The Serra Amara had chosen to forsake the veils of mourning, although the colors were in evidence everywhere; in the flowers upon the low table, in the hangings upon the wall, in the rugs upon the ground on which she knelt.

Her expression was forbidding in its utter perfection. She was not a young woman, but she conceded nothing to age; her posture was perfect, the line of her neck long and unbowed, the stretch of her shoulders straight as the steel of a Northern blade.

When she smiled, the smile did not reach her eyes, but she did not frown, did not glare, did not express her rage in any way that would embarra.s.s a Serra of her stature.

”Serra Alina,” she said, nodding graciously. ”To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

The Serra Alina's bow was not perfunctory; it was short of-just short of-servility. She knelt; she rounded the curve of her back, exposing it in its entirety to the woman whose harem she had entered, acknowledging in full measure the power that Serra held.

The power of Callesta.

”Forgive me,” she said, ”for intruding upon you at this time.” She held the bow. Held it in the lengthening silence the Serra Amara offered in return.

Silence was the Callestan weapon here. It offered insult. Not even a seraf would have been kept waiting in such a posture for the length of time that it took the Serra Amara to gather words.

But the Serra Alina expected no more. Indeed, she was surprised that she had been granted entry here at all, and she was willing to suffer the loss of personal dignity in exchange for that permission.

Valedan needed this woman.

The seraf rose. Alina saw his shadow across the floor, heard the light pad of his bare feet as they pa.s.sed her. The screens slid open and shut so quickly had he not been a seraf of the High Court she would have wondered if he had had the time to leave.

Only when he was gone did the Serra Amara speak.

”Have you come,” she said softly, ”to plead your brother's innocence?”

Alina did not rise. She waited in a humbling silence.

”Have you come to offer me a.s.surances that, feeling as he did, the kai Leonne's words were offered in honor?”

Again, she offered silence in return for the smoothly spoken words.