Part 25 (2/2)

The roar of the clans erupted around the lake, and the lake's hills and man-made valleys carried the sound, echoing it, giving it a depth and a height not normally reserved for human voice. The kai Leonne smiled, but the smile was not warm; it was not even triumphant; it was a quick thing, like the strike of lightning in the Northern rains-a natural occurrence, and a terrifying one.

She did not move-it would have been the wrong thing to do-but to be still she had to lock her knees and stiffen her neck and shoulders, giving her body a graceful, regal line, evoking a perfect distance.

It was not to his liking; she saw that immediately and had almost no chance to correct herself; he was upon her, around her, his hands upon her face, her neck, his own face so close to hers, so impossibly close, she thought she would never again be free of the smell of his breath, of the heat of it.

She heard the clansmen cry out again in glad approval at this, her first kiss, the first touch of a man who meant her the harm that men meant, but who had the right, by marriage, to offer it.

And in spite of herself, in front of the gathered clans, she was like kindling to his fire, and when he drew back, her body followed his as if the diamonds and pearls so painstaking beaded into the edge of her dress had become attached to the setting of his very fine robe. His smile was not kind, but it was not unkind; it was an expression, she would realize later, that was very much his own, and unperturbed by her, unresponsive to her.

One or two of the clansmen called out a suggestion, an encouragement, that again brought the blush to her cheeks; the Radann kai el'Sol brought his hands together in a thunderclap, demanding silence-or at least, respect. He was a tall man, and a forbidding one, and even in the poor light, he saw well enough to know who had spoken. Or so it seemed to Diora.

The Tyr'agar came to stand before her, momentarily displacing the son. ”You are lovely,” he said softly, too softly, the words devoid of warmth. ”A pity, really, that you were born a Serra and not a seraf, or I would never have gifted so fine a creature to so unappreciative a son.”

He bowed, and then caught her hand as he rose; where his son's grip had been tight, his was gentle-but it was more of a trap, for she could not pull away from this man, of all men in the Dominion.

”Welcome,” he said, in a voice unnaturally loud, ”Diora en'Leonne. Welcome to the clan Leonne. May you honor us all.” And his fingers, beneath the protective curve of the palm of her hand caressed the flesh there lightly, gently. She saw the Lady's Night descending in his eyes as he leaned forward and very properly offered her the kiss of the clan leader, a light press of lips to forehead.

She turned to her husband, to her new husband, and saw his narrowed eyes upon his father's profile, and her heart, like the sun, began its descent.

The Serra Teresa di'Marano did watch the ceremony. But she did not choose to view it from the vantage of the lake, surrounded by the clan that had birthed her; nor did she choose, as she might have, to accompany her almost-daughter upon her final journey as a di'Marano. She watched the ceremony from the vantage of the smallest shrine to the Lady, nestled as it was upon a hill, and hidden behind a veil of slender trees. The shrine, she had graced with the strength of her prayer almost as soon as the sun had begun its descent; she paused now, as the Tyr'agar accepted her Na'dio into his clan. It was done.

Lady help her, it was done.

She clasped her hands together to still them; they shook terribly, and it mortified her, but she could not stop them. The sight of the ring, the single remaining evidence of her binding oaths, did not help. She almost removed it. Almost. It was far too fine for the rest of her apparel; it stood out, the one imperfection in an otherwise unquestionable affectation.

The finery of Marano did not grace her this eve, although it was her right. She wore a simple sari, albeit one of a very fine, very expensive color-a color that was, shade for shade that of the coming night, a deep blue untroubled by moon or star. She was the Serra Teresa di'Marano. She was alone. And she knew what she should be, what she must be, on this very special day. Perfectly composed, dignified, graceful-elegantly happy.

But her heart was as empty as Sendari's had become; she had realized it sooner, that was all. What she could offer was not fit for the clans, and it would trouble Na'dio to see it so openly.

She stood alone, which was less of a risk at her age than it had once been. Faithful Ramdan, she had sent away, and he, being seraf without compare, had condemned her decision with perfect grace: by obeying it. She was fond of him, in her fas.h.i.+on, but he was not blood. And blood was everything.

Ah, a lie.

A lie, on this fine summer eve.

Alora had not been blood.

Fires sprang to life in the air above the lake, reflected by the waters-the Sword of Knowledge,

announcing itself, openly, to the clansmen, at the behest of the Tyr'agar. She heard, again, the hushed awe of the clans and smiled with quiet pride-for the silent awe was dim and short compared to the gasp that Diora di'Marano evoked.

”Serra Teresa.”

She did not turn; she did not need to. That voice, she would recognize anywhere. ”Kallandras.”

He was a shadow in the shadows; she felt it although she could not see it. ”You missed the

ceremony.”

”I heard your song.”

”I know.” He paused. ”I would rather it had been a different one.”

She knew what he meant, and after a grudging moment said, ”Why? Why sing a cradle song for

one who is about to leave childhood behind?”

”Because,” the bard replied with his perfect, perfect voice, ”that is often the time when one most needs to hear one. Such a song speaks to the heart.”

”A child's heart, surely.”

”All hearts, in part, are children's hearts. Hers, as yours, is secret now. Hidden.”

”Do you need that, in the North? The hidden heart?” She did not deny the truth of his words,

because he was gentle; because he was unlike the clansmen, unlike the concubines, unlike Teresa herself.

”Every man and woman has a hidden heart. Or two.” She heard the s.h.i.+ver of strings, a light, a fleeting melody, and turned abruptly. His face was shadowed from the moonlight by the shrine; she had brought no lamp with her, and thought that, this eve, no lamp might be lit; the fires below were brilliant.

”This is not the Fount of Contemplation.”

”No,” she replied, twisting the ring upon her finger, staring at his barely seen face.

He sat lightly upon the Lady's altar. It was a shock, to see him sit so; she felt the stiffness of her widened eyes before she could control the expression. Or before she remembered that she did not need to; the Lady defended herself, and the Lady's lands were not the Northern lands, the Lady's followers, not the Imperial lords who were demon-ruled and glad of it.

”Did you do this?” he asked her. When she returned silence, he gestured broadly toward the lake itself. The sounds of merriment drifted toward them, carried by the breeze, the gentle face of the wind. ”Did you... influence the Leonne clan in its decision, the kai in his choice?”

It was never safe to say all. Never. But to lie to a man who could hear the lie clearly in her voice, no matter how she might disguise it with clever, pretty words? ”Yes.”

”Serra, why?”

How can you ask me that? she thought, but she could not give voice to the question. Oddly, she felt betrayed. And then ashamed. These things followed each other quickly, naturally, stumbling together into a single, wordless whole. In the darkness of the Lady's night, she knew that she wanted to be understood by someone who did not hate her, envy her, fear her. Someone who was not Sendari.

Someone to whom she did not have to give understanding in return. Lady, she thought, are we all to be such children, always such children, at heart?

”I gave my word,” she said quietly, ”To the Serra Diora's mother.”

”1 had heard that the Serra Diora's mother died in childbirth.”

<script>