Part 78 (1/2)
The Widan Cortano di'Alexes was not a friend.
It had been Cortano who, at the test of the Sword, had come closest to killing Sendari, and the spiderweb of milky white that lay across his hands was a gift of that meeting. Spells of defense were a subtle and tricky thing; offense was easy. But the Widan-Designate Sendari di'Marano had a subtle mind.
It was a dangerous game, to show superior power to a man who held power-but if a Widan did not show it, in one area or another, he did not cross the bridge; the wind consumed him, and the test of the Sword proved fatal.
He still bore scars, hidden beneath the folds of his robe; unexposed to the sun's glare, they faded slowly with the years. And they reminded him, always, that Cortano was not a man to be trusted.
If any man of power was.
”Sendari.”
”Cortano.” The younger man bowed, feeling his age as a lack of experience and wisdom. Feeling very much the apprentice. It was only Cortano di'Alexes who had this effect on him now; the rest, the winds had taken.
The chamber, usually full of the followers of the Sword of Knowledge, was conspicuously empty; a foolish man might have blamed that emptiness on the hour, for the Widan were known to study late into the Lady's night, and sleep long through the Lord's day.
Sendari was not a foolish man. As he rose from his bow, he examined Cortano's face. White hair framed it, and white hair fell in a spill from his chin down his chest. Only the heart of the beard itself was dark, a hint of its youthful glory. His eyes, that disturbing blue that seemed uncannily like the open sky, were unblinking. And narrowed.
”Sendari,” the Sword's Edge said again. He sat on a chair, rather than the cus.h.i.+ons that were laid about the room for the comfort of the Widan; Sendari was obliged to stand, a position which was generally reserved for inferiors.
He stood, with what grace he could muster.
”What happened this morning?”
”The Festival opened,” was Sendari's neutral reply.
”Yes. I was there.”
Silence.
Cortano frowned. ”Sendari, your daughter sang the lay of the Sun Sword.”
The Widan nodded.
”Why?”
”This may surprise you, Cortano,” Sendari's reply was cool, ”but my time here has not been
spent attending to the needs of a single child in my harem. The girl was chosen for the Festival by Alesso, Garrardi, and Lorenza; she was approved with undue haste by the kai el'Sol. I was not consulted.” He let his anger show; it was genuine enough. ”I did not consider intervention either wise or necessary.”
”Cleverly put,” was Cortano's soft reply. He paused. ”And with a single song, she has declared to the clansmen of Annagar-to those clansmen who made the trek or were allowed to make it- that it was Leonne who fought for justice. They will all be thinking that it was Alesso di'Marente who ended that fight. And they will be watchful now, where they might have been lulled.
”You argued for her life the night the clan Leonne perished.”
”Yes.”
”She is a threat to us.”
”She is a girl.”
The blue eyes had never been so piercing; Sendari felt as if he were standing beneath the open
sky, bearing the brunt of the Lord's judgment. And who was the Lord to judge him? ”If you fear her, Cortano, kill her yourself. I am not beholden to you; I do not serve you; I am not required to take your orders.”
”I do not fear her, Sendari. I fear your attachment to her.”
Sendari said nothing.
”Very well. If you will have it so. You will pay the price of her game if it becomes costly.”
The Widan Sendari shrugged. ”I was under the impression that we were to speak about matters of the Court, not matters of the Tor.”
”You were correct.” Cortano rose. ”You are to take this word to the General: Isladar says the Lord had confirmed his initial estimate. By the Festival of the Moon the forces of the s.h.i.+ning Court will be at our disposal.” Neither man mentioned the last war that had been called after the close of the Lady's Festival. ”Regardless, Isladar does not wish the influence of the Radann to hold sway; we have given him our word that the Radann are in hand. Therefore, we will keep the Radann intact until such a time as he has tendered his troops.”
Cortano was the man who had introduced the younger Alesso to the s.h.i.+ning Court; to the kinlords, Etridian, a.s.sarak, Isladar; to the Allasakari, the men who became vessels for the shadows that without exception devoured them from within.
He had no wife, no heirs, no attachments; it made him a formidable opponent. No one crossed him; not even the Tyr'agar spoke against him. Cortano made it easy. He was not a man who desired power in its own right; not a man who desired a dynasty and the place such a bloodline would give him in history. He had serafs, but they did not speak; he had no concubines.
The Radann thought he was touched by the Lord of Night; they watched him like circling hawks. But although their accusations held a profound truth, they saw nothing.
Because the Widan Cortano was the first Widan in more than a hundred years who had the power of sword-flight: He could vanish from a place and appear a hundred-a thousand-miles away, with no one the wiser for it.
What does the Court offer you? It was a question that both he and Alesso had asked themselves- and each other-time and again. No easy answer came; in fact, no answer at all.
”I will carry word,” Sendari said, ”to the General Alesso di'Marente. Is that all?”
”No. I have carefully considered your report, and I believe that I know what the source of the power within the Radann temple is. I will have it removed today.”
Sendari's nod was cool. ”You... breached the barrier?”
Cortano smiled. He did not answer, and the lack of answer was not lost upon the younger man.
”One more thing.”
Sendari stifled his anger, muting his expression, forcing it into neutrality.
”If your daughter sings that lay again, I will be forced to kill her.”
The Serra Teresa regarded her brother in the silence of the early morn. The sun had not yet
reached full height, and at the Pavilion of the Dawn, the serafs and attendants struggled with cus.h.i.+ons, with instruments, with goblets of sweet water. They made little noise in the sweet coolness of the morning breeze as it swept in across the waters of the Tor, yet their steps seemed light and easy under the glare of the Lord's notice.
Because the Serra Diora di'Marano filled the valley with the beguilement of her voice. She had sung for two hours, the songs sweetly chosen paeans to a young girl's love.