scattering the
shadowed petals that lay there like a fragrant blanket.
An echo of the wind's voice, the wind's touch. So much had
been taken from them.
"I heard that Diora acquitted herself well this day."
Was there a question beneath those words, and was it sharper
than Sendari's wont? Or was it imagination, was it her own fear? "Your
daughter sang well."
"I heard that the Tyr of Oerta himself offered her a blossom
from the height of the Tor Leonne's trees."
"That," she said, the smoothness of her voice edged with a
rare severity, "was exaggeration. I hope you did not hear this from a
source you consider reliable."
"It was not garnered from any of my sources," he replied.
Silence, heavy, between them. Then, "I will take the test of the Sword
two days after the Festival, before the Lady turns her face into shadow
again. I will face the fire of the sword-sworn, and I will prove myself
equal to their power." His smile was caught by the round glass lamps
that quartered the shrine as it fell into her silence. "I have
surprised you, Serra Teresa."
"Yes," she said softly; there was no point in lying. He knew
it, and she, and there were no other witnesses to keep count.
"And angered you."
She did not answer him; her anger was his guess, and if it was
shrewd—if it was, indeed, correct—he did not have to hear it from her
lips. But she knew, then, why he waited by the Lady's shrine. It was
for her, may the wind take him.
The ring on her finger was cool; she gripped it a little too
tightly, hiding the hand in the submissive posture and hoping that he
would not notice. But he was Ser Sendari; he noticed much. Too much.
"She does not look much like her mother."
"Appearance," Serra Teresa replied, "is all guile; the Lady's
mask. What lies beneath, only time will tell."
"Serra Teresa," he said gravely, turning his face to the moon,
"you will speak freely; you do not need to wait upon my questions or my
prompting; I do not require you to hamper your speech to suit mine."
"You mean, for this evening," she said, and if there was a
trace of bitterness in the words, he did her the grace of ignoring
them. "I am, after all, only a Serra."
"You are Serra Teresa di'Marano," her brother replied coldly,
"and we both know what that means."
A threat? She met it without flinching. What did it matter,
after all? Sendari was par, not kai, the younger brother, not the
oldest one—and her life was thus not his to end. Only Adano had that
privilege, and Adano had not felt the need to travel to the Tor for the
Festival of the Moon. Once a year—for the Festival of the Sun—was
enough.
She did not reply, and at length he spoke.
"Yes," he said softly. "Even that vow, I will break." His face
was grave as he turned to her. "I have surprised you again, Serra
Teresa."
"Yes." She bowed. "What will become of Diora if you fail the
test?"
"She will go to Adano."
"Adano has daughters of his own; three—and not one of them is
a match for Diora, in either beauty or ability. And, I believe, he will
soon have two sons."
"Does it matter? I have no other issue; she has no brothers to
protect her. She will go to Adano, and he will do as he will do. If I
fail. And I do not intend to fail."
"Have you been at a testing before?"
"No." He knew that she knew the answer well enough; no one who
did not, by right of combat, wear the Sword of Knowledge, had seen the
testing. He lifted a hand. "I know how few survive, Serra Teresa."
"And you will take this risk?"
Silence.
"Under the Festival Moon," Teresa whispered, turning to face
her brother.
"No—now, Teresa."
She let the anger show then, and it was clear and cold, like
the lake of the Tor Leonne. "You gave her your word."
"Alora?" He smiled softly. "A third time, sister. A third
time, you have been caught off guard. And if I, a mere supplicant, can
surprise Serra Teresa three times in the space of an hour, can I not
surprise the addled and arrogant minds of the Wise? I will be Widan
Sendari by
shadowed petals that lay there like a fragrant blanket.
An echo of the wind's voice, the wind's touch. So much had
been taken from them.
"I heard that Diora acquitted herself well this day."
Was there a question beneath those words, and was it sharper
than Sendari's wont? Or was it imagination, was it her own fear? "Your
daughter sang well."
"I heard that the Tyr of Oerta himself offered her a blossom
from the height of the Tor Leonne's trees."
"That," she said, the smoothness of her voice edged with a
rare severity, "was exaggeration. I hope you did not hear this from a
source you consider reliable."
"It was not garnered from any of my sources," he replied.
Silence, heavy, between them. Then, "I will take the test of the Sword
two days after the Festival, before the Lady turns her face into shadow
again. I will face the fire of the sword-sworn, and I will prove myself
equal to their power." His smile was caught by the round glass lamps
that quartered the shrine as it fell into her silence. "I have
surprised you, Serra Teresa."
"Yes," she said softly; there was no point in lying. He knew
it, and she, and there were no other witnesses to keep count.
"And angered you."
She did not answer him; her anger was his guess, and if it was
shrewd—if it was, indeed, correct—he did not have to hear it from her
lips. But she knew, then, why he waited by the Lady's shrine. It was
for her, may the wind take him.
The ring on her finger was cool; she gripped it a little too
tightly, hiding the hand in the submissive posture and hoping that he
would not notice. But he was Ser Sendari; he noticed much. Too much.
"She does not look much like her mother."
"Appearance," Serra Teresa replied, "is all guile; the Lady's
mask. What lies beneath, only time will tell."
"Serra Teresa," he said gravely, turning his face to the moon,
"you will speak freely; you do not need to wait upon my questions or my
prompting; I do not require you to hamper your speech to suit mine."
"You mean, for this evening," she said, and if there was a
trace of bitterness in the words, he did her the grace of ignoring
them. "I am, after all, only a Serra."
"You are Serra Teresa di'Marano," her brother replied coldly,
"and we both know what that means."
A threat? She met it without flinching. What did it matter,
after all? Sendari was par, not kai, the younger brother, not the
oldest one—and her life was thus not his to end. Only Adano had that
privilege, and Adano had not felt the need to travel to the Tor for the
Festival of the Moon. Once a year—for the Festival of the Sun—was
enough.
She did not reply, and at length he spoke.
"Yes," he said softly. "Even that vow, I will break." His face
was grave as he turned to her. "I have surprised you again, Serra
Teresa."
"Yes." She bowed. "What will become of Diora if you fail the
test?"
"She will go to Adano."
"Adano has daughters of his own; three—and not one of them is
a match for Diora, in either beauty or ability. And, I believe, he will
soon have two sons."
"Does it matter? I have no other issue; she has no brothers to
protect her. She will go to Adano, and he will do as he will do. If I
fail. And I do not intend to fail."
"Have you been at a testing before?"
"No." He knew that she knew the answer well enough; no one who
did not, by right of combat, wear the Sword of Knowledge, had seen the
testing. He lifted a hand. "I know how few survive, Serra Teresa."
"And you will take this risk?"
Silence.
"Under the Festival Moon," Teresa whispered, turning to face
her brother.
"No—now, Teresa."
She let the anger show then, and it was clear and cold, like
the lake of the Tor Leonne. "You gave her your word."
"Alora?" He smiled softly. "A third time, sister. A third
time, you have been caught off guard. And if I, a mere supplicant, can
surprise Serra Teresa three times in the space of an hour, can I not
surprise the addled and arrogant minds of the Wise? I will be Widan
Sendari by
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