"But she thought you would be safe. And you will be. But it is not-it is not what she desired. You know that Alana has always worried."

Illia brought combs, jade combs, of a green that was almost blue it was so dark and deep. She wound them round with flowers, small white blossoms that had been carefully preserved in the waters of the Tor Leonne for just this purpose. She found a small footstool, and gained its squat height. There, she caught the long, fine strands of Diora's shining hair and began to bind them.

And Diora di'Marano turned her face to pale screens that hid from sight the waning of the day. For on this day, no sunlight was to touch her skin. She was to be given, unglimpsed, in all her finery, to the clan Leonne and the kai Leonne in the time between the Lord's dominion and the Lady's. For that was the time of men, and of the meeting of man and woman. They brought rings for her hands, more gold, the shimmer of opal on bracelet, the twine of worked metal in links wide as her delicate wrists.

She bowed her head, lifted her arms, spread her fingers, striving now to regain the calm and the poise for which she was known.

Wondering, as she did, where Ona Teresa was, and if she would see her at all before she was taken forever from the heart of Widan Sendari di'Marano's harem.

Dusk came quickly, a fall of stately hue across the horizon. The concubines of Sendari di'Marano had become quiet with that peculiar anxiety a mother shows for her children; only the Serra Fiona was graceful and perfect as befit her rank. She had, with the inattentive consent of her husband, procured a sari of such quality that she hoped in some way to stand out among the gathered clansmen, once they had had their fill of the so-called Flower of the Dominion.

But even she had to stare in a wonder so spontaneous it was, for a moment, devoid of envy, as the doors slid to either side of the great room, and the Serra Diora di'Marano stepped at last into the open air, Sendari's concubines carrying her train. Her head was bowed, and in the light of the dying day, the pearls seemed flat and unremarkable, nestled as they were within the sheen of her black, black hair; she was delicate, graceful-in all things, the embodiment of her t.i.tle.

Awe gave way to movement; the Serra Fiona di'Marano was meant to accompany her husband, and he had stepped forward, reluctant and heavy, as if the years he had lived had somehow doubled at the sight of his daughter. He did not glance at his wife or his concubines; he did not so much as acknowledge the men with which his daughter was surrounded. They stepped to either side of her to allow him pa.s.sage, and closed once he was within their circle. They were Adano's Toran, and Adano, one of the five Tor'agar who served the Tyr'agnate Mareo di'Lamberto, could be seen down the slope of the hill, waiting, his clan's crest a brilliant splash of color on a high pole.

"Sendari," Fiona said, as gently and reverently as she possibly could. "It is time." But her voice was laced with the first display of anxiety; there would be no palanquins and no horses for this walk, and the clan Leonne waited.

Ill-omened, to start the ceremonies too close to the Lady's time, or too close to the Lord's. But if they did not hurry, they would suffer those omens, and the clan Leonne was unlikely to be gracious.

He stepped toward his daughter and away from his wife, wondering for just a moment why he had chosen Fiona, she chattered so. He was awed, as Fiona was; as awed as the Toran that his kai had personally selected for his daughter's protection. But his awe was not a man's awe; not a woman's awe; it was the terrible wonder of a parent who sees, truly that his flesh and blood is not his flesh and blood any longer, but a thing separate, a thing unknown, a thing lost.

Na'dio, he wanted to say, but he opened his mouth upon a different word, two words. "Serra Diora."

Did she flinch? Did she stiffen? He could not be certain, and he realized it was because, indeed, the sun had fallen.

"Widan Sendari," she replied, waiting.

"I would be honored if you would allow me to escort you." He did not, could not, speak the words that he felt; there were no words for that.

But she seemed to hear them anyway, as she so often did, his perceptive, his beautiful daughter.

"Father," she said, softly, so that even the Toran would have had to strain to catch her words, "I would never choose another."

They began to walk. He felt a perverse pride when he saw the pale face of his oldest concubine and realized that she held her tears at bay. She had become, on occasion, an embarra.s.sment, and the Serra Fiona had pet.i.tioned him, twice, for her removal. He resisted her, for the moment, and he thought that he would continue to do so. Because Alana understood what Na'dio was to him; she was almost that to Alana. They were, in this, of a mind.

He heard the waters before he saw them; they walked a path that revealed the lake only at the last moment. The Tyr'agar had chosen the dwelling for that reason: it would shield his kai's chosen bride from the prying eyes of lesser clansmen until she reached the platform of the lake. Then, and only then, would they see what he gifted his son with.

What Sendari gifted the kai Leonne, however reluctantly, with. The Flower of the Dominion.

There was a hush in the air, an expectancy. The night was coming. Had night ever fallen so quickly? He wondered, unwilling to hurry his step. Unwilling, at the same time, to slow himself, for fear that she would pay the price of an ill-aspected union. And angry at himself for the suspicion. He was Widan, not common clansman. He knew better.

"Father?"

He had stopped, at the bend, the water yards away- and the clan Leonne. The smile that he offered her would have to do, and in the lowering light, he thought it might.

But she answered it by reaching up, quietly, and pa.s.sing her arms round his shoulders. Pressing her head, with its awkward combs and pearls and jutting pins, into the center of his chest, as if to catch the sound of his heart. As if to bring herself as close to it as she could one last time.

He held her, moving quickly, catching her a moment in his arms. She raised her lips to his cheek, touched his wizened skin. Of their own volition, his arms fell away. He heard the good-bye that she had not spoken; was stunned by it.

In the terrible fog of the dusk, he let her go, as if he were not Sendari, but rather a man who observed him with a distant contempt.

Alana pa.s.sed him, and Illana, carrying the train that trailed, like white shadow, above the greenery. He felt Fiona's hand at the crook of his arm, a gentle, un.o.btrusive pressure. He almost slapped her, but mastered the anger at her unwanted interference.

Because, of course, she was right. He followed, quickly, the Toran forming up on either side now, two walls, and not an unbroken circle. He saw his daughter's glorious robed back disappear around the bend, and then he heard it: the intake of thousands of breaths, the awed hush of a crowd.

He ran, then, quickly; came in time to see that even Ser Illara and the Tyr'agar themselves were dumbstruck by his daughter. The kai Leonne took a dangerous step forward.

The Radann kai el'Sol moved more quickly. "Not yet, Ser Illara," Fredero kai el'Sol said, his voice soft and yet completely implacable. "For she is the Flower of the Dominion, and you will not wrong her in front of the entire Dominion by acting as husband when the ceremonies have not been observed."

The kai Leonne's frown was a momentary thing; a shadow cast by a cloud pa.s.sing quickly above in a strong gale. His hand fell to the side as he nodded his a.s.sent, but his eyes did not waver.

Those eyes-that expression. Sendari reminded himself that he was Widan; that this was the way of men and women. But he had never seen his daughter-could not see her-as Ser Illara did, as an object of desire, as a physical possession.

"Be steady, Sendari." Teresa's voice. Teresa's disembodied voice. A welcome interruption, which said much.

At least, he thought, I have the courage to face this. Where are you, o perfect sister? He straightened himself, found his pride, and wrapped himself tightly in it. He would not waver again. The deed had already been done when he had given his a.s.sent to this union. Acceptance came. Late, but it came.

He walked quietly past Alana and Illana and found himself at Diora's side. There, he caught her ringed hand in a firm grip, lifted it, and said, "Radann kai el'Sol, I present to you the Serra Diora di'Marano."

The Radann kai el'Sol bowed gravely; the sun and the lit fires that surrounded the platform in blown gla.s.s globes caught the light of the hilt of his sword, Balagar, as he did. The sword, pa.s.sed from kai el'Sol to kai el'Sol since the choosing of Leonne by the Lord of the Sun, was a thing of legend-a reminder that in the world of men, legends still walked.

Turning slightly, Sendari saw that the Tyr'agar was also girded round with a sword, and he knew, as he saw the intricate, ancient sheath, that the haven of the Sun Sword was empty this eve.

This symbol was the symbol of Leonne power, this and the lake, water and fire. The crown was a bauble, an afterthought. To own the lake was a simple affair. But to own the Sword? To own the Sword, one must be Leonne. Or so legend said, but it was a well-preserved legend, and Sendari knew that fully three quarters of the clansmen believed it to be true.

As he pa.s.sed the hand of his daughter into the hand of the Radann kai el'Sol, a curious emptiness filled him, and because it filled him, he did not recognize it immediately for what it was. He watched, as rapt as the clansmen that surrounded the platform and the lake itself, as the Radann kai el'Sol speckled Diora's perfect forehead with droplets of the water of the lake; as he brushed her eyelids with the kiss of life. He could not hear what the kai el'Sol said; nor could he hear what the Serra Diora di'Marano replied.

But whatever it was, it was enough; the Radann kai el'Sol reached out for the sword hand of the kai Leonne, and he stood a moment, bearing the right and the left hand, the man's and the woman's, while he watched the last rays of the sun color the lake and the sky with a glory that its height could not achieve.

CHAPTER NINE.

Touching the Radann kai el'Sol felt completely natural, like touching an uncle, or one of the Marano Toran who could, with honor, offer her aid when entering or leaving her palanquin. Her hand could rest in his, could stay there in safety, with no stain of dishonor, no risk of insult. Her fingers, thin and white and ringed, closed around his palm like a delicate trap, the instinct, the need for familiarity, tightening them almost before she realized that she had made her first mistake.

The blush rose in her cheeks; she lowered her head prettily to hide her momentary shame. She was Diora di'Marano, and she was the pride of the moment; she could not-would not-in front of so many of her clan's rivals be anything less than perfect. It was a little thing, of course, this clutching, this momentary blind desire for things safe and known-but he would understand what it meant, and she would.

He waited while she composed herself, and when she lifted her face to meet his eyes, his expression was distant, respectful-in all things proper. Yet he waited that extra moment before he began, and she thought, although it might be years before she was certain, that his hand tightened just a fraction as it held and covered her own.

And then, holding her hand, holding the hand of the Ser Mara kai di'Leonne, he stepped back between them, and thence behind, drawing them toward each other and placing the hands that he held-and the hand that held his--together.

Touching the Radann kai el'Sol was like touching the warmth of the G.o.d he served.

Touching Ser Illara kai di'Leonne was like touching the heat. For the second time in less than an hour, she startled, shying ever so slightly. Where the Radann's hand had been firm, the kai's was tight.

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 fashion, 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 shiver 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."