The Sun's weight was heavy, this day, and the Radann kai el'Sol did not know why. But he felt it was inauspicious, this chill within on a day so clear and so full of promise.

Where was Jevri?

As if the impatient words were spoken aloud, an old man came briskly into view, followed by a half-dozen young servitors, each of whom carefully handled the hem of a long train. They were obviously ill at ease, these men; they were sworn to the Lord's service, and the Lord's service- in their mute, but nonetheless obvious opinion-had nothing to do with the carrying of exquisite garments. Serra's garments, of course.

They were far too wise to state their opinions, although not one of them was terribly good at acting. Fredero rarely chose his servitors for their ability to dissemble.

"It's about time," he said testily.

The oldest of the men-by at least three decades- managed to turn a bow of respect into a shrug. "It is timely," he replied. "We have not yet seen to its fitting, however."

"Servitor, need I remind you-"

"Only if it will put you at ease. Among the six of us, we've already heard it so often we've lost the desire to learn how to count."

Four of the five young men looked shocked, but they kept their eyes firmly upon the silk that they carried-a misstep might stain it, or cause it to tear, and that would be worth, if not their lives, their positions at the least. Besides which, while they revered the kai el'Sol as the Lord's Sword, they knew that his relationship with Jevri el'Sol was almost a familial one.

Not familial, of course; no man could pet.i.tion the Radann for entry without first disavowing all ties of blood. Fredero kai el'Sol had been known, in his youth, as Ser Fredero par di'Lamberto- brother to the man who ruled the Terrean of Mancorvo. The Lambertans were known, across the Dominion, for their honor; the Lord was willing to accept his service before he'd observed his first rites.

Jevri, it was said, had journeyed with him. No one asked the cantankerous older man if such rumors were true; at best, he'd box their ears a time or two for neglecting the Lord's work to satisfy their idle curiosity.

Jevri was like a fond uncle in the lowest ranks of a great clan-linked by blood and name, but not by circ.u.mstance, to the seat of power. The kai el'Sol was its forbidding patriarch.

But every patriarch came from someone's harem, at one time or another. And what ties there were between Jevri and the kai el'Sol were ties that the two men understood well-and that no other men sought to interfere with.

"Does it meet with your approval?" This, the only genuine question that the old man had yet asked.

The Radann Fredero kai el'Sol walked quietly around the garment, squinting as a touch of wind caught silk and turned crystal into unexpected light. He knew that, as a dress destined for the Serra known throughout the Terrean as the Flower of the Dominion, it had to be perfect. And he knew, as well, that no man upon the Lord's earth could create such perfection if it were not Jevri.

"Yes," he said softly. "And Jevri?"

"What?"

"The Tyr'agnate Mareo kai di'Lamberto will be present, with his Serra. And the Serra Carlatta

di'Lamberto will attend as well. She has always loved the glitter of ceremonies such as these."

Jevri showed a rare smile then, one that Fredero echoed although he knew it was a vanity.

In another life, another time, the Serra Carlatta di'Lamberto had been his mother. He knew no

family now, but the Lord-yet he retained an affection for the past that had started him upon his exalted road.

Exalted?

He smiled wryly as he waved the men, with their garment, out of the open courtyard. Wondering, curious as all men must be, about a woman known to all as the Flower of the Dominion, but seen in the end by very, very few.

The Flower of the Dominion sat in the shade and the shadows of the Pavilion of Restful Repose. The samisen lay, strings still, in her lap; she was silent, as if the playing alone had given her voice.

"Na'dio," the Serra beside her said, and the young woman bestirred herself. "Tell me.""It is... nothing, Ona Teresa.""Nothing? Then come, play for me. In three short days,I will no longer have the pleasure either of your company or of your voice."And her company was her voice; they both knew it. They were hidden, these two, in ways that even the most carefully graceful, the most exquisitely mannered, of Serras were not, for they

shared this mutual gift and curse: that their voices, when brought to bear, could sway men of action momentarily to their will.

Shade kept the sun from the silks that they wore; shadow made of the Serra Diora's hair a midnight darkness, a black that seemed almost blue. For three more days, she would wear maiden's hair, long tresses unadorned by complicated combs and adult adornments.

Three days. Less.

The sun had already begun its long descent.

The Serra Diora di'Marano began to strum the strings of the samisen, but she did not sing, and the music itself became a natural sound, a thing that melted into the background, rather than drawing one's attention.

"Na'dio?"

Her aunt was almost never this insistent; she traced the strings with the tips of fingers slightly hardened to their use, and then stilled them, unwilling to speak, or afraid to. Because to her father, her much loved father, she could offer a lie that would calm nerves and ease fear; to her aunt, she could not. For Ona Teresa heard everything that lay hidden beneath her words-just as she heard, in her aunt's voice, the same. They were vulnerable to each other, and the Serra Diora did not wish her aunt to know how much she worried.

How much she did not want this marriage, this union that the Serra Teresa di'Marano, by dint of will and subtle politicking, had brought to be.

Diora knew that the Serra Teresa's life had been blunted by her own desire for a harem, if not a husband, for a life with sister-wives of her choosing, children of her birthing, a world of her making.

Diora did not desire these things, and did not understand how a woman with her aunt's subtle mystery and power could. She loved the harem of her childhood greatly, although she had never truly warmed to her father's chosen wife, and all of those women-every one-would be taken from her by a man that she had met the requisite two times: Once during the Lord's dominion, and once during the Lady's.

There had been no touching, of course; there were far too many outsiders for that. But the Ser Illara kai di'Leonne-the kai, the heir to the Dominion-had found her comely enough, and by his nod, and the nod of the Tyr'agar, she knew.that she was very close to being betrothed. In the Lord's sight, she had played her harp, and in the Lord's hearing, she had given voice to her song, speaking not of a woman's charm, or a woman's love, but of a great warrior's deeds: Leonne the Founder. It was untraditional. It was unfeminine. Unbecoming a meeting of a young woman and a young man who might, if the young man's clan granted approval, marry.

She had thought, perhaps, that that might be the end of it, but no-the Tyr'agar, or perhaps his son, had proved insistent.

Meeting during the Lady's dominion had been a muted affair, although the ceremonies surrounding it had been more precise. She could recall, clearly, the Tyran with which the kai Leonne had been surrounded; she herself had been guarded by the Tor'agar Adano kai di'Marano - her uncle-and her father, Widan Sendari par di'Marano. Her aunt had taken the palanquin at her side, and Serra Fiona had been chosen as her father's companion.

Although her father's words were gracious, perfect greetings, they were not friendly, she could hear, beneath their rare musicality, reluctance, anger, worry. Perhaps, just perhaps...

But the Serra Diora was her father's daughter in almost all things; she was no fool. The Tyr'agar's offer was no offer, and to refuse it-she forced herself to sound pleased with the union whenever her father could hear her speak.

And because she was young, she believed that she had fooled him completely. She had no desire to destroy his clan, or to be the cause of his clan's destruction; she was fond of Ono Adano in her own way, although she detested his son.

"Na'dio."

The Serra Diora di'Marano lifted her head and let the strings lie. In truth, the samisen was a mournful instrument, and she greatly desired the Northern harp; it was the companion of her youth, and her youthful lessons.

Of the many lessons she had learned, this was first: to speak without being heard; to pitch words so that they traveled to one listener, and one alone, no matter who else might strive to catch them. "I do not wish to be like Fiona."

The Serra Teresa was too well-mannered a woman to show her derision. Her smile was gentle and graceful. "You will never be like the Serra Fiona."

"He has his harem," Diora continued quietly. "And his concubines. I did not choose them. I do not know them. They don't know me. How will they feel, when I come to the heart of their dominion, to rule?"

"They will feel," she said, "as Alana did when Alora, your mother, first arrived."

"And that?"

The lips of the older woman turned up in a rueful smile. "They will resent you, and fear you, depending on the strength of their security in their husband's affections." The smile dimmed. "This husband will not be a mere par to a Tor'agar; he will be the Tyr'agar, when his time comes, and with the Lord's blessing.

"Truth, Diora?" The older woman paused a moment, staring into the glimmering light that could be seen through the windblown leaves from their place upon the Pavilion of Restful Repose. Diora could almost taste her hesitation-and she knew that she would not like what she heard, for Ona Teresa rarely called her Diora, and only when her mood was heavy or grim. "Very well. I will give you truth.

"For the concubines of a Tyr'agar, life is more... difficult. The Leonne blood runs in the veins of all those who are born to the husband-to your husband-and the blood itself is legitimate, whether it is recognized as such, be the children born of concubines or no. Leonne has ruled these lands for hundreds of years-but the crown has not always been pa.s.sed from Tyr'agar to kai in a straight line. There have been factions. There have been internal revolts.

"In fully one third of all cases, when the kai Leonne becomes the Tyr'agar, he has his male half brothers executed. It is not done lightly, but it is also not done by a man who is secure in his power.

"The current Tyr'agar has lost one war, and that, badly; he has lost lands, and respect, and he is... ill-loved. His son, Ser Illara, is young, and perhaps he will remove the shadow under which his father has placed his clan by his failure. But perhaps not. It is likely, in my opinion, that he will have his brothers killed in one way or another by the time he takes the Tor Leonne."

Diora said nothing although she made her own vow: not to meet these brothers if her aunt was correct. Not to like them.

"It is quite likely that you will be feared and hated in your turn-because yours sons will displace their sons, and perhaps, in the end, murder them."

"I'd not-" "And if that is what it takes for your sons to survive, you will see it done. Trust me, Diora, Na'dio -there is no connection so strong as that of blood to blood, and of the blood connections, none so strong as that of a mother who protects her children."

"And they would not kill me?"

"They would not dare. You are the Serra. Their lives are measured by yours, once you are given the harem-or wives would too often die mysteriously. "But when my mother-"

"Hush. You know what I mean, when I speak." Diora saw her aunt's ivory hand curl a moment, as if at a spasm of pain. "And your father is not the Tyr'agar; your father is so far away from being a man of import that it didn't matter."

"It seems so-cold." Serra Teresa frowned.

"Diora," she said, the word sharper than was her wont, "you go to the harem as woman, not as child; do not expect any in the harem to treat you as anything else. You will not be a child, you will be my niece, and there is no better training than the training I have given you.

"Win them over with your gift. You know how."

But in Father's harem, I'm loved, Diora thought bitterly, through no artifact of gift or curse or will. But she did not speak it. Because she knew what Ona Teresa would say: that love was for children, and only for children. It was, of course, another lie -because the Serra Teresa di'Marano had loved the Serra Alora en'Marano as dearly, as deeply, as had her husband. Diora knew it, and knew that her father knew it as well; she did not know if Ona Teresa understood just how much of her loss she spoke with, on those rare occasions when she mentioned the Serra Alora en'Marano, dead these fifteen years.

But of course she must know it; she had trained Diora to listen, and to listen well, to the voices of the men and women that surrounded her; to understand, clearly, that those voices spoke in a far deeper and a far truer way than the words in which they were wrapped and covered. We all have weaknesses, she thought, looking at her aunt from the corner of her eye as the shadows darkened her face.

"Na'dio," her aunt said softly, the edge gone from her voice as if it had never existed at all although the sting of its cut still lingered. "The desire to be loved-it is a false desire, a madness, a weakness. If you let it, it will control your life, and it will lead you down roads, in the end, that even the d.a.m.ned don't travel." So soft, her voice. So soft and so completely certain.

The Serra Diora began to play the samisen in the wake of that terrible certainty.

st of Emperal, 426 AA The Tor Leonne The Radann kai el'Sol was not allowed to see the Flower of the Dominion; nor was Jevri, his servitor. While the kai el'Sol was disappointed, he was not surprised. The man whose genius had been brought to bear in the creation of the dress itself was beside himself with frustration and not a little annoyance.

"What do you mean, we can't see her? Who's going to do the final fittings? Who's going to take the dress in, or take it up, or alter its train, or-"

"Jevri, I have no objections to your presence. I believe the Tyr'agar himself has no objections, as she is not, technically, a member of his family until two days hence. But the girl's father and the girl's aunt have insisted that she will remain within the harem-and bound by harem conventions in the strictest sense of the word-until the day of the wedding itself."

"But he's not even a ranking clansman!"

"He's Widan," the Radann said, with just a hint of distaste. "But more, he's protective. This marriage and this match-it will make his family; I'm certain he's intelligent enough to see that for himself. He doesn't want anything... untoward occurring. She is heavily guarded now, all of the time. There are those who might-just might-consider taking inappropriate action to deflower the Flower; it would be more of a blow to the Tyr'agar and his family than a simple a.s.sa.s.sination, especially were word of it to come out after the wedding. Ser Sendari simply seeks to protect the interests of his clan, as any prudent man must."

"I don't care about his clan-the work-the time we've spent-"

Fredero laughed. "I a.s.sure you, Jevri, the dress itself is obviously a work of art. There's nothing that can be done to it that will rob it of its glory."

The Serra Diora di'Marano did not like the Tyr'agar. She did not trust him. Neither of these reactions surprised her; she rarely liked or trusted any of the clansmen. She had not expected that the man who ruled them all would be an exception, and she was not disappointed.

The mats beneath her knees were hard; she became aware of this because she had been kept kneeling for some time. To show her, she thought, her place and her value to the clan itself: beneath those who ruled, but tolerated in their presence. It was less than she had hoped for, but more than she might have been granted before the wedding. She said nothing; did nothing; was in all things pliant. When she was asked to rise, she would unfold slowly, taking care to move as gracefully as if in delicate dance; she would make her way to the foot of the platform upon which these two-the Tyr and his wife-looked down upon the waters of the Tor Leonne, there to find cushions that matched the pale color of the silks she wore, and she would wait until one or the other, the Tyr or the Serra, bid her play or sing.

Or so she told herself; by the fall of shadows in the sun's light, she had been kneeling thus for the better part of an hour, kept waiting, as if she were a seraf. Her hair, she knew, looked like child's hair in its unadorned fall. Like child's hair, or like the hair of a wife in the harem, one not suitably attired for public consumption.

That had been Teresa's choice and in truth Diora favored it-she wished to be as una.s.suming as possible in the eyes of the clan Leonne. And if the Tyr'agar Markaso kai di'Leonne, the man who by right of blood and law wielded the Sun Sword and bore the Sword's crown, was a careless man who was too used to the authority of his clan's t.i.tle, his wife, the Serra Amanita en'Leonne, was not. She was sharp as good steel, and if she was not young, she was still comely enough to merit her chair at the side of the man who ruled the Dominion.

The minutes pa.s.sed, and Diora knelt, silks protecting her from the sun's open kiss, her back turned toward the nearly flawless sky.

"Sendari, you look as if you've swallowed fire."

The Widan stiffened slightly, and then struggled to control the lines of his face, forcing them into a forbidding neutrality that well-suited his t.i.tle. He also forced himself to bow, albeit it shallowly, to the man who had spoken; rank did not demand it, but respect did, and in all things, even as his daughter below, Sendari strove to be respectful. He hated it, of course.

"Widan Cortano."

"I believe I see your greatly favored daughter. Or at least her back."

Too perceptive, the Sword's Edge. And cutting, as befit his status. There was much about him to fear-the scars upon Sendari's hands were reminder enough, if he needed it. He was not a foolish man; even before he had honed his power, expanded it, increased it, he had known that Cortano di'Alexes was a man to respect. And to fear, if it came to that.

"The Tyr'agar," Sendari said, through teeth that would not, quite, unclench, "is a busy man."

"Oh, indeed. Of course he has summoned no clansmen into his presence while the Flower of the Dominion crouches, unfurled, at his feet. I had heard that you were difficult to negotiate with. I see," the Sword's Edge added, offering a rare and unwelcome smile, "that it was truth."

They stood upon the pathway that led to the Pavilion of the Dawn; it was covered, carefully, with the natural growth of trees, but those trees provided shade for a very particular time of day-a time that had pa.s.sed with the hours. From here, it was easy enough to see the Pavilion of the Sword, the pavilion from which the Tyr'agar could view the waters of the Tor Leonne with ease and comfort. An ease and comfort that were denied-were publicly denied-the daughter of the Widan.

"Come, Sendari. He will not give the girl leave to rise while you watch."

"He doesn't know I'm watching," Sendari replied, the words a snap of irritation. His lips closed over them, but not before they escaped, and he became tight-lipped and silent.

"Of course he knows it. There isn't a spell of concealment cast in the Tor that he doesn't know about." It was Cortano's turn to smile thinly. "The Sword of Knowledge, after all, serves the Sword of G.o.d. I'm surprised at you; it took some courage to negotiate the terms that you did with the Tyr'agar. I hear you've become, among other things, one of three personal advisers."

"Indeed."

"It is not a t.i.tle I myself hold," Cortano continued softly.

"You did not choose to marry and beget a daughter who would catch his errant son's attention." The Widan cast his long gaze across the waters to see the stillness of unmoving silk before he allowed himself to be drawn away.

"I? No. I have little patience for women."

Sendari shrugged. "I have little patience for serafs and their handling. I have little patience for the details of a house. I have a wife who sees to these things while I see to my art."