Diora was certain, then, that the shadows were bruises; no woman could be so unpleasantly outspoken and escape them. She was surprised that the Ser Illara kept such a wife as this, although she was lovely in her fashion, and intense as the high sun or the desert storm.

"I am Deirdre en'Leonne," the last of the kai Leonne's wives said, "and when the rains come, I will bear our husband's first child." She knelt, awkward and yet oddly graceful, the rounded swell of the child she carried within evident beneath the fine, cool silks. "Welcome to the harem of Ser Illara.

"Tell us, Serra Diora, what you expect of us." The Serra Diora nodded almost regally, and then said, "I would trade information with you, Deirdre en'Leonne."

"With me?"

"Yes. I will tell you what I expect-and what I hope for-in my sister-wives, and you will tell me what he hopes for, and expects, from me."

Deirdre turned-they all turned-to the placid and tranquil face of the eldest wife. Serena en'Leonne earned her name; her expression deepened without darkening. "I think," she told the wives quietly, "that you might be about your business for the eve. Deirdre, you've outpaced sleep for far too long given the precious burden you carry. Ruatha, tend her, and then yourself; it is likely that Ser Illara will have dignitaries he wishes to keep happy before dawn."

"It's almost dawn now," Diora heard herself say.

"Ah. You are right, Serra. Deirdre, we will trust you to put yourself to sleep. Ruatha?"

Ruatha was tight-faced and pinched, but she nodded and melted into the screens and the shadows the lamps left.

"Samanta, I think you should send Tianno with Deirdre. You are still a jewel in Ser Illara's harem, and I believe that your setting, this night, is in the garden."

She should have taken control; she felt it slipping from between her hands as Serena spoke. But she found that she did not want it enough to fight for it. If she could fight this gracious, this older woman at all. The thinnest edge of fear sharpened her words; Diora thought it might cut deeply if examined too closely. She did not.

"And what of me?" she asked, her voice as light as she dared make it.

"You, my dear, I would be honored to have join me. Come, share the waters of the Tor with an old woman who will be of little interest to those that your husband will bring." She rose then, leaving cushions and silks in her wake; Diora saw a flash of their color as the lamplight reflected the sheen of near-perfect weave. "Serra Diora?" Serena said, extending a hand.

Diora reached out hesitantly, and then brought her palm to the older woman's and twined fingers with her, as if she were a child. As if Serena were the sharp-tongued Alana.

Don't compare, she told herself sharply, as she allowed herself to be led toward a low table in the corner of this grand, domed room. These women are themselves, they cannot be the harem ofSendari di'Marano. If you're to be happy at all, you'll judge them by their own standards.

But she longed for the familiar.

The Serra Diora di'Marano felt something that she rarely felt. Fear. She knew her hand trembled as it rested within the protective custody of Serena en'Leonne's- and she hated it, but she could not make it stop.

"You are safe enough from his guests, Serra. And you are so well presented, so well garbed, that I cannot give you advice or help there. I have truly never seen a bride so perfect grace the Tor, and I have seen many."

"Thank you, Serra-Serena. But there are very few such weddings in the Tor Leonne."

"Tyrian weddings? No, you are right. There are few. I make my comparison rather with the Lord's Consort. And there is a Lord's Consort yearly, at each Festival of the Sun." She smiled, and the lines at the corners of her eyes became evident. "The Lord's Consort is gifted with a sari nearly as fine as this, and she sits upon the platform of the Sun, tended to and protected by no lesser guards than the Radann themselves.

"She is said to be the Lady's subst.i.tute, for the Lady is ultimately too wise to forsake her Dominion to be honored in such a fashion at the height of the Lord's power. He is compelling, and he is attractive, and he is necessary-but he is in all aspects a man, and she knows that she alone, of all of us, is given the choice. She will not put herself into a man's power, no matter the honor offered.

"But that is what is said. What is done is simply this: A woman is chosen, for her beauty and her grace, and given the seat of honor in the Lord's name for the Festival's duration.

"You will see this yourself, if you've not seen it yet, for you've joined the clan Leonne, and the Festival of the Sun is the Leonne festival.

"But you have been chosen as the bride of the kai Leonne; you will never be chosen as the Lord's Consort. Illara would never allow it."

"And tonight, Serena, I will be Ser Illara's Serra."

"Yes, I think so." Gray eyes were steady and unblinking a moment as the older woman met the younger woman's eyes and held them for the second time that eve. "You are younger than I thought you would be," she finally said. "But one is young at one time in a life or another. Come. Take the waters with me, Serra Diora.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the day after, we might speak at leisure about your husband."

Was there disapproval in her words? It was hard to tell, and Diora knew how to listen. Quiet, she took the cup that Serena en'Leonne offered, thinking that it was very hard not to call this woman Serra. Knowing what Ona Teresa would say of that.

He came to the harem after dawn's first light. Serena wisely refused to let the wives sleep until their husband returned to the fold, for only when he finally returned would they know what their duties were to be. Wine, she said, in a tone that implied that this was a well-traveled discourse, flowed freely on occasions of this magnitude, and the clansmen were affected by it according to the Lady's whim.

The Lady's whim in the Lord's time could be dangerous; Diora was reminded of this when the screens ground open and Ser Illara strode in.

He brought with him four men; she did not recognize their faces immediately, although one of the four men wore the sun rising with eight distinct rays-the emblem of the Tyr'agnati or their kai.

"Ah, my lovely new wife," Ser Illara said, the words running together almost indistinctly.

She should have tensed, but tension seemed beyond her, and instead, she bowed gracefully, perfectly, groundward.

"The jewel of my harem. The Serra of the kai Leonne." He stepped forward, casting a long shadow in the light of fixed lamps on the wall.

The serafs, unbidden, opened the eastern doors, and the light of the growing day entered the room, a more welcome stranger than these. Diora looked carefully to Serena; Serena was likewise bowed to the ground, her hair carefully arranged in a spill over concealed shoulders.

"Well, wife, have you nothing at all to say to your husband?"

She rose, but not quickly enough for his liking; his hand caught her hair, fingers burrowing into combed and pinned strands as if they were dirt and rock, and she a scalable edifice. She offered no resistance; indeed, she felt no desire to resist. It frightened her, or it started to; she could not hold onto the fear itself; it was elusive.

But she thought, and oddly, It is good that Deirdre has left us. "Samanta!"

"Kai Leonne," Serena said, lifting her face from the mat and unbending slightly. "Samanta en'Leonne awaits the pleasure of your guests by the Dawn Pavilion in the garden."

"Oh. Good." He turned, overbalanced because of Diora's weight, and righted himself without quite tumbling. "Callesta-she's yours, if you want her." He turned back to Diora, drew her to her feet ungently, and pressed his lips against hers, baring his teeth beneath them. It hurt.

He laughed; she heard the wine speaking with his voice, and waited, thinking, knowing that there would be more. There was. He caught her hair again, turning her face to the day, to the Lord's light-exposing it for his guests to see. "You wanted her," he said, to one in particular.

The man who wore the eight-rayed sun. She thought for a moment that he would hand her to the Tyr'agnate; she raised a hand-the first gesture that she had made at all since he'd pulled her to her feet. Fluttering, the hand fell at once to her side; she held it both stiffly and carefully, as if it were a trapped b.u.t.terfly.

Wondering, as she did, what was wrong with her. There was a thickness to her tongue, a slowness to her movements, a lack of focus, a lack of awareness, that the Serra Diora did not suffer. Poison? For a moment, her heart beat the more quickly-but it was only a moment. A calm was upon her, a distance, that she could not breach.

"I don't think," the Ser Illara said mockingly, "that she wants you, Eduardo." He laughed. It was not a kind laugh. "Of course, if I wanted it, she would accept you and be done.

"But then we'd never know, would we, whether the child she'd get would be mine or yours-so I rather fear that you will have to accept your loss, in this. "But here: A small taste."

Before she could move-before she could even begin to realize what he was about to do-he caught the wound cloth of her silk sari and pulled it, hard, burning the side of her neck and her shoulder with its speed as he tore it from her and held her by the hair.

As if she were a horse, and he wanted to show a man her teeth. She flushed; she could not help it. But more than that she would not do. Humiliation, after all, was a thing done by two. It required a victim, and she was a Serra with dignity greater than this.

But not much greater, if she were truthful. Not in front of him, she thought. Please. For she knew who he was. Eduardo. Eduardo di'Gar-rardi, the Tyr' agnate of Oerta. Her husband pulled her head back, forcing her to arch her back to retain her footing. She knew-what young girl did not -what this would do to the shape of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s; what it would reveal to the witnesses. His hand ran across her nipples, a deliberate provocation of a man that Diora could no longer see, and a proof of ownership.

"It would not shame her, to accept my attention," the Tyr'agnate said coldly. Diora could hear the heated anger in his voice, the danger, the threat-and yes, the desire. "I am Tyr'agnate, and you are kai-a man who, in theory, will rule."

Silence, then. A long stretch, a bitter one. "I am the kai Leonne," Ser Illara said at last. "Heir to the Dominion, not the least of its Terreans. No kai Leonne since the founding has not taken the Tor, although the ruling clans of the Terreans have come and gone like a weak political ally. It would shame her and it would shame me," his tone made clear which of the two was the greater crime, "and this is all of her that you will have. I see that it's not enough-but perhaps you'd like to spend time with a concubine as you will never have the Serra. Close your eyes, Tyr'agnate, and pretend."

He pulled her up, by the hair; pins finally tumbled and darkness fell around her shoulders and her exposed flesh, lending her modesty that he did not wish. And then he kissed her again and pulled her away to his personal chambers, the sun shortening the shadows cast against the finely brushed cloth of the mats, his gait making of him a graceless, lumbering creature.

j-*, *

"You handled that well," Serena said, as she rubbed oils and salves into the reddened skin of the Serra Diora's throat and shoulder. "The night of such an event is often difficult. Ser Illara is not a bad husband," she continued, as she paused to moisten her hands, "but when he drinks, he is greatly diminished. Do not judge him harshly."

"I am his wife," Diora said, into the cushion that separated her upper body from the mats below it. "I will not judge." She started to roll over, but Serena held her firmly in place.

"Not yet, Diora. I am not yet done."

"I don't remember," the younger woman said softly, as if Serena had not spoken. "This bruise, and that-I don't remember the getting of either."

"And you wish to? You are brave, Diora, or foolish. Treat it as the Lady's mercy."

"But this was done in daylight."

"Yes, during the Lord's time. It is not always so. The Festival of the Sun will have this effect upon your husband as well, although as he grows older, he may gentle." Her tone made it clear that she thought it unlikely. "Did you do this, Serena? Did you cause this?"

"Cause?"

"I felt... heavy. Unable to move. I didn't even want to avoid him."

"He is not a husband who likes struggle, although there are those who do." Serena rose. "Serena? The question?"

"There, young Serra. The rawness will vanish in a day or two; I suggest that you remain within the harem until it does. They paid a high price for you, the Serra Amanita and the Tyr'agar, and although Ser Illara can, of course, do with you as he wishes, they will not be pleased at any obvious abuse.

At the mention of the Tyr'agar, Diora stiffened. But she did not ask Serena the question that hovered just behind her lips. Could not ask it. "W-where are you going?"

"I?" The oldest woman in the harem paled. "I am going to see Ruatha en'Leonne. She... entertained the Tyr'ag-nate, and I fear that he was less considerate than your husband in his use."

"Can I help?"

"An odd question, but a well-meant one. Ruatha is the most difficult of Ser lllara's wives; I believe that the Serra Amanita would be happy to see her removed. But if she is a not a good wife, she is a good sister-wife. She is not like you or I, Serra Diora; she hopes, she dreams, of one day being treated as if she were once again a much-loved daughter, and not the property of a clansman.

"I am not certain that she will be happy to see you."

"She won't be."

"She might. Come, if you still desire it, and tend Ruatha en'Leonne with me."

To her surprise, she did desire it, and not until they stood outside the small chamber that Ruatha now occupied did she realize that Serena had not answered her question.

General Alesso di'Marente sat beneath the shadowed eaves of a sun shelter built by the Widan for the Widan; it was made of stone, but curiously smooth and cool, even at the height of day. There were four posts that supported the peaked roof, and upon each post, in relief, were symbols that he did not recognize, although he was learned enough to think them elemental in nature.

He was not a patient man; by dint of will, he had learned to wait, and if he was not gracious, there were few enough to witness the lack. It was not, after all, for the Tyr that he waited; he did not need that level of composure.

No, it was for a man who had made an offer a few short days past that would, if accepted, decide his fate. Would, if successful, mean that he would never have to wait, in the sight of the Lord, for another living man should he so choose. And for freedom of that nature, he was willing to suborn his impatience. The shadows lengthened; the sun had reached its zenith and now sought the comfort of the Western plateau.

Still, he waited. The Tyr'agar and the clan Leonne had retired into the inner sanctum to recover from the previous day's ceremony-a gaudy, drunken affair with, in Alesso's opinion, just enough excess to please the boys who had yet to take their ranks, but not so much that those selfsame boys would have to be censured for the damage they caused. A delicate balance, and one of the few that Markaso di'Leonne was good at striking.

One of the very few.

A seraf came to offer him water or wine. He accepted, politely, setting the goblet to one side while the heat of the day caused beads of water to gather on the face of the polished silver. Something bothered him, and when the seraf returned carrying fruits and moist breads, he realized what it was: for a seraf, the man's movements were ungainly, even awkward. The deference was there, but it was there in all the wrong ways.

"You," he said, the amiability of a long wait gathering around his words before he spoke, "who is your master?" The man frowned, a quick expression that fell away from his face so smoothly it was clear that he was used to dealing with ill-tempered men. "My master," the man said, "is Cortano."

"And you are a seraf?"

"No." Bending, the man placed the tray he carried beneath the sun shelter's proffered shade. "No more than you."

"Are you Widan?"

"Widan-Designate," he replied, speaking cleanly and clearly and without resentment. "And in four years, should my master so choose, I will have learned enough to be offered a place upon the path that leads to the test of the Sword."

"I see. He must trust you."

"Must he?" The man bowed. "I defer to your superior understanding of politics, General Alesso. For myself, I a.s.sume that he understands that my fate is tied to his success, and that I, as Widan-Designate, will respond accordingly.

"If you have any further needs, I will tend them as I am able. The Widan Cortano extends his apologies; he bid me tell you, if you inquired, that he is waiting for an important a.s.sociate, without whom your meeting is destined to be fruitless."

"I see." He took a breath. "He is aware that I have been waiting for almost half this day?"

"Indeed. As has he."

"Very well. Tell your master that I will continue to wait."

The man bowed, as if the reply had never been at question. But the sun's shadows were long indeed before that wait was rewarded, and as the inches grew, so also did Alesso's determination that the results of the meeting be worthy of the increasingly humiliating wait. The Lord did not favor those who waited, like serafs, upon the will of another.

But the Lord did not countenance men of no ambition, or men whose gross desires overmastered their ability to plan well. Caught, as he often was, in a dance along the edge of the Lord's unspoken commandment to warriors who followed his ways, Alesso drank the sweet water left in the goblet beside him.

To his great surprise, he found that he was drinking from the waters of the Tor itself. He laughed; Cortano's serafs-or perhaps his students-were bold indeed, or foolish; not even Cortano was, by Leonne law, allowed this liberty.

Refreshed, amused, he kept his vigil.

And it was rewarded.

Cortano di'Alexes appeared, from the depths of the darkness beneath the haven, as the last of the light fled the garden and the evening sky's pink gave way to a blue that would deepen into blackness punctuated by stars. At his side, robed like one of the less affluent Widan, a tall figure walked.

One sweeping glance around the garden told him that the Widan-Designate had vanished; there was no moving life that was not smaller than his hand. His hand touched his sword and wavered there a moment before firmly gripping the hilt; he did not know why, but he felt the presence of a physical danger, a sudden threat.

Cortano di'Alexes nodded at his minimal gesture. "I believe," he said to his companion, "that I have won this wager."

His companion nodded. Reaching up, he pulled back the cowl of his robe to reveal a face that was as pale as that of a Serra born to harem and never ungentled by the touch of the Lord. But a Serra's face could never be so unpleasingly edged, so harsh in feature, so shadowed in look. And a Serra's hair could never be so utterly, completely black.

"General," this stranger said, as Alesso's grip upon his sword tightened further, whitening his knuckles until he could see the bone beneath the skin.

"Alesso," the Sword's Edge said, still well-pleased, "May 1 introduce Lord Isladar?"

"Lord?"