"Or children," Duarte said.

"I never wanted children," she told him, elbows on her knees. "And this is why. The only person I'm not worried about is her."

"Kiriel."

She nodded.

"Maybe the Kings will decide against the boy."

She laughed bitterly. "Duarte, you used to know how to lie to me. When did you lose it?" She lifted her face then, because she was angry and anger was safe. "You were in the Great Hall. You saw the creature. You have to know what it means."

"I used to know how to lie to you," he told her, offering her a smile that only touched the surface of his face, "because you used to want to be lied to." They turned as Auralis finished with Fiara- barely-and drew together a moment. "Do you want to retire?"

"No."

"Then live with it, Alexis. This is a soldier's life." He was harsher than he meant to be.

Because she didn't know how to let him be anything else.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

th of Lattan, 427 AA The Tor Leonne.

The silks were very fine. Although merchant travel had been much inhibited over the past two months, these bolts had been ordered by, and delivered to, no less a man than the Radann kai el'Sol. They were flawless because the penalty for flaws was so terribly high, for these silks were meant to adorn the woman chosen as the Consort of the Lord of the Sun for the duration of the Festival.

Of course, the young Serra Diora di'Marano was one of the few clanswomen who had already been gifted with a garment nearly as fine-perhaps, if he were honest, as fine-as the garment the servitors now labored over. He wondered if she would make the comparison. No doubt every other clansman in the realm-every clansman, he thought grimly, who had been allowed to make the trek for this year's Festival-would.

And it was for this reason, if no other, that he joined the laborers, ascertaining that the detail work was both expensive and perfect. This year, it had to be perfect, because she wore it.

It did not help his mood to know that in easing her in her role as Lord's Consort, he was aiding General Alesso di'Marente. A fool's thought, and he had no time for it; Alesso di'Marente would stand in the waters of the Tor Leonne, accept the Lord's blessing, and bear the crown which he, Fredero kai el'Sol, would place upon his brow.

Lord aid me, he thought, as he clenched his hands into shaking fists. I will place the crown on the head of a man who is not Leonne. He had accepted it as his duty before the name Valedan kai di'Leonne had been spoken aloud by Marakas par el'Sol; it echoed still, lingering in his ears at every quiet moment. He strove to make certain that there weren't many.

They'd thought him dead.

And why? Because the rest of the clan Leonne had perished with barely a whimper. In the morning after the slaughter, their blood had already been cleaned from the walls and the screens and the doors, and their bodies hidden from the Lord's sight; they had raised no arms in self-defense, left no enemies in their wake as proof of their prowess. It was as if they had simply ceased to exist. The will of the Lord.

But the Lord had protected Valedan.

The Imperial hostages here had been slaughtered to a man, and their deaths had been unclean, public sport to rival the sports of the unnamed clans who ruled by the Lord of Night's will. Everyone knew what the outcome of those deaths would be: the equally brutal deaths of the Annagarian hostages.

But the Lord had protected Valedan.

The General Alesso di'Marente-the man who sought to rule the Tor Leonne-had asked for, and received, the aid of one of the kinlords. Kinlord. He had attacked the entire a.s.sembly of the Imperial Council.

And the Lord protected Valedan.

Not even a man with the sun in his eyes could mistake the Lord's meaning.

"Not the beads; the crystal. Use the crystal."

The servitor-a man whose entire life had been devoted to the creation of gowns such as this one, bowed a wrinkled face. He was an old man, wiry and sun-wizened, and although age had slowly taken the agility out of his fingers as sure as a wound drained a body's blood, his years of experience sh.o.r.ed up his skill.

At too many years of age to count, Jevri was without parallel. And it was unlike Fredero to question his choice and his decision in so obvious a fashion. But Jevri did not comment-and not because it wasn't his place; the Lord knew that Jevri dared much in his quest for perfection.

As if, Fredero thought, he knows what troubles me.

It was more than possible. At one time, in a past that was never distant enough, Jevri had been a seraf in the Lambertan fold. A parting gift from his brother. The finest of his gifts, if not the most obviously valuable.

To bring him to the temple, Fredero had been forced to give Jevri his freedom. It was a little thing; Jevri had as much freedom as any poor man did in the Dominion. Perhaps more. He had accepted both freedom and employ with silent grace; it was only when he was caught up in his craft that he became a man capable of sharp words.

And he offered not a single word today.

He sewed instead, and embroidered, pausing only to speak to the servitors who labored under his command. It was almost comforting to watch them.

And comfort of this nature could not last.

The doors burst open. As one man, the servitors stopped their work-save for Jevri, who continued with the focus of a man who knows that the job is both necessary and not yet finished, and is willing to let the rest of the world take care of itself.

"Kai el'Sol!"

He turned at once to see a young Radann, sword drawn, hair pulled back perfectly to better expose his face. His badge of office glittered brightly against the blue of his robe; he was young, and had an earnestness about him that both pleased and pained Fredero.

"Radann Nattani," he said, bowing. "Is there trouble?"

Gently rebuked, the man nodded. "Tyr'agnate Eduardo kai di'Garrardi demands an audience at once."

Fredero's face deepened in color. "Demands?"

"Uh-requests. But..."

"Understood." Fredero turned to his oldest servitor. "Jevri, I will leave this in your capable hands."

"Kai el'Sol," Jevri replied serenely.

The Tyr'agnate was a handsome man by any standards, although his face had a sharpness to it

that discouraged trust. His temper was almost as well known as Sword's Blood; certainly as often

displayed.

Fredero kai el'Sol knew a moment's bitterness; he could not refuse to deal with any man who might be a friend to the Radann in the months and years to follow. He bowed, and held that bow a fraction of a second longer than strict ritual dictated.

"Tyr'agnate."

"Kai el'Sol." The Garrardi Tyr's bow was low and respectful. It was not groveling, but it was given. He had come to expect less of the men who held the Dominion's future in their grip.

He was in no way rea.s.sured. "Come, if you have time; I have not yet taken the morning water,

and if you would join me, I would be honored."

"The honor would be mine."

They repaired to the Garden of the Stone together. There, waited upon by servitors that the kai

el'Sol had handpicked for loyalty, they partook of the waters of the Tor Leonne in a silence of

rising sun and shrinking shadow.

"Kai el'Sol," Eduardo di'Garrardi said at last, setting his cup aside and leaning into the weathered edge of hard stone.

"Inasmuch as any garden can be, this is private," Fredero replied."I am not concerned with privacy at the moment. This Festival, there is very little that I fear."Or any, Fredero thought; Eduardo was not a man driven by his fears. By his desires, yes, and those obsessions left room for little else.

"The Lord's Consort will be the Serra Diora di'Marano."

The kai el'Sol nodded.

"It has come to my attention that the General appears to have a... personal interest in this matter."

"I believe," the kai el'Sol said neutrally, "that the request originated with the Tyr'agnate of Sorga.s.sa."

"I was there when he brought the request to the General. In truth, it pleased me. It pleases me less now."

There was nothing the kai el'Sol could say; he did not attempt to fill the silence.

"The Radann have been neglected since the unfortunate and unexplained a.s.sa.s.sination." Eduardo di'Garrardi sat forward. "There are matters of war that concern the General, and he, no doubt, feels that the Radann are loyal. Or that they are not to be feared."

"That may be so."

"Then, kai el'Sol, let me be blunt." Reaching into the folds of his silk robes, he drew out an unmarked wooden medallion. He set it carefully on the flat of the stone bench, between them. "With your permission?" he asked, as he touched the hilt of his sword.

"Granted."

The steel caught the sun's light and sent it scattering across the stone. Nothing but the surface of the waters of the Tor caught the sun as beautifully as the naked blade. Nothing.

"The Serra Diora di'Marano is the Consort of the Lord of the Sun, not the Lord of the Tor Leonne. If Alesso di'Marente forgets that-if he shows any sign of forgetting it-I will put the considerable wealth of Oerta behind you should you refuse to grant him the crown. Or should you, as is the law, demand that he take up the Sun Sword." The words hung in the air longer than his hands; the blade flashed down, sinking a quarter inch into wood and resting there.

"And from me?" the kai el'Sol asked, his voice deceptively soft.

"If there is treachery, it will most likely occur after the crown has graced his brow, in which case, you will call for the Sword. You will, of course, refuse to lay that crown across that brow if I deem it necessary."

"And whose brow will it adorn? Who will rule the Tor if not the architect of Leonne's demise?"

Eduardo shrugged coldly. "That," he said, "is a matter for the Lord to decide. He did well enough two hundred years ago."

Fredero kai el'Sol did not search the sky for a sign of the Lord's blessing; he knew it when it came, cloaked even as it was in the guise of Garrardi. He drew his sword and neatly crossed the cut that the Tyr'agnate had made, thinking that Garrardi was a fool, but a fool whose goodwill he required.

After all, what man would throw away such a necessary ally for the sake of a mere wife?

Affection was safe, but any deeper emotion was a trap, had always been a trap. The Serra Teresa di'Marano watched her niece as she stood in the center of a flurry of cautious, but hurried, wives and serafs. Diora was beyond understanding just how she had been caught by such a trap, if indeed she could even see the bars of the cage, but she was willing to destroy herself utterly in the memory- the memory, not the actuality-of such a deep and divisive love.

The Lady's hand was everywhere in a woman's heart; she could think of no woman who did not desire a home, a partner, a place which she ruled and was loved for ruling, and a place where she could go in which rules were someone else's prerogative-and problem. She had met many, many women who had not fulfilled this desire; they were not a threat.

No, the threats, as attested to by the golden rings that had been wound by strands of raven hair into invisibility, were those who had found what they sought.

Threaten things loved, and a woman might buckle in terror, fold, and give in to any demand until such a time as she might come upon the means to end the threat permanently. But destroy those things, and you destroyed the life, if not the living, of the woman who so loved. Living ghosts were always dangerous.

The time will come, she thought, as she gazed upon the icy perfection of her niece's beautiful face, when you will want those things again; you will find the road that brings you back to a life you've forsworn. But she would bear the scars. She would always bear the scars. If she survived.

Serra Teresa knew this from bitter experience. Knew both. Only youth's immediate pa.s.sion and distant sense of mortality could keep the oaths alive when those who'd received them lay buried beneath layers of unblessed earth. Diora di'Marano was young.

And powerful for it.

"Not, I think, the diamonds," the Serra Teresa said softly, as Diora turned to face her. "They are too Northern."

Ramdan bowed immediately, but Alaya-Serra Fiona's youngest seraf, and easily the most valuable to Teresa's expert eye-spoke. "But they are perfect for her. Look at the color against her skin; they trap the Lord's light and catch the eye."

"They are," Ramdan said, "too Northern."