Free Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court by The Shining Court

unknowable; it mattered that they could be pointed, that was all. Enough to make a Widan weep with frustration or sneer with disdain—and either, here, would be a costly mistake.
    "There has been," Lord Isladar said quietly, "news from the North. And my Lord requests… a change in plan."
    The festivities that heralded the Festival of the Moon had not yet begun, and the preparations for even their beginning were sadly lacking. It was said that in truth this was due to the lack of any wife, any harem, on Alesso di'Marente's—Alesso
di'Alesso's
—part, for it was always the women who were responsible for the court finery; the women who felt it necessary to insure, by seraf death if need be, that the preparations for the Festival of the Moon met clan expectations of a husband's rank.
    And what rank was superior to Tyr'agar, first among Tyrs?
    She wondered, idly, who his wife would be. It surprised her; the question itself would have been distasteful in every conceivable way had she actually cared about the answer.
    The door slid open at her back; she stiffened into perfection— always perfection here—and watchful grace. This was her lot; this had been her choice. She was Diora di'Marano, and if she had hoped, half a year away, that the quiet torture of waiting was beyond her, she was still capable of, still expert at, the art of biding time.
    But very few people were granted access to her private rooms, and when she heard the first footfall cross the wooden beam into which the sliding screens were set, some of that tension ebbed.
    "Na'dio," a familiar voice said. It was shaded with concern; she could hear it in the timbre of the single word. Question. Fear.
    She turned to see the oldest of her father's wives: Alana en'Marano. At her back, a beautiful shadow, the youngest, Illana en'Marano. Illana gently nudged her elder into the room and then slid the door firmly, quietly, shut at their backs. As if she had spent a lifetime doing no less.
    They were, of course, allowed the freedom of the harem, but they were cautious; they rarely chose to exercise the freedom granted. They understood, as well as she, that her privacy was an exile, and that that exile was precarious.
    Not even a fool could miss the malice with which the Sword's Edge spoke of Serra Diora—and none of Sendari's wives, with perhaps the exception of the Serra Fiona herself, were fools. How could they be? They had been chosen by the Serra Teresa di'Marano. Still, they were here.
    She rose. "Alana," she said softly. "Illana." She kissed the cheeks they offered, and held their hands a moment longer than necessity or manners dictated.
    The two women exchanged a glance. It was the younger who said, "I brought you a gift."
    "Illana—I am in no position to repay you in kind, and I desire no difficulty for you. The Serra Fiona watches us all."
    "Yes," Alana said coolly, "she does. But less so now. Part of the responsibility for the Festival of the Moon has fallen upon her shoulders—just as the responsibility for the Festival of the Sun did. And she is—"
    The pause told Diora much. That was her gift, and her curse: To hear what the voice contained, when the words themselves could not or did not. She had learned, over the years, to hide such knowledge. She waited.
    "She is almost beside herself," Illana continued smoothly.
    That
was
surprising. There was no love lost between Sendari's only daughter and the mother of his only son, but Diora knew Fiona well enough to know that no little nicety would escape her, no attention to proper detail. "What has happened?"
    "She has become sufficiently distracted by events that she… has less interest in watching us."
    "That will not greatly please the Widan Cortano."
    "No."
    Silence again. Then, "She is not a friend, Alana. We both know this."
    "Yes."
    The youngest member of Sendari's harem—Diora herself, now an unmarried daughter—reached out and gripped the shaking hands of the oldest. They stood a moment in silence.