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

"Alana," Diora said at last. "Tell me."
    "This year—this year," the old woman said, looking her age, "there will be change in the Festival of the Moon."
    She did not stiffen. Did not frown or offer this almost mother any cause to think she was concerned. The hands that she held, she held gently and firmly, as if she were the one who were offering support, rather than receiving it. "Yes?"
    "They—there—" She turned to Illana, seeking help. It was almost hard, to watch Alana at a loss for words.
    "They have decided that this year, for the first year, there will be a… Consort to the Lady."
    "A Consort?"
    "Yes. An… equivalent to the Lord's Consort during the Festival of the Sun."
    It was a position she had held herself. While she could stop herself from trembling or stiffening, Diora di'Marano was not— quite—well-versed enough to stop her color from vanishing completely. In a Serra of her station, there was little enough of the Lord's color to begin with; the highborn were guarded from the Lord's vision—for the Lord was a man.
    "They will call the Consort…" and here, Illana's voice dipped and almost failed her, but she was not Alana, and after a moment, she continued, "the Lord of Night."
    Diora's hands froze; they lost warmth; they lost the strength that had sustained her. Alana bowed her head. "You see," she said softly.
    "Yes."
    "Do you know if—"
    "No. My father will not summon the Serra Teresa. They have not spoken pleasant words—any words at all that I am aware of—since the end of the Festival of the Sun; she is with Adano this Moon's turning, and I think she will remain there."
    "Diora—"
    "Illana, Alana, I thank you for the information that you've brought me. I must ask—I must ask you to leave me a moment. It is warm, this day, and I have spent hours in the presence of the… Tyr'agar and his counselors. I am weary."
    "Shall we send you water?"
    "Sweet water," Diora replied absently. Automatically. "Yes, that would be very fine."
    She waited until they had left before turning to face the wall. Before kneeling into the flat, sturdy mats upon which she had lived out most of the last half year. Had she expected more? Had she expected, for some reason, that the Festival of the Moon would be allowed her? The laws of the land had already changed the moment the Leonne clan was assassinated. What the Moon meant, what the Lady's wrath entailed, to the men who now made the Tor Leonne and its Lake their Dominion, was to be lost to her. To be lost entirely.
    It had been a long time since she'd felt foolish. She felt it now, and it was surprisingly bitter.
    This
was her home. This place, these walls that opened into no courtyard, no sunlight, no glimpse of open air or night sky or star.
    She would be lowered into the sheets and the pillows, and then raised like a crown for all to see, all to acknowledge. A plan that she had been the architect of, in the end. An end of her own making.
    She could not keep the bitterness from her face; the mask slipped for a moment as she faced a wall whose every flaw she had become familiar with over time. There were few indeed.
    Across the breadth of the lesser Tor, Margret of the Arkosa Voyani shared the same expression. Years divided their faces; the sun-lines and wind-lines that a life of travel under the open skies forced upon the Voyani, generation after generation, made a mark upon the older woman's face that the younger's had never felt.
    "Margret?"
    The bitterness fell into a familiar grimace, easing and changing the lines of her face. "'Lena."
    Her cousin slid into view—and
slid
was the right word. She moved, had always moved, like a particularly beautiful cat. Long and sleek in line, she picked her way through the Voyani as if they were mice, playing as she chose and quitting just as abruptly. In everything she did, there was such a lovely mix of danger and attraction that one couldn't help but love her—and feel stupid about it.
    "Well?"
    "Well what?"
    "Aren't you