Michelle West - The Sun Sword 03 - The Shining Court (2 page)

Tyr'agar
Ruler of the Dominion

Tyr'agnate
Ruler of one of the five Terreans of the Dominion

Tyr
The
Tyr'agar
or one of the four
Tyr'agnate

Tyran
Personal bodyguard (oathguard) of a
Tyr

Tor'agar
A noble in service to a
Tyr

Tor'agnate
A noble in service to a
Tor'agar;
least of noble ranks

Tor
A
Tor'agar
or
Tor'agnate

Toran
Personal bodyguard (oathguard) of a
Tor

Ser
A clansman

Serra
The primary wife and legitimate daughters of a clansman

kai
The holder or first in line to the clan title

par
The brother of the first in line; the direct son of the title holder

Dramatis Personae - The
Voyani

In the Voyani clans, the men will often use their name and their clan's name as identifiers (i.e. Nicu would be Nicu of the Arkosan Voyani or Nicu Arkosa.)

ARKOSA

Evallen of the Arkosa Voyani
—The woman who ruled the Voyani clan. She is/was seerborn. Dark-haired, dark-eyed; dies at Diora's hand, a mercy killing.

Margret of the Arkosa Voyani
—The new, untested Matriarch of the Arkosan Voyani. Dark haired and dark eyed like her mother; she is not seerborn.

Adam
—Evallen's boy, the light of her life, and much indulged.Charming, easily charmed, he is
also
very perceptive, very sharp of wit; he keeps it to himself, for the most part.

Nicu
—Bearded, broad-shouldered; cousin in his early twenties. Son of Evallen's cousin. Looks older.
Carmello
—darker in coloring than Nicu, dark-haired, dark-eyed, one year his senior. They're friends, sword-mates.

Andreas
—Shorter than either Nicu or Carmello, but dark as the Voyani are dark; stocky and barrel-chested; one of Carmello's and Nicu's supporters.
Donatella
—Nicu's mother. Evallen's cousin once removed; Margret (and Elena's) second cousin.

Stavos
—Margret's uncle, much loved and crusty; gray beard, broad belly, laughs like a bear.

Caitla
—Stavos' wife. Wide as well, but hardened by the sun and wind. Hair gray and long, eyes cutting and dark.

Elena
—Margret's cousin; the heir to the Matriarchy should Margret perish without a daughter. They are both close and rivals, Margret and Elena, and it is Elena that Nicu loves. Elena is a firebrand in most senses of the word; her hair is auburn-red, her skin sun-bronzed, her eyes brown with green highlights.

Tamara
—Margret's aunt. Bent at the back, older in appearance than her older (and now dead) sister, she is Margret's support and strength, although she nags rather a lot. Closer than kin. She is Elena's mother.

HAVALLA

Yollana of the Havalla Voyani
—peppered, dark curls, almost black eyes. She is in her forties, healthy, wiry.

CORRONA

Elsarre of the Corrona Voyani
—long, straight hair, dark with streaks of white. She was, until the death of Evallen, the youngest of the matriarchs at the age of 36.

Dani
—Slender, of medium height. His hair is long, thick and is always pulled back in a single braid. His beard is small, his face long, his eyes (as most Voyani eyes) are dark. He is Elsarre's Shadow; Elsarre has no brothers, and no cousins she chooses to trust with her life.

LYSERRA

Maria of the Lyserra Voyani
—hair white as northern snow, eyes blue as Lord's sky, she is slender and silent much of the time. She has the grace of gesture Serra Teresa possesses, and for this reason is less trusted than the other Matriarchs. Her husband is the kai of the clan Jedera;
Ser Tallos kai di'Jedera
. They have four children:

Mika
—Mika is broad-shouldered, dark-haired, dark-eyed as all clansmen; clean-shaven, as the Voyani are not.

Jonni
—Jonni is quiet; large-eyed, clear-skinned; he wears a beard.

Aviana
—The Matriarch's heir; she shelters with, and lives with, her mother's kin in preparation for her eventual role. She loves her brothers fiercely, even if they are of the clans.

Lorra
—The family baby. Beautiful, but
fair-skinned, she lives with her sister, and her mother's people.

15th of Lattan, 415 AA

Terrean of Raverra

The Serra Teresa di'Marano did not travel quickly. No Serra did, whose husband, or if unmarried, kai could afford to grant her the dignity of his rank—and his wealth. She had been ordered to the Terrean of Mancorvo, there to seek her kai, Adano kai di'Marano; the Widan Sendari par di'Marano had delivered into her keeping a message of urgency.

She was also, if she was permitted, to seek audience with the wife of the Tyr'agnate himself, the demure and silent Serra Donna en'Lamberto. Between women, or so it was thought by foolish men, there was ease, and much information might be exchanged. Thus did her brother, Sendari, hope to gain knowledge about the Serra Donna's husband. Tyr'agnate Mareo kai di'Lamberto. The man whose brother had, in the single space of less than an hour, so damaged the hopes and the plans laid out by Sendari, Cortano, and the General—no, the
Tyr'agar
—Alesso kai
di'Alesso
.

Serra Teresa herself was not married, had never been married, and would never be married; the dreams of that union, and what it might bring her, lay buried, seeking life when the skies were at their brightest, and the hand of the Lord at its height.

In the North, the darkest of dreams were night dreams, and in the South, it is said that men were also weakened by the Lady's thoughts—but the Serra Teresa di'Marano knew the touch of the sun to be the precursor to madness, ruin, loss; she did not meet the Lord's face.

There were no desert sands on the road she took, but the heat this summer had been scorching, and the grasses and wildness that often encumbered the road with their wealth of scents and hidden insects were a pale gold, dry and almost dusty. The Lady's rains had not been permitted to fall.

Upon the road there was talk, of course; in all things, speech. The Serra was a Serra, but she was only a woman, and the cerdan— free men all and of the clan's distant branches—made freer with their words when their superiors were not present. Her own cerdan knew better, of course; they were of a better breed. She had chosen them herself, although Adano's approval—a formality which no clans woman had any choice but to seek—was necessary.

As much as she could trust any man whose sword served the Lord, she trusted them. As much as.

The tents had been erected, and the palanquin laid aside. It was hot for travel, and the midday rest had been decreed by the master of the caravan—not, of course, by its mistress. Sweet water was offered, and such food as might survive the heat of such a journey unruined; she partook of the first, and gave her gracious blessing to the men, who were given the rest.

Two days, and she would cross the Mancorvan border.

Three more, with some speed, and she might see home—if such a mythical place existed, ever, in the heart of a woman who was sent from brother to brother and place to place at the whim of others.

And today?

She did not touch the samisen case, but instead reached for the lute, with its rounded curves, its musical tradition a thing not created by, or for, the Lord of the Sun. In the heat, she began to play.

When swords left their sheaths, she was not surprised at the sound, although it seemed sudden. Music often carried her to a place that could not be attacked because it could not be felt by any who did not possess her gift. Her gift, yes, and her curse, both.

But swords being drawn brought her back, as most sounds of war did. She carefully placed the lute in its case as Ramdan lifted the flap of her tent, offering his obeisance in such a way that it made the dirt and the dryness seem a gift as it clung to his knees, the palms of his hands.

"Serra," he said.

"Are we under attack?"

"No, Serra."

She closed the case with care, and rose with as much grace as Ramdan had bowed. "There is another traveler, then."

"Yes."

He did not offer what she did not ask for; there was that still-ness, that perfect composure, about him. In all things, he took her lead; he was, of the serafs she owned, the finest.

Treat them well
, she heard her mother say, at the remove of years,
and they'll be more trustworthy than blood kin
. It would have been a scandalous thing to say where other ears could hear it; it was said at the harem's heart, where only these two women dwelled: Serra Teresa and her mother.

They will certainly
, her mother had added,
bring you more solace if you train and choose them well
.

Truer thing had possibly been said in time, but not by her mother. She waited for Ramdan to lift the tent's flaps, and she noticed, as she always did, how ageless he seemed, how perfectly unbowed by the labor of years.

For the first time, before she left the safety of shadow, the Serra Teresa di'Marano wondered if he was truly ageless, or if her eyes were deceived by some strange desire of the heart; Ramdan had been with her for all of her adult life, and she did not wish age or its foibles to force her to part from him, to force her to elevate any other to the position that he now held.

As she entered the domain of the Lord of the Sun, she raised her fan and opened it, shielding her eyes from the glint of new metal. Swords, helms. A Serra, after all, did not squint publicly.

Karras di'Marano bowed, and she returned this respect with respect of her own. He was older than she, and not so fast with a sword as he had once been, but wisdom and experience gave him an edge that no grindstone could. "Serra Teresa," he said.

"Is there a disturbance, Ser Karras?"

"A minor one, Serra, and if you wish not to be disturbed, you might choose to continue your vigil."

"Swords ofttimes disturb me."

He had known that would be her answer, of course; they were old friends, old almost-allies. "Very well. It appears, from what we can see down the rise of the hillock, that there are wagons encamped."

"Wagons?"

"We believe that they belong to the Voyani." He paused. "The Arkosa Voyani, if their flags are not false."

"Surely we are in no danger, Ser Karras."

"They travel in greater number than I have seen," he said. She waited for him to qualify the statement, to finish it, but it hung between them stubbornly.

At last she nodded. "It is the Matriarch, then."

"I believe so." His gaze was given to the ground. "But 1 have seen the Matriarch's van, Serra; there-is something about this gathering that feels wrong." His shrug was eloquent; a way of saying that he could not say more than that, but that he would not be judged ignorant for instinct's sake.