News of Prince Zehava’s death reached Castle Crag on the morning sunlight. Crigo’s contact with the wine steward at Stronghold incapacitated the already overwrought Sunrunner, who took to his bed after downing a large cup of wine laced with dranath. Roelstra celebrated the news with a good long laugh and a lavish breakfast, then closeted himself with his ministers for the rest of the day. It was left to Palila to arrange the evening’s ritual and make sure all the daughters dressed in mourning gray to honor their royal “cousin.” A piece of nonsense as far as Palila was concerned, and doubly irritating because gray was not her color. But grief must be shown, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that at least the slate-colored gown hid her pregnancy.
Roelstra led the procession into the oratory of Castle Crag as soon as the first evening stars appeared. The chamber was a wide half-circle of Fironese crystal jutting out from the cliff like a giant soap bubble. During the day, sunlight streamed in to bathe everything in gold, dazzling from the ornaments and plate. Chairs of white wood cushioned in white silk were arrayed on a thick, snowy wool carpet that swallowed up all sound in its depths. Onto this background the faceted windows poured rainbow sparks that slurred down the walls and decorated the floor with brilliant color. But at night only the cold, pale moons shone, and the oratory was a place of silvered shadows where colorless faces showed eyes and mouths sunk into dark hollows, eerily emphasized by the white candles carried by each mourner.
They filed in according to strict rules of precedence and took their seats. Palila sat with bowed head and folded hands in the front row, the daughters all around her. Ambassadors, ministers, officials, and the minor nobility of Princemarch sat behind her—an assembly of men and women who thoroughly loathed her, she thought with a tiny smile. Nearly all of them had come to her at one time or another, hoping to influence Roelstra through her. She took what they offered and promised nothing— for they could scarcely run to the High Prince with complaints when their bribes to his mistress failed. Roelstra laughed whenever Palila showed him some new jewel or gown presented in hopes of a word whispered when his head was on her pillows. He encouraged her to keep the bribes that satisfied her acquisitive instincts without his having to spend a thing, for the splendor of the gift was an indication of how badly the giver wished his favor. He was never influenced by presents to his mistress, but he pretended sometimes that he was, to keep the expensive trinkets coming.
They hated Palila for another reason. She was a noblewoman who had besmirched the dignity of her class, even though the position of mistress to the High Prince held a certain honor. She had betrayed them by not working actively in their behalf, instead seeking to increase Roelstra’s power at their expense. Worse, she had not produced a son. And, even more damning, she kept Roelstra from seeking out another woman who might give him a male heir. They all had candidates for Roelstra’s next mistress, but Palila had not lost her hold on him. The thought of her as his legal wife horrified them.
The nobles, ministers, and ambassadors would also have candidates to put forth as possible brides for young Prince Rohan. No one knew much about him except that he was quiet and studious, and at the last Rialla had effaced himself to such effect that few even remembered what he looked like. Palila could sense them judging the daughters and wondering which of them would catch his fancy at the Rialla.
The daughters were wondering the same thing. Palila was sure that lanthe at least knew the direction of her father’s thoughts, for the girl showed signs of hurrying to catch up. Neither was Pandsala a fool; she had insinuated herself into mealtime conversations these last days, making remarks designed to show her loyalty and intelligence. Gevina and Rusalka, the eldest of the illegitimate girls, could hardly have missed noting that their wardrobes and jewel cases had improved in content recently. Let them fret, Palila thought complacently. Let jealousy spread like wildfire among them—and let the nobles place their bets on the most likely bride for the princeling. She alone knew what Roelstra had in mind, and would share that knowledge with no one.
After a period of silence to show respect for the dead, Roelstra stood before the assembly’s flickering candles. He had a fine voice meant for ceremonies and for murmuring in bed, and he knew how to use the resonance of his tones to excellent advantage. He gave a little speech of regret that the great and noble Prince Zehava had been taken so untimely from the world, and entreated the Goddess to allow Zehava’s spirit to find her loving embrace. That he meant not a word of it was not lost on anyone present. Everyone attended not to make sure the proper forms were observed but to enjoy Roelstra’s irony and contemplate the delicious prospects before them. Hardly a mind in the oratory was not making some plot toward Rohan’s disadvantage.
When Roelstra fell silent, Palila glanced up at him. His dark hair was crowned by silvery light, his eyes nearly colorless, the candle in his hand giving off a thin yellowish glow that picked out the strong bones of his face and the sardonic line of his mouth. His gaze met hers and she smiled slightly. How fortunate it was that they understood each other, she told herself. Her position would be a precarious one until she gave him a son, but because she comprehended her lord, she could follow his thoughts and, sometimes, outguess him.
One by one in ascending order of importance, the gathering rose and filed out. They left their candles on shelves to either side of the arching doorway. Palila had the honor of immediately preceding the High Prince and placing her candle next to the place where his would be. It was a privilege no one but his legal wife should have had, but she enjoyed many similar privileges at Castle
Crag and guarded them jealously. One day they would be hers by right.
She was tired, and the ornate silver pins holding her veil in place were giving her a headache. Yet when everyone went down to the copious supper laid out in the main hall, Palila did not join them. Neither did she seek her bed. She returned to the oratory and picked her way carefully through the moonlit chamber to the outer curve of crystal. Crigo would be here soon, to ride the moonlight to Stronghold. He often performed such small services for her without Roelstra’s knowledge, for it was Palila from whom Roelstra got the supply of dranath.
The muted whisper of the opening door made her turn, the Sunrunner’s name hovering on her lips. But it was not Crigo who entered. It was Pandsala.
Palila covered her startlement and hoped Crigo had the sense to listen outside before opening the door. She smiled sweetly at the princess and asked, “Why, whatever are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same thing of you.” A little smile played about Pandsala’s mouth, visible even in the dimness. It made Palila nervous. The princess walked forward with stately grace along the white carpet, almost as if she came here in her wedding procession. “It certainly isn’t grief for the old prince that brought us back. Actually, I don’t know why you came and I don’t care, except for the fact that we’re alone. A rare circumstance, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But why do you want to talk to me alone, Pandsala?” Her mind seethed and she raked the girl’s gown with her gaze. Knife? Vial of poison? Who would suspect a princess of murder? The son Palila was sure she carried was a threat to all the daughters. Perhaps Pandsala had been delegated to remove the threat. There were enough strangers at Castle Crag to blame it on, enough people who hated her to make the list of suspects practically endless.
“Won’t you sit down?” Palila invited, reasoning that a seated enemy would be easier to outrun than a standing one.
“Stop playing lady of the castle, Palila,” the other woman snapped. “I am the princess here, not you—no matter what state my father keeps you in, I don’t like you any more than you like me, but we can be of use to each other,”
“In what way, my dear?” She put amusement into her voice, but sensed that control of this had gone beyond her grasp, and was frightened.
Pandsala’s long fingers trailed over the chairbacks as she approached, the smile pale on her face. “First let us discuss how you may help me,” she suggested. “I’m not a fool, as you well know. I have ears and a brain. And my ears have heard interesting things which my brain tells me can be worked to my advantage.”
Palila began to understand, and relaxed slightly. “Prince Rohan requires a wife, and you intend to be the chosen lady.”
“Make Father see me,” the princess urged. “You can do it, Palila.”
“Why should I?” she responded with a carelessness she was far from feeling. “lanthe would be the best choice.”
“Could Father be certain of controlling her? lanthe cares only for lanthe.”
“While you are the perfect, loving, loyal daughter,” Palila sneered.
“Gently, gently,” Pandsala murmured, her smile gone and her dark eyes sunk in shadows. “Begin thinking of me fondly, I warn you,”
“Why should I?” Palila was beginning to enjoy this.
“Because I can save your life.”
She burst out laughing, but inside she fought sudden fear. Had Pandsala come here to kill her? She cursed herself for all the years she had thought the princess less dangerous than lanthe.
“You believe you carry ‘my father’s heir,” Pandsala went on. “Perhaps you do. But if you do not—must I give the details? Another mistress, younger and more beautiful, will supplant you. A woman who might give him a son. You’ve had ton’ ^•>-,-•-> Ptlila This one is your last, and you knov,
She gave up all pretenses ana sank into a chair, gestur- ing wordlessly for Pandsala to continue. The princess sat just across the aisle, smiling again.
“If you have a son, there’s nothing for you to worry about. Father will marry you and your position will be secure. But if you have another girl, one might say it would be the end of your life, don’t you agree?”
Palila rallied enough for an answering smile. “No, my dear. He is not what one would call indifferent to my bed.”
“But when that younger, more beautiful girl comes along—how do you know she won’t be just like you, and get rid of you the way you disposed of Surya?”
She betrayed herself with a gasp, and cursed. The princess laughed and stretched her arms wide as if to gather in the moment of triumph. - “Not even lanthe knows that I know about it. I was only fifteen, but I remember every detail—how you stood in the trellis garden one morning and paid off the servant who’d helped you. Lucky for you, Father was so furious that he had the woman executed before she could accuse you.”
“Roelstra would never believe this ridiculous story!”
“Perhaps not. But all he’ll want is an excuse to get rid of you if you have another girl. He’s not unkind, when it suits him. He might just send you away. But when I tell him about Lady Surya, I’ll add the name of the man who put the poison in Lady Karayan’s wine.”
“Father of Storms!” Palila cried. “You bitch!” The penalty for murder was execution—and she had a sudden, terrifying memory of Roelstra’s words about changing his methods to fire.
“How nice that you’ve stopped pretending,” the princess observed. “Now we may do business. I want Prince Rohan. I’m sick of living in this nursery and I want a rich, powerful husband. I’m told he’s quite good-looking as well. He’ll do very nicely for me. And now that you know what I know, you’d love to see me gone, wouldn’t you? What better place for me than far away in the Desert?”
Palila gathered herself. “How do you know I won’t do to you what I did to them?” she hissed.
“Because I know something else, Palila, which really could mean your life. Well? What do you say? Shall we make a bargain of it?”
Palila pushed herself to her feet and went to the long table where silver candle-branches winked in the dim moonlight. Between them was an intricately etched gold plate. She tilted it up and saw her own reflection crossed with tiny lines—a vision of old age when her looks and her power would vanish and she would have only her son to keep her in luxury. It must be a son. Roelstra must make her his wife. She must do whatever Pandsala asked.
“I will promote you as Prince Rohan’s bride,” she said tonelessly, still staring at herself in the flat golden plate. “I’ll do everything I can to ruin lanthe’s chances. But I can’t promise, Pandsala. You know your father.”
“All I ask is your influence—subtly, if you please. For my side of the bargain, I won’t tell Father what I know. Nor will I run to lanthe with tales. I knew you’d be nervous about that,” the princess added slyly, and Palila hated her. “She’s attempted your life, you know.”
“More than once,” Palila said, and put the plate down. She turned. “My servants are loyal.”
“I’m counting on it. Will they say what you tell them to say, even if they find iron burning in front of their eyes?”
Fire—Palila repressed a shudder. “They know I will do worse to them if they disobey me.”
“Excellent. Now listen to me, Palila. lanthe’s plan is complex, and you must understand completely if we’re to turn it to our advantage.” Pandsala laughed suddenly, a sound that frayed Palila’s nerves. “You’re going to have a son, Palila—one way or another!”
Crigo paused outside the entrance to the oratory—not from any caution, but because his heart was always caught by the beauty of the wooden doors. Panels of equal size spread vertically below the stone arch, showing in sequence the Water of the sea, whitecaps picked out in silver; Air rippling across a golden wheat field; the majestic Earth of the Veresch Mountains topped in silver snow; and the Fire of a sunburst carved deep into the wood and lavishly gilded. Yet even as his spirit sang with the beauty, he cringed inside at knowing how little he deserved entry into this place.
He sneered at his own scruples. The Goddess had surely abandoned this oratory long ago in disgust at the man who had ordered it built. He would not feel her presence within, disapproving and perhaps a little sorrowful. No, not that; the only sadness was his own self-pity. His lip curled and he reached out to push the doors open. But then he heard the faint sound of laughter from within. Not Lady Palila’s voice, though it held much of her malicious amusement. This laughter was deeper, more full-throated. Crigo cracked the door open just wide enough to see, and peered into the dimness.
Two women were seated on either side of the aisle in the first row of chairs. He recognized Palila from the silver pins that held her veil at the crown of her head, but had trouble identifying the taller woman. Yet a turn of her head showed him the profile that boasted the High Prince’s fine, proud nose and brow. Crigo swallowed a gasp of shock. Princess Pandsala loathed her father’s mistress as much as the rest of the daughters did. What was she doing here having a private talk with Palila?
He did not want to know. He knew too many secrets already, things that would mean his death if Roelstra ever lost faith in the powers of dranath. Yet the temptation was almost overwhelming. He owed Palila for the “gift” of dranath; should he overhear something useful, he might have his vengeance on her at last. He opened the door a little wider and strained to listen.
Pandsala spoke in a low, earnest voice, leaning forward in her chair. “. . . make the change . . . four of them . . . surely a boy in the lot ...” Crigo heard only a few words, none of which made sense to him. But Palila suddenly sat bolt upright, her posture one of rapt attention and no small amount of fear.
“But the risk!” she gasped out. “It’s insane!”
“Be quiet!” the princess exclaimed. “Do you want the whole castle to hear?” Her tone dropped again and Crigo frowned in concentration. “lanthe plans very well . . . should work . . . but fool my clever sister . . . save your neck . . . Father gets his son at last . . . trust your servants with this?”
Crigo bit down hard on his lower lip as the meaning of the princess’ words nearly shattered his composure. He shut the door soundlessly and crept back down the hall, barely breathing until he had reached his own chamber and the door was firmly locked behind him. He turned at once to the drugged wine.
Goblet in hand, he lay back in a soft chair and drank deeply, gulping down the liquid as much for liquor’s customary effect as to get the dranath quickly into his system. The first sign of its presence was a headache that made him grit his teeth. It soon vanished, as he had known it would, replaced by a delicate haze that lasted little longer than it took to identify its warmth floating through his arms and legs. During the first year or so of his addiction, this feeling had been superceded by a strong need for a woman, but for a very long time now his only lover had been the dranath. He waited for the real effect of the drug, the one he wanted tonight, and eventually felt his senses sharpen to almost painful clarity. He had left almost half the wine for later, when he would need the blessed unconsciousness of a large dose.
Opening his eyes, he stared up at the carved beams of the ceiling and assessed what he had seen and heard in the oratory. He thought he understood what Pandsala was offering Palila—and wished he did not—but what could the princess hope to gain in return?
The answer was so obvious that he choked on laughter, not knowing if he was more amused or appalled. The daughters had been fluttering for days, ever since realizing that some of them were likely candidates to be Prince Rohan’s bride. He wished he could attend the Rialla this year and be entertained by their graceless maneuverings— especially the little dance lanthe and Pandsala would do. Crigo had so few diversions; this was one Lady Andrade would appreciate, he told himself, wishing he had the courage to inform her on the moonlight. Palila would be just as amusing to observe, especially if she and Pandsala really thought she could influence Roelstra’s decisions. Her role would evidently be to aid Pandsaia’s cause in payment for the plot outlined tonight, but Crigo did not underestimate lanthe’s powers of scheming—not with such a prize at stake. That was the appalling part of it, the thought of the young prince wedded to any of Roelstra’s spawn. Crigo knew the High Prince’s daughters. As the spring was poisoned, so flowed its streams.
He turned his winecup around and around in his hands. He wondered whether or not he would tell Roelstra about what he had heard. A thin smile stretched his mouth. It might be difficult to choose between ruining Palila and cherishing the secret knowledge that Roelstra’s son was not in fact his own. Both offered satisfactions.
Crigo set the goblet aside and rose, slightly unsteady on his feet. He went to the windows that had been left open to the moonlight. The rocks opposite Castle Crag were stark and cold, the river invisible far below. But he could hear its muted thunder from the north, where it crashed over a cliff and foamed into rapids before settling into a smoother flow past the keep. Closing his eyes, he listened and shivered. He could never escape that sound, and longed for an absolute silence he found only in dranaf/z-induced sleep.
It would be silent now in the Desert as they watched Prince Zehava’s corpse burn. Lady Andrade would be there, with many faradh’im to attend her. The old prince had chosen a fine time to die, with so many there to do him honor. Crigo would receive a full account tomorrow from the spies at Stronghold, but they would have watched the ritual through cynical eyes. He felt the whispery chill of moonlight on his face, the spurious strength of the drug in his veins, and decided that he dared look with his own eyes. He longed to commune with his own kind again, to belong again. He could not, and knew it—but neither could he resist this chance to watch their work, even if he could not join with them on the clean, pale light.
He lifted his face to the three glowing circles rising in the night sky, and wove the thin light into a fabric of delicate beauty. He flung it like an unrolling carpet to the east and south, exhilarated as he sped along it to the sands outside Stronghold. So free, this feeling, and so mad) Bke flying that his shoulders shifted as if he possessed dragon wings. There was a pinpoint of light below him, like a golden star earthbound, and as he descended toward it he saw the gray figures standing nearby. Crigo yearned to call out to them, to feel the brilliant colors of their minds. But he held himself back, the shame burning anew as he watched them honor the dead prince with Sunrunner’s Fire that freed Zehava’s spirit to ride the Desert winds.
Tobin held her sons’ hands as the moons rose above her. Jahni and Maarken were exhausted, having gone with their father and Maeta to assist in moving the dragon’s carcass from Rivenrock. Their faces were hidden by gray hoods and despite their weariness they carried themselves like the young lords they were, but their palms were moist and they shifted restlessly as the assembly waited for Rohan to begin the ritual.
Along with the family and more than two hundred others, they had followed him in silence the three measures to the Goddess’ Apronful, a scattering of huge boulders that took on strange, fearsome shapes in the moonlight shadows. Legend had it that the stones had dropped from the sky when the mountains had been built, to lie here forgotten in the sand. Maarken and Jahni had active imaginations even for five-year-olds, and Tobin knew they would be seeing monsters lurking behind every stone. She wished she could whisper a few soothing words to them, but silence was the rule.
Rohan stood apart and alone, holding a torch in his hand. The flame turned his hair to molten gold and sank his eyes into darkness. He was a stranger tonight. For almost the first time, Tobin could see their father in him; the Desert had claimed him for its prince. Zehava, too, had had this look about him, for despite the comforts Milar had brought to Stronghold, the sand and the wind had been bred into him. The dragon that had killed the old prince sprawled between the largest boulders. There was a long, hollow wound in the sand, the path made as the great corpse was dragged to this place. Nearby on a flat stone that had been the final bed of fifteen genera- tions of princes, Zehava lay beneath a silvery cloak that concealed his body from neck to feet. Torchlight picked out the sharp profile and black beard, so different from his son’s finely drawn features and clean-shaven cheeks. Yet they were alike, Desert-bred and dragon-born.
Rohan turned at last to Princess Milar, who walked forward to the funeral stone with the steps of an old woman. The shining scars of tears were on her cheeks, and she stood for a long time at her husband’s side, stroking back his hair and letting the Water of her grief fall onto his face. Andrade came forward to trickle a handful of sand onto Zehava’s motionless chest, the Earth from which he had been made. Anthoula, faradhi to the dead prince for many years, limped to his bier and spread her hands wide. The cloak’s hem stirred as she called Air to touch him lightly in farewell. Then she bent her head in homage for a moment, and returned with Andrade to the place where the other Sunrunners stood cloaked, hooded, apart.
At last Rohan approached his father, carrying Fire. He lifted it high, his right arm a little stiff from his wound. The light was painted over Zehava’s body and on the great bulk of the dragon behind him, dripping down to the sand. Rohan touched the flame to the four corners of the cloak. The material caught and flared, beginning the blaze that would liberate Zehava’s spirit from the elements of which his physical form had been made.
Then Rohan did a shocking thing. He went to the dragon and took a small waterskin from his belt, pouring the contents over the beast’s wing. A handful of sand was scooped up and flung atop the water, and a fiery breeze created with a sweep of the torch over the dragon’s head. At last he set fire to the carcass and stepped back, his shoulders set defiantly.
Tobin was stunned. She had known he intended to burn the dragon, but honoring the creature as Zehava had been honored was unthinkable. Yet as she looked at her brother’s face, she thought she understood. Enemies killed in battle were accorded decent burning; so, too, the dragon.
Sweat began to bead on Tobin’s forehead as the flames
Melanie Rawn rose higher and hotter, augmented now by the silent efforts of the faradh’im standing nearby. Piles of sweet herbs and incense had been placed around both corpses, but they could not mask the smell of charring flesh. She glanced at the faces around her, seeing that Stronghold’s people wept unashamedly for their prince. Various foreigners who happened to be at the keep stood in little groups, wearing conventional masks of solemnity. Tobin resented their presence, but they had to witness the ceremony and Rohan’s conduct during it. He had undoubtedly shocked them all by honoring the dragon, but they would learn by it that he was not to be predicted.
As the first waiting time ended, the outsiders filed toward Rohan, bowed, and started back to Stronghold. The servants and soldiers followed after they, too, had acknowledged their new prince. Before too much longer only the family and the faradh’im would remain here. Tobin tried to pick out Sioned in the cluster of anonymous gray-clad Sunrunners. At last Tobin saw the ends of the long fire-gold hair that hung loose down Sioned’s back below her veil. There were so many things Tobin wanted to know about this woman whose colors she had touched so briefly, but there had been no chance to talk. What did Sioned think of Rohan, of Stronghold, of the Desert—of becoming a princess?
Rohan accepted the homage of the last of the squires, then went to Anthoula and touched her arm, nodding toward Tobin and the twins. The faradhi’s limp was even more pronounced as she approached and held out her hands to Maarken and Jahni. She led them forward to pay their last respects to their grandsire. They turned then to bow to Rohan, and started back to the keep. Tobin was grateful for her brother’s kindness—Anthoula was too old to endure the entire night here, and the boys were too young. She pressed his hand in silent thanks and stood beside him, watching the flames.
Scenes from their childhood seemed to flicker in the fire, and a smile came to her face beneath her veil. Their father had been so good to them, loving them with a vast, gruff, indulgent affection even when he did not entirely understand them. As the hours wore on, she
DRAGON PRINCE 129 relived the past in the flames, glimpsing Zehava playing dragons with them, teaching them how to survive in the Desert, taking them along as he rode his lands—Radzyn, Tiglath, Tuath Castle, Sky bowl, Remagev, Faolain Lowland, and a dozen smaller keeps where she and Rohan learned what it was to be ruler of the Desert. Tobin felt her grief burn away as the memories lit her heart.
Thank you for my life, Father. You never had much use for rituals, did you? But this one reminds me of all the things you gave me by giving me life. I love you as I love the Water I drink and the Air I breathe, the Earth’s bounty that feeds me and the Fire that’s between Chay and me. You gave me all those things. Thank you for my life.
When the three silent silver-cloaked moons were at their highest and their light very pure, the faradh’im formed a semicircle as close to the death stone as the Fire would allow. Smoke and bits of ash rose up to form a gray-black background as they linked hands, twenty-five slate-colored figures with Lady Andrade in their center. At any other time, Anthoula would have performed this ritual alone. Tobin was glad the old woman would be spared this strain—and that so many had gathered to give power to this ritual. She felt the flare of energy around her and swayed slightly. Chaynal, standing at her side, put his arm around her waist. She was aware of the exchange of frowns between him and Rohan over her head, but could not seem to look at either of them. Power was being woven nearby, and she sensed it along every nerve.
The faradh’im were stitching the moonlight into a silklike covering that reached the length and breadth of the land from the Sunrise Water to the island of Kierst-Isel, sending word to every other faradh’im that the old prince was dead. Tobin’s eyes were dazzled by the multiple prisms of color, each one different, all woven together in a loose, complex fabric flung out in all directions. And she was part of it—gliding with them down the skeins over moonswept meadows and mountains, across forests and lakes and deep gorges, skimming snowcaps and broad plains rich with wheat. She was a silver-winged bird gazing down at the whole of the continent, sending feathers of light drifting down to be caught by faradh’im in a hundred keeps. She was herself, and she was all the Sunrunners standing with their faces to the flames.
How beautiful it was, this landscape of an improbable dream. She flew with them, within them, colors shifting and dancing around her. Without any training and without any control but the general guidance of Andrade’s skill, Tobin was part of the gleaming fabric of moonlight across the land; was a bird flying free; was a dragon soaring and gliding through the night sky. She lost herself in image and color, dancing through light and shadow, enchanted.
“Tobin!”
She felt a vague disapproval as someone broke tradition by breaking the silence. Her name sounded again and something wrenched inside her. Too abruptly she returned, and was standing in the Desert near her father’s pyre. Chay’s arms were around her, his face stark with terror. A stabbing pain went through her skull and she whimpered, groping for that part of her that still winged over the moonlight. But she was alone, earth-bound, and cried out in anguish for the loss of that incredible beauty. From somewhere there came an answering cry, as despairing as her own, the voice of some unknown faradhi who understood her pain as none of the others could. She had a swift image of bright colors gone dark, and wanted to weep.
“Sioned!” called out another voice, and with faint surprise she realized it was the first time she had heard her brother speak the girl’s name. She shook like wind chimes in a storm, her bones clashing wild chords as each heartbeat brought new pain lancing through her head. “Sioned!” Rohan called again.
But it was Andrade who answered. “Urival—keep her breathing! Sioned, help me!”
The colors intensified, needles of reds and blues and greens slicing deep into her flesh and bone. Some of them hurt as they were torn away, but others melted into her body and she recognized these as her own.
Tobin became aware that she was propped against someone’s chest and there were hands around her ribs, squeezing rhythmically to keep her breathing. Urival, she thought, not even wondering how she knew. Someone else knelt at her left side, holding her hands, and without opening her eyes she knew it was Sioned. She could sense Andrade just as easily on her right. She sagged back, unutterably weary and desperately glad to be alive.
“Tobin?” Chay whispered, and at last she opened her eyes. He was kneeling by Sioned, the flames shivering along the lines of his face and shoulder. She shifted away from Urival’s support and toward her husband. Freeing her hands, she touched his cheek and smiled slightly.
“Stay right where you are,” Andrade ordered sharply. “I’m not going to tell you twice, so listen carefully. You were nearly shadow-lost tonight, Tobin, and if Sioned and I hadn’t known your colors, you would have died. Don’t you ever attempt to follow a Sunrunner again!”
Milar gave a soft gasp. “Is that what happened? But how could she do it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Andrade shrugged. “She has the gifts, Mila.”
“From me.” The princess turned her head away.
“But it was beautiful!” Tobin protested. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of!”
“Of course it isn’t,” Andrade said, casting an annoyed look at her twin. “Just the same, you shouldn’t have been able to do it.”
“It wasn’t her highness’ doing, my Lady,” Sioned whispered, her head bent. “I was the one who caused it. Forgive me. It’s because I’d touched her before, you see. I—I’m not fit to wear my rings. ...”
Andrade rocked back on her heels, scowling. But it was Urival who spoke in deliberately mild tones, saying, “I thought I taught you better than that.”
“It would seem she was not paying sufficient attention,” Rohan said coldly.
Sioned flinched. But though they all stared at him in shock, no one dared make the retort such arrogant rudeness deserved. He was not brother or son or friend tonight; he was the prince.
Andrade finally broke the silence. “Chay, take her back to the keep and make her rest. She needs time to heal.”
“But she’ll be all right,” he said, not quite a question.
Tobin pushed herself to a sitting position, hiding sudden dizziness. “I wish you’d stop talking about me as if 1 weren’t here. I’m fine.”
“We’ll see,” Andrade said. “Chay, get her into bed.” Rising to her feet, she took Milar’s arm and returned to Zehava’s pyre.
Tobin submitted meekly as Urival helped her to stand and gave her into Chay’s worried keeping. After assuring himself that she could walk, he didn’t let her; he picked her up and carried her the whole three measures, telling her to keep her mouth shut when she began a protest. She looked back once over her shoulder at her brother, who stood alone and rigid and staring at Sioned’s bowed head.
Tobin managed to stay awake until Chay had tucked her into their bed and made her swallow a cup of wine. After the day’s fasting and the events of the night, the wine hit her like a fist to the jaw. The next she knew, it was morning and he was still at her side. The dark stubble of his beard scratched her cheek as he caught her fiercely against him.
“You scared me to death, you silly bitch,” he growled.
She snuggled into his arms, rightly interpreting this as proof of his love, then kissed his neck and pulled away. “I’m quite all right now. Have you been awake all night?”
He placed her back on the pillows as if she was made of Fironese crystal. “You stopped breathing out there, you know. So I kept count while you were sleeping.”
She bit her lip, then managed, “I’m sorry, love.”
“You ought to be. Turn over and go back to sleep.”
“I can’t. I have to talk to Sioned before Rohan does— and especially before Andrade gets the chance to shout at her. It really wasn’t her fault, you know.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind.” He was frowning.
“Chay.” Tobin sighed impatiently. “Does she seem like the kind of person who’d be so careless? Or, to put it another way, would Andrade have chosen her for Rohan if she was? I know what I experienced last night. I want her to explain exactly what happened, that’s all. We both have to know.”
“I can’t argue about that.”
She hesitated, then plucked at his sleeve. “Does it matter to you? That I’ve turned out to be—“
“What matters to me is that you’re still safe. And it hasn’t been proven that you’re faradhi. I’ll get a servant to go find the girl.” He rose and went to the door, then turned. “But if anything like this ever happens again—“
“It won’t,” she promised but did not think it wise to tell him just yet that it would be because Sioned was to teach her the uses of her gifts.
The Sunrunner arrived within moments of the summons, as if she had been waiting for it—or fearing it. She wore the same gray gown of the previous night, though the veil was gone; by the sand clinging to the material below the knees and the harsh circles beneath her eyes, Tobin knew she had not slept and probably had not even lain down on her bed. Sioned bowed deeply, sat down in a chair near the bed when invited to, but would not look at either of them.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Tobin began. “It was an accident, if I understand correctly what happened.”
“I wish somebody’d explain it to me,” Chay muttered.
Sioned stared at her tightly laced fingers. “Some days ago Lady Andrade communicated with me on the sunlight back at Goddess Keep, my lord. Princes Tobin was part of that sunrunning, and I learned her highness’ colors.”
“My wife is not a faradhi” Chay said.
Tobin shrugged. “Do you remember the only time you ever took me sailing? I was sick the instant I stepped into the skiff.”
“That was because you were pregnant and we didn’t know it yet,” he replied stubbornly.
“No, love,” she said gently. “That wasn’t the reason.”
He glared at her, then at Sioned’s bowed head. “All right,” he said at length. “Tell me what happened.”
“I’m unfit to wear my rings,” Sioned murmured. “The prince was right.”
“It was not your fault, and my brother is a fool,”
Tobin said. “And Andrade should have known I’d be caught up in it.”
“Not even she knows everything,” Chay observed.
“But she’s always known I have the gifts.” Tobin watched his eyes for a moment, then turned to Sioned again. “It was indescribable, Sioned. I’ve never seen or felt such beauty in my life.”
“You sensed what we were doing and wanted to be part of it, your highness. But you were never trained. Because we’d touched each other before, you recognized my colors and I yours. It’s very hard to explain, my lord,” she went on, finally looking at Chay. “Think of it like a Fironese crystal window, with sunlight and moonlight shining through it. Every person is made of a unique pattern of colors that faradh’im can touch. I know it sounds odd—like being able to touch a scent. Faradh’im learn their own colors very early, and keep the patterns in their minds so they can return to their own light.”
“And because you and Andrade knew Tobin’s colors, you could bring her back. Otherwise, we would have lost her.”
“It shouldn’t have happened, my lord. I’m sorry.” She paused, twisting her hands together in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she repeated.
“It was beautiful,” Tobin said wistfully. “So much light, threading all through itself like a great tapestry of jewels.”
“And the shadows they cast,” Sioned added quietly. “We’re all made up of shadows, too.”
Chay shook his head. “I’m not sure 1 understand it, but. . . .” He met Tobin’s gaze and she glanced to the door. “I don’t want any more apologies from you, my lady,” he told Sioned as he got to his feet. “It happened, and it’s over. And now I think I’ll go check on the boys.” He bent over to kiss Tobin, and left.
Tobin sat up straighter in bed, wishing Sioned would look at her. “Subtle, isn’t he?” she said by way of easing the tension.
The Sunrunner finally met her gaze, a little smile teasing one corner of her mouth. Tobin took a quick survey of her features, seeing passion and stubbornness, intelli- gence and pride. Rohan just might have met his match as well as his mate, she told herself whimsically.
“I’ll have to learn some things about being faradhi. Will you teach me, Sioned?”
“If Lady Andrade says I may—“
“I think she will. She never lets anyone or anything of potential use get away from her. I know my aunt very well. I want to ask you about another thing that happened last night. I sensed someone calling out, someone who wasn’t a part of the group here.”
The Sunrunner frowned. “Calling out how?”
She thought for a moment. “It was terrible to be torn away from the weaving,” she said slowly. “He seemed to understand that. There was such despair in his voice.”
“His?”
“I don’t know how I could tell, but I’m almost positive it was a man.”
Sioned rose and walked over to the windows that overlooked the fountain down below in the gardens. “You’re more gifted than Lady Andrade suspects. It’s not easy to tell sex from a person’s colors. Which did you sense?”
“Sapphire, mostly—and something that felt like a black diamond, if such a thing can exist. Why?”
“You think in gem tints,” Sioned commented, turning to face her. “That’s a very ancient way of identifying faradh’im. Color patterns stay the same, but the shadings can change sometimes. Urival has a theory that when paler colors grow dark, like this black diamond you sensed, then something has happened to alter a Sunrunner’s personality. Sometimes it’s a reflection of mood.”
“Do you know who this man might be?”
“No, your highness. But I’ll tell Urival about it, if you like.”
“It was probably just an echo of my own loss. It really was an incredible experience. One I’d like to repeat, after you’ve taught me a few things. Now, before Chay gets back, and speaking as woman to woman—what do you think of my brother?”
The unexpected query brought a crimson flush to Sioned’s cheeks. “You know the colors of my thoughts, your highness,” she said with admirable control. “You should know that, too.”
“I’m afraid you found out more about me than I did about you. You’re sapphires and emeralds and something else besides, but that’s not what I’m interested in right now. What do you think of Rohan?”
Her spine stiffened and her green eyes shifted to the open windows again. Before Tobin could think up a way to put the girl at ease and coax the information out of her—and had she just accused Chay of being unsubtle? —the door burst open and her sons ran into the bedchamber. She pulled them close for a hug, and when she had settled them beside her on the bed, she saw that Sioned had slipped silently out of the room.