Rohan left the High Prince’s tent in great good humor, for he alone of the princes knew Andrade well enough to understand the little quirk of her brows as she read treaties with his signature on them. He had not done too badly for a putative idiot, he told himself—but he wondered if his aunt would catch the real intent behind certain otherwise innocent agreements with Princes Clutha and Volog.
No self-respecting cow lasted more than one season in the Desert, no matter how hearty the breed, and Meadow-lord had produced too many cattle in the last few years. Rohan had offered to trade Clutha some of Chay’s best horses and a tidy amount of cash for the hides of cattle that had been butchered to thin out the herds. This was his first step down a much longer road; the treaty with Volog was the second. From that prince—Sioned’s cousin—he had gained the loan of two masters in the art of parchment making, in exchange for increased shipments of glass ingots to Kierst’s crafters. His official reason was that he wished his nephews’ education enhanced by copies of the books in Rohan’s own extensive library. Thus was Chay’s contribution explained.
But what he really wanted, someday in the future, was to set up a school. Rohan had had the advantage of an indulgent—if bewildered—father willing to spend any sum to keep his voracious scholar of a son supplied with books. But not every young highborn, and certainly none of the lower classes, were similarly fortunate. One of the things he wanted to work out was a means through which talented young men and women could be educated, their minds trained, their gifts explored. There were schools for some of the major crafts—the crystallers in Firon, the weavers in Cunaxa—but most people were locked into a family trade, no matter what their own natural inclinations. He knew his scheme would find an enthusiastic partner in Sioned, who was as mind-hungry as he. He was looking forward to a winter alone with her at Stronghold for more reasons than the obvious.
He stacked the parchments and leaned back to stretch, then heard footsteps on the other side of the partition separating his private quarters from the more public area of the tent. “Walvis?” he called out, and a moment later the squire appeared. Rohan stared and gave a low whistle. “Sweet Goddess, what happened to you?”
Walvis’ freckled cheeks crimsoned, accenting the angry bruise over one eye. “Nothing, my lord,” he muttered.
“Come over here and let me see.” Rohan turned the boy so he faced the light coming in through the fine mesh screening of a window. “If that’s ‘nothing,’ I’d hate to see your idea of ‘something.’ “ He picked up the squire’s right hand to inspect it. “From the looks of your knuckles, you gave something back.”
“That I did, my lord,” Walvis replied grimly.
“Would you care to tell me the trouble?”
“A matter of honor.”
“Yours or mine?”
“Both.” A man’s stubborn jaw suddenly jutted out of the child-round face. “One of Prince Durrikeri’s squires said that—he said you were—“
“Yes?” Rohan prompted, knowing that under no circumstances must he laugh.
“I don’t like to repeat such things, my lord.”
“Repeat them anyway.”
The boy gulped and blushed again. “He said—that you were going to have trouble getting a son on any woman because—forgive me, my lord—because you’re too stupid to find the pisspot, let alone—“
“I see.” Rohan kept stern control over his facial muscles.
“I repaid him for the insult, my lord!”
“I can see that, too.”
Walvis touched the bruise and shrugged. “I was really something to see a while ago,” he admitted.
“Mmm.” Rohan turned away, occupying himself with the arrangement of the parchments in his traveling desk. When he could keep a straight face, he said, “I trust you have use enough of your limbs to go see our jeweler at the Fair.”
“Are my lady’s emeralds ready?”
“I’d like you to find out. If they’re finished, bring them back here. And if they’re not—“
“I’ll find out why!”
“Gently, please,” Rohan cautioned with a smile. “After all, we’ve given the poor man hardly any time at ail. Off you go, now.” When the squire was at the partition he called softly, “Walvis?”
The boy turned. “Yes, my lord?”
“I’ll wager Prince Durriken’s man looks much worse than you do.”
Walvis grinned proudly. “He won’t be chewing anything harder than water for days—nor walking straight up, either!”
This time the laughter escaped. As Walvis bowed and left him, Rohan’s amusement turned to a sigh. Oh, to be eleven years old again and able to take the direct route toward a goal—preferably with a solid right to Roelstra’s jaw. He still smarted over the blocks the High Prince had tried to place in the way of his harmless trade of glass and horses for the craftmasters and cattle skins. It had been nearly impossible to keep his mouth shut and look bewildered while Volog and Clutha did his arguing for him.
A mild commotion outside the tent distracted him, and through the window opening he caught sight of Camigwen directing the placement of a dozen long tables. Rohan belatedly recalled that this evening he would be hosting an informal dinner. There would be dancing afterward, and a very late night—for all the work was done and it was time to enjoy the social life to the fullest before tomorrow’s Lastday ceremonies.
“Camigwen? May I interrupt for a moment?”
She turned, squinted to see through the mesh, and said, “Of course, my lord.” She hurried around to the entrance and ventured inside, her eyes darting around curiously at the furnishings of his private quarters. “Everything’s going splendidly, my lord,” she reported. “There’s no more rain coming up from the south, so no danger of our outdoor feast turning soggy. The cooks are well in hand—they’ve finished the roasts and the ices and wines are chilling in the river, and I’ve timed the breads to be nice and hot just as dinner begins.”
“You’re a marvel,” he said, smiling. “You’ve taken wonderful care of me here and on the journey—and I’ve been wondering if you’d like to make the arrangement permanent.”
Camigwen frowned. “I can write down all the directions—“
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he scolded gently. “Sit down, won’t you?”
She sank onto a small upholstered stool, hands folded in her lap, and he spent a moment in silent admiration of her extraordinary dark eyes. It was as if one could see her heart and mind through them, so limpid and clear were they. For an instant he envied Ostvel the sight of those eyes smiling at him every morning of his life, then smiled. There would be another pair of eyes, green as summer leaves and just as extraordinary, to gaze at him.
“You’ve lived at Stronghold,” he began, “so you know how complex life there can be. I need someone who won’t drive me to distraction the way my present chamberlain does. He’s really my mother’s man, not mine. I also need someone to oversee the guards and all those other things my father used to do for himself, but that I’ve never been much interested in. Would you and Ostvel consider coming to live at Stronghold and taking on those duties? I know it’s not very important work compared to what you could be doing at other courts as a Sunrunner. And I know Ostvel has the talent and ambition to become chief steward at Goddess Keep one day. But I wish you’d both think about it.”
A flush rose into her dark skin, “You’re kind to ask, my lord.”
“No, I’m selfish. I need you both. I’d consider it an honor if you made Stronghold your home.”
Walvis burst into the tent just as Camigwen started to reply. The boy skidded to a stop on the carpet, nearly dropped the velvet pouch he carried, and gasped out, “My lord, they’re finished—just look!”
He upended the pouch onto the desk. Eight emeralds as big as Rohan’s thumbnail were set in a maze of delicate silver, as if moonlight had been faradhi-spw around the stones. Two more emeralds had been worked into matching earrings, and yet another surmounted a fantastic silver hairpin sprinkled with tiny diamonds. Rohan had neither specified those last two nor provided the diamonds; the jeweler had evidently been inspired.
“Lady Sioned will outshine the starlight,” Walvis said proudly.
“Oh, yes,” Rohan murmured. With an effort, he tore his eyes from the jewels and slid them back into the pouch. “Lock these up for now, please, Walvis. And thank you.”
“You do mean to marry her!” Camigwen exclaimed.
“I thought you knew!” he answered, startled.
She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around him. “Of course we’ll come to Stronghold, Ostvel and I! We thought you didn’t want her!”
“Now, what ever gave you that idea?” he growled, hugging back.
“You did, my lord,” Walvis contributed, grinning.
Cami stepped back, hands on hips, dark eyes dancing. “You’re a dangerous man, my lord prince.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but—dangerous? There’s a condition for your coming to Stronghold, by the way.” He tried for sternness, but neither voice nor face obeyed. “I have to set an example, you know, and I will not have you and Ostvel in my household unless , you’re properly married. Now, what do you say to that?”
She sank into a deep curtsy marred by shaking shoulders and a giggle. “Dragon-spawned you were, I’ll take oath!”
“Actually, it’s Sioned and I who’ll follow your example, for I had tomorrow in mind for you and Ostvel and it’ll take time to arrange a wedding for us. Will that suit?”
“Perfectly!”
Rohan got to his feet and impulsively kissed her. “Lucky man, our Ostvel,” he said to make her blush.
“Lucky woman, our Sioned!” she retorted, and they laughed.
Palila sat alone in her cabin, colossally bored. One of her maids had just finished rubbing oils into her body to keep the pregnancy from marking her flesh, but even that sensuous pleasure no longer held any charms for her. She wanted to be out in the world, enjoying men’s glances of admiration and women’s glares of envy. By the Storm God, how she hated being pregnant.
Roelstra’s entry into her cabin startled her nearly speechless. She gave rapid thanks that she was dressed in a lavish bedrobe and her hair was arranged as he liked it. But he did not appear to notice. To any other man she would have presented the very picture of ripening womanhood in which he would find smug pride. But Roelstra had seen more child-heavy females than any man except a physician.
“Crigo doesn’t seem well,” he said without preamble.
“Has he been taking too much, or too little?”
“Probably the former, after his deprivation during the journey here.” He paced the cabin restlessly, fingers brushing over tables, chairs, brass fixtures, tapestry curtains shielding the windows. “I’ve forgotten what the usual dose is of dranath to wine. It’s been a long time since we took him—useless fool,” he added irritably.
Every instinct she possessed stood up and howled out a warning, but she managed a smile. “A profitable time, my lord. I believe it’s half a handful to a large pitcher. But why not ask him? He’s been preparing his own for years.”
The High Prince shrugged. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s been taking too much. He’s sitting in his tent now, barely coherent, unable even to tell me where he keeps it. We’ll have to ration him, Palila. Where’s the supply?”
“In the third drawer of my wardrobe.” She watched as he retrieved the wooden box from among the array of her filrny silk underclothes—a sight that invariably turned his thoughts to making love with the woman who owned them. But he didn’t even see her. “What shall I tell him when he wants more?”
“He won’t. I don’t want him bothering you, my pet.” He traced the carvings on the box with one finger, then met her gaze, smiling. “Not a single thing should worry you, in case it might worry our son.”
She cried out happily. “That’s the first time you’ve said it will be a boy!”
“I hope it will be so,” he corrected. “But then, I’ve been hoping for twenty-five years. Still, by the next Rialla I just may be presenting the rabble with their next High Prince.”
“I hope he pisses on Andrade,” she declared, dimpling.
“No son of mine would have such barbaric manners— but I like the idea!” He came to her, ran one finger down her cheek. “Rest well, my dear. I’ll want you at your loveliest for the Lastday celebrations.”
“As you command me, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him.
“I wish my daughters were as careful of my pleasures as you are, Palila. Remind me to tell you about their maneuverings, especially regarding that Sunrunner girl.” His eyes lit with amusement—and something more—as he smiled and left her.
She sank back into the cushions and shredded their fringe distractedly. Instinct continued to shriek at her while she reviewed every word of the conversation, cold to her marrow as the words became a single hideous sentence: her sentence of dismissal and Crigo’s of death.
She had not lived with Roelstra for over fourteen years without coming to understand him. His gaze wandered each time she approached term, but each time she managed the affairs herself, making sure they were brief and unproductive. The girls vanished from Castle Crag once Palila was physically recovered from childbirth. It was part of her longevity as Roelstra’s mistress that she saw to his pleasures even when she was unable to participate in them herself.
But this time was different. She sensed it along every nerve. She reviewed the princesses’ descriptions of the faradhi girl, stripping them of jealousy and adding to them Roelstra’s own words about Crigo’s uselessness. This time his need for a new woman had coincided with his need for a new Sunrunner—and this Sioned was his choice for both.
Palila used the energy of panic to lever herself up from her couch. Her back ached as she went to the wardrobe and searched the lower shelves for a small packet always kept with her lesser jewels. Dranath was an herb that increased its potency over time, and this packet was very old indeed—one of the first given her by the old mountain witch. She grunted as she got to her feet with the drug clutched in her hand, returning to the couch out of breath after even this small exertion. Crigo would be brought to her here, and have a strong dose tonight; the barge could be in the worst storm off Goddess Keep and he would think himself on dry land. He would need all the false strength dranath could give him, for tonight he would do for her what he had not done in more than five winters. He would deliberately seek another faradhi’s colors on the moonlight.
Andrade sat in a comfortable chair, a plate of food on her lap and a wry smile on her lips. The atmosphere of Rohan’s outdoor dinner party was romantic enough even for her fool of a nephew. Torches cast golden light over faces made rosy by wine, a breeze off the river stirred the huge buckets of flowers around the perimeter of the dancing area, and musicians played lilting tunes she recalled from her girlhood. Immune to the ambience, she watched the couples around her succumb to it—several young highborns and their Chosen ladies whom she herself would unite on the morrow, and various married couples who should have been long past such nonsense. Camigwen and Ostvel had eyes for no one but each other; Chay and Tobin were behaving as if they’d just fallen in love, standing over by Rohan’s tent feeding each other wine-soaked berries and giggling like children. Andrade sighed. She would be hard-pressed to find some intelligent conversation tonight. Thank the Goddess she had never lost either heart or head to a man. Still, as she watched a young lord glide by with his intended wife on his arm, she wondered briefly what she might be missing.
Urival approached, slightly unsteady as he balanced a bowl of fruit and wine in one hand and a goblet in the other. He sank down at her feet, smiled happily up at her, and announced, “Wonderful evening!”
“Anything becomes bearable after enough wine. How many is that for you?” She nodded at his winecup.
“My lady,” he said with mock regret, “Ive lost count.” Then he grinned. “Rohan’s being a bit obvious, isn’t he?”
“Aren’t they all? Still, it’s good to see them happy. May the Goddess keep her blessing on them.” Her gaze sought Roelstra automatically. He was seated beneath a tree with several of his daughters.
“Don’t worry,” Urival soothed. “He hasn’t done a thing tonight except smile and eat. He doesn’t even notice what a fool Rohan’s making of himself.”
“He’s not being foolish. Sioned won’t let him.” Andrade chuckled. “Watch now—he’s gone over to her again. She’ll frown just a little, back off, and—there, she’s away!”
“It’s a good thing one of them is still sober. Were we ever that young, do you think?”
“Longer ago than I care to remember, my friend.”
Urival laughed. “Have some more wine, and you might remember more than is good for your dignity.”
Rohan, deprived of the object of his desires, went to his sister and appropriated her goblet right out of her hand. “I’m thirsty,” he explained.
“Rohan! Give that back! And stop being such an idiot with Sioned. You’re supposed to be a witless prince who hasn’t yet made up his mind—not a truly witless one who can’t hide the fact that he’s in love, or drunk, or both!”
He grinned at her, holding the goblet high out of her reach. “Neither lanthe nor Pandsala is here yet, and they’re the only serious pretenders to my royal hand and arm and all the rest of me. Besides, I haven’t said more than ten words to Sioned all evening.” He paused. “I may dance with her, though.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed. “If I touched her, it wouldn’t end with just a dance.”
Chay, who had been listening with an indulgent smile, plucked his wife’s winecup from Rohan’s fingers. “All things are forgiven a drunken prince.”
“Drunk on happiness,” Rohan agreed.
Tobin giggled. “Rohan, you’re beautiful!”
“So I am! And so are you!” he added generously. “Ah, here’s Pandsala come to have her dinner at last. I’ll go be sweet to her, shall I, and confound them all!”
He danced with Pandsala and with Roelstra’s other daughters as well. He led his sister in a measure and made her laugh so hard she forgot the steps. He danced with the wives and daughters of other princes and lords, presenting them with what they expected to see: a young man excited by giving his first big party and more than a little drunk on his own wine. If anyone outside his immediate circle suspected the true source of his high spirits— well, they could suspect as they pleased until tomorrow night. He could hardly wait.
Music and wine flowed on late into the evening. The moons rose full and bright, and Rohan ordered most of the torches doused so that silver shadows could play more softly over fine silks and lovely faces. He was getting just drunk enough to risk asking Sioned to dance with him, but when he looked around there was no sign of her red-gold head. He sighed mournfully. She had probably gotten jealous again, watching him dance with every woman but her, and gone back to her tent.
Now, there was a thought.
He turned with a smile on his face and every intention of leaving his own party—to find lanthe boldly inviting herself into his arms for the next dance. She was temptingly beautiful in a deep violet gown strewn with tiny silver beads that glistened in the moonlight. He accepted her hands on his shoulders, put his own about her waist, and they began the slow steps required by the music.
“Isn’t it interesting that they’ve stopped playing those country dances?” she asked.
“How much did you pay them?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Quite a bit!
You’re not the fool you pretend to be, Rohan. I saw that days ago.”
“You flatter me, cousin. I’m not wise enough to pretend anything.”
“You’re lying to me, cousin.” Her body pressed more closely to his and her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to lie with me rather than to me?”
“We settled that before, as I recall.”
“Ah, no.” Her fingers slid down his arms, back up to his neck, admiring him. “You need me, Rohan. There’s passion in your eyes that I can match. I can help you with my father, too—no one knows him the way I do.”
“You’re a clever girl.”
“I’m so glad you finally noticed.” Their gazes locked, bright blue to deep brown. “You want me,” she breathed. “You wanted me the other night, and you want me now.”
“I wanted a woman, and you were convenient for a time,” he said brutally. “Do you think your father would thank me for dishonoring his daughter?”
“Do you think he cares a damn for any of us?”
“Then he’s the fool, not I. He should be watching you without blinking. You’re a desperate lot, you princesses.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Oh, yes.”
The dance and the conversation ended there. He bowed and walked away from her, seeking another goblet of wine to cool his flesh where her fingers had touched him. The same kind of Fire sprang from Sioned’s body to his own—yet it was so very different. He wondered why.
When he felt in better control of himself, he turned back to the party. But lanthe was gone now, and so was Pandsala—and so was their father.
Sioned was not nearly as sober as her restraint in dealing with Rohan indicated. She watched from the shadow of a tent awning as he danced with any woman who caught his eye, amused until lanthe showed up out of nowhere. The sight of them breast to breast ignited something reckless inside Sioned. The man was hers, and it was time he started acting like it. More, it was time those damned royal bitches understood just who was going to be his princess.
She giggled softly to herself when his dance with lanthe ended and he went straight for the nearest goblet of wine, obviously in need of it. But her main attention was on lanthe, who paused for a moment to watch Rohan with glittering dark eyes. All at once her gaze found Sioned, and hatred was scrawled all over the princess’ proud face. Sioned smiled sweetly. lanthe glared at her, picked up her long violet skirts, and strode off into the night, Sioned drained her winecup, set it on a table, and went after her.
“Your grace!” she called mockingly, and lanthe whirled around. They were in the area just outside Rohan’s camp, where only the moons illuminated the path. “I see you’re not wearing your silver jewelry tonight. Does this mean I should expect to find it in my tent as a token of your defeat?” lanthe’s brows arched delicately. “Do I look defeated to you? It’s not a rejected woman who spends time in Prince Rohan’s arms, Sunrunner.”
“That’s an odd thing for you to say, considering how little time you spent there the other night.” Sioned knew this was a mistake. One did not humiliate a woman as potentially dangerous as Princess lanthe. But she could not resist the chance to pay back a few insults. lanthe turned wordlessly away, rigid with fury, and started walking again. Sioned followed, laughing softly to taunt her. At last the princess swung around again.
“Leave me alone!”
“But I thought we were going to your tent so I could collect my winnings,” Sioned responded innocently.
“You have won nothing!”
“And you don’t even know what game’s being played!”
“You’re mistaken if you think it one of your choosing.” lanthe suddenly smiled, sleek and superior. Sioned ignored the warning and laughed again.
“I thought it had been established that the game is Rohan’s.”
“Not tonight.” And with that the princess pulled a slim silver knife from her belt, its jeweled haft winking purple and crimson.
Sioned was delighted. She lifted one hand almost casually and the blade began to glow. Sunrunner’s Fire licked lazily along the knife, moving toward lanthe’s fingers as Sioned exerted exquisite control. She had to admit that the princess was no coward; the tiny flames were nearly touching her hand before she finally dropped the knife.
“You/arad&r witch!” lanthe spat. “I’ll have him, one way or another—and when I’m his princess I’ll see to it that no court anywhere will have you! You’ll spend the rest of your life walled up in Goddess Keep!”
“And that’s what you’re most afraid of, isn’t it? Being likewise walled up at Castle Crag!” She gave the princess a mocking bow. “Learn the rules of the game before you try to play it, your grace. Good night.”
Sioned left lanthe trembling with impotent fury. Exhilarated by the encounter, she nearly danced down to the river, envisioning similar scenes in the future when she would have the power of her position as princess as well as Sunrunner. The first and possibly the best would come tomorrow night when she appeared at Rohan’s side as his Chosen. The prospect of lanthe’s rage and mortification enchanted her, and she laughed aloud.
“I had hoped to find you alone, my lady,” a familiar voice said behind her.
Palila sat on the edge of her couch, staring at Crigo’s prone body on her carpet. “Damn you, wake up!” she hissed. “You’ve had enough wine poured down you to float a merchantman!”
One of her maids stood by, wringing her hands. “My lady, he doesn’t look at all well—“
“Of course he doesn’t, you fool! Give him more wine!”
Application of another goblet of drugged wine, most of which spilled from the Sunrunner’s slack lips onto the rug, brought a groan from him. Palila gestured impatiently, and the maid helped Crigo to sit up. His dazed eyes began to focus.
“Slap him,” Palila ordered.
One blow, two—and Crigo’s hand came up to grab the woman’s wrist. “No more,” he said thickly. “Get away from me.”
“Get out,” Palila seconded. The maid fled and the door slammed closed behind her. “Can you think now, or do you need more?”
He ran a hand back through his limp hair. “I was asleep.”
“Never mind that! Allow me to tell you what you’ve missed. Roelstra has his eye on a new mistress and a new Sunrunner—and they’re the same woman!”
“Sioned?” he breathed.
“Neither you nor I can afford to let him trap her the way he trapped you with dranath.”
“Why don’t you warn her? Oh—of course. She would hardly believe you. And then there’s your little understanding with Pandsala.”
She gasped. “How did you—“
“Does it matter? Let’s just say you don’t want the girl rescued too soon. After Roelstra’s had her, Rohan won’t want her anymore and Pandsala will have a clear field. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go, Palila?”
“You’re thinking rather precisely, considering the condition you were in when I had you brought here.”
“Amazing stuff, dranath.” He got shakily to his feet, using a chair as leverage.
“The point is that we’re both about to be replaced, and you can stop it.”
Crigo slid bonelessly into the chair, closing his eyes. “Goddess! How much did you give me?”
“Would you rather have woken up dead?” she snapped.
“Too kind, as ever. So you want me to warn her.”
“But, as you say, not too soon.”
Crigo began to laugh. “Poor Palila! Why should I help you? Seeing you go down would be my revenge on you at last.”
“Are you so deep in your drug that you don’t even care if you—“
“Your drug, dear lady, that you gave me and gave me and—“ He laughed again, ending in a fit of coughing.
“If Roelstra has her, he won’t need you—and he can’t let you live! Do you really want to die?”
Crigo shrugged. “I can’t see anymore what difference it would make.” He drew in a deep breath, shook his head. “I need moonlight,” he finished curtly.
She nearly moaned with relief and gestured to the windows. “There for the taking.”
“I can’t walk that far. Help me.” As her face twisted in disgust, he snarled, “If you want this, you’ll have to help! You gave me enough to addict ten faradh’iml Damn it, Palila, help me!”
He leaned on her during the short steps to the windows. She struggled to draw aside the heavy tapestry as Crigo braced himself against the wall and caught his breath. Moonlight streamed in over his ashen cheeks, his eyes that were sunken into bruised hollows.
“Do something!” Palila ordered.
“Shut up,” he said roughly, breathing hard. “You gave me too much. I can feel it. I don’t know how soon I’ll be dead, but I know damned well I’m going to die.”
“But you can’t! Not before you—“
“Before I’ve helped you? Sweet Goddess, Palila, do you think I’m going to do this thing for you?” He gave a feeble laugh. “There’s a certain freedom to it, you know— the knowledge that you’re about to die.”
She shrank back from him. He hardly noticed. One last time he gathered his knowledge and his waning strength, one last time to weave the cool moonlight as Lady Andrade herself had taught him years ago, when he had been young and worthy of the rings he earned. He let his own colors form in his thoughts, marveling that the darkness that had dimmed them for so long now had fallen away, as if oncoming death had polished a renewed and youthful luster on gifts he had tarnished. So beautiful, he thought, fingering the strands of moonlight and weaving himself into them, this one last time as a true faradhi, a Sunrunner who could ride the light.
The sweet power rushed through him and the threads twined at his command into a single supple strand. His own colors merged into the moonlight, paled, washed away as he deliberately forgot the pattern of light that was his alone. He no longer cared. Shadow-lost would have been a terrifying death, but Crigo would die on the light. He wove himself into cool moonfire and fled into it, losing himself. The last time—but such sweet freedom on the moonlight, such final fulfilling peace.
Andrade’s rings glinted as she lifted a hand to brush what she thought was a stray insect from her forehead. Her fingers encountered nothing but a loose wisp of hair. She walked faster toward her tent, shaking her head to clear it of wine, and chided herself for succumbing to the excellent Syrene vintage Rohan had provided with dinner. The sensation of something winged touching her forehead came again, and again she wiped irritably at her brow. Then she stumbled against Urival as a deep, flesh-shrinking cry split the night sky.
Dragons. She looked up and saw their spread wings black against the stars, across the moons. “Dragoncry before dawn,” she whispered, staring up at the fierce shapes led by the single sire who again bellowed out his mastery of the sky.
“Don’t tell me you believe that legend,” Urival said, but his voice was not quite as casual as his words.
“Dragoncry before dawn,” Andrade repeated in hushed tones. “Death before dawn. Can’t you feel it?” She shivered, rubbed her face with her hands. But the colors of her rings lanced into her eyes, shattered colors deliberately broken, paling shards of glass lacerating her senses. She cried out and clutched at Urival’s arm. He called her name, but she had no will or voice to reply. Her face turned to the moons, cold white light shadowed by dragonwings, merciless and beautiful. She felt a Sun-runner’s touch, heard a voice both weary and ecstatic, grasped for the fading colors. She knew who this man was, remembered the elegant pattern from years ago— but he eluded her, escaping on the thin unraveling moonlight even as she struggled to hold the weaving together. He was gone—but not before he had told her what she had to know.
“Sioned!” she screamed. “Goddess, no!”
Uriva! caught her up in his arms and ran headlong for her tent. Safely within the blue silk walls, the moonlight lost its hold on her. Urival placed her on the cot and crouched beside her, chafing her hands. “Tell me.” he rasped.
“Find Sioned! Tell Rohan—Roelstra has her, he’ll—“
“How do you know?”
Above them in the night the dragonsire shrieked again, and Andrade shied away from the imagined feel of his wings against her face.
“Dragoncry before dawn—Urival, he’s dead, the Sun-runner is dead—died telling me—don’t let Sioned die, too!”