On first waking, he thought he had sickened with the Plague again. The grinding pain in his head, the fever, the swelling of eyes and tongue, the taste of dranath—all were the same. But as he struggled out of the murky darkness of illness and drugs, he felt the fire in his right shoulder and smelled the acrid medicine from dressings there. The same stench had permeated the room where his father had died. Rohan faced the memory and the possibility that he, too, might be dying. Light-headed, he groped to feel the extent of the injury. His wrists were caught in a firm grip and a voice he did not recognize told him to be still.
Panic lurched through his weakened body. Thick of tongue and wits, he was trapped within muscles that would not respond. “Sioned—“ he tried to say.
“Hush. Sleep now, and you’ll soon be better.”
Something about the voice pinched at his memory, and he fought the hands that grasped his own. “Sioned!”
“You must sleep now.”
Heavy wine laced with dranath and something else was poured down him, and he gagged. Another voice, a masculine one, swore. A second pair of hands held his face and more wine went down him. A fit of coughing nearly took the top of his head off, and contractions of muscles knotted his belly and shoulders and back.
“Lie down,” the man ordered, a’nd as the drugged wine seeped through him he had no choice but to obey. “I agreed to bring him here, not to nurse him,” the man went on irritably.
“Shut up,” the wo’man said, sounding slightly bored. “If you’d been more careful in the first place—“
“You’ll note he calls out for her,” the man jeered. “Did you expect him to call for you? I didn’t kick him that hard in the head.”
“Your jibes are as predictable as your rotten timing,” the woman responded acidly.
“He should be all right by tomorrow. The fever’s close to breaking.”
“You don’t understand the risk.”
“All you need is for him to be capable. I should think you wouldn’t want him to be coherent.”
“Your delicacy of phrasing also astounds me.”
Rohan almost had it, almost knew where he had heard that voice before. Yet even as he fumbled for the memory, the drugs swirled up, and he slept.
Sioned flexed her fingers inside dragonhide riding gloves, waiting in the coolness of the manor porch for her horse to be brought around. Aware of the crowd in Lord Baisal’s courtyard and their furtive glances at her, she neither paced nor fidgeted. A princess’ icy calm was a useful and strangely comforting refuge; by refusing to show emotions, she could also refuse to feeTthem.
Her brother approached as her gray stallion was led from the stables, and Sioned bit back impatience at the confrontation imminent in his eyes. She had no time.
“You’re still determined to do this crazy thing,” he accused, taking the stallion’s reins from the groom. “At least take a more substantial guard with you! You can’t know what’s out there—or whom.”
“Which is why my guard is so small, and my rather distinctive hair hidden, and my royal trappings gone,” she countered. “Goddess! A princess riding disguised through her own lands!” She grabbed the reins from him and swung up onto the gray’s back, wishing she could have left her head bare to the slight breeze. The sun was only two fingers up in the sky, and already it was hot. Six years of living in the Desert had not entirely accustomed her to its brutal climate, and this was only late spring. By summer she would be limp with exhaustion.
“I wish you’d wait until Lord Chaynal arrives,” Davvi said.
“You know what to tell him when he does,” She glanced around for Ostvel. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I doubt it. Be careful, Sioned. For Goddess’ sake, please be careful.”
“For my husband’s sake.” Then, leaning down to pat his shoulder, she said more gently, “Don’t worry so much.”
He snorted his opinion of this caution. “OstvePs on my side in this, you know. We had a long talk last night.”
“I expected nothing less from either of you. He’ll be your eyes watching over me, I’m sure.” She spied Ostvel through the milling horses and troops and servants, and said, “I must go. Stay safe, Dawi.”
Turning her mount, she rode to the gates where Ostvel and two men-at-arms waited for her. But she was waylaid by Lord Baisal, who came running from the encampment outside the walls, where Dawi’s men and those gathered overnight from the outer farms were established. In a few days the lower pastures and hills would be covered in tents, and Chay would make efficient sense of the chaos. But Sioned could not stay to see the armed power she commanded.
“My lady,” Lord Baisal pleaded. “I beg you not to leave so soon! What am I to do before Lord Chaynal arrives?”
“Feed the men, equip the horses, and .prepare yourself for war. If you have any spare moments, you might begin the design of your new keep. Farewell, my lord.”
She left him standing slack-jawed and staring, his expression a comic mixture of apprehension and delight. Ostvel, riding at her side, cast her a sidelong glance.
“He’ll hold you to that, you know.”
“If he manages to keep his wits and do what’s needed, he’ll have earned his stone castle.”
They rode through the confused camp outside the manor walls, north along the Faolain. Sioned knew how insane her actions must seem to everyone, and was determined to implement her plan before Chay and Tobin could arrive with new objections. Not that anything they might propose could sway her. There was no one else to do what she knew she must, and it was something of a relief that her personal desires coincided with her duty as wife and princess.
Lord Eltanin’s forces were locked into the defense of Tiglath; there would be no help for Rohan there. With Roelstra in the south, Chay could not lead an assault against Feruche. The castle was not susceptible to attack in any case, perched as it was on the cliffs with only two approaches, both well-guarded in peace and sure to be even more strictly watched in war. Rohan’s only hope was Sioned, his Sunrunner princess. She wondered if lanthe thought her incapable of violating her oath not to kill. She hoped so; it would make things easier when the killing time came.
Darkness blew at him, alternately warm and chill on the sweat that drenched his body. Eyes wide, heart racing, he shook his head and tried to find anchor in the reality of his own flesh. But the wind hit him again and the darkness billowed, and the dragons reached for him with acid claws.
He scrambled into a huddle against the cavern wall, hard stones at his back, and stared in horror at the scenes around him. Dragons fighting, mating, killing; jaws dripping blood and eyes flaring like exploding jewels; bodies weaving, thrusting, wings beating, tails lashing. The huge eggs cracked open, split with a terrible sound to reveal furious hatchlings who tore at each other tooth and talon, fire spewing from their throats to sear bright and hot as sunlight through the swirling darkness of the cave.
He cried out as dragonfire charred the skin of his face and arms, the stench of burning skin overpowering even the stink of dragon blood and dragon mating. They had not yet seen him, and he tried to melt into the cavern wall. They fought on, rutted on, exhaled fire and butchered each other, driven by the need to mate and the need to survive. The wind hissed like shaken silk through the cave and he cringed back, sweat and blood drying cold and then springing up hot and salty on his blackened skin. Violence swept around him and he shook with terror that those jewel eyes would find him, those bloody claws rip the remaining flesh from his bones. A rampag- ing sire loomed up over him, brought by a gust of wind, and he screamed, choking on a gush of bitter fluid in his throat that tasted of dranath.
“Rohan—!”
He reached for her blindly, clung shaking to her cool body. “Sioned—“
“Hush, darling, it’s all right now. I’m here.” There was a slick metallic sound like a sword being unsheathed, and he squeezed his dazzled eyes shut as sunlight streamed into the cave. Sioned, his Sunrunner princess, bringing with her the sun. “We’re safe, love.”
He could no longer smell the dragons or his own oozing blood, nor feel the fiery breath on his skin. The soft breeze touching him now was scented with starbriar, tender as her caresses on his back and nape. He shuddered, turning his face to her shoulder. He had forgotten what dranath could do to the mind.
There had been no cave, no dragons, no fire. Only the drug and his fever, the hold of both broken now. He rested against Sioned, ashamed of his panic. She curled up beside him on the bed and whispered gentle things until he slept.
Hard riding through the day and night brought Sioned to Stronghold just before noon. She wanted nothing more than to collapse, but kept herself alert, pacing the main courtyard where the stones’ heat radiated up like a searing fountain. When the sun was at its highest she felt the tentative touch of his colors, gathered in the strands of light, and heard him speak.
Goddess blessing, my lady. We have reached Tiglath and warned Lord Eltanin. As yet there is no attack, but the signs of it rise with the sand on the horizon. Walvis plans and prepares, and we wait for your orders.
Sioned nodded, pleased. Goddess blessing, Sunrunner. Continue preparing for war, as is being done in the south where Roelstra’s armies are camped across the Faolain. There will be no help. You must do all on your own. Tell Walvis he is not to attempt an attack on Feruche. He must defend Tiglath. The prince will soon be freed, I promise. Now open yourself to me, Kleve, and I will show you
Princess Tobin’s colors. Send to her from now on. She L not faradhi-trained, and will not be able to reply to you, but give her any information you would give to me.
My lady—what of you? What will you do?
I don’t matter. Watch now, and feel, so you’ll be able to find her on the sunlight.
She concentrated on relaying the bright and lovely pattern that was Tobin to the faraway Sunrunner. When she was sure he could recognize and contact the princess, she unraveled their connecting ribbons of light before he could ask further questions.
“I trust you’re finished, and can come in out of this glare,” Ostvel said.
She glanced at him, surprised by his presence. “Yes. Walvis will know soon that help cannot come from the south. He’ll have to lead the defense of Tiglath himself.” She looked around the courtyard, a chaos of people and noise and brightness that suddenly dizzied her. “Ostvel— take me inside before I fall over,” she breathed.
He was careful to make it appear as if his hand at her elbow was only a courtesy offered a princess, for it would not do for her to seem weak. The steps were endless, but at last she was in her chambers, sinking into a soft chair by the windows. Ostvei brought her water and a wet cloth as she unwound the heavy scarf from her head and let her hair fall free.
“Seventeen winters old,” she whispered. “Walvis is too young to lead an army, Ostvel. Goddess help me, what am I doing to him.”
“Nothing he wouldn’t be insulted if you hadn’t asked him to do. Here, let me get your boots.”
“I have women to serve me,” she protested.
“But none you’d want to see you in this condition,” he said unanswerably. He mopped her face and neck with the damp cloth, then helped her with the hot dragonhide boots. “Now, you’re going to rest until sunset.”
“If I do, will you send Maeta up to me then?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want the guards commander for?”
“I’m responsible for Stronghold’s defenses,” she said, ready with the diversionary answer.
“No,” he corrected. “/ am. But I’ll send her up at sunset, and not an instant before.”
When he was gone she did not go into the next chamber to rest, unwilling even to look at the bed she shared with Rohan. Instead she stretched out in a lounge chair that had been a gift from Princess Milar, closed her eyes, and systematically relaxed her body from toes to fingertips. But she did not really rest. She planned her attack on Feruche.
When Maeta arrived, Sioned was ready. The commander had inherited her position from her mother, the redoubtable Myrdal, who still held considerable sway over the troops even in her retirement. Myrdal might or might not have been Prince Zehava’s half-sister; the respect accorded her and her daughter was due not so much to their possible kinship with their rulers, but to their own reputations as warriors. Sioned offered Maeta a comfortable seat and refreshment, wondering how much the woman knew of what was happening.
Everything, it seemed. Her first words were, “With the Merida on one front and the High Prince on the other, we’ll have much to do in freeing Rohan.”
Relieved that she would not have to make long explanations, Sioned told her, “I see Ostvel and the men have been talking. Good. Maeta, I need the strongest, fastest horse in the stables, a waterskin and food,, and absolute secrecy. And I need them all tonight.”
Maeta bit into a marsh apple, chewed, swallowed, and replied, “There’s a gate near the grotto you can use. It lets out into the cliffs, with room enough for a single rider to pass safely and quietly.”
Sioned blinked. “Rohan never told me about—“
“That’s because he doesn’t know. One day my mother and I will have to show you all Zehava’s improvements. Milar wasn’t the only one to leave her mark on Stronghold.”
Sioned marveled at the effort and secrecy it had taken -to carve such a path from the keep, but put nothing beyond the old prince. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“As for the timing—before dawn. We’ll need deep sleep and no one stirring early.”
“I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”
Maeta nodded. “My lady, I’ve been thinking. We have the chance for action against the Merida, and not just at Tiglath.”
“Yes?” Sioned asked, bewildered but intrigued.
“Empty Stronghold of all but the best archers, and send everyone else to Remagev by night. The Merida will think them off to Feruche or down south with Lord Chaynal.” She grinned as if she was a dragon spotting easy prey. “We’ll leave ourselves vulnerable to attack. They won’t be able to resist.”
Sioned laughed. “They’ll split up to take advantage, and we’ll pick them off from the cliffs! And when they pause to regroup, we’ll hit them from the east with the troops sent to Remagev!”
“Very good, my lady,” Maeta approved. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet. Shall I order it, then?”
“Please! Present the plan to Ostvel tomorrow. I know he’ll like it.” She thought with satisfaction that this scheme would also help Walvis and Eltanin—and keep Ostvel too busy to come after her. Then something occurred to her. “Maeta, you’ve made no objection to my leaving.”
“You’re sovereign lady here, and may do as you please when it pleases you to do it.” The black eyes danced as the pious words were spoken, and Sioned knew that she and Maeta understood each other perfectly. “And no one is counting on afaradhi,” Maeta added.
“Rohan must.”
“But lanthe is not. That’s why I’m letting you do this thing that will have Ostvel ready to skin me alive. I know Sunrunners—and I know you, my lady.” She paused, then smiled again. “I also know a little something about Feruche.”
Sioned stared, then nodded slowly. “I see.”
All at once the outer door was flung open and Riyan hurtled through to bury his face against Sioned’s shoulder. She hugged him close, trying to make sense of his babbled words, and Maeta unobtrusively departed before Ostvel could catch up with his offspring and ask questions Maeta did not want to answer.
“Here now, a little slower!” Sioned held Riyan on her knees and looked into his eyes that were so much like
Camigwen’s that it hurt sometimes to see them. She brushed the soft hair from his forehead, wishing her friend was here now. Cami would understand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Tilal’s home!” He bounded off her knees and raced from the room, returning a few moments later, dragging Tilal by the hand. “Hurry, hurry,” Riyan urged.
The squire looked as exhausted as Sioned felt. She rose, embraced him tenderly, then stood back to inspect him. A young man looked out of his eyes, not a boy. Sioned drew him over to a chair, bade him sit, and gestured Riyan to quiet.
At first Tilal spoke in measured sentences that sounded as if he’d rehearsed them all the way from Skybowl. He was a soldier giving a report, not a boy made fearful and furious by what he’d seen. Yet as he talked on, his sunburned cheeks flushed a deeper red and his green eyes began to flash, and the words tumbled over each other.
“—and we got back to Skybowl and I made a map just as Feylin told me to do.” He pulled a creased bit of parchment from his filthy tunic. “It’s of the castle, as much as I saw of it. It’s a horrible place, my lady, you can feel her all over it! Feylin told me to draw this so you’d know where things are.” He handed it over and she unfolded it, seeing instantly that her original idea would not work. Tilal saw her frown, and went on, “With enough troops—you’re a Sunrunner and we could—“
“The only thing you’re going to do is take a bath and get some sleep,” Ostvel said from the doorway. All three glanced around, startled that he had been there all this time.
“But Papa, I haven’t heard everything yet!” Riyan protested.
“There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow. It’s time for boys to be asleep.”
Tilal’s whole body went rigid. Sioned shook her head fractionally at Ostvel in warning and said, “There’s more I must hear, and more I must tell him. Riyan, you may ask your questions tomorrow. Go with your father now, please.”
A stern glance from Ostvel silenced the boy, and he trudged out of the room. His father shut the door, and when she was alone with Tilal, Sioned took sorrowful inventory again of her nephew’s face. He bore the marks of bad treatment, exhaustion, and worries far too heavy for a child of his years.
“I saw your father in the south,” Sioned began. “The High Prince is encamped with young Prince Jastri of Syr. They say it’s for training purposes, but your father is wise and knew it’s really for war against the Desert. He came to Lord Baisal’s holding to warn us and join us.”
The green eyes went wide. “But—what about Mother and everyone at home?”
“No one has ever succeeded in taking the keep, Tilal. Besides, River Run is far from where the fighting will be.”
He thought this over and nodded. “Lord Chaynal will lead, and my father will help. But what about Prince Rohan? She has him!”
“Not for long,” Sioned told him grimly. “This map is precisely what I need, Tilal. You’ve done very well.’
“When do we leave for Feruche?”
“We do not.” She instantly regretted the sharp answer as he drew himself up indignantly at the perceived slur on his manhood. “Tilal, you must trust me and obey me in this. Please promise me.”
Rebellion flickered in his eyes, but after a moment he nodded and bent his head. “Yes, my lady,” he whispered. “But hurry. She’ll kill him.”
“No. If she had wanted his death, the Merida would have killed him when you were captured.”
The boy looked up with renewed hope; this logic had not occurred to him before. “That’s true! And they were careful on the journey to keep him alive, even if he was tied up and unconscious.”
She hid a wince at the image this brought to mind, and said, “Tomorrow I want you to present yourself to Maeta and tell her that I bade you to be her squire and do everything she tells you.”
“I will. But what’s going to happen?”
“She’ll explain. She has a very interesting plan for repaying the Merida for those bruises you wear and for their complicity in Princess lanthe’s plan. Be sure to tell Maeta that I also designate you Walvis’ deputy when it comes to all things regarding Remagev.”
Tilal frowned, trying to work it out, then sat up straighter and smiled. “You’re going to give him the keep, aren’t you? That’s why you want to take special care of it!”
“Yes, and you’ll be partly responsible for making sure it gets through this in decent shape. So when you’re there, be sure to see everything you can and stay to supervise things, for it’s your sharp eyes that will give the best warning of any Merida mischief.” There, she thought, she had soothed the boy’s pride, given him something useful to do, and made sure he would stay safe in Remagev, forbidden to join the battle. “Tilal, I’d like to talk further, but it was a long ride from Faolain Lowland.”
“You ought to sleep,” he said, and stood up, every bit the young nobleman worried for his liege lady’s comfort. But a breath later he came to put his arms around her and be held for a moment, a little boy again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably. “I should have helped him more, and I didn’t—“
“You did all you could. And you gave me the information I need to get him back.” Sioned stroked his hair. “Would I have entrusted Walvis’ future holding to a coward—or a fool?”
Tilal recovered himself and stepped back. “I won’t fail you, my lady. Good night.”
Alone once more, Sioned went to the two chairs placed before the garden windows and sank wearily into one of them. There was an emptiness beside her in Rohan’s usual chair that matched the void within her. They had spent so much time here, planning their dreams into reality. lanthe would not kill him, but there were other deaths besides those of the body.
Sioned waited while the moons rose and spread their cool light across her face and hands. She gathered the strands together, knowing she could go anywhere, see anything, speak to any faradhi she chose. But there was one she would not touch on the moonlight, for if Andrade had any notion of her plans, she would forbid them on pain of being cast out forever. While Sioned would risk anything for her husband, -she still had need of other faradh’im.
Skillfully knotting the moonlight into a secure pathway, she flung it northward, past the great basin of Skybowl gleaming in the moonlight. She cast further until she saw the proud towers of Feruche. The garrison below was dark and deserted, but the castle windows shone with light.
Both approaches were indeed closely guarded. There were no weaknesses. She should have known better than to hope arrogance had made lanthe careless. She had thought to use her skills to slide into this place somehow, divert guards and servants with the Fire and Air she could summon, frighten them into mistakes that would leave her free to enter unnoticed. But as she counted people and observed their actions, she knew that such subterfuge was impossible.
Which window? she wondered, hovering within the moonlight. Or was there any window at all where Rohan slept? Was he high in a tower, or down in a stone cell without light? Anger surged up and her control wavered, and she took some moments to steady herself.
She peeked into rooms at random, noting which held sleeping servants, which were empty, making mental adjustments to her memory of Tilal’s map. She could only go as far as the moonlight reached into each chamber, but that was enough. One room contained three ornate beds, each occupied by a sleeping child. lanthe’s sons, Sioned thought, and just like her, for even in sleep the faces were willful and sly. How Roelstra must treasure them; thwarted of sons of his body, he had grandsons now that lanthe would train up in his image.
She searched all the windows facing the moonlight, more and more afraid that Rohan was indeed in some belowstairs cell or a room on the other side of the towers where she could not go. But at last she found him. Rohan! she cried. But no one heard.
His sleeping face had been ravaged by pain and fever that had left deep bruises around his closed eyes. The fine, strong bones of brow and cheeks “and chin were too sharp, his mouth a line of tense exhaustion. A dark silk sheet was pushed down around his waist and as he turned restlessly onto his side she saw the dressing wrapped to the wound in his shoulder. Moisture shone dully on his skin, blond hair dark with sweat. He was out of reach of the moonlight that pooled on the carpet beside the bed but did not touch his body or face. If it had, she might have touched him, that part of him that held some trace of the faradhi gift. But she could not.
Someone moved into the light, a curving shape, nakedness half-hidden by a cascade of dark hair reaching to her hips. Sioned trembled, felt her rings bite into her clenched fingers back where her body sat in Stronghold. lanthe slowly insinuated herself beneath the sheet, sliding close to Rohan’s body. She placed one hand on either side of him, shook her hair down so it covered his bare chest and belly, then lowered her head to his.
“No!”
The raw howl of her own voice snapped Sioned too abruptly back into her body. Colors whirled around her, confused, chaotic, refusing to form their familiar pattern. Her rings spat emerald and sapphire and amber and onyx fire into her aching eyes, became burning circles that ignited her flesh to the bone. The great emerald pulsed as if it would fill to bursting with light. It swelled and became the only thing she saw, plunging her into its glittering green depths as she sobbed aloud in terror.
Yet in the brilliant stone she saw again herself, burned by her own Fire, holding a newborn boy-child with Rohan’s golden hair.
Rohan’s son. And lanthe’s.
A long time later, when she remembered who and what she was again, she lifted her hands. There were no charred circles of skin beneath her rings. Cool silver and gold they clasped her fingers, mocking her. Sunrunner enough to watch, but not to prevent by any arts what lanthe was about to do.
Sioned covered her face with her hands and wept.
Coaxing, knowing fingers brought him to life. He could barely see her, backlit as she was by the moons, but he felt the familiar sweetness of her in his arms, the silk of her skin and hair.
“Sioned,” he breathed against her mouth.
“Love me! Rohan, love me—now!”
Fire blazed up between them. Her thighs parted and her breasts strained up against him, and he lost himself in the taste and scent and warmth of her, startled by her desperate urgency. But there would be time later to caress her, renew the magical joining he had known only with her and wanted only with her. Filling her body, filling himself with his need of her, filling the night with the singing soaring dragonflight of loving her.
“Yes—oh, yes—now!” she cried out, arching powerfully—and it made no difference to him that the flesh beneath his hands was too full, breasts too heavy, waist too thick and hips too sleek. He sought blindly between her soft thighs, drank from a mouth that tried to suck the life from him. Her thick perfumed hair was a living thing that twisted around him, chaining him to her. He wrenched his head away and cried out Sioned’s name in agony.
“No, little prince,” lanthe laughed, gleeful, breathless, wrapped around him like a snake. “You know who I am and what I want—what you want! Give it to me! Give me your son!”
Even as his flesh withered away from her, he felt it happening, knew she had won. She let him go. He staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost, flung back the hangings on their metal rings—tapestries of dragons in all their violence and lust. lanthe moved languidly on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, her head thrown back, but her arms cradled her breasts as if a child already nursed there. The eagerness of her fertility would welcome the mindless gift of his—meeting, matching, fusing together inside her belly, creating a life that would be partly his and partly lanthe’s. He understood now why time had been so important to her, why she needed him “capable.”
Long lashes lifted from eyes the color of dead leaves. “Sometimes it takes only once,” she purred. “But I won’t risk that. Come here to me, princeling. Be sure we’ve made a son.”
A son. “I’ll kill you,” he whispered.
“No, I don’t think so.” She laughed up at him. “Come, Rohan. You’ve already betrayed her. What would once more matter? I make sons, and she can’t even carry a child!”
Thighs splayed for him, arms held out, triumphant laughter. Something hideous lurched inside him, feeding on his hate, capable of killing. lanthe laughed again as he dug his fingers into her throat. She writhed beneath him, hands grasping, guiding, greedy. Rage snarled through him and he loomed over her, tightening his grip. He drove himself into her in mindless fury, lifted one hand to strike her, laughing madly at the blood that streamed from her lip. She screamed then, a sound hoarse and frightened and shrill with lust. And he laughed again.
“You wanted me, lanthe? Let’s see how much you want thisl”
He wallowed in her, spent himself in a vengeance that was her victory over him. He knew it, could not stop himself. He let it go on and on, setting the marks of his hate onto her flesh. When he was finished he fell to one side, nauseated by his own body, hating himself for not having the strength to kill her where she lay. But she had said something that made killing her impossible. She had spoken of a son.
It was a long time before she roused, bruised and bloodied, and slid out of bed. Rohah saw her fingers spread over the curve of her belly. She smiled down at him, raking her tangled hair back from her face, and licked the blood from her lips.
“My father makes only girls,” she said scornfully, her voice rough and throaty. “Your Sunrunner witch can’t even make those. Oh, she’ll get you back, Rohan, safe and sound—I need you alive to confirm that this child is yours.” She laughed again, enjoying his flinch. “You wanted me—all these years, ever since that night I came to you at the Rialla, you’ve wanted me. Don’t bother denying it. We both know it’s true. But you Chose Sioned. Tell me Rohan—could you touch her, after being with me?”
“No,” he whispered, though not in the manner she heard it. He could never touch Sioned again, not having befouled himself with lanthe. He could still feel her on his skin, feel himself in her flesh.
The door locked heavily behind her. She had won—for now. When she returned, he would kill her. He must.