Most of the winter had seen Goddess Keep washed by torrential rains. Unpredictable cloud cover made faradhi communication sporadic at best, Andrade, irked at having to rely on more conventional means of learning the news, subjected visitors to questioning so intense they came away terrified. With the coming of spring, thick fog walled up the keep and the Sunrunners grew as restless as hawks denied flight. Thoroughly sick of reading, chess, lessons, cleaning, and each other’s company, they were united in avoiding Andrade with what amounted to religious devotion.
But at last the fog lifted and the sun shone, and the castle emptied of nearly every living creature—including the denizens of field and forest who had wintered in the castle and now went home. Faradh’im and apprentices and the keep’s ordinary folk roamed the hillsides, half-drunk on sunlight. Andrade, watching from the battlements, waited until they were all out of sight in the woo,ds or along cliff paths before she undid her silver-gold braids and ran her fingers back through her hair, luxuriating in the warmth of spring sunshine. Her last walk here, some days ago, had been a depressing affair; the castle had been wrapped in the fog that was the Storm God’s last little joke after a long and unamusing winter. But now the Goddess had reclaimed the sky for her own.
Replaiting her hair, she grimaced at the streaks of white in it, swearing to herself that they had been caused by Roelstra’s impossible daughters. The impulse that had made her claim them six years ago was one she regretted daily.
Pandsala at twenty-three had been, for all her royal upbringing, abysmally ignorant. She had a certain cleverness that kept her from complete mental stagnation, but her formal learning was almost nil. She had not appreciated being sent to the schoolroom with the younger students, but the tactic had the double benefit of pounding a basic education into her skull while curing her of some of her more objectionable arrogances.
Pandsala at twenty-nine was a vast improvement. Discouraged in her attempts to dramatize her chosen role of captive princess, she had abandoned the effort and was now almost tolerable. But it was the shocking discovery of her potential as a Sunrunner that had supplied a needed sense of self-worth. Last summer she had earned her third ring.
Chiana was a different problem entirely. Adopted by the women at the keep, pitied her sorry lot, spoiled by almost everyone, she was quick of body, mind, and spirit. No one knew what she would get into next. To Roelstra’s fine aristocratic features and Palila’s wealth of auburn hair Chiana added her own winsome charm and a pair of green-brown eyes that could brim with slyness or tears at a moment’s notice, Andrade and Urival kept close watch on her, suspecting that her beguiling ways could turn to low cunning if she was not carefully guided.
Pandsala provided discipline. Seeing her sister as the cause of her own exile, she remained uncharmed and unbeguiled. Oddly enough, Chiana behaved, wishing for her elder sister’s good opinion, and a bond of sorts had grown between the two. This winter Pandsala had busied herself with teaching Chiana to read, and seemed more content with her lot.
Andrade wondered how long she would have to keep the pair with her. Despite the circumstances of her birth, Chiana would eventually be sought in marriage, and when Roelstra finally obliged everyone by dying, Pandsala would be free to do as she liked.
Thought of the High Prince reminded Andrade of why she had come up here today—not to breathe in the spring but to take a look at what was going on around her. She shook back her loosened hair and closed her eyes, the instinctive mental loom absorbing her thoughts, and she sighed with the pleasure of the weaving denied her every winter. Across the green downs of Ossetia she roamed, eastward to Gilad where flooded manors were being repaired; a glance for the Catha Hills where herds were being coaxed to rich grazing on the coast; an approving nod for the white sails of Lleyn’s ships plying regular trade routes again now that the danger of storm was gone. All was fine and fair in the south, and Andrade smiled her satisfaction.
For the sheer pleasure of it she followed the bright ribboning rivers to the north, sensing the sunlight cool as it danced across the water. Up to the lower hills of the Great Veresch Mountains she flew, pausing to admire the snow-capped peaks. Pleasure faded as she looked down at Castle Crag, and annoyance set in, quickly su-perceded by curiosity at the quiet of the place. Was Roelstra on progress somewhere? Off to one of his hunting lodges? She could see only a few daughters arranged languidly around the gardens, only a few servants, and barely enough troops to secure the gatehouse.
Andrade sped across the mountains, dazzled by the brilliance of white snow beneath her, then flung her skeins westward to Fessenden. A hard winter for them, too, she saw; snow still heavy on the ground, fishing boats huddled in the harbors, the port.city of Einar shivering in the chill sunlight. She would gather reports soon from the Sunrunner assigned to the court there, and find out what help Lord Kuteyn’s widow needed to replenish her winter-ravaged lands.
A quick glance over Kierst-Isel heartened her; garrisons along the borders were at ease this spring where they normally bristled for the usual skirmishes. Memory of Rohan’s proposal of legally set boundaries made her smile; perhaps Volog and Saumer had at long last decided who owned what. A leap across the wide bay between the island and the mainland, and she was over a Meadowlord soggy with spring runoff. As often as she wondered why the ancient faradh’im had built Goddess Keep on this fog-bound coast, she gave thanks that they had not chosen the marshy lowland with their muggy summers and never-ending supply of insects.
Farther, to Syr that lay between rivers, rich land and fertile, the soil dark with new turning and planting—and a nostalgic glance at her own childhood home of Catha Freehold that had never belonged to any but her own family who had never bent the knee to any prince. On her father’s death it had reverted to Syr, for she had given up all claim to it and it was too far from the Desert for Zehava to rule effectively. The plain stone tower rose proud and white in a hollow between low hills, within sighting distance—for a faradhi on the wing—of Sioned’s family’s River Run. She paused to survey the huge holding, and frowned as she discovered that it, too, was nearly empty.
One place left to go today; snowbound Firon and Cunaxa could wait for another time. She wanted to see the Desert, look in on Stronghold and the Long Sand, possibly glimpse the two who ruled there as wisely and well as she had always known they would. But as she glided once more over Syrene fields, she saw tents. Horses. Archers and sword-soldiers drilling in strict formation. And on a rise overlooking the whole were two huge pavilions: one turquoise, one violet. Syr and Princemarch, camped not a day’s march from the Desert border.
Andrade hurried to Faolain Lowland, Lord Baisal’s holding that seethed with activity under Chaynal’s red-and-white battle flag. Fury stung her. Why had no one told her of this? And why were Rohan’s own colors not flying? And who belonged to that black and green flag set up in the fields outside the manor, where troops organized for war?
Though powerfully motivated to find Sioned and demand an explanation, Andrade returned instead to Goddess Keep. She would have to inform the other princes through her faradh’im at their courts. Yet as she passed over Lake Kadar, she gasped aloud in shock. Along the main road there marched a considerable force of men-at-arms, with officers on horseback and red-and-yellow pennants proclaiming them soldiers of young Lord Lyell of Waes. They were headed directly for Goddess Keep.
By nightfall Andrade’s anger had steadied into a slow, fierce hate. She called everyone into the hall and waited in an awful silence for all of them to assume their seats at the long tables, Urival and the senior faradh’im to one side of her, the others in descending order of rank all around.
“Troops belonging to Lord Lyell of Waes, betrothed now to the High Prince’s daughter Kiele, have set up his banner in a camp outside our gates. We are told it is for our protection. We are told Lord Lyell is concerned for our safety in these troubled times, with High Prince Roelstra and Prince Jastri of Syr camped near the Desert border and the Merida besieging Tiglath. We are told Lord Lyell takes on himself the duty of defending us. We are told he does this because he knows faradh’im are forbidden to kill, even in their own defense.” She paused and smiled grimly. “We are told many things—most of which are lies.
“Many of you have ridden the sunlight today, seeking information. Sometimes you have sought other faradh’im in vain, for they have been locked away out of the light by lords and princes allied to Roelstra. They are as captive as we are—and as Prince Rohan is at Feruche Castle.”
Most had not known of this, and a startled murmuring went through the assembly. Andrade held up both hands for silence.
“Of Princess Sioned, one of us, there is no word. I sought her myself and she is not to be found. But we know from the Sunrunner Kleve in Tiglath that the High Prince’s daughter lanthe holds Prince Rohan.”
Urival, seated just beside her, muttered, “Not for long, if I know Sioned.”
Andrade tried to ignore the panic this remark brought to her heart. “Though we are free to weave the sunlight, we are pent in this keep. Urival and I have been discussing ways to free some of us in secret while the rest remain here, soothing Lord Lyell’s troops into thinking we are all still caged. We have—“
“I can do it.”
Andrade stared down the hall to where Pandsala had risen from her chair.
“I can free some of us,” the princess said. “Lyell’s men will not detain my father’s daughter in her escape trws the keep.”
Urival sucked in a breath and Andrade cursed herself for not having thought of Pandsala earlier. Suspicions darted through her mind, but she let Urival voice them.
“Is this escape to be for our benefit—or yours?” he asked coldly.
“I understand your hesitation,” Pandsala replied. “It is true I would rather be out in the world. But I have had chances before and not taken them. Do you think I would give aid to my father, who sent me here against my will? He cast me out. You took me in. I wear three faradhi rings. If you do not trust me, do not use me.”
Urival would have questioned her further, but the dignity of her reply had impressed Andrade. She gestured her chief steward to silence, and said, “Tell me what you propose.”
The princess clasped her hands before her, not quite tightly enough to hide their excited tremors. “At dusk, when the light is uncertain and torches are needed, I and whomever you choose will leave by the postern gate. When we are within range of Lord Lyell’s camp, make an outcry here to encourage the idea that I have escaped with my friends.”
“And then?” Urival prompted, suspicion still in his voice.
“I am a frightened princess,” Pandsala said with a hint of a smile. “I will require guards to take me to my father’s camp in Syr. To deplete Lord Lyell’s troops by ten or twelve would not be much, but it would help a little. And there would also be at least one man, possibly two, who would have to ride to Waes and inform his lordship of my action. If we are fortunate, we can rid Goddess Keep of fifteen men.”
“Fifteen of fifty,” Urival mused.
“And I will insist that the very best fighters accompany me,” Pandsala added slyly. “It is my right, after all.”
Andrade nodded slowly. “Very well. Urival, Pandsala, attend me in my chambers. The rest of you—sleep soundly tonight, for there will be much to keep you busy tomorrow.”
As she walked down the long aisle between the tables
436 Melanie Rawn to the door, Urival and Pandsala joined her. Andrade’s gaze shifted to Chiana—who suddenly looked too much like her father for Andrade’s peace of mind.
“If Rohan wants some use out of this place once this is over, we can’t continue to camp here.” Chay turned from the window and faced his wife, who was changing out of dusty riding clothes into fresh ones. He frowned at her. “Tobin, I need you to set things straight here at the manor. You’re not coming out into the field with me.”
“Stop me,” she invited, and pulled on her boots. “You’re the military commander, but I’m my father’s daughter. And until Rohan and Sioned arrive—“
“Whatever possessed that foolish woman to leave?” he growled pacing the chamber with an agitation he would never uave shown to anyone else. “Of all the stupid—“
“Oh, don’t you understand?” she exclaimed. “There’s no help for Rohan but Sioned!”
“I gathered that much, thank you,” he snapped. “But I still say that with a small troop—“
“You’re forgetting what Feruche is like. And what Sioned is like, too.” Tobin rose and stamped her feet to secure the fit of her boots. “Did you expect her to sit here and wait for us to arrive and try to talk her out of it? Goddess, how 1 wish I was a real Sunrunner! We’ve nobody to use in contacting her or Andrade or anyone!” She tucked her shirt into her trousers and went on, “Let’s go, Chay. I want to look at the provisions in the field camp. And you’re right about having to move. Lord Baisal can’t go on feeding them all.”
Down in the courtyard, the arrival of Chay’s levies had added to the chaos. Horses, foot soldiers, archers, swordsmen—and all of Lord Baisal’s frantic servants— milled about in no discernible order. Chay had every confidence that by nightfall his captain would have everything sorted out, so he and Tobin mounted up and joined Lord Davvi at the gates.
“I’ve done all I could,” Sioned’s brother told them. “But I’ve no real authority here except over my own people. I’m glad you’re here, my lord.”
“Titles are fine in public—but please call me Chay. We’re brothers after a fashion, you know.” -
Tobin hid a smile of her own as her husband’s smile worked its usual magic. In two sentences he had made Davvi his, a man who would follow him unquestioningly into whatever battle Chay cared to fight.
“Thank you,” Dawi said simply. “We’ll tour the camp now, and I’ll—“
He was interrupted by a shrill cry from behind them. Parental instinct had Tobin and Chay off their horses in an instant, neither mistaking the urgency in Sorin’s voice. Chay pushed a path for them through to where the twins had been currying their ponies in a corner of the stableyard. Sorin ran to his father and clutched at his arm, frightened. Andry stood in a well of sunlight, rigid and trembling, blue eyes huge.
Tobin knelt beside Andry. Sharing sunlight with him, she felt, as she had known she would, the dizzying touch of a powerful faradhi. But it was not Sioned she felt on the sunlight. It was Andrade.
Tobin? Sweet Goddess, girl, why didn’t you tell me the boy was so gifted? But never mind that now. That young idiot Lyell of Waes is trying to feast from both ends of the loaf—giving aid to his dead sister’s lord in Tiglath and marching his troops here to pen me in while Roelstra and Jastri work mischief in the south. Urival and I are working on that, but I’m not sure yet how we’ll manage it. I’ve sent word to every court where my Sunrunners aren’t locked away from the light—Roelstra’s orders, I’m sure, to those he’s got beneath his boot heels. Count among them Syr and Cunaxa—hoping to win portions of the Desert from the Merida war. Saumer of Isel in secret—Volog of Kierst says there are rumors of trade agreements. Waes plays a double game and I’m sure Clutha is having fits and may bring Lyell into line. Of those to trust—only Lleyn, and perhaps Pimantal of Fessenden, for Roelstra has eyes on his city of Einar. Tell this to Sioned if you can find her, which I cannot. I know about Feruche. Get Andry to Stronghold and Sorin with him for safety, for Roelstra will attack as soon as he decides to notice Lord Davvi’s desertion. Have a care to yourself and Chay—I’ll come as soon as I can.
Tobin felt strong arms lift her up and carry her out of the hot sunlight into the cool dark manor house. The relief nearly made her cry out. It was a long while before she recovered from the length and ruthless power of Andrade’s weaving, and when she was fully aware again she found herself lying in bed, limp with exhaustion and unable even to consider arguing with Chay as he stripped off her clothes and tucked her beneath a sheet.
“Andry?” she murmured.
“He’s all right. Sorin got him into the shade, and he’s resting now in his room.” Chay sat beside her and pressed her palm to his cheek. “Damn it, Tobin,” he muttered hoarsely. “I hate this!”
“I’ll be all right, sweet,” she soothed. “It’s just that Andrade isn’t as gentle as Sioned.” She relayed the gist of the news and his shoulder muscles worked with renewed tension.
“Perfect,” he rasped. “Wonderful! Help from Lleyn and Pimantal and Volog! Islands on either side of the world, and a princedom that might as well be! Where’s the help in that?”
“The rest are either in league with Roelstra or terrified of him. With no Rialla in six years, and so much at stake now—“
There was grim determination in his gray eyes and the set of his long jaw. “Roelstra will not be attending the Rialla this year, or any other year,” he said quietly.
Tobin watched him leave, and only when he was gone did she allow the shiver to claim her. She had never seen death in his eyes before.
Dawi was not encouraged by the report of Chay’s captain the next morning, and said so. “One hundred sixty-three horse, one hundred five archers—and of trained regulars, not nearly enough.” He turned worried green eyes on Chay. “If we count the ones who can use a scythe but not a sword—“
“Have you ever had a man come at you with a scythe, Dawi? A man with reaper’s muscles who has every intention of lopping your head off as easily as he’d take care of a stalk of grain?” Chay smiled tightly. “We’ll do just fine. Two hundred and thirty-six with swords and scythes. Of the horse, your people are the best trained—“
“Excepting your own,” Dawi interrupted wryly, and Chay shrugged. “Of those brought in by Lord Baisal—“
“Ah, but there’s a look in their eyes. It’s their own fields they’ll be defending. If you’d do me the favor, please help with the plans for the move. We’ll recamp tomorrow. Battling for one’s own land is an admirable spur, but battling on it makes people nervous.”
Chay had learned that from Zehava. As he went upstairs to his wife, he experienced a fleeting wish that the old prince was here to direct this battle. Or, better yet, that there would be no battle at all. Fine thoughts for a seasoned warrior, he told himself acidly. Rohan had indeed infected him with peace, and Chay suspected that it was a thing which, once in the blood and the brain, was something from which one did not recover. Nor wanted to.
Tobin had spent the morning working within the manor, organizing Baisal’s capable but confused servants into an efficient war machine. But by midmorning she voluntarily sought her bed for a rest, more exhausted than she’d thought by her contact with Andrade. Chay stood watching her for some time, relieved to see that color had come back into her cheeks and her sleep was deep and quiet. She was more beautiful now than the day he’d married her—richer in spirit, more regal of bearing, the dragon’s daughter calmed but never tamed. He smoothed the black hair from her shoulders and placed a kiss on her forehead, then left to wash the morning’s stink off him.
By the time she woke he was clean, redressed, and seated at a small table with a meal spread out before him. “Come and eat,” he invited.
She stretched widely, yawned, and joined him—naked as a baby. “Oh, who’s to see me but you?” she said with a shrug in response to his lifted brows. “And you’re used to me. It’s too hot for clothes, Chay.”
“My shameless darling, the day I’m used to the sight of you is the day I’ve gone blind—and even then my fingers would do the looking. Here, have some cheese. It’s pretty good. I wonder what they feed their goats?”
“Has Roelstra made a move yet?” she asked as she sat down.
“The wine’s not bad, either, I think we’re raiding Baisal’s private reserve.”
“Are more troops coming? How many do we have now?”
“Save your tongue to lick your spoon.”
She made a face at him, but hunger was stronger than curiosity just now. When she had made substantial inroads on the food, Chay began to share his observations of the day and ask her opinions. He would miss her, he reflected, when she was gone away to Stronghold. But her safety and that of their sons was more important.
Their hellions had flatly refused to stay at Radzyn Keep, arguing that if Mama got to go to war then they should be allowed to do the same—and if they weren’t taken along now, they’d find a way to sneak out. Chay knew his sons too well to doubt that they would do just that, and reasoned that having them under his eye was better than not knowing what they were up to. Tomorrow, however, they would be sent to Stronghold, but Tobin did not yet know she would be going with them. When he finally mentioned it—casually, around a bite of apple—her reaction reminded him why he prohibited knives in their bedchamber.
“I won’t go! You need me here!”
“I need you to be safe.”
“No one else can act as faradhi, and even the little I can do will keep you informed. Damn you, Chay, I won’t go!”
“Will you be sensible, please? We have to send Sorin and Andry to safety—especially Andry! I’ll tie them to their horses and have their squires slug them unconscious if I have to. Don’t make me use the same tactic on you.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
It was amazing how much she looked like Zehava when she was angry. “Listen to me. You’re useful to me here, yes. But I won’t spend my time worrying about your safety. Do you think the boys would leave without you? At Stronghold you’ll be able to help Sioned. Do I have to list the reasons you already know, Tobin.”
She glared at him. “You’re loathsome when you make sense.”
He thanked*the Goddess for a woman with brains as well as spirit. Reaching across the table, intending to take her hand and express his gratitude for the towering virtues that sometimes drove him to distraction, he smiled wryly as she snatched her fingers away. Pride forbade her to be gracious right now. So Chay leaned back to appreciate her where she sat with one leg tucked beneath her, clad only in the black glory of her hair.
His silent admiration was ended by a frantic pounding on the door. As he rose to answer it he threw his discarded shirt at his wife and told her to put it on. It came to her knees and decently covered everything else, but when Chay opened the door Baisal’s eyes popped and his cheeks turned scarlt. Just behind him, looking pallid and ill, was Maarken. Chay stared in astonishment at the son he had not seen in two years; the abrupt change from child to tall, self-possessed young squire was more than he could take in at a glance. Father and son gazed at each other for some moments before Chay pulled Maarken into his arms for a hard embrace.
“Goddess, but it’s good to see you! What are you doing here?”
Tobin gave a glad cry and rushed toward them. “Maarken—oh, Maarken, you’ve grown so tall!” Her eyes filled as she hugged her son.
The boy smiled tiredly. “I kept telling everyone at Graypearl how beautiful you are, Mother. Now they’ll get a look for themselves and find I didn’t exaggerate.”
Chay looked to Baisal for explanation. The older athri cleared his throat, embarrassed at witnessing the family reunion and the princess’ unconventional state of dress. It was Maarken who answered his father’s unspoken question.
“I’ve come with archers, Father—fifty of them, sent by Prince Lleyn. We set sail early yesterday and came up the Faolain as far as we could.” He gave a slight shudder. “And then we finally got to walk.”
“No wonder you’re green,” Chay commented. To Baisal he went on, “Please ask my captain to find places for the new arrivals. You and I and Lord Dawi will have to talk to whomever’s leading the archers.”
“As you wish, my lord.” With a last furtive glance at Tobin, he left.
The princess was trying to persuade her son to eat something, and Chay grinned as the boy’s complexion paled further at the sight of food. “Leave him be, Tobin. He’ll eat as soon as he’s recovered from crossing water. I’m surprised he’s upright, frankly. What’s Lleyn up to, Maarken?”
“Exactly what you’d expect. He only regrets that he couldn’t provide more troops on short notice. But more will be coming soon, and ships with them.”
Chay sank into a chair and thought this over. He had never fought a war utilizing ships, but the possibilities enchanted him.
“Meath—that’s Lleyn’s second Sunrunner—was contacted day before yesterday by thefaradhi up in Tiglath,” Maarken continued. “The sunlight’s been thick with messages, Father. When Urival contacted Meath yesterday at dawn, Lleyn had already put everything together so we could leave as fast as we could.” He paused, then turned haunted eyes on this father. “Is it true about lanthe?”
“Yes,” Chay told him. “I’m glad Lleyn acted so quickly—not only in the matter of archers, but in sending you to me.” He glanced at Tobin. “There’s no excuse now for you not to go to Stronghold. Maarken can be squire and Sunrunner both.”
“Meath and Eolie have taught me enough for a first ring, Mother,” Maarken said as Tobin’s brows knotted. “They’re going to ask Lady Andrade for permission to give me the token and further training. I can do what you can do—really I can.”
Chay watched emotions battle on his wife’s face: irritation that she had been deprived of her reason for staying here, pride in her son, sadness that she would have so little time with him before she left tomorrow. But all she said was, “If Meath has had the foresight to make your colors known—“
“Thefaradhi in Tiglath knows. He can tell others. You can go to Stronghold with a clear conscience, Mothe-r.”
Chay coughed to covet laughter. Conscience had not been keeping Tobin he’re, but it would certainly take her to Stronghold.
“So. Your father has managed to get his own way. As usual.”
Her capitulation was enough; Chay had learned long since not to gloat about his rare victories over her. It was the surest way to ignite her considerable temper and her incredible stubbornness. So he changed the subject. “I’d like you to talk with Andry before tomorrow, Maarken. Twice now he’s been caught in a faradhi weaving and he doesn’t understand it. You’ve learned enough from Meath and Eolie to explain it to him.”
“It is kind of scary the first few times,” Maarken said with all the wisdom of one earned but unworn Sunrunner’s ring. Chay reflected that from now on he would have to treat his son not as a little boy, but as a man, and had a moment of poignant regret for the child Maarken had been. He could have asked for no better companion than the youth he saw before him now—scarcely eleven winters old yet behaving exactly as a princess’ son ought. Still. . . .
“I’ll get some clothes on,” Tobin said, “and we’ll go find the boys.” She disappeared behind a tall screen in a corner of the room.
Maarken regarded his father thoughtfully. “Shall I really to be your squire?”
“I assume Lleyn and his son Chadric have trained you adequately.”
The boy nodded. “But does it mean I can go to war at your side? Not just sit in your tent?”
Chay heard Tobin make a soft sound. Goddess help me, he thought. / don’t want my boys to grow up and go to battle so young. Rohan is right—and this must be the last war. If only Sioned can free him so he can fight it, and never fight another—
“Father?”
“Yes, Maarken. I doubt you’ll do much sitting around in my tent.”
Night again, hot and close. The sixth night since lanthe. Rohan turned away from the dinner laid out for him. Food, wine, even water were suspect. He trusted neither his tongue nor his nose, for everything tasted and smelled of dranath to him. He was over the worst of it, having eaten in the last few days only those things he considered least dangerous—unsliced fruit from which he peeled the skin, dragontail cactus root washed clean of its sauces, a few other things. His stomach growled at times with emptiness, but he had no other way of ensuring that he ingested no more of the drug. He found it ironic that the dranath that had saved his dragons was so great a danger to him.
Yet he could not attribute his actions solely to the confusion of the drug and the fever from his wound. His glance went to the corner where he had piled the obscene bed-hangings and the tapestry. He had yanked them down after lanthe had left him, shamed and furious at the memories they evoked, wishing he was a faradhi so he could set them afire. But he was not allowed so much as a single candle, let alone the means to light one. The weavings were useless to him in any escape attempt, for his chamber overlooked the courtyard from seven floors up. He intended to die only if he could take lanthe with him.
She had been careful and clever. There was nothing sharp in the room, not even knife or fork to use in eating. Neither was there anything heavy enough to fell her or thin enough to twist into an effective garotte. All he had were his hands—his guilty, betraying hands that should have throttled the life from her six nights ago. He should have killed her then.
He wondered when she would come to him again, or if. He had seen no one but the brawny guard who brought his food, a man who made two of Rohan. He occupied himself in keeping track of the movements outside his windows, the timing of meals, changes of the guard, numbers of troops and servants. He had worked on the lock for two days to no avail. His guard had taken away the heavy bronze curtain rods; there was no furniture but the bed to break into a weapon; nothing in the entire chamber he could use. Escape was not one of his options.
Surely someone should have come for him by now. An attempt to parley, an attack on the castle, anything. He despised himself for looking to others for help, but there was no other hope. He began to be filled with a distracting horror that his own capture was only a small piece of a more elaborate plan, that everyone else was either prisoner or dead. Caged and restless, he paced the bare stone floor night after night, conjuring in his head not only the destruction of Feruche but of Castle Crag and all Princemarch. Himself at the head of the Desert armies, he laid waste to the land, exacting his vengeance. And the High Prince he executed with his own sword while the other princes and lords looked on and trembled at this demonstration of Rohan’s power.
Pretty thoughts, he told himself bitterly. A life lived by the sword, dealing out death. Land scorched and dead, thousands killed, more thousands homeless. So much for his ideals. ‘All the splendid childish conceits of his youth sifted away like windblown sand, and he watched them disappear without any emotion but shame.
Not at their passing, or at letting them go. Shame that he had ever deluded himself in the first place. Life was not civilized. People were not disposed to follow the rule of law. They were all barbarians, and Rohan knew himself for the worst of the lot. He was a prince with the power of Desert courage and dragon wealth at his command. He had fooled himself that he was better than the others, him with his noble aims and high ambitions. At least the others had always known themselves for what they were. At least they were honest about life, looked it in the face, and did their killing without illusions.
Roelstra had the truth of it. Pit everyone against each other and collect the spoils. Rule through divisiveness and cunning. Work for dissension, not cooperation. Prey on and play on the baser emotions—greed, jealousy, cowardice—and laugh at the foolish princeling who wanted to inspire minds to honor and hearts to peace.
And of the woman who had believed with Rohan, whose steady intelligence and faith in him had reinforced his belief in himself, he dared not think at all. In betraying her he had betrayed all, for Roelstra’s daughter had the truth of him. He was the same as the High Prince, the same as every man who wished to see himself reborn. He craved a son. That first time with lanthe, that might be excused. But the second, when he had known who she was and what she wanted of him—there could be no pardon for that.
Oh, yes, he was just like all the rest, all the self-centered barbarian princes who killed first and gloated later. But even as his mind supplied satisfying scenes of the High Prince dead beneath his sword, Rohan never conjured up lanthe. He knew very well why. He would not kill her. Could not.
The clattering of hooves and swords in the courtyard took him to the window. Shouts echoed up the castle walls to his aerie. The massive gates, stone hinged by ancient bronze, swung outward with a sickening groan. He could not see who or what caused the commotion, only the knot of guards moving into the main yard.
“The rings!” someone shouted. “They’re helpless without them!” The knot untied itself with the struggle, and then one of the soldiers gave a crow of triumph. “I’ve got ‘em! Faradhi rings!”
“Oh, sweet Goddess, no,” Rohan whispered. lanthe strode down the steps in a swirl of pale gown and streaming dark hair. “You idiots!” she spat. “Believing in that old tale! Give those rings to me at once! And keep an eye on her!”
The guard lost his swagger and approached his lady, bowing humbly as he placed the rings in her hand. Torchlight caught the sparkle of gold and silver and a great emerald before lanthe gripped the rings tightly in her fist. She gestured and the guards fell back to reveal a straight, slender woman in riding clothes, her red-gold hair tumbled around her face.
“So you’ve come to claim your princeling,” lanthe said sweetly. “How devoted. How loving. I’d expected half an army—but you were all that could be spared, I daresay. Your Desert armies are busy elsewhere, aren’t they?”
She half turned, lifting her face to Rohan’s window. He ducked back into the shadows, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing his stricken face. “Do you hear me, Rohan? With the Merida attacking in the north and my father in the south, this is all they can spare to come for you! And you their prince!”
Instead of shocking him into frozen horror, the information burned his soul. He understood now, and the fury sent tremors through his very bones. Only Sioned, only his Sunrunner princess—who would not have made this journey in order to die with him. He knew her too well. Hope stirred for the first time, and the old confidence welled up, sweet water to a man half-dead of thirst. He and she together could do anything.
But there was lanthe. Rohan stared down at Sioned from the shadows, saw her weary face uplifted, eyes seeking but not finding him.
“lanthe!” she called out, and the princess turned from the castle steps. “I have come for my lord and husband— but I’ve also come for you.” And all at once a great gout of Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up in front of her, a twisting column of flame half the height of Feruche itself. And in the fire there appeared a dragon, gleaming crimson and gold.
No one screamed; throats contracted in terror as the faradhi worked her arcane magic, her long fingers naked of rings. But whatever else lanthe was, she was no coward. She faced down the towering Fire and cried out, “Stop—or I’ll have him killed now, tonight, with his own sword!”
The flames wavered, died. lanthe laughed. “Take her to an inner room where no sunlight or moonlight reaches! Don’t fear, Sunrunner—I’ll give him back to you soon!”
Rohan closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the rough wall. Soon—when she was certain she carried his child, and could flaunt the fact to Sioned. Son or not, he would kill her. And the child, too.
Barbarian.