Rohan gathered the reins more tightly in his gauntleted hands and shifted his shoulders against the restricting battle harness. The stiff leather tunic was dyed dark blue and decorated across chest and back with brass plating that shone as if made of gold. Chay was similarly attired in dark red leather, and Davvi wore the turquoise of Syrene princes. They were as gaudy as whill-birds and that was precisely the idea, for their soldiers would be able to see them a measure distant. So would the enemy, but Rohan only shrugged. The armor was for their protection, of course, but it was more ceremonial than anything else. They would not be in the thick of the battle today. This would be no swift fight, but a pitched battle according to all the traditional rules of war. They were to act as princes and battle commanders, not as warriors on the field.
Rohan quieted the restive Pashta, knowing the stallion was eager for a fight he would not be allowed to join— unless Chay was utterly wrong and they started to lose. Even then a wall of swords and shields would spring up around Rohan, protecting him. Others would die, he told himself, but not him. Not their Dragon Prince.
Dawi was still grinning at the news Maarken had supplied a little while ago; Andrade had told him about Roelstra’s troops and the dragons. “What I don’t understand is why they were in the south at all,” he remarked as they waited for Chay’s signal to begin the battle.
“Some sort of flanking action, I suppose. Although why he thought we’d send soldiers there and give them a hard ride uphill to the fight, I have no idea.” He chuckled in spite of himself. “A dragon feeding-ground! I wish I could’ve seen it!”
“Maybe we ought to drive them down that v.^-. > . -r dragons can finish them off,” Dawi mused
“I’ll settle for a nice, clean fight on an open plain, thanks, without hatchlings biting my nose. There’s no guarantee the little fiends would recognize their pnnce!”
The dragons had done Rohan a prodigious favor, weakening Roelstra’s host both in numbers and in morale. When the story had been spread through the Desert forces, the warriors had cheered their prince, completely certain now of victory. Rohan himself felt a strange excitement throbbing in his veins, not the anticipation of battle or even of winning the battle, though those things were part of it. He felt almost as Sioned had described her emotions when she rode the sunlight: swift, free, touched by the Goddess’ own colors.
With the army behind them, at Chay’s signal, he and Dawi crested a low rise overlooking Roelstra’s camp. Troops were spread out all over the plain, about five measures square of prime battleground. While no advantages would come to either side on it, neither did it present any difficulties. The routing of nearly two hundred by dragons that morning had made the numbers just about equal, still tilted in Roelstra’s favor but acceptable to Chay. For Rohan had the invaluable impact of surprise on his side. The alarm had just gone up in the camp below, and people scurried about in desperate haste.
Rohan caught the nod from Chay, and lifted his fist. The dragon horn sounded. Suddenly it was as if the battle maps had come alive before him. Seventy riders swept down from his right, while on his left foot soldiers marched forward in orderly ranks, framed by fifty archers on either side. The remaining eighty horse, one hundred foot, and one hundred archers fanned out on either side of Rohan, forming the arc of the half-circle he would tighten around Roelstra. He paused while his forces moved into position, watching the gleam of harness and sword and scythe, the bright fletching clumped in shoulder-slung quivers.
“This ends it,” he murmured in a voice only Chay heard, as Chay had been the only one to hear his promise never to kill another dragon. “My sword will rust, and I’ll be glad of it.”
“Mine with it, my prince,” Chay responded quietly.
Rohan glanced at him, surprised at such words from his warrior friend. “Truly?”
A slight, almost wistful smile curved Chay’s lips. “Truly. Lord Eltanin was right, you know, about the walls.”
“But no one recognized us!” Tobin exclaimed again. “And even if some die, who’ll take the word of those who deserted their mistress and forfeited their honor thereby? Especially when their stories are pitted against the word of two princesses!”
Sioned bent her head to the baby’s and tried not to listen to the argument being waged behind her. She concentrated on moving, her exhausted body crying out for rest, water, food.
Ostvel’s voice was harsh, raspy with weariness. “You’d base the boy’s life on a lie? What about when he’s older and people whisper about what happened at Feruche?”
“Who would dare?”
“So no one’s going to tell him at all? Ever?”
“Who’d be the one to tell him? You?” Tobin challenged.
Sioned stopped, swung around. “The child is mine,” she said very clearfy, “I waited for his coming, I’m the one who’ll raise him, and I’m the one who will give him his name. Only a mother may Name her child. This baby is mine.” She looked at both of them in turn, then resumed walking.
There were no more arguments.
As they passed through the rock sculptures of the Court of the Storm God, Sioned saw nothing of its stark majesty. There were only weird, frightening shadows cast by the winter sun. The climb out of the canyon was slow work, and when she could go no farther she sank down in the shade, closing her eyes. The infant nuzzled feebly at her breast, but she had no milk to give him. Old Myrdal knew of herbs the helped bring a new mother’s milk and they had both reasoned that these might help Sioned. She had grasped eagerly at the possibility of feeding the child with her own substance, of being the source of life for him. But the birth had come too soon, and she was unprepared. They would have to reach Skybowl soon, or he might die.
“Poor little one,” Tobin murmured, sitting beside Sioned, one finger stroking the baby’s downy golden hair. “If only we hadn’t lost the horses.”
Sioned nodded. “He’ll feed tonight at Skybowl. And then I’ll Name him. I need you to be there with me, Tobin.”
“Shouldn’t you wait? Rohan—“
“Will just have to forgive me one thing more,” she answered quietly. Then she looked up at Ostvel. “Sooner than I’ll forgive you for stealing lanthe’s death from me.”
He shrugged, his voice cold as he said, “Easier to never forgive me than to never forgive yourself.” He glanced at the sun. “If you’re rested, we should start off again.”
She walked beside Tobin as Ostvel took the lead, and tried not to think. Her mind did not oblige.
She had killed. Intentionally or not, she had used her power and people had died—at the Rialla years ago, at Feruche. But it was not Andrade whose forgiveness she needed, or Ostvel’s, or Rohan’s, or even her own. She gazed down at her sleeping son and pleaded with the Goddess that she would never find condemnation in his eyes.
“Davvi! Behind you!” Rohan wheeled his horse around to defend his brother-by-marriage, and in doing so left his back unguarded. He hacked off a wrist and the spear it carried fell just before it would have pierced Dawi’s spine. A quick-eyed soldier wearing Roelstra’s violet lunged up and sliced through Rohan’s leather tunic, reopening the old wound in his right shoulder. He cursed and twisted around in his saddle, signaling Pashta with his heels. Rear hooves lashed out and caught the swordsman in the belly.
Tilal, blood streaming down his cheek from a slice above his eye, cried out in alarm as Rohan swayed, Davvi yelled at him to get the prince out of the line. Rohan wobbled, unable to defend himself with a right arm growing numb, and Tilal leaned precariously over to grab Pashta’s reins. He kicked his own horse into a gallop and ignored Rohan’s luridly phrased opinion of the retreat.
When they were safe on the hill beneath some trees, Tilal flung himself down from his horse and shouted for a physician. Rohan glared down at him, and the boy stammered, “My lord, you’re injured—it’s my duty—“
“Damn your duty!”
“Shut up,” came a familiar growl, and Chay, his forearm bound with white cloth, reached with his good hand and hauled Rohan out of the saddle. “You’ll have that tended or I’ll tie you up myself.”
A large goblet of strong wine and some rough ministrations later, Rohan grudgingly admitted that Tilal and Chay had been right. His surly tone made Chay grin tightly.
“Our gracious, generous prince,” he told the young squire. “Don’t worry about that cut, Tilal. There won’t be any scar, and you’ll not lose a whit of those good looks.”
The boy blushed and picked at the bandage across his forehead. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“Well, mine does,” Chay said, flicking a finger at his arm. “Serves me right for not anticipating Roelstra’s move north. Let that be a lesson to you, Tilal.” He stretched and shook his head. “I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. But it’s a good fight just the same. A pity you’ll miss the rest of it, Rohan.”
“The hell I will!” He flexed his shoulder and held back a flinch. “Once the salve gets to work and I can hold my sword again—“
“Oh, really? Here—catch!” Chay threw an empty goblet at him and blinked in surprise as Rcfhan caught it neatly. “All right, you win,” he muttered.
“Not yet, but it won’t be long now.” Rohan hid the pain the catch had cost him and went on, “We’re doing well to the north, in spite of Roelstra’s charge. Davvi’s got the regrouping in hand, and we’ll close around them like dragon claws. But they’re not falling back through the center as fast as I’d like. What now, tactician?”
“I’ll order the south to pull back a little at a time, and that should confuse them some. We’ll swing around and attack from the rear.” He glanced around, picked up a long stick, and sketched the action in the dirt. “Like this. See?”
Rohan committed the plan to merr “Right. Tilal, my horse.”
“But your wound, my lord—“
“Can’t feel a thing,” Rohan lied cheerfully. “Let’s go. It’s late afternoon and I still haven’t had sight of Roelstra.”
“Signal me when you find him,” Chay remind him.
“I will. Goddess knows, you’re easy enough to spot.”
“Tobin finds me irresistible in this,” Chay informed him, eyes dancing.
“She’d better find you in one piece at the end of the day!” He rose and gripped Chay’s hand briefly. “Luck to you, and Goddess blessing.”
“And to you, my prince.”
As the light began to fail, Roelstra’s defenses failed with it. Maarken had set Sunrunner’s Fire atop a hill that lit the near portion of the battlefield like an arena. By the eerie light Rohan fought and killed and was fiercely glad that circumstances had compelled him into battle himself. Had he been forced to sit watching much longer, he would have gone mad. But now his fever was of use to his soldiers, and their cheers welcoming him into the fray still rang in his ears. If this was to be the last time his sword tasted blood, then let it drink deep.
Every free instant he swept his gaze in a furious search for Roelstra. Had the coward quit the field early? Was he hiding? Where in all hells was he? And Pandsala—what of her? Did she scan the fight on the waning sun, directing her father’s armies? He would find them if it took all night and morning.
All at once Tilal cried out. Rohan saw a cluster of riders thundering up from the south, about fifty of them, skirting Desert lines. Too far away in the twilight for him to identify, he hacked his way clear of troops wearing Saumer of Isel’s colors and snarled as his sword caught in a leather strap. Yanking it free, he bellowed TilaPs name.
“Find Chay! That might be Roelstra!”
“At once, my lord!”
The salve had long since ceased to numb his wound, and his shoulder ached abominably. He could feel sticky warmth on his back, could even smell his own blood over the stench of death around him. Rohan fought with one eye on the approaching riders, frantic lest someone else kill the High Prince before he could do it himself.
And then he was free of enemy swords and spears, and Chay was at his side, and they kicked their tired horses to speed across the heaped and mangled bodies. But it was not Roelstra who rode to meet them in the growing gloom. It was Andrade.
Her silver-blonde hair had come loose, blowing out behind her and tangling around her shoulders. She drew rein only when she was almost upon him, her eyes wild.
“You’ve lost him!” she screamed. “He escaped past us, to the south! Damn you, Rohan, you’ve lost him!”
“Not yet, by the Goddess!” he shouted back. “Chay!”
“At once, my prince.”
“I ride with you,” Andrade stated grimly.
Rohan laughed in her face. “Can’t miss out on your vengeance, can you, Andrade? If you think you can keep up with me, then come. But don’t interfere!” He turned to Tilal. “Go to your father—don’t argue with me! Tell him where I’ve gone, and that he has the honor of cleaning up this battle on his home soil, just as he wanted. You and Maarken stay with him. That’s an order, squire!”
Tilal unhappily obeyed. Chay had assembled thirty riders, men and women with new determination in their battle-weary faces. The Lord of Radzyn narrowed his eyes as he scanned Andrade’s escort.
“Lleyn’s sailors. Go claim a piece of Roelstra’s armies for your prince!”
Their leader glowed with eagerness, then glanced guiltily at Andrade. She nodded. “Stay and fight, Cahl,” she told him.
He bowed his gratitude for the release from her service, then addressed Rohan. “One favor, my lord, If it comes to it, burn our ships before Roelstra can board them.”
“He won’t get that far, I promise you.”
Urival said quietly, “I’ll ride with you, my lord. You’ll need Sunrunner’s Fire to see by.” He was staring at Andrade as if daring her to object. Rohan laughed again.
“Scruples? You cast your lot with me the moment you brought me Sioned. Come along, Aunt. Come savor the outcome of your work.”
Sioned knelt on the rim of Skybowl’s crater as trie ia<a shadows faded into night unlit by moons. The baby lay quiet and sleepy-eyed on a blue-and-gold blanket, his stomach full of goat’s milk, blissfully unaware of the commotion he had caused.
Skybowl was nearly as empty as Stronghold. Those who had gone to fight at Tiglath had not yet returned, and those few who remained accepted without murmur that the child was Sioned’s own. Tobin had expected nothing less. Having kept silent about the gold for so long, they were not likely to reveal this new secret.
Tobin knelt to Sioned’s left, Ostvel to her right. The fourth position that should have been Rohan’s was left open to the Desert below the cliff. The child murmured drowsily, his body pale and perfect in the dimness, so small compared to the vastness of the Desert and the infinity of the emerging stars.
“Child,” Sioned whispered at last, beginning the ritual, “you are a part of this world. Water will quench your thirst, Air will fill your lungs. Earth will guide your steps, and Fire will warm you in winter’s chill. All these are yours by right of birth, the right of every son and daughter born.”
As Sioned paused, Tobin remembered other Namings, when the gentle ritual had been spoken over Maarken and Jahni, Andry and Sorin. Ostvel’s fingers were clenched on his knees, and she knew he was remembering, too, the night when Sioned had presided and Rohan had been with them as Camigwen Named young Riyan.
“But you are a prince,” Sioned continued softly, and Ostvel looked up, as startled as Tobin at this departure from the time-honored formula. “Born of a long line of princes, sire to generations more. For you this world holds more—and will demand more.”
Sioned lifted her hands, emerald ring glittering, and a soft breeze swept up from the lake behind her. With the Air came a mist of Water and tiny motes of Earth. Tobin sensed, as Ostvel could not, the careful gathering of delicate threads of starlight, fine and thin as spider-spinnings, the weaving of its pale Fire into the breeze.
The slow swirl surrounded them, gradually centering at, arm’s length above the baby in a tight, glistening spiral.
Tobin was torn between amazement and fear. The faradh’im used the glow of sun and moons, but never that of the stars. Yet Sioned did exactly that now, pulling down skeins of almost invisible brilliance to create this unique Naming for her son.
“Child, by the name of your kinswoman Tobin, daughter of Zehava and Milar, wife to Chaynal, mother of sons, I give you Air that is the sigh of the Father of Storms in the Goddess’ arms. May it rise and give flight to your wings, as strong as the woman in whose name it is given.”
The starglow was directed toward Tobin and the baby’s head turned, eyes huge as he stared up at his aunt. Tobin saw her own colors sparkle in the whirling mist, amber and amethyst and sapphire, and caught her breath.
Sioned spoke again. “Child, by the name of this man Ostvel, son of Ostlach and Avina, husband to Camigwen, father of a son, I give you Water to cleanse your soul— for his soul is the purest I have ever known.”
Again she gestured the spinning light, this time to shine on Ostvel’s tense features, and more colors were added—deep garnet, bright ruby, black onyx he could not see. Or perhaps he could, for he met Sioned’s gaze, awed, caught in the spell she had woven of forbidden starlight.
“Child, by the name of your father Rohan, son of Zehava and Milar, I give you Earth—this sand and stone around you, this Desert you will rule as wisely as he who gave it to you. This is his flesh, as it is your own.” And colors Tobin had never before sensed spun into the light— the pure white of diamonds, the intense sapphire of Rohan’s eyes, the golden amber of his sunlit hair. This was her brother, she told herself, these colors dancing and gleaming in the night.
“Child. ...” Sioned drew all the soft spinning starlight into her hands and held it above the infant. “My child, I give you Fire to light your way. Sunrunner’s Fire from the mother who also gives you your name.”
The baby’s hands groped up toward the threaded col- ors and Sioned allowed him to touch it for an instant. Then she lifted the Air and Water and Earth all spun together with Fire from the stars, and flung it out to the Desert below. The weave spread out like an unfurled tapestry, strands of color augmented now by Sioned’s own, and she spoke her child’s name for the first time.
“Pol,” she whispered. “Born of starfire. That is your name, my son, and it is your mother who gives you all these things.”
Lifting him in her arms, she turned him to face the expanding fabric of light over the Desert, vibrating now like sparks from a windswept hearth or a carpet of multicolored flowers shimmering in the breeze. It slid along the curves and hollows of the dunes below, wrapped around the rocks, glowed blue and crimson and green and gold, all shot through with glittering points like diamonds. At last the weaving sank slowly into the sand, and all was starlit silence once more.
After a moment Sioned murmured the traditional ending of the Naming ritual. “It is the duty of a mother to Name her child. So I have done. His name is Pol.”
The familiarity of the final words did not release Tobin from the enchantment. She knew she had witnessed something never before seen, never even dreamed of. Yet there was something else familiar here, the feeling that spread through her head and heart. She had felt it on the night of her father’s ritual, when the faradh’im had ridden the moonlight and taken her with them. Yet no sun or moons shone, no light to weave into pathways through the sky—nothing except the stars and their delicate Fire. Fragile, almost transparent lanes of light trembled around her, routes opened by Sioned, who knelt beside her clutching the child, her eyes glazed over. Tobin knew she was no longer here, but traveling on those ribbons of starfire. And Tobin, closing her eyes, followed.
She had no consciousness of the flight, swift and sure as it took her to the battlefield. By the glow of Fire she saw the dead being gathered and the wounded being tended, and shivered. Where were her husband, her son, her brother? She could feel Sioned’s colors ahead of her, searching as frantically as she. And then they were to- gether, gliding down a single filament of starlight now, beyond the silent field and over small hills that cradled shadowy valleys between them like the slight hollows between the muscles of a powerful man’s back.
She saw then, and knew the two groups of riders who faced each other in a broad valley. She saw her husband, tall and tense as he sat his horse in perfect stillness, more carving of warrior’s beauty than living man. She saw her brother, golden hair turned to silver, poised, waiting, as motionless as Chay. She saw Andrade, pale hair streaming down her back, strangely helpless as she spoke urgent words that Rohan and Chay ignored. There were others, but Tobin did not took at them—for the star-thread drew her across the emptine’ss between to Roelstra.
The High Prince gestured sharply, and a slender young woman rode forward. Chay went to meet her. They exchanged words Tobin could not hear, wore expressions the shadows did not allow her to read. But she saw her husband nod slowly, and when the woman straightened from her slight bow of acceptance, Tobin saw that it was Pandsala. The pair returned to their princes, and Rohan and Roelstra each dismounted.
Confused and frightened, Tobin quivered in the grip of the starlight. Andrade held up both hands, rings shining, her mouth contorted as she cried out words that would forbid, her face terrible as she flung her head back. Roelstra shouted, Rohan shook his head. Not even Andrade could stop this now.
The two princes stripped off battle harness and clothes until they were down to trousers and boots, nothing more. There was a bandage wrapped around Rohan’s right shoulder, blood seeping through in an ominous stain. Chay spoke with swift urgency, gesturing, warning; Rohan nodded absently and unsheathed his sword. Tobin heard in imagination its angry hiss from the scabbard, the blade a long gleam of steel in the night, lean and pale as its owner.
Andrade at last submitted, withdrawing in response to UrivaFs hand on her sleeve. The two faradh’im moved apart and dismounted. Urival walked to the other end of the line of Rohan’s soldiers. Both Sunrunners paused a moment before their lifted hands conjured two spheres of Fire. Rohan’s people formed a loose arc on one side, Roelstra’s on the other. The faradh’im and the Fire hovered between to complete the circle and give the princes light to see by, light in which to kill each other. Andrade stood with head bowed and shoulders bent like an old woman’s; Tobin saw, and grieved, but knew that whatever the Lady had planned for Rohan and Roelstra, this was the only possible conclusion.
They stalked each other warily, moving with elaborate care. All advantages of youth, strength, and swiftness that should have been Rohan’s were negated by the wound in his shoulder that would slow and weaken him the longer the fight went on. Roelstra was heavier of body and motion, and it had been a long time since he had used his warrior’s training. But that the muscles beneath his flesh were strong and that his instincts were intact became obvious with the first swing of his sword.
Tobin did not hear the clang of blades, nor the grunt wrung from her brother’s throat as the impact shuddered up to his wounded shoulder. She did not hear whatever taunting words Roelstra flung into the space between them. But she could see—and there was a spark, a narrow gleam of steel far back among Roelstra’s people. They shifted. A pathway cleared. The starlight spun around Tobin and her colors seethed with panic, twining, merging with Sioned’s—and Urival’s, and Andrade’s—and someone else, someone trained but not perfected in the faradhi arts. Suddenly there was yet another, a tiny, raw gift that surged up in answer to Sioned’s need. Light and shadow skittered around Tobin, through her, and she lost her own colors to the greater whirl of power borne on Fire from the stars.
Andrade was too stunned by the assault on her senses to begin defending herself until it was too late. Caught up in the threads of starlight, she saw in an instant the treachery of the upraised knife—and for the first time since the tenth ring had been placed on her finger she found herself subordinate to the powers of another Sunrunner.
Chill silvery flames sprang up around the two princes, a circle of dangerous starlight that rose, met, created a shining dome that enclosed Rohan and Roelstra in shivering Fire. Colors flashed as each faradhi pattern was woven more deeply into the structure: her own colors, Urival’s, Tobin’s, Sioned’s—and those of two others whose presence shocked Andrade to her soul. Realizing too late that Sioned had trapped her, she fought panic and tried to gain control of the starlight. But this weavi”§ was Sioned’s, and Andrade could do nothing but feel her strength given as Sioned demanded.
Rohan drew back, dazzled by the cold Fire that arched up around him. Roelstra cursed frantically as a flare of diamond-bright light hit the dome with a sound like a great glass bell being rung, echoing deeply from curve to curve of the dome. Rohan took advantage of his enemy’s distraction and lunged in, sword ready to take Roelstra’s head. But the High Prince moved just in time, escaping with a only gash cut into his left arm.
“So Andrade has closed us in,” he rasped. “That’s too bad—I wanted everyone to see you die.”
Rohan wasted no breath on a reply. His shoulder had not warmed to the exercise as he had hoped; there was no battle fever to counter his weariness, and the anticipation that had burned along his veins during the ride was gone. He had spent too much of himself this long day, and his only hope was to finish Roelstra quickly—if he could.
The High Prince laughed as if knowing Rohan’s thoughts. “Tired, princeling?” He drove in, without finesse but with a great deal of strength, and Rohan sidestepped out of his way.
Steel clashed again and again, resounding off the star-spun dome until Rohan’s ears rang. Neither man indulged in elegant swordplay; each was after blood. Cold sweat ran into Rohan’s eyes, sheathed his body in ice. Lunge, parry, evade, thrust, dodge, lunge again. His right arm was fast becoming incapable of hefting the sword that was heavier each instant. He heard Roelstra’s harsh gasping breaths, smelled the sweat sheening the fleshy body, saw the welts leaking blood where his blade had cut the High Prince. But he would not have wagered right then on his own victory. For all Roelstra’s years and excesses, he seemed inexhaustible.
Angling his sword as Roelstra brought his own back for a powerful thrust, he tried to cut the man’s legs from under him. The tip of his blade caught just behind the knee, and steel flawed in the day’s battle snagged in the High Prince’s soft leather boot. In the attempt to free himself, he drove the sharp tip into his flesh, growling with pain. Rohan wrenched the blade away and tried to follow up, but his arm chose that moment to falter. The sword slid from his hand. Balance lost, he fell hard to his knees, gasping at the impact.
“Excellent position,” Roeistra taunted, “one you should have adopted long ago. I’ll teach it to your Sunrunner princess before I teach her to forget you in my bed—the way you forgot her in my daughter’s!”
Rohan dove for his sword and forced his two hands to close around it, good hand locked over the strengthless one. Roelstra sliced almost contemptuously into his back as Rohan rolled away and came up on one knee. He barely felt the new rent in his skin, but for the trickle of blood that mingled with the renewed flow from his right shoulder. Roelstra gave a short burst of breathless laughter and closed in. Twisting around, Rohan caught the hilt of his sword against Roelstra’s, struggling to keep the blades locked even as the High Prince struggled to separate them. With a groan of agony as the effort tore his shoulder completely open, Rohan felt Roelstra finally give way. The suddenness of it flashed suspicion through his mind that it was deliberate—but the High Prince stumbled down onto the grass, cursing.
Rohan gasped, each breath a stab of fire. It was beyond him to use the sword now, its weight insupportable. He went for his boot knife and heaved himself onto the sweating body. Powerful fingers closed over his wrist, wrenched his arm back, nearly tearing it from the socket. He realized that in another moment he would black out, and writhed from Roelstra’s grip.
The High Prince grunted with pain as he heaved to his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his knee. Rohan went for the other knife and had his ribs kicked for his trouble.
Body curling in anguish, breath sobbed in his throat and for the first time he was cold with the fear that he was going to die.
Roelstra stood over him, panting. Sword retrieved, he leaned on it, the tip imbedded in the soil. The jeweled hilt shone in the silvery surrounding Fire.
“I’ll teach your son to kneel,” Roelstra hissed.
There was a sudden roaring in his ears, salt bitterness on his lips. Fury came to him at long last, a killing rage that had nothing to do with clean battle or even with vengeance. My son. The words echoed over and over in time to the vicious pounding rhythm of his blood: My son—
“Kneel to me, princeling,” Roelstra demanded, his voice thick with hate. “Kneel!”
Rohan moved very slowly. He pushed himself up, holding his ribs with his good hand, groped out with the other as though seeking support that would get him to his knees. My son. There was a burning in his flesh and something cold and dew-moist in his hand. One foot under him, leaning heavily on the other knee, he looked up through a stinging mist at the grandfather of his son.
Roelstra was smiling. He continued to smile even as Rohan surged upward and shoved a knife he could barely hold into the soft flesh of Roelstra’s throat. The long blade stabbed through the underside of the chin and Rohan thrust it deeper, through tongue and mouth all the way to the base of the brain.
The High Prince toppled to one side. Rohan watched him fall, knowing Roelstra was dead. And then the wet grass slicked with blood came up to meet him, and he knew nothing more.
Only the frightened rasp of Chay’s voice made Andrade recall that she had an existence apart from the raging cold starfire that by now had bled all color into its pallor. She heard him, and painfully gathered into coherence the splintered pattern that was herself. The others, less powerful than she, were still caught in the glowing dome. She labored with all her strength to separate them, to rebuild the shimmer of each distinctive mind.
Urival was first, his deep sapphire and pale moonstone and shining amber forming once more into the familiar design. Truth, wisdom, protection against danger—all these things were Urival, and she wept with relief that he was whole. He helped her with the others, unraveling the chaotic weave that was comprised of Sioned and Tobin and the two startling, shocking others. The two princesses, known to them, were swiftly separated and reformed, cherished patterns not lost to shadows lurking in the night. The last pair—Andrade left the familiar one to Urival and explored the new and unexpected presence herself. Topaz for sharp intelligence; emerald for hope; iridescent pearl for purity; all lit by a diamond brightness that was beauty and cleverness. She knew who he was, this brilliant pattern of green and white and gold. The Sunrunner Prince. Rohan’s son.
“Andrade!” Chay was almost sobbing now, and she opened her eyes to see his stricken face above her. She was vaguely curious about how she had come to be lying on the ground with her head cradled in his arm. When she moved, bruises told her of a hard fall. “Sweet merciful Goddess,” Chay whispered. “I thought you shadow-lost.”
“No,” she said, and coughed. “It’d take more than this to kill me.” She pushed herself up. “Urival?”
“Here,” came his voice from nearby, where Pandsala lay senseless on the grass. “Do you know what happened, and what she did?” he asked softly, his eyes sunk into hollows. “And why?”
Andrade swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Is she—“
“I don’t care about her or about what happened!” Chay snapped. “It’s Rohan who needs you, damn it!”
He pulled her up and helped her to walk. They crossed the faint dark line where Fire had risen. No one had yet dared cross into the circle. Roelstra’s people, seeing that the unthinkable had occurred and their prince had fallen, were too stunned to attempt either revenge or escape. Rohan’s soldiers were equally silent and motionless. Andrade sank down beside the slight form curled in the starshine, light gleaming off his fair hair.
He lived. Blood covered him like a cloak, but he lived.
Andrade nodded at Chay, who lifted Rohan very gently and carried him to where Urival had made a small, warming fire. Rising to her feet, Andrade stood over Roelstra and gazed down into his dead eyes. Rohan’s knife was sunk into his throat and he wore a half-smile that chilled her. She bent stiffly and closed his eyes, but the feeling of insects crawling on her skin did not fade. For he smiled still; like her, he finally had what he wanted, though not quite in the manner planned.
She ordered the corpse wrapped in its violet cloak, then went to tend her nephew’s wounds. She had no salves, no ointments, no soothing draughts but a skinful of wine taken from one of Rohan’s men. This she poured down his throat as Urival washed the blood away. Chay sent riders back to the main battlefield for supplies. They returned at top speed, led by the frantic Tilal and Maarken.
It was a long while before she was satisfied that Rohan had taken no serious hurt. He had not opened his eyes, but the blank unconsciousness had become reassuring sleep, the signs unmistakable to Andrade’s trained eye. Two litters were prepared, one for the living prince and one for the dead one. Tilal remembered to reverse Roelstra’s banner on its pole to signal his death so that Rohan’s people would not think it was their own prince who had died.
Andrade glanced up as Chay touched her arm and spoke her name. His face was rough with stubble, smeared with dirt and sweat, his gray eyes dull and bloodshot as he looked up at the sky. She was surprised to find the stars nearly gone, blackness becoming deep blue washed with rose-gold on the horizon.
“Dragons,” he murmured.
They flew in small groups, hatchlings chased through the air by watchful she-dragons and sires who called down warnings against any threats to their precious brood. Dark and graceful shapes against the misted dawn, they flew in search of a feeding ground unspoiled by the blood of humans. Andrade wanted to follow them on the new light, soar with them on wings of her own, and began to understand Rohan’s love for the dragons. For them there were no complexities of choice, motive, treachery, de- ceit; no battling against their own natures. She looked down at his sleeping face, smoothed back lank fair hair.
“I wish you could see them,” she whispered. “They belong to you, Dragon Prince.”
“To the Desert,” Chay corrected quietly. “Just like he does. Not the other way around, Andrade.”
“I envy him—and them,” she murmured. “I’ve never owned anything but my rings and my pride. And nothing’s ever owned me.”
“To claim anything you have to be willing to be claimed in return. That has to come first, Andrade. You have to give yourself, first.” He paused, knelt beside Rohan, touched his shoulder “We’re lucky that Rohan’s known that all along.”
“I gave him Sioned, didn’t I?”
“Do you think she was yours to give?” Urival asked softly.
Andrade stiffened. Rising to her feet, she gestured for Rohan to be placed on the litter, and turned away from the others. Nothing but her rings and her pride—but they were all she had, and she would defend herself with them as long as she lived.
A dragon roared in the dawn, and she looked up again, wondering suddenly what it would be like to be both possessed and free.
Tobin opened her eyes.
Ostvel was clasping the shivering, crying infant to his chest. Pol’s eyes were fixed on Sioned, the misty newborn blue gone in the flashing Fire. Tiny hands reached out, fists clenched exactly as Sioned’s were clenched. She was on her knees, white cloak blowing back from her shoulders like dragon wings, arms outstretched and features strained into terrifying intensity. The stars had found focus in her eyes, seemed to flow into the very bones of her slender body as a cold silvery brilliance writhed around her, a white Fire from the stars striking rainbows from her whiteness. Tobin knew what Sioned had done, how she had woven every thread of light from the sky into the patterns of power that were her framework: Urival, Andrade, Tobin herself—and the child.
Ostvel glanced up. “He started screaming. I couldn’t quiet him.”
Tobin nodded. There would be no protecting the child from his heritage. Sunrunner and Prince.
All at once Sioned trembled as if her bones would shatter. The infant’s cries softened to whimpers and then he was silent, his small face relaxing at last into serenity. It was a long time before Sioned’s features showed any hint of the same peace.
“The one with the knife—you could have killed him,” Tobin whispered hoarsely.
Sioned nodded, and in her eyes were lingering traces of stars and power. “You understand about Pandsala now, don’t you? She and I have the same regret—that Roelstra never knew she was betraying him all along.”
Sensing Ostvel’s bewilderment, Tobin turned to him and said slowly, “There was—combat between Rohan and Roelstra. One of the High Prince’s men thought to end it with a knife. Sioned—she used the stars, Ostvel. There wasn’t any other light.”
Sioned touched Pol’s cheek. “There’s Fire in the stars,” she murmured, “Sunrunner’s Fire.”
Ostvel held Pol closer. “He felt it. All of it, Sioned. You know what that makes him.”
She nodded again, bright head bending low. “It begins too young for him. I hope one day he can forgive me.”