Of; all the people searching for Meiglan that day, only one saw her. Those trained in Sunrunner arts kept watch by any light they could weave. One of them used the stars. Kazander and Sethric and their soldiers had no such help, and had to seek with unaided eyes. The Vellanti High Warlord repeatedly scanned the terrain around Stronghold, and, like all the rest, often swore sharply in frustration.
But one person saw her—not unaided, but not with the aid of sun or moons or stars. Meiglan was found as Andry had found Chayla and Sioned, Kazander.
Thanys tucked herself inside a shelter made of her cloak and a blanket, supported by a few branches. It was evening, and damp beside the little stream she’d been following all afternoon. She had tried this spell several times during her journey, without success. It had been a very long time and her gifts were rusty. But now she called on the deepest part of herself, power buried and denied as her distant kinswoman Lallante had rejected what she was. And she did it with the help of dranath.
It grew wild in the Veresch. She had seen a patch of it today as her horse limped over the crest of a mountain pass. The animal’s lameness would not heal without rest, but there was no time for that. Better to make a few measures each day than none at all.
Thanys mixed the herb with stream water and drank. The cup was clouded with milky sap that warned her the dranath was too fresh and therefore dangerous. She drained the cup nonetheless. Distant memories evoked by the flush of intoxication brought a dark fire, like that in her mother’s eyes when she dreamed of regaining their rightful place in the princedoms. She could even feel the hotter lust in the gazes of Mireva and Mireva’s unspeakable father for the same thing—though they had done more than dream.
But their purpose had never been hers, any more than it had been Lallante’s. Thanys let the recollections run their course and fade. Then she evoked the memories of Meiglan, for it was Meiglan she sought this evening, out of the distracting light of the setting sun, the rising moons, the first pale stars.
She cradled the silver bowl of water in trembling fingers. Meiglan’s wedding necklet coiled within like a diamond snake, the great pendant amethyst rattling. Thin, nearly invisible smoke misted across the Water when she called Fire to it, and she exhaled slowly. When the vapor turned white, she nodded her satisfaction. It had been a very long time, but the power was still there.
The first glimpse she had was of Pol. Thanys waited patiently for impressions of him to swirl away, unsurprised that he should appear at her conjuring. He was the one Meiglan thought of and dreamed of every time she saw this necklet, touched it, wore it, unclasped it from her throat to lay it tenderly away.
Eventually Pol was gone. Thanys had no interest in where he was or what he was doing. He didn’t need her; her lady did. Observation by more usual means had shown Jinan and Princess Alaseh at Feruche, but not Meiglan or Rislyn. Thoughts of her ladies in enemy hands shuddered Thanys’ heart so she could hardly draw air into her lungs.
The whole necklet chittered against the silver now. The smoke vanished. Water rippled with Thanys’ own quivering. She stilled herself, concentrated, and at length white smoke drifted across smooth Water again.
She saw Meiglan.
The High Princess slumped on a horse picking its weary way across a sparsely wooded hillside, along a trail no wider than a bookshelf. One bad step in the evening gloom and she would be lost down the rocky slope. It didn’t seem as if she cared one way or the other; her hands hung limply, her head drooped, her spine bent with exhaustion.
Her head turned then, slowly, to look over her shoulder.
The hood fell from her hair and face. Although Thanys could not see what she stared at, the anguish in her eyes was unmistakable. Straining to expand the vision, the watching woman had a fleeting blink of a look behind Meiglan. A huge man rode just behind the High Princess, sword arm crooked up toward his body. A strange posture for one of these accursed dark-bearded warriors—but perfectly natural for a father holding a child.
A child with sweat-dulled fair hair.
The warrior glanced forward at Meiglan, and the small nod of reassurance he gave was even stranger. Thanys recoiled from his eyes that seemed to look directly at her. The spell reacted to her fear: necklet writhing into mimickry of the twisting road, vision expanding, distancing her from the riders. She was borne on a cloud of white smoke, sobbing aloud as the hills receded dizzyingly. The living map on the Water’s surface diminished as she rose higher and higher—as high as the clouds, as the moons. She would never find the Earth again—
Thanys flung the silver bowl away and collapsed into a heap. The sky was alive with mocking stars before she stopped shaking and lifted her head.
She had found them. It meant nothing. Who could she contact, who could she tell? Who would listen to her pleas for help in rescuing Meiglan and Rislyn?
Not the diarmadh’im who opposed Mireva’s faction; even had she known any, they wouldn’t believe her. Not her own kin; they would only laugh and shrug and say that Meiglan was worthless, and Pol deserved to suffer for murdering Ruval.
Not Pol, or whichever Sunrunner was on duty at Feruche tonight. They all thought the Vellant’im allied with the sorcerers. Perhaps they were; she had been too long from the councils of her kind to know. But if she revealed what she was—and she would have to, for this spell was not one worked by Sunrunners and there had been none of their kind of light to work by in the dusk—it was worth her life. And that would not help her lady.
Besides, who could ride fast enough to reach Meiglan before Meiglan reached Stronghold?
Thanys began to weep as she realized that Meiglan would reach Stronghold, no matter what was done or not done. Her wild upward flight had shown her that those hills were per- haps half a day’s ride from the empty castle and the encampment below it. Tomorrow night at the latest, her lady would be brought to the High Warlord. No one could reach her in time.
In this, she was mistaken.
Lord Sethric of Grib and Lord Kazander of the Isulk’im rode the same narrow hillside track not ten measures from where the Vellant’im halted for the night. They were certain their quarry would stop, once the sun went down and the moons came up. The Vellant’im knew Sunrunner ways. Staying beneath the cover of trees when they could, hiding themselves when the land did not provide shelter and the light was good—it was the sole explanation for the Sunrunners’ inability to find them.
The two young men had met the previous evening. Perhaps “met” was the wrong word; they very nearly came to blows. Sethric’s troop was abruptly and silently surrounded by black-clad men on black horses. Swords sang from scabbards before Sethric recognized the smiling dark face from the mock battle at Remagev and several battles in earnest since. He called to his people to hold, and greeted Kazander with admirable self-possession.
“Welcome, my lord korrus,” he said pleasantly. “Lovely night for a gallop, isn’t it?”
Kazander nodded enthusiastically. “It is, my lord of Grib, it is indeed! All one lacks is a lady to share it with.”
“My thought precisely, my lord.”
But the lady they encountered that night was not the one who needed finding. She appeared on the road before them as suddenly as moonlight slicing through a cloud, holding up both hands that glistened withfaradhi rings.
Sethric’s first thought was not What in all Hells is a Sunrunner doing here? Instead: So will Jeni’s fingers shine one day, with tokens of what she is that I am not and can never be...
Kazander had no such notions to distract him. He sprang down off his horse, as spry as if he’d been in the saddle only for the afternoon and not six whole days. Striding forward, he bowed and saluted the Sunrunner woman.
“Lost, strayed, or stolen, you are safe now, my lady,” he said gallantly. “I am Kazander, unworthy one who leads the Isulk’im. My noble companion is Lord Sethric of Grib, knight, accomplished warrior, and generous in honoring me with friendship I return in gladness and trust.”
The woman blinked at this speech. So did Sethric, not so much at the praise but because Kazander called him a friend, and really did sound sincere about all of it.
“My name is Valeda,” the Sunrunner said at last.
Kazander’s fingers fluttered like a bird’s wing, brow-lips-heart. “Devri to Lord Andry, mother of his daughter Chayly, and powerful farodhi of many rings. You were not lost, then, for such as you cannot become lost. You have not been stolen. But why do you stray so far from Goddess Keep?”
Valeda seemed to need a moment to recover after each recitation. This time she was quicker, and more blunt. “We could stand here all night exchanging our credentials and pretty words, but that wouldn’t do Princess Meiglan any good.”
Instantly the korrus abandoned his flowers of Isulki eloquence. “Have you seen her? Where?”
“I’m a Sunrunner. We’re supposed to see things.”
Sethric gestured at the moons. “On that light? Your pardon, my lady, but—“
Valeda gave him a wry smile, as unexpected as it was attractive in her rather severe face. “No magic for you, eh? Trail-signs aren’t difficult to see if you know what you’re looking for. I found theirs. Then I found them—damned near walked into a sentry, if you must have the truth. The important thing is that the High Princess and her Vellanti escort are ten measures away, right over that hill.” She pointed. “A little while and you would’ve galloped smack into them, with predictable results.”
“So you came to find us,” Kazander interpreted.
She nodded and pushed back the straggling ends of her dark blonde hair. “You don’t happen to have anything to drink, do you? My horse and I parted company about fifty measures back. He got homesick for Radzyn in the middle of the night and took most of my gear with him.”
Sethric immediately handed over his waterskin. “You’ve been two days on foot through these hills?”
“Only one,” Valeda replied laconically. “I don’t waste time.”
“I guess not,” he said, impressed that she had come so far in a single day through tough country on foot. After waiting politely for her to drink her fill, he asked, “Are they riding fast?”
“They’re camped, and not all that carefully. It’s not far to Stronghold, after all, and nobody’s found them yet.”
“We must give thanks to the Goddess that you did, my lady,” said Kazander.
“Oh, it’s one for the bards to write songs about, all right.” She handed back the waterskin. “But we haven’t put the finish to it yet.” Surveying the troops gathered around in the moonlight, she addressed a slim young woman astride a big gelding. “Will that gray brute of yours mind double weight?”
The soldier slapped her horse’s neck affectionately. “Oh, no. Rabenel likes Sunrunners. Lord Maarken trained him from a hatchling.” She held out a hand. “Up you come, my lady. He’s no silk pillow, but he’ll spare your feet.”
“This is fine.” Valeda settled herself to ride pillion.
“Thank you, Hestiba,” Sethric said, not quite pointedly. Valeda gave no sign that she’d heard. He exchanged glances with Kazander, who shrugged, gathered his reins, and remounted.
“All right, then,” the Sunrunner continued, pulling leather gloves over her hands and her nine telltale rings. “Let’s get moving—and quietly. We’ll want the advantage of surprise.”
“Indeed,” Kazander said mildly. “My lady, I am pleased we could offer you a horse to ride, however uncomfortably. But it would be even more useful for you to ride the moonlight and tell the High Prince where we are and what we plan.”
She shook her head. “Once we’ve succeeded.”
“Please do it now,” he replied, with utmost courtesy and with steel in his voice.
“Understand this, my lord korrus. I go Sunrunning when, where, and as I see fit, and take orders from Lord Andry alone.”
“Order?” He was all innocence. “Respectful request, my lady!”
Whatever she might have answered was cut short when the gelding jumped and sidled, nearly spilling Valeda into the dirt. “Sorry,” Hestiba murmured, sounding contrite. Sethric knew better.
So did Valeda. She scowled, her lips tight and her jaw clenched. But a moment later she wore the expression that had become familiar to Sethric since Autumn, the expression most Sunrunners wore while working.
Kazander still looked as guileless as a child. Hestiba winked at Sethric; others of the company were grinning, and Isulki teeth shone especially white above black clothing in the gloom. They had all sobered by the time Valeda returned; this Sunrunner might be prickly of temper, but she was a Sunrunner, and due proper respect.
“There’s cloud cover across the approach to Feruche,” she said.
Sethric wondered if she was lying. Kazander seemed undisturbed, and after a moment the younger man understood why. Telling Pol mattered little; authority had been established and everyone, including Valeda, knew it.
“Later, then,” Kazander responded with perfect calm. He and Sethric signaled to their people, and they started off to find Princess Meiglan.
A silent way down the road, Sethric asked, “Did you have any trouble finding us, my lady?”
“I knew where you’d be.” Valeda shifted her hold on the back of Hestiba’s saddle. “Intercepting you before you stumbled into the Vellant’im was the problem. They’re about half a measure either side of the camp.”
“In fours or eights?” Kazander asked. When she gave him a startled look, he explained, “That is their habit when posting guards. I have observed this from Remagev to Skybowl. So I say again, my lady: fours or eights?”
“Eights. All on foot. You should be able to kill them quickly enough, if you’re quiet about it.” She paused. “Which you Isulk’im will undoubtedly be. I’ve read about the Black Warriors.”
His turn to look startled. But he said nothing.
Sethric waited for her to ask questions about what had transpired since she’d left Goddess Keep. Eventually he wanted to kick himself for stupidity. She was a Sunrunner; what the others knew, she would know. Hells, she probably knew more than he did. Pol had recently taught Jeni to do more than listen passively on sunlight, but her colors were not yet widely known and so she did not receive news as readily as other faradh’im. And what was there to know, anyway? He had his task to perform. That was all he needed to think about.
Now, however, with a Sunrunner riding next to him, he wanted to hear about his family. His cousin Elsen, crippled as he was, had surely reached Goddess Keep by now. Word was that Norian and her husband Edrel weren’t far behind. The Goddess herself couldn’t match Norian for fury when she really made the effort. He wondered if Elsen’s courage would finally cause Prince Velden to bestir himself from Summer River. If it didn’t, Pol would find some way of making him sorry he hadn’t once this was all over. Perhaps Cabar of Gilad would now do something as well, for his son Amiel was fighting Vellant’im in the south. It was possible that Cabar’s daughter, married to Elsen, would argue both cautious and frightened princes into action. Sethric hoped so. Pol was going to need all the help he could get.
But most of all he wondered how Valeda had come so far through such perilous country without getting herself killed. He decided this was the question he wanted answered most of all, and so asked it
Her answer was very simple. “I’m a Sunrunner. And up until last night, I had a good, strong Radzyn horse.”
“Still, you were lucky.”
“The Goddess watches over her own.” She almost smiled. “If we have the sense to keep our own kind of watch, of course.”
“Silence,” Kazander snapped, and held up a hand to call a halt. Sethric heard nothing unusual. Valeda’s eyelids drifted shut and the moonlight shone oh her blank face for some moments before she shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“That you can see,” Kazander appended. “I feel them. Like death waiting outside the tent of my mother, many years ago.” His fingers moved in the air, and his nineteen black-clad warriors gathered around him. Sethric and the rest were pushed gently but firmly away. No words were spoken, and Sethric wasn’t close enough to see what further signals Kazander gave, but in the space of three breaths all of them but the korrus had melted into the night.
“Ride on,” he said into the emptiness between himself and Sethric. “Keep alert. My lady, watch as you can. They are near, I feel them. May the Mother of All Dragons fold you gently in her wings.” He saluted and became as invisible as his companions.
Valeda glanced around, amazed. “Where did they go? How did they do that?”
“Silence,” the young man told her, then gave a few swift orders of his own, wishing for the kind of communication Kazander had with his people. He sensed nothing, but his spine itched anyway and his palm ached for the hilt of his sword.
They rode on. No one talked now, not even in low voices. Only one moon remained above the ragged black trees on the ridge, veiled in clouds and then clear, the light flirting with perceptions. That bush, was it a crouching man with sword ready to kill? And the strange bend of that tree trunk just down the slope—every boulder, every hollow of ground, might hide a secret in its shadows.
“Stop.”
It was barely a whisper, heeded instantly. Valeda slid from Hestiba’s gelding. “He’s right. They’re close,” she said, with more breath than voice. Drawing up the hood of her cloak to cover the shine of her hair, she moved to the side of the trail where the tree-shadows were and picked her way silently down the hillside.
Sethric dismounted. Eighteen of his group did likewise, swords hissing softly free in the uncertain moonlight. The other six stayed on horseback, and would wait here to cut off any escape. That was the idea, anyway. New to this kind of warfare, he was discovering that he much preferred open battle in open country. All this sneaking about in the dark roiled his stomach and knotted the muscles between his shoulder blades.
Like Valeda, he sought the shelter of deeper darknesses as he went, gliding from one patch to another like a child jumping from puddle to puddle after a rain. The rustle of garments was painfully loud. He convinced himself that the sound was exactly like wind playing with leaves. The trail leveled out just as the last moon set, making darkness of everything.
No, not everything. In that gulley just up ahead was the faintest glow, screened by a stand of scrub pine. Sethric froze.
Valeda crept to his side and leaned close, her breath tickling his ear. “The moons are down, they may leave shelter. I’ll do what I can.”
Days ago, some stray shower had soaked to silence the dry leaves and needles littering the ground. Not a branch snapped, not a footfall was audible as Sethric and his eighteen soldiers stole through the pines toward the light. From the thin cover of a scraggly trunk, he squinted down into the hollow. The Vellant’im were getting what rest they could. Thirty or so dark heads—pillowed on the ground, leaning against trees, bent over cups of some hot drink that boiled in a pot on the fire—contrasted sharply with the gleaming fair hair of Meiglan and her daughter. They huddled back from the others, the child cradled in the woman’s arms. Meiglan was not afraid; she was too exhausted, too much in shock to feel anything. Sethric suddenly pictured Jeni in her place, and just as suddenly knew that when he returned to Skybowl he would tell her how deeply he loved her. Life was too uncertain to deny feelings. He might lose her or she him, and there might be no future at all—reasons enough to love her as much as she would let him now.
A tall, powerfully built Vellanti whose beard was thick with gold tokens glanced up at the moonless sky and rapped out a command. Instantly the hollow was alive with movement. Men rose and stretched and finished off their drinks; some went to bring the horses around. It was only when one of them came roaring back into the camp shouting “Enel’im! Enel’im!” that Sethric realized what Kazander had done. The word was a familiar one, though seldom used in the plural like this.
Kazander had done what his people did best. He had stolen their horses.
Sethric almost laughed aloud. He watched the chaos down below for some moments as the leader bellowed orders in a rage and men scurried to catch the wayward animals. Meiglan sat in the middle of it, seemingly oblivious as she stroked Rislyn’s forehead and tried to get her to drink from a cup. Sethric decided that when four or five more Vellant’im had gone to look for the horses, he would attack.
But their commander was no longer shouting. He called out one word. The warriors who remained in the clearing took up position with their swords, circling Meiglan in a wall of steel.
Sethric nearly gave his own order then. But Kazander was nowhere to be seen, and that worried him. His eighteen were overmatched. So he waited.
And waited.
And nearly laughed again as, when no one arrived to do battle, the leader was made to look like a nervous fool.
The Vellant’im lowered their swords, raised them, peered around into the night as if the dying fire could pierce the shadows of the trees. At length the commander swore—the tone was unmistakable, even if the words were incomprehensible—and ordered them to sheathe their weapons.
Sethric reminded himself to congratulate Kazander. The enemy were now convinced that the horses had simply wandered off. Those responsible jbr such carelessness would pay dearly if their commander’s expression was any indication. His face was congested with anger and humiliation as he paced before the fire, snarling—probably about the time and trouble needed to catch the accursed Radzyn enel’im.
But Kazander had decided the time was now. And Sethric was only a heartbeat behind him.
They had talked it over yesterday, agreeing that if the Vellant’im had wanted to kill Meiglan, they would have. They wanted her alive and in the possession of the High Warlord. So whatever happened during the fight, she would not be harmed. This knowledge gave their swords a certain freedom as they converged on the Vellant’im from all sides—twenty men in black, eighteen more wearing the badges of Skybowl and Remagev and Radzyn Keep, and one whose tunic boasted the white candle of Grib.
As he shouted “Azhrei!” and fought and killed—this feeling much more familiar than skulking through the dark— Sethric sometimes caught a glimpse of Meiglan. She was curled as small as she could make herself, protecting her daughter with her body, while warriors clashed and shouted around her. He tried to fight his way to her, blocked at every attempt by what seemed a wall of bearded men. The nearest he got to her was when a fallen Vellanti caught him a vicious slice across the back of one thigh with his sword, and he lurched forward, toppling flat on his face two arm-lengths from her.
Sethric was lucky. The enemy thought he was dead. They paid him no more attention than they would a fallen log. Which for a time he resembled, lying strengthless and nauseated by the agony of what he knew must be a slit hamstring. His right leg was useless—and might remain so the rest of his life.
He vowed to get what use he could out of the rest of his body and began to drag himself toward Meiglan. Keeping hold of his sword while plowing through the dirt on his elbows took up most of his attention. He didn’t see Kazander coming until the man practically stepped on his outflung sword, barely missing the fingers that grimly hung on to it.
“The princesses!” Sethric called out. “Get them out of here!”
Startled by his voice, Kazander parried a slashing sword barely in time. He bent, trying to haul Sethric to his feet.
“No! Leave me! See to them!”
He was ignored. His right leg dangled, unable to support him, but with the left one under him and his sword as a cane, he was steady enough—if totally defenseless.
“Go!” Kazander ordered, swerving to avoid one Vellanti and skewering another who was making for Sethric. Whirling furiously, he stepped toward Meiglan—at the same time the Vellanti leader ran toward her from the other side.
Neither man touched her. Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up in a neat circle, encasing her in a tiny castle of flames. She screamed, huddling tighter around her daughter. The Vellanti couldn’t reach her—but Kazander couldn’t, either. They glared at each other through the Fire, and Sethric couldn’t tell which was the more surprised, or angrier.
Valeda’s work, of course: both a brilliant move and a mistake. The enemy still on their feet ran to find the Sunrunner, screaming “Faradhi!” as they stormed up the hill. Their abandoned opponents raced after them. Sethric was knocked down again and groaned as his leg twisted under him. Gritting his teeth, he straightened it out with both hands, half-blinded by pain. He used his sword to lever himself upright once more and looked around.
If his leg hadn’t hurt so much, and if there hadn’t been so many fallen bodies, he would have laughed: the precipitous mass flight had emptied the clearing. As it was, he shivered with dread. Remaining were only himself, the cowering figures within the flames, and two warriors who began a dance of swords and cunning that would end in death for one.
Sethric leaned heavily on his own sword, cursing his helplessness. Kazander was smiling. He did not engage in direct play; instead, his blade flickered out like a dragon’s tongue to tease the Vellanti. After a moment Sethric saw what he was up to. The Isulki carefully, almost gently, coaxed the en- emy commander away from the princesses. Sethric took one slow, limping step, then another, then another. He was close enough now to feel the heat of the Fire—but there was no heat.
His brain balked at that. The flames were real. He could see them, was close enough to touch them.
But the air was chill. There was no sharp crackle, no smell of burning, no smoke, nothing of real fire but the sight of flames.
Illusion, conjuring, trickery—an image of fire but not its substance—
No! It was bright and red-gold and, by the Goddess, it was fire—
He told his brain to shut up and leave him alone, and reached through the flames with his free hand.
Reason told him he should be writhing in pain, his arm immolated to the elbow. But he wasn’t even singed. His heart tried to leap out of his throat. He swallowed it back down and grasped Meiglan’s shoulder.
She looked up, and in her eyes wild, dark reflections blazed. Between her and him was Fire. Swaying, nearly losing his balance, he again told himself that it had no heat, no substance, it wasn’t real.
“Your grace, hurry! The flames won’t hurt you! Get up!”
She caught her breath on a sob and shook her head violently. Sethric tried to pull her to her feet, but he was too precarious on his own.
“Your grace, please!” He glanced around and saw Kazander keeping the Vellanti busy enough, their swords ringing now in the cold night, Firelight flashing off steel. “Meiglan! Touch it! Look at my hand! It can’t hurt you!”
But the fingers that ventured toward the flames were those of a child, small and trembling, one of them wearing a delicate emerald ring. Rislyn’s face was flushed with sickness, and her green eyes were only half-focused, but she almost smiled, as if recognizing the Fire as something of her own. Her fingers stroked it wonderingly.
Sethric grabbed her hand. Her slight weight was easy to lift. Her mother cried out again and thrust her at Sethric, up through the flames. Whether an act of blind trust or total desperation, it was done and he had the child safe in his arms.
“Take her!” Meiglan screamed.
Weak and feverish, Rislyn was terrified by the loss of sheltering arms. She clung to Sethric, crying for her parents and her sister.
“Hush now, it’s all right, it’ll be all right.” Sethric held her awkwardly against his left hip. His voice wavered between gentleness and urgency, a mad fluctuation like a string going in and out of tune. “But you must help me, Rislyn, we have to hurry—my lady, your grace, for the love of the Goddess, it won’t hurt you! It didn’t hurt her! Shh, it’s all right, Rislyn, your mama will come with us. Meiglan, get up!”
“Mama!” the little girl pleaded. “It’s not bad fire, Mama, please!”
Meiglan gathered her legs under her. “Take her! I’ll follow! I’ll—“
The Fire vanished.
Sethric knew what that meant. “Kazander! They’ve got the Sunrunner!”
The korrus, fighting for his life now against a man half again his size, yelled something. Sethric heard great crashing sounds in the scrub now. Any moment the chance to escape would be lost. Without the sword in one hand to prop him up, he had no hope of walking more than one pace. But with Rislyn in his other arm, he was out of hands to drag Meiglan to her feet. The High Princess tried to stand and couldn’t; tried again; failed again. And then he saw why. They had hobbled her ankles.
“Kazander!”
Gloved fingers clamped around Sethric’s shoulder and his stomach lurched. But the voice shouting at him was female, and familiar.
“Here—mount up! Take the girl and ride like all Hells! Hurry, damn you!”
Somehow the Sunrunner had eluded everyone. She snatched the sword from Sethric’s right hand and replaced it with the reins of a black Radzyn mare whose ears were laid flat with anger. Rislyn was no weight at all, but Sethric’s balance was so fouled by his useless leg that halfway into the saddle he almost collapsed. Valeda shoved his right leg over the horse’s rump and Sethric saw stars. And then, miraculously, he was seated, the child snug at his side, the reins in his hand.
“Go!” the faradhi yelled.
He turned his head, hoping she would push Meiglan up behind him. She had knelt beside the princess, fingers scrabbling at the rope around her ankles. But there was no time. He saw shapes of men and horses in between the trees, converging on the clearing once more.
“Valeda! They’re—“
She looked up, the rope dangling from her hand. “Get out of here!” she screamed at him.
And as he accepted that she was right, and he must at least get Rislyn to safety, he saw something that made the Fire’s unreality seem as natural as breathing.
Her face changed.
Blue-gray eyes shaded to brown. Strong, handsome features softened to wistful delicacy. Dark blonde hair paled, curled in an unruly cloud around her face that was no longer her face.
It was Meiglan’s.
Sethric heard a guttural cry of “Diarmadh’im!” behind him that snapped him out of his entrancement. Clutching Rislyn to him, he dug his heel into the mare’s ribs and fled.
Valeda cursed under her breath as Sethric finally rode away, damning him for taking so long about it. Then again, it wasn’t every day one saw such things. And the astonishment scrawled across his face had served her as a mirror. She had succeeded.
No, not quite. She yanked the cloak from the High Princess’ shoulders and exchanged it for her own. Confusion enough, if she was lucky. Then she stripped off her gloves and stuffed her rings into them, clenching small, white, unfamiliar hands around them for an instant before throwing them into the forest as far as she could.
What else? Necklet? Earrings? She checked quickly, relieved to find no jewelry that might give away the game. The clothes were almost right—both of them were dressed in brown riding leathers of standard design, though her own were of lesser quality. She thanked the Goddess that Meiglan was evidently a practical sort of woman who did not ruin really fine clothing by wearing it on a long journey. Besides, what man ever truly noticed what a woman wore unless he had given it to her or had plans to remove it?
She ran through the list Evarin had established of possible troubles in this spell, and decided she had taken care of everything that could be done on such ridiculously short notice. During the long ride from Goddess Keep she had amused herself by working the spell on occasion, barely able to hide her smiles when at a farmhouse in Syr she had been welcomed as a man. That had been difficult. Men moved differently than women—something about the set of the hips that affected the balance of the body. But she had succeeded in her guise. Taking Meiglan’s shape was much simpler. And, by the expression on the High Princess’ face, copying her demeanor would only be a matter of acting afraid.
Not that she had to act. Valeda knew what these barbarians did to Sunrunners. It was why this madness had been her only hope, once she had escaped their discovery in the forest.
But she had not heard Meiglan’s voice. As the clearing filled with battling warriors again—all avoiding the two women who huddled together in unfeigned terror—Valeda drew both their hoods up and took Meiglan’s face between her hands, whispering urgently.
“My lady, I know what it’s like to see your own face in a living mirror. I’m sorry for the shock. But it’s necessary. My name is Valeda, and I’m a Sunrunner of Goddess Keep. You know of my daughter, Chayly, who is also Lord Andry’s daughter, grandchild of your husband’s aunt. So in some small way we are kin. I will help you all I can, but you mustn’t be afraid of me.”
The first kind voice she had heard in many days slowly got through Meiglan’s fright. She touched a finger to the face that was her own, then snatched it back. “You—how did you do this?” she breathed.
A lighter tone than mine, softer, not as deep. “It would take too long to explain. I—“ She was jostled against Meiglan as someone stumbled into her back. Righting herself, she kept her head bowed and her shoulders drooping and said, “I must tell you two things about it, though. I can’t do any other Sunrunner work while this is taking up all my power. And this face will become my own when I sleep. If we don’t win free, and if we’re taken to the High Warlord, then we must be constantly together and neither of us can sleep at the same time. Do you understand?”
Meiglan gave a jerking nod. “But we will be freed. Lord Kazander—“
“Of course, of course,” Valeda soothed. “I only told you in case the worst happens.”
“But why would you—Andry has no love for my lord.”
“Andry is Desert-bora, and Lord of Goddess Keep. He—“
Hands dragged her up, set her on her feet. She hadn’t noticed the sudden quiet. Meiglan was hauled up to stand beside her, and clung to her arm. Valeda curved her spine a little more to make the three fingers of difference in height less noticeable, and looked around.
Bodies littered the hollow. One of them sprawled half across the campfire, his clothes smoldering. Valeda was pleased to see it was the commander. It might be easier to deal with underlings, those who were accustomed to obey rather than think. She had originally thought to take on the shape of a Vellanti, but aside from the problem of movement, she knew it was a poor leader who did not know his own men—even though they all looked alike to her, with their beards and their fierce black eyes.
They were not fierce now. They were stricken.
She bit back a smile of satisfaction. There was no reason to smile in any case. Rislyn was free—but there was no one left to help her and Meiglan.
One or two men approached, then shrank back. Someone came into the clearing saying something about the horses being found. Valeda had heard enough of Man’s old-language poetry to discern most of the words, even if they were snarled instead of sung. The talkative one stopped in mid-stride when he saw the doubled image. He and all his fellows stared at the two women and at each other, utterly at a loss.
Suddenly one of them wiped his sword clean on a black Isulki cloak and marched up. Valeda knew what he was about to do and flinched back. So did Meiglan, but for a different reason.
The twinned reaction stopped the Vellanti, but only for a moment. He grabbed Meiglan’s arm—proof enough that no one could tell the difference—and brought up his blade.
Another man cried out in protest, talking rapidly. The first paused and turned his head, the sword a handspan from Meiglan’s skin.
Valeda held her breath, concentrating on putting the words together in her mind. Then she had it—and nearly sagged with relief. i
The man had called out, “No! Unmarked! Priestlaw!”
He spoke again, coming forward with eyes that dared not look at the two women. “No! No blemish, no fault! It is law! Priests will know which is false!”
“But—faradh’im die of steel!”
“Choose wrong, you will die! Think, my brother!”
The sword wavered. Meiglan’s arm was released, and the blade returned to its scabbard. Meiglan half-collapsed against Valeda, breath sobbing in her throat.
The horses were brought. Several of the Vellant’im began to stack the dead for burning. Meiglan whispered, “Is Kazander there among them? Is he?”
Valeda shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know. I can’t tell.”
And then they were lifted onto horseback, and led away into the night.
Kazander’s fate was also in Sethric’s mind. He rode due north without regard to the terrain, certainly without heeding whatever trails might appear before him, Rislyn had long since fainted, or slipped into fever. He couldn’t tell, and he couldn’t stop to help her. Feylin, he kept thinking, I must get to Feylin at Skybowl, she’ll know what to do. Skybowl. North. Hurry.
His leg didn’t hurt now. He could feel nothing below his right hip. He was beginning to get dizzy, and knew it must be from loss of blood. Earlier, he’d sensed the leg sliding against saddle leather and reached down. The blood was still flowing, incredible amounts of it. He slowed the horse and used his belt knife to cut a length from one rein, and tied it around his thigh as best he could. But he must get to Skybowl, to Feylin, who would know what to do for him and for the unconscious child.
He had no idea how long he’d been riding. He kept expecting to hear Kazander’s voice behind him, calling him to a halt, telling him that the High Princess was safe and everything was all right. But perhaps they would meet at Skybowl. Feylin was there to scold his carelessness and heal him and say that he would have the use of his leg again in perfect health. And Jeni was there. He would tell her, he swore he would, and if she said she loved him, too, he would go down on his knees in thanks to the Goddess who had let one of her Sunrunners care for him, a mere younger son of a younger son— and probably a cripple for the rest of his life, like his cousin Prince Elsen.
Goddess, he felt strange. Light-headed, shapes moving closer and then darting away, his face clammy, his hands loosening on the reins...
No. Mustn’t fall asleep. Must ride. North. Skybowl. Feylin. And Jeni—
“My lord?”
His head snapped up. “Kazander?” he muttered thickly.
There was an odd hesitation. “Here with us, my lord, and twelve of our Isulk’im, and ten of your own from Skybowl. Here, let me help you—“
“Skybowl,” Sethric repeated as hands eased the child out of his arms. He was cold now where she had been.
“Yes, my lord. Careful now coming off your horse, we’ll want to bind that leg a little better—“
“Meiglan?” he asked, trying to focus on the dark face at his knee. Hands coaxed him down, ready to help him. “ ‘M fine,” he mumbled. “C’n ride...”
“After you’ve been bandaged, my lord. Lady Feylin will lop off my ears to cast in silver for wind chimes if you lose any more blood. Come, my lord—“
“Feylin ... Skybowl...” There was one more word that went to the formula, and as he frowned and groped for it, he felt himself topple slowly from the saddle. But that didn’t matter; someone caught him, and he had found the word.
“Jeni.”