Pol watched as long as the sunset lasted. Meiglan sat just outside a small white tent, a length of violet silk spilling over her lap and the arm of her chair. Her fingers plied silver needle and golden thread rhythmically, swiftly, without mistakes even as the light began to fail. She paused only to run more thread through the needle, smooth the double strand between her fingertips, and knot the end with a quick twist.
He had seen her do this so often. So many quiet evenings in their chambers, while he read aloud to the girls before the hearthfire, her clever fingers had taken a million stitches in a hundred different patterns on silk and velvet and tapestry wool. He watched now as she gathered another section of cloth into her hands, bit off another length of thread, began another delicate golden wreath. She looked so young, fair head bent over her embroidery, fingers stitching in and out, silver and gold. Young and beautiful and so fragile.
He hadn’t seen her since she’d left Feruche twenty-three days ago. He’d looked—Goddess knew, he had searched frantically on any light available—but until today she had been under cover of clouds, or trees, or this white tent.
Meggie, he called. Meggie, I’m here with you, I’m here—
But she would never hear him, never feel his presence on the waning light. Knowing that, he could tell her what he could never tell her aloud: I’m sorry. Forgive me, Meggie, I didn’t do it to hurt you. I would never hurt you.
He knew he should leave. With each moment he must weave the thinning rays a little more strongly in order to stay. But he hadn’t seen her in so long.
JL
I love you, Meiglan. What happened had nothing to do with you.
The real Hell of it was that even if he did tell her, there would be no accusations, no blame, no anger. No matter what truths he told—or what lies—whatever he did or didn’t do or say, she would always love him with the same undemanding trust. He would never see forgiveness in her eyes— because in her eyes, he could never do anything she would have to forgive.
It won’t happen again. I swear it. I do love you.
She glanced up. Her face was thinner and very pale, yet oddly serene. Oddly secretive. She gathered up the little basket of thread and the rich folds of violet silk, and went back inside the tent.
Tracing the remaining light back to Feruche, he found his mother standing at his side, watching him.
“Meiglan?” she asked.
He raked wind-tousled hair from his face and nodded.
“I saw it in your eyes.” As he turned for the stairs down from the battlements, she added, “No, wait a moment. Tell me what you saw.”
He shrugged. “Meiglan. Sitting outside that white tent— you were right about that, by the way. Of course, you usually are.”
Sioned ignored the bitterness. “Is she all right?” An instant later she shook her head. “I’m sorry. Stupid question. They’ve had her for—what is it, thirteen days now?”
“Fourteen.”
“Pol—I’m sorry for what I said the other day. To you and Sionell. It was ... malicious and cruel.”
“Yes. It was.”
“It’s only that I love you—all of you.”
“I know. Come inside, it’s getting chilly.”
They descended half a flight in silence before she spoke again.
“Do you sleep at all?”
“It’s not really sleep—more like snuffing a candle.”
“You get that from your father. He had the lucky kind of body that knew when it needed rest, and took it whether his mind liked it or not. A useful quality in a prince.” She paused. “Tilal’s inside Radzyn.”
“What?”
“He attacked, if you can call it that, last midnight. Saumer wasn’t clear on the details. Andry will have gotten more of it from Andrev, so we should hear most of the story over dinner.” She took his arm and coaxed him to continue downstairs. “Tilal was wounded. But he’s got at least a hundred physicians to fret over him, and Saumer didn’t seem worried. There were very few losses, thank the Goddess. But the Vellant’im died almost to a man—in the pastures outside the keep and when they tried to get to the ships from Graypearl. Those ships, you see, were commanded by Amiel and Ludhil.”
Pol took a couple of steadying breaths, excitement beginning to race through him. “Does Chay know?”
“I told him before I came up to find you.” She smiled. “He looks twenty years younger.”
“I don’t doubt it. So there won’t be so many thousands of them marching on Skybowl—if Tilal wasn’t already a prince, I’d make him one for this!”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something appropriate to reward him for doing what he would have done anyway.”
“Don’t start,” he warned, smiling down at her. “It’s moving toward us now, Mother—we’re going to win this. We’ll meet them at Skybowl and slaughter every one of them—all except the High Warlord. Him I intend to keep alive for a very long time.”
She said nothing. He sighed his exasperation and hugged her around the shoulders.
“I know, I know. I’ve got half the course ahead of me, and the worst of the jumps, before I get to the finish. But I’m going to win, Mother. You can feel it, too, can’t you?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “Yes, Pol. I can feel it.”
They resumed their descent, and when they reached the lower corridor Pol said, “I kept asking myself what Father would have done. I kept getting no answer. Do you know, I never saw him with a sword in his hand except at ceremonies—and even though it wasn’t the real one, the battle one, he hated the feel of it. I could always see that in his eyes. And when he handed me his own sword that day—I’ve been thinking that maybe that was his answer.”
“And?”
“It’s not. Not the whole answer, anyway. I’ve spent so much time being angry at him for never teaching me anything that’s useful to me now that I forgot all that he did teach me. I worshiped him for being wise and kind and strong and everything a High Prince ought to be. What I kept forgetting is how his mind worked.”
Sioned leaned her cheek to his shoulder as they walked down a hallway. “Not the sword, but the brain behind it.”
“Exactly! And what I have to do is fashion a victory that will let me put that sword away again, just as he did.”
She hesitated, then murmured, “I lost the sunlight when he died, Pol. It was so bright for so long...” She sighed. “I’ve been living in shadows ever since. Sometimes, for that brief time, in absolute darkness.”
He stopped walking and put both arms around her. “Don’t think about it. That’s all over.”
“Yes. Over. And there’s still light enough, you know.” She touched his face, the scar on his cheek that was the near-twin of the one on her own. “It’s hard for you, I know— having to light such darkness as this. But you do. More and more. And you will win, my son. By the stars I Named you for, you’ll win.”
The snowstorms had begun slyly, a sprinkling of fat, soft flakes in late afternoon. By sunset—or what Arlis thought might be sunset; who could tell?—men and horses were fighting a relentless white wind that thickened every moment.
Either his luck had run out or he had reached the regions where even the Goddess’ sunlight bowed to the Storm Father. And it seemed the current whim was to bury a whole army in snow, presumably for the fun of it.
He didn’t bother asking Laric where they were. Laric didn’t know any better than he did. The world gradually darkened and night became a certainty instead of a threat. Arlis wiped his eyes clear of snow, peering over his horse’s hanging head in search of shelter. Futile, of course; all Firon was one gigantic storm. And if he didn’t find refuge soon, he would command an army of ice sculptures.
The tactics of the Desert were worthless here. Hunkering down in a cloak to form an air pocket until the wind died and one could dig out wouldn’t work. Suffocation wasn’t the problem. Freezing to death was. They had to keep moving. But every step was slower, costlier, more and more begrudged by the storm.
“My lord! Prince Arlis!”
He turned his head stiffly, trying to identify the white-shrouded rider at his side. Had Rohannon truly grown so tall recently? Maarken and Hollis wouldn’t know him. Swirling snow cleared and Arlis felt foolish. It was Laric’s squire who shouted for his attention. Which wasn’t what it should have been; his brains must be freezing solid along with the rest of him. Prying icy cloth from his mouth and nose, he yelled back, “What?”
“There, my lord—“ Idalian pointed ahead and to the left.
Arlis saw nothing, and said so.
“A light, my lord!” The young man got a faceful of driven snow and coughed. “I can just barely see it!” ,
“I can’t—but lead on!”
Though it seemed forever, finally Arlis saw it, too. One light, then several, then a whole line of them like tiny candles in a distant window. How, in the Name of the Goddess, did they keep torches burning in this wind? He decided he’d ask some year when he was warm again and certain that his lips wouldn’t crack and fall off like icicles.
A day past forever, someone bundled in clothing enough for an entire family appeared before him. He saw now that the torch was made of a steel rod supporting a small bowl of oil, surmounted by a glass shade to protect the flame. Nice, he told himself numbly; he’d order a hundred of them for windy days at Zaldivar.
“Only a little way to the village, your grace!”
He was fairly sure that was the message. It didn’t much matter. Though it had occurred to him that these might be diarmadh’im, Yarin’s kin and his own enemies, given the choice of being killed by the storm or being killed by sorcery, there was no contest. At least with the latter, there was the probability of getting warm first.
But how had this person known to call him “your grace”?
The village nested in the curve of a little hill. The wind was not so fierce here, nor the snow so thick, and he saw cottages and a communal barn. A small building off to one side looked like a hunting lodge. A very penurious athri’s hunting lodge, but he wasn’t disposed to argue. If it had a hearth, he was prepared to adore it.
“We’ll stable the horses with our animals! Come down now, your grace, come within!”
Sounded like a fine idea. A short while later he was walk- ing through the lodge’s door, and someone put a cup of mulled wine into his hand.
“Welcome to Pimanost.”
He drank, completely missing whatever was said to Laric when he came in. The wine burned his tongue and the spiee-laderi steam made his eyes water. It felt glorious.
Laric’s teeth still chattered. “Thank you for f-finding us. We’re v-very grateful. But how did you know to look?”
Arlis tensed. This was the question that needed answering. In the warmth of the lodge—wood secured against the wind by brown daub, one large room and a half-loft above it for sleeping—he was beginning to sweat, and not just from the weight of layers of clothes.
There were six people present besides himself and Laric. Dark-skinned, dark-haired Fironese all, with tip-tilted black eyes. None of them answered Laric’s question. Idalian, just now coming in the door with Tirel hoisted in one arm, did.
“You!” he exclaimed.
“Aldiar?” Tirel said, peering at a slight, thin-faced young person who brushed straggly hair back and shrugged.
The squire handed the child to Laric and placed himself protectively between them and Aldiar. “Don’t believe a word he says, my lord! He’s Yarin’s kinsman, he’s—“
“Would I have saved you from the storm only to kill you now?” The youth stamped an impatient foot. “I’ve been following you ever since you left Balarat. Who do you think kept that farm quiet so you could steal the horses? And a clumsy long time you took about it, too!”
Idalian started forward, fists clenched. Laric shook his head. “No. Let’s hear him out.”
Aldiar inclined his head as if this were the Princes Hall at Dragon’s Rest, and he the High Prince. “Thank you, your grace. It’s not very complicated. When Idalian and the little prince found you, I started back. But I saw this storm blowing up and I knew it would be a bad one. So I came here, hoping you would, too. When you didn’t arrive...” He shrugged. “I went looking for you.”
“I’ll just bet you did!” Idalian cried. “My lord, I’ve told you about Aldiar. He’s diarmadhi!”
“So,” said Laric quietly, “is my wife.”
Arlis cleared his throat, judging it was time to intervene. “Whatever and whoever anybody is, I’m glad to be out of that storm. Aldiar, my thanks to you and the good people of
Pimanost. I confess I’ve never heard of it, but your ‘hill of storms’ is aptly named.” He used the smile that had helped win him his wife, and it worked on these folk almost as well as it had on Demalia. Granted, they didn’t throw themselves into his arms, but they did smile back. “With Prince Laric’s permission, I propose to send you a hundred bottles of my best wine every year from now on to replace all that I’m going to drink in keeping warm.” He held out his empty cup. “I’d love to make a start on it right now.”
Wine was poured, and everyone gathered around the trestle table that dominated the lodge. Idalian placed himself between his princes and Aldiar, who noted it with another little shrug. The five other people were introduced—a brother and sister who were the village elders, plus their spouses, and a middle-aged worthy who was caretaker of the lodge. His wife was in the shed attached at the back, cobbling together a meal.
It was instantly clear that they considered Laric their true prince. It wasn’t that none of them sat until he did, or that all of them bowed low when Aldiar named them. Arlis had spent enough of his youth determining which Kierstian notables despised him for being half-Iseli, and which Iseli for being half-Kierstian, to know sincere regard when he saw it. He sat among them with perfect calm, certain that he and his companions would not all be murdered in their beds this night or any other. Not by these folk.
This young kinsman of Yarin’s though ... Arlis watched him now and again as food was brought in and more wine poured. Fair-spoken, except when addressing Idalian, reasonable, with good manners and a definite presence about him, yet there was something about Aldiar that was not quite what it seemed.
The delegation from Pimanost shared wine with them for hospitality’s sake, but politely declined to stay and eat. They told Laric that his soldiers and horses would be well cared for, accepted his thanks, wished him a pleasant night, and departed, disagreeing among themselves on how long the storm might last. Arlis heard estimates of anywhere from midmorning tomorrow to another four or five days. “Storm Hill,” for certain. Sighing fatalistically, he cut another slice of herbed bread and washed it down with wine.
Aldiar was explaining that not everyone agreed with Yarin’s actions, as had been demonstrated at Snowcoves. As he had tried to tell Idalian, he added with a disgusted glance in the squire’s direction.
“You came to Balarat when he took it over,” Idalian countered. “He set you to watch me by having me teach you knives and swords—“
“And you’re as rotten as a swordsman as you are a horse thief,” Aldiar shot back.
Idalian sprang up from the table, his temper as well as his muscles warmed by the wine. Aldiar jumped to his feet, hand at his belt-knife.
Which wasn’t there.
“Looking for this?” Idalian taunted, holding up a fine, sharp blade.
“Give it back!” Aldiar demanded.
“Where do you want it—in your throat or in your guts?”
“Stop it!” Laric commanded. “Sit down, both of you. Idalian, apologize for your rudeness. And you, Aldiar, apologize for insulting skills you well know to be exceptional.”
After a moment’s defiance, each muttered something that might have been “I’m sorry” and sat down.
Laric said, “Idalian is my squire—and tomorrow morning will be made a knight in this hall, in front of as many as can be packed in here.”
The young man’s eyes widened in surprise.
Ignoring him, the prince continued, “Any insult to him is an insult to me. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord.”
For the second time Arlis interposed. “If you’re Yarin’s blood-kin, then you’re Prince Laric’s as well, by marriage. And tomorrow he’ll be in need of another squire.”
Aldiar’s big black eyes narrowed. “You’d do that, my lord? Take me on, knowing who and what I am?”
“I believe I would,” Laric answered slowly. “Informally, perhaps.”
“But, Papa,” Tirel piped up, “there won’t be an oath or anything!”
If Aldiar had a sense of honor, a formal swearing would engage it and breaking the vow would be punishable by the laws of Firon and the High Prince’s Writ. If he didn’t, then no oath would bind him. Laric was offering to trust Aldiar without any oath at all—a sign of faith that made Arlis nervous. Whereas keeping a sorcerer in sight was a very good idea, trusting him was a very bad one.
“However you like, my lord,” the sorcerer was saying. “I will swear or not, as you please. Not because it means so little to me, but because I could not be more your servant than I am now.”
Prettily said, Arlis thought. Perhaps too prettily.
Idalian was coming out of his shock. “My lord—I did nothing to deserve—I haven’t been in a battle!”
“Neither had I,” Arlis said cheerfully, “when the High Prince knighted me. Nor any of the rest of us, either.”
“Getting my son out of Balarat was battle enough for anyone,” said Laric.
“But—“
Tirel squirmed. “Oh, hush up, Idalian! If Papa hadn’t, I would’ve! I’m a prince, too!” He eyed Aldiar. “You can be my squire, if you like. I’m too young for an oath to be legal. Did we tell you about that, Papa? The paper Uncle Yarin made me sign?”
“Yes, and you were very clever.” He glanced at Aldiar. “Swear to my son, then, as your blood-kin as well as your future prince.”
“Doubly binding,” Idalian muttered, “not that that signifies.” He buried his nose in his winecup.
Aldiar cast him a fulminating look, then responded, “If that’s your wish, my lord, then I shall become Prince Tirel’s squire tomorrow—or will that interfere with the honors accorded Lord Idalian?”
Arlis had had enough. “Speaking of squires, I seem to have misplaced my own. Has anyone seen Rohannon?”
“He’s probably looking after the horses—a true grandson of Chaynal of Radzyn.” Laric smiled.
Idalian bundled himself in his cloak and started for the door. “I’ll go find him.”
Aldiar stepped forward. “My knife?”
Faster than the eye could trace, Idalian whirled and flicked his wrist. Silver flashed in firelight. An instant later, the blade was quivering in the wooden floor a precise fingerspan from Aldiar’s left boot.
“Your knife,” Idalian said, and stalked out.
The sorcerer gulped hard and bent to retrieve his property. When he straightened, his face was almost—almost—bland.
“There’s a lot to talk about,” he said. “And plenty of time to do it in. This storm looks likely to last at least three days.”
“And at Balarat?” Laric asked.
“They won’t be going anywhere, either.”
“What happened when Uncle Yarin found out we were gone?” Tirel asked.
“I don’t know—I wasn’t there. But I can imagine he wasn’t all that happy about it.” Aldiar grinned suddenly, his mouth stretching from one side of his narrow, beardless face to the other. “I hope he had a fit and choked on it.”
“Me, too,” Tirel declared. “You’re not my squire yet, but could you please find me somewhere to sleep? I’m tired.”
“You must be,” Laric observed. “Actually asking to be put to bed! Aldiar, if you wouldn’t mind—? We’ll talk tomorrow.”
The two boys climbed the ladder to the loft. Arlis poured more wine and said, “So you trust him.”
“He could have let the storm have us.”
“Maybe we’re being led to a more interesting slaughter.”
Laric regarded him thoughtfully. “What don’t you like about him?”
“I don’t know. It’s nothing I can grasp. Just an odd feeling—“ He glanced around as cold air blasted through the opened door. “Ah, Rohannon! Come thaw out. This is no place for a Desert lord’s son.”
“Or a Sunrunner, my lord. Everyone’s settled,” the squire reported as Idalian helped him off with his cloak and outer tunics. Rohannon’s fingers were practically frozen to his gloves. “The horses are a bit crowded, though—that barn’s not built for so many.”
“Warmer with more bodies packed in. Have some wine.” He poured and slid the cup across the trestle table. Rohannon picked it up, thanked him, and took it over to the fire.
“Tell us more about Aldiar,” Laric said to Idalian, who sat opposite him and frowned. “Everything he ever said to you.”
“Well,” the young man began.
“What are you doing?” a sharp voice called from the direction of the ladder. They all turned, including Rohannon, so startled that he dropped the small pouch in his hand. “Is that what I think it is, Sunrunner?” Aldiar demanded.
Rohannon was on his knees by the hearth, scraping together scattered dry leaves. There was something desperate, aimost frantic, about the movement that brought Arlis to his feet. Aldiar was at Rohannon’s side, shaking his arm.
“No—let me—stop it, get away—“
The sorcerer grabbed the Sunrunner’s head in both dark hands. Turning Rohannon’s face toward the light, Aldiar sucked in a breath as pale eyes flinched from the brightness of the fire.
“By the Nameless One,” he breathed. “How long have you been taking it? How much each time?”
“What in all Hells—?” Arlis asked.
Rohannon jerked away. He scrabbled at the wooden floor again, trying to get all the little leaves up from between the cracks. “Damn you, look what you’ve done!”
“You idiot—look at yourself! See what you’re doing! Do you want to be like this the rest of your life?”
“Rohannon!” Arlis snapped. “Explain this!”
“He can’t,” Aldiar said over his shoulder. Rising, he rubbed his face with both hands, then faced the princes. “It’s dranath. You must know what it does when it’s taken too often. He’s been taking it for quite some time, I’d say. You only have to look at him to know it—the light hurts his eyes, and see how he’s—oh, for the Goddess’ sake, leave it!” he cried.
Arlis went to them, knelt beside Rohannon, gently drew him up. “Is this true?” he asked quietly.
“It was necessary.” His gaze strayed to the floor where the little pouch lay spilled. “I had to. I didn’t know enough—I wasn’t strong enough.”
“So you—“ Arlis swallowed hard. “Even I heard the story of what it did to your mother.”
“It didn’t take that long to cure her of it—“
“Aldiar?” Arlis looked at the boy.
“I can try. Segev kept her short, you see—so that when he came with wine or taze and the dranath in it, she’d associate feeling better with his presence. So all in all, she didn’t have that much. As for him—“ He shrugged. “I don’t know how much he’s been taking.”
“How do you know so much about my mother?” Rohannon exclaimed.
“We didn’t, until after. It didn’t take much wit to figure it out—especially as Lady Hollis survived.”
Arlis didn’t dare ask whether or not Lady Hollis’ son would.
“Do what you can. Do all you know to do,” he said, more numb with inner cold than he’d been when the snow had numbed his body.
“You’re not going to trust him!” Idalian strode forward, appalled.
Sick with guilt, Arlis couldn’t speak. Rohannon was his squire and his responsibility, sworn by oaths as solemn and binding on him as they were on the boy. Maarken and Hollis had given their only son into his keeping. Arlis had failed the three of them, Rohannon most of all.
He had not questioned an untutored Sunrunner’s performance of tasks he shouldn’t have known how to do. He had taken advantage of the prodigy, assuming that thanks to Rohannon’s inherited gifts such strength came easily, naturally. He hadn’t even questioned how a Sunrunner could sail the open sea without being violently ill. How was he to know it was dranath that had done it, dranath that had lent power and spared Rohannon thefaradhi weakness? Dranath, the precious herb that cured Plague, the terrible drug that augmented gifts and became an addiction. The sorcerer’s herb, forbidden to Sunrunners.
He was about to give a Sunrunner’s life into a sorcerer’s hands.
Laric answered softly, “What choice is there? None. Aldiar, help him.”
“Yes, my lord. I’ll try.”
“You’d better do more than ‘try,’ “ Idalian threatened.
“Then you’d better be prepared to help me,” came the grim reply. “This isn’t going to be easy on anybody.”
Rohannon glared at them all. “I don’t need anybody’s help!”
“Shut up!” Arlis commanded. “You’ll do as you’re told. Aldiar, he’s in your hands.” And he thanked the Goddess for the snowstorm, praying that it would last a long time; it •vould prevent Maarken and Hollis from looking for their son.
Maarken and Chay had finished presenting four different attle plans on four different maps spread out on the Attic able. It had been a long afternoon, and stomachs were be- nning to rumble. When Pol’s gave a particularly loud growl, Chay laughed, rolled up the maps, and told him it was time to feed the inner dragon.
Sioned and Meath came in with Alasen, the latter smiling as she said, “There’s a rumor of a spectacular meal— somebody came back with three deer this morning and the cook locked the kitchen door at noon.”
“Not three does, I hope,” said Hollis, who had been taking notes during the strategy session.
“Of course not,” Maarken told her. “That law goes back to—well, I’ve forgotten his name, but he was an ancestor and forbade killing a fallow doe even if you were starving.”
“Yes,” Sioned agreed, “but doing so doesn’t get your tongue cut out anymore—making sure that fresh venison was the last meal you truly enjoyed.”
“I thought it was the left ear that got lopped,” Chay said. “Or maybe the right.”
“If it was the left hand, I’d be safe,” Maarken said, and grinned widely as the others reacted.
“Don’t be morbid,” Sioned scolded. “From what I know about your delightful ancestors, they’d only take the other one, and then how would you make love to your wife?”
“Creatively.”
“As ever,” Hollis added, her eyes dancing.
“”Might have been the nose,” Chay mused. “I forget.”
Alasen gave an elaborate shudder. “Can we forget this conversation, please?”
“Don’t worry,” Maarken smiled. “All we do nowadays is Fine the culprit the price of a doe and twin fawns.”
“Speaking of twins,” Alasen said firmly. “I think someone ought to go down to Skybowl and bring Rislyn here. For her sake and for Jinan’s.”
Pol glanced up from Hollis’ notes. “Oh, no. Nobody but the hunting parties sets foot out of Feruche or Skybowl until we’ve got our plans worked out.”
“Rislyn needs her sister—and her father,” Alasen argued. “It’s not that far, only two days’ ride. We could send a good-sized troop for protection. If she’s well enough in the next few days—“
“I’ll go,” Meath offered. “I’ve really been of no use here, except for teaching—Andry’s work, now.”
“What’s my work?” Andry asked as he came in the open door. “Besides being so hopeless at battle strategy that the rest of you seem even smarter?”
“Teaching Sunrunning to the children,” Maarken said.
“In between watching Meig yawn in my face,” Andry replied with a grin. “I think I’m boring him.”
Alasen tapped Pol’s shoulder to get his attention. “Meath could show Rislyn a few things on the way back from Skybowl, you know.”
Slow wonderment spread across their faces. Alasen shook her head.
“Sunrunners! You see what happens from the Sunrise Water to Kierst-Isel, but you never see the obvious!”
“Good Goddess—you’re right,” Andry murmured at last.
“I didn’t realize,” said Maarken. “Any more than I did about Mother.”
Sioned was nodding. “The world doesn’t have to be completely dark for Rislyn. She has another way of seeing, just as Tobin has another way of speaking.”
“We’re all idiots,” Pol exclaimed. “Except you, Alasen. You’re brilliant!”
“Thank you, your grace,” she replied demurely. “Then you’ll send Meath down to Skybowl?”
“I’ll go myself.”
“I don’t think so,” said Ruala from the doorway. She was leaning against the carved frame, arms folded, evidently having been there listening for some time. “It’s an excellent idea, bringing Rislyn here and so forth, but you’re going to have other things to do.”
Pol groaned. “Not more Merida! By all the Hells that ever—“
“No. You have guests, Pol.” She wore an odd expression, compounded of bemusement and apprehension. “You specifically. They’re asking for the Azhrei. But I’ll let their escort tell it.”
To general astonishment, Betheyn and Isriam walked in. Chay and Maarken and Andry greeted Serin’s Chosen while Sioned and Pol welcomed Rohan’s former squire, now knighted. But the exchanges were brief; everyone had questions.
Riyan got his in first. “What about those pestilential merchants?”
Beth dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “I made Tormichin and Nemthe jointly responsible at Chaldona. If they murder each other, then they murder each other.”
“But they won’t,” Isriam added. “They’d have to share a pyre. Don’t think we haven’t been tempted, my lady and I, to arrange it!”
Beth smiled at him. “Don’t remind me!” She found Pol with her gaze, sobering. “I don’t care what they do to each other. This is more important.”
“And ‘this’ might be—?” Pol asked.
“It’s kind of hard to explain.” Isriam scratched at his lank, dusty hair, caught himself at it, and grimaced. “Your pardon, ladies. Everyone thinks Chaldona is a lovely manor. Unfortunately, all sorts of tiny livestock agree.”
“Talk to Master Evarin,” Andry said, “He’ll give you something to put in your bath—later. Beth, I’m glad to see you, but why are you here?”
“I could ask the same thing of you,” she replied. “Later. For now—well, several days ago we had visitors.”
“Exactly ninety-nine,” Isriam added. “They made sure I told you that, your grace,” he dkected at Pol. “Nine of them came with us. They’re diarmadhi.”
Everyone looked at Andry. Andry arched both brows and looked at Pol. Pol said, “What do they want?”
“Nothing.” Betheyne shrugged. “They’re offering their support in this war. I know, I know—I didn’t believe them, either. They scared me half to death, if you want the truth. But there were two things about them that made us hear them out. First, they were unarmed.”
“Would a sorcerer need a sword?” Chay pointed out.
“Yes, but—the other thing was what convinced me. Each wears steel—an earring newly placed, so the wound isn’t closed up yet. And they can’t do their spells if there’s iron in contact with their blood, isn’t that right?”
Meath, who had experienced what happened when steel pierced a Sunrunner’s flesh during a working, nodded emphatically. “Exactly right. So we’re safe enough from them.”
“Are we?” Andry asked softly. “It would cause terrible pain, but they’d be capable of doing whatever they wanted.”
“It was a sign of good faith,” Beth told them.
“From a sorcerer?”
“There’s more than one kind,” she said. “Isriam and I have spoken at length with these nine, and what they’ve said makes sense.”
“It’s probably pretty much what we’ve been hearing from Princess Naydra,” Hollis commented. “Those of Mireva’s faction are opposed by others who’ve kept them in cheek over schemes we never even heard about.”
“Because they never existed,” Andry said. “It’s laughably easy to talk of saving us from plots no one can prove one way or the other.”
Beth looked up into his eyes. “I believe they’re telling the truth, Andry.”
“So do I,” Pol said. “Ruala, are they waiting outside? Good. Isriam, escort them in.”
“Wait a moment—“ Andry began.
“If you don’t wish to be present, then leave,” Pol said, but—mindful of Maarken—without quite the edge it might have had. “I know what all of you are thinking. Hells, I’m thinking it myself. This could be what the Vellant’im have been waiting for. These people may be here on their behalf. But I fought and beat one diarmadhi at his own spells, and I’m willing to bet that a group of them with iron in their skins won’t be willing to challenge the Sunrunners here.” He picked out each in turn with his gaze—Meath, Hollis, Maarken, Andry, Siohed—then, looking at Riyan and Ruala, added, “Don’t forget we also have two of their own kind among us.”
Andry said nothing for a moment, then gave a shrug. “If the Lord of Goddess Keep can be any help, then I’ll stay.”
“Thank you,” Pol said, and Maarken relaxed.
Isriam returned, leading nine people ranging in age from old to ancient. As Beth had indicated, each wore a twist of steel wire in one ear, often next to an earring already in place, and the slightly reddened puffiness around the wires showed that they were indeed fresh punctures.
Pol barely had time to glance at each face—three women, six men, only a few with the dark Fironese coloring associated with diarmadh ‘im—when one of the old men let out a gasp. He was looking beyond Pol to Andry. The others followed his gaze and a couple of them clung together, eyes widened.
Isriam cleared his throat and, acting as a squire again, began the introductions. “His Grace the High Prince, Ruler of Princemarch and of the Desert. Her Grace the High Princess Sioned. Lord Chaynal of Radzyn Keep.” Isriam paused, uncertain for a moment whether Maarken should come next as eldest son, or if Andry took precedence. Pol solved his problem for him.
“And the Lord of Goddess Keep I believe you know,” he said easily. “In fact, I rather think you’re familiar with all our faces and titles. If there’s anyone you don’t know, tell us, and—“
But they weren’t listening to him. By drawing their eyes away from Andry, he had focused them not on himself but on what was behind him. Camigwen’s mirror.
The oldest of the old women, with a face lined like a map of the Catha River delta, stuck out a withered finger. “What is that?” she breathed. “Where did you—?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Sioned remarked calmly. “It belonged to my dear friend Camigwen—mother of Lord Riyan, whose castle this is.” She nodded at Riyan, and he took his cue.
“We think it might be very old, maybe dating back to the time of Lady Merisel. Isn’t that what you thought, Meath?” He responded at once, “The design of the frame, anyhow.” One of the other diarmadh’im spoke up, making their game of verbal catch four-sided. “Apologies, my lord, but I believe it may only be a copy.”
“Do you?” Riyan asked.
“Sorcerers,” said Andry in silken tones, “know a great deal about mirrors.”
The old woman had collected herself by now. “In times long past, Lord of Goddess Keep.”
He inclined his head slightly, not in acknowledgment but in quiet mockery. “As such, I’m feeling a little superfluous. If you’ll excuse me,...” He bowed—to Sioned, not Pol— and finished, “Beth, you look exhausted. Let me lend you rny chamber to rest in until Lady Ruala finds you one of your own.”
Only when the door closed behind the two did Pol allow himself to look at his mother. There was no time for a message to pass between them; the old woman cleared her throat, snagging his attention.
“I am sorry for my clumsiness, Azhrei. But your mother called it Camigwen’s mirror. Her family is honored among us,”
“You reacted to the mirror before you knew whose it was,” Pol said. “Again, I apologize. I am an old woman, and should be more careful.”
“May I ask why?” Hollis said, before Pol could be even more blunt about it.
Faded blue eyes counted her rings swiftly, searched her face. “You are faradhi. Many of you are.”
“And you don’t talk about mirrors around faradh’im,” Sioned interpreted.
“It is a rule,” Pol said pleasantly, “that you are about to break. For I, too, am a Sunrunner. And if you’re here to help me and mine, then the first thing you can do is tell us about that mirror.”
She glanced at her companions, none of whom met her gaze. At last she looked at Pol once more. “We cannot. Not until we have spoken together.”
Sioned stepped forward and offered her hands to the woman, “I understand. If you’ll permit, I’ll take you to a chamber where you may be alone and private.”
The old woman accepted the touch and bent her head low. “The Azhreia Sioned is gracious.”
Sioned gathered Hollis and Alasen with her gaze, and beckoned to Isriam—who was looking vastly confused. They filed out with the diarmadh’im, and Pol muttered under his breath, “The Azhrei Pol is getting impatient.”
“Well, don’t,” Chay advised. “Remember how proud these people are. And what a shock seeing Andry must’ve been.”
Pol faced the mirror. “I know. I was stupid about it. But they know something about this mirror. This one specifically. It wasn’t just that it’s old. They recognized it. And putting Camigwen’s name to it sealed it for them.”
“They’ll tell you in their own good time,” Meath said. “I think that—“
What he thought was interrupted by the arrival of Dannar, captaining a small army of servants.
“Oh, Goddess,” Pol said. “Dinner.”
“Yes, dinner.” RJyan sat at the head of the table. “And things won’t be any the better or any the worse if we starve. Ruala, sit down. Chay, where’s Tobin? And what happened to the children?”
Nothing, not even a sorcerer’s appalled reaction to the sight of a Shadowcatcher, was allowed to interrupt the routine of Riyan’s household. In this, as in other things, he was the true son of his mother—whose mirror the Shadowcatcher had been.