Ostvel stood on deck, gloved fists on the rails, and hunched his shoulders beneath a heavy cloak. Ten days of drizzling, miserable rain were behind him. For all he knew, ten more were waiting for him farther into Princemarch. He cursed the rain while blessing the wind that bellied the sails and drove his ships north on the Faolain.
But it was a long river, and his little boats could not compare to the sleek dragon ships of the Vellant’im. What he couldn’t have done with one or two of those...
At least he wasn’t a Sunrunner, to be cursing the rain and the ship in between bouts with a bucket. Still, as a former Second Steward of Goddess Keep who had married two Sunrunners, he was faradhi at heart. And as different as his first wife had been from his second, Cami and Alasen would both laugh themselves silly at the irony of his being surrounded by ninety-nine diarmadh ‘im without a Sunrunner in sight.
Before the next ten days passed, he would be laughing, too: at Chiana. Through Naydra’s conversations with Pol, Ostvel had offered to sail down the Faolain and join Tilal, march across the mountains to Skybowl, or go anywhere else his prince desired. Pol replied that if Chiana and Rinhoel set a sin-gte toe within fifty measures of Castle Crag, Ostvel’s reward for dereliction of duty would be rule of all Princemarch when ihis was over.
He wished the damned boats would go faster. He wished didn’t feel so guilty about going to the defense of his own castle rather than helping Pol at Feruche. Mostly, he wished Pol didn’t have such an atrocious sense of humor.
Cami and Alasen would both collapse in laughter at that, too.
Pol’s little joke—and the welcome word that Ostvel was to be a grandfather again—had been the last opportunity for communication. At noon on the day of their departure from Swalekeep, this storm had blown in from Brochwell Bay. It was gasping now, slanting the rain in snorting gusts, but there was life in it yet. Ostvel didn’t relish the notion of slogging through the muddy hills, chasing down Her Grace of Meadowlord. Still less did he look forward to fighting in the inevitable muck. But he was damned if that bitch and her murderous whelp would get within a hundred measures of Castle Crag. Though it was the ancient seat of Princemarch, repository of archives, built it was said by sorcerers after dragons abandoned the caves, Ostvel didn’t care about any of that. His daughter Milar was at Castle Crag. So was Arlis’ sister Alathiel, Rialt’s daughter Mistrin, his old friend and court Sunrunner Donate, all his servants and retainers, and the work of over seventeen years in making a home and a life with Alasen.
Make that two hundred measures.
“I think there’s enough thunder, my lord, without your adding to it,” said an amused voice at his shoulder.
He turned, getting a faceful of rain, to see Princess Naydra’s smile. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were positively growling. Don’t worry, the storm will end soon. Look.” She pointed southwest, where a ragged swatch of blue had stitched itself below the clouds like a banner tagging along for a wild ride on the gale. “By this afternoon, I think.”
“I hope the wind doesn’t end with it. We won’t have much of an army if all the men are too worn with rowing to lift a sword.”
“My kinfolk have said something about calling on the Father of Storms for a decent breeze, if needed.”
Her voice was perfectly even. Ostvel struggled to keep his expression neutral—not so much at the absurdity of praying for a wind, but at her acknowledging the diarmadh’im as family.
“They say the Sunrunners foolishly limit themselves to Fire,” Naydra went on, misunderstanding his lack of reac- tion. “Some stricture of Lady Merisel’s—although if she was truly responsible for half of what they credit her with...” She laughed and shook her head. “Anyway, even with all that’s been lost over the years, they still know how to summon up a respectable wind. Their main problem seems to have been getting enough people together who agreed on the necessity and wouldn’t take the chance to blast a rival.”
Ostvel lost his fight and let astonishment scrawl itself across his face. “What exactly are you telling me?”
Naydra tilted her head slightly in the way of someone who has spoken perfectly clear words that somehow haven’t registered. “It’s said that when a new Lord or Lady of Goddess Keep is confirmed, they call on the four Elements. But it’s only for show, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“Well, the diarmadh’im say that if enough of them work together, they really can summon a wind.”
Insanity. “How many do they need?” he heard himself ask.
“They seem to have a fixation with ninety-nine—threes are important to them, for reasons they don’t really know anymore. The ninety-nine with us now are willing to give it a try if you say so.”
Too much rain. It had soaked into his skull and rotted his mind. Still—if Sunrunners could mesh their gifts to produce the ros’salath, then why not this?
“I don’t know if I have the courage to ask what they might be able to do with Earth or Water,” Naydra admitted, raking back her wet hair and resettling the hood of her cloak. “I rather hope that’s something else they’ve forgotten.”
“Oh,” he said. “Urn—yes.”
“I can understand three regarding the moons,” she continued musingly. “That’s obvious. And we know they have a third deity, this Nameless One. They’re not terribly clear about that, either. Someone hinted that they divided the continent into Desert, Mountain, and Meadow, and a group of three ruled each. I’m not sure how they classified Kierst-Isel, though—and they evidently didn’t worry about Dorval, because it belonged to the Sunrunners. It’s quite interesting talking with them, but it can be terribly frustrating as well.
I have a talent for asking questions they haven’t heard since Lady MeriseFs time. And she is usually their answer.”
One way or another, he was going to get Merisel’s history scrolls for the Castle Crag archives. Which brought him back to what had made him growly.
“When the sky clears—if it ever does—I’d like you to forage out a little, if you don’t mind.”
Naydra held one palm out flat, smiling. “Gracious, no man has ever found my conversation so fascinating that he didn’t notice the rain has stopped!”
He looked at her glove. Damp, but no new drops on it. He took the hand and bent to kiss it.
“My very dear Diarmadh’reia,” he smiled, “when I cease to be fascinated by a lovely and intelligent woman, I will beg someone to put me out of my misery. The sunlight is yours.”
It took her longer than most, for she was newer to it. Ostvel wondered what it would be to live a whole life in ignorance, then have this break over one’s mind—sudden storm or sudden dawn, either would be a shock. Naydra had accepted it by now, and come to enjoy it; she was smiling faintly as she worked, looking very much younger. He remembered his first sight of her—forty years ago next Autumn, when she and her sisters had vied for Rohan’s favor at a tumultuous Rialla. He would never have believed that one day he would be the friend and ally of Roelstra’s eldest daughter.
Or chasing across Meadowlord after Roelstra’s youngest.
Not that he’d minded leaving Swalekeep. Not at all. The thirty days of his residence there had been enough to put things in reasonable order and root out the officials who had aided Chiana in her rule. Young Gerwen of Mevricca would be a careful steward. Enough troops had been left behind to impress any would-be malefactors. Work would continue in field, orchard, and pasture. However, leaving Polev and Palila—that he minded. So did Naydra, though she said little. Camina, a favorite of his from his own guard at Castle Crag, had volunteered to look after the two children while her broken leg mended. But they both needed the gentleness and understanding Naydra had given—Polev while he came to realize his parents were not coming back, Palila while she recovered from what she’d witnessed the day of the battle. If she ever recovered fully.
To Ostvel’s mind, there was nothing in life more important than children. But when it came to a choice between these two and his own daughter at Castle Crag, there was no choice at all.
Naydra’s smile changed subtly, from the sweetness of youth to an expression that made her Roelstra’s daughter. Ostvel held his breath, waiting for her to unthread the sunlight, knowing she must be methodical and not quickfire the way experienced Sunrunners were. When her dark brown eyes met his, however, there was fire enough in them, and more.
“Land here, my lord. In a day, perhaps two, she’ll come through Wine-stem Pass.”
He nearly yelped with delight. They both knew Princemarch, and the narrow defile that opened abruptly onto a grassy plain. Ankle-deep in mud this time of year, of course, but a day or two of sunshine would make the footing tolerable.
“We’ve got her,” Naydra said, suddenly fierce. “My lord, do what you like with Rinhoel, but I beg you to leave Chiana to me.”
“My pleasure, Diarmadh’reia.”
Maarken hadn’t thought his dragon would react so enthusiastically to his arrival at Skybowl. But the instant Pavisel recognized him, riding up the north face of the crater, she launched herself into the sky—all black and silver and joyous cries of greeting. fet«> ‘atched onto him so swiftly that he nearly fell off his evening, once his headache had gone away, he made ivisel was contentedly asleep on the heights before i stroll with Chadric and Walvis on the lakeshore. know,” he mused, “I thought I might shy away from here again—after what happened the last time, I Remembering the exact spot, that sort of thing. But vinge.” re was a sandstorm blowing, how could you remem-ftadric asked, smiling. 1, yes—but the rest of my arm is out there some-and my rings.”
“Goddess, what an idea!” Walvis said. “Don’t be morbid!”
“It’s like prodding a sore tooth with your tongue,” Maarken explained. “You keep at it to find out exactly where it hurts. I can’t do this, that, or the other thing—or I think about part of me buried out there in the Desert—“ He grinned as Walvis made a disgusted face. “No, really, I’m serious.”
“So am I—in a definite need to change the subject.”
“I think I understand,” Chadric said. “Rislyn will do the same.”
Maarken nodded, kicking at a stone. “I’ve been trying to anticipate things. Reading, for instance. Watching people’s faces to learn what they’re thinking and feeling.”
“Except for reading, there’s not all that much she won’t be able to do if there’s light to work with.” The old prince lifted his face to the moons. “It’s clouds that will blind her, and the time between day and night.”
“She hears things more acutely,” Walvis remarked. “I suppose the other senses compensate, don’t they?”
“I hope so.” Maarken paused. “Feylin says there’s no hope at all?”
“None. She thinks the fever was so high for so long that it damaged the part of her brain that takes in what the eyes gather up.” He sighed, then bent and picked up a rock and flung it into the water. “What she means, of course, is that she doesn’t have a clue why it happened.”
Nodding again, Maarken gave his friend his wish by changing the subject. “Kazander seems to be recovering nicely.”
“From a wound that would’ve killed anyone else,” Walvis agreed. “Feylin says she’s not surprised. Let’s see, how did she put it? The constitution of a horse, the hide of a dragon, and brains of solid rock.”
“Speaking of which,” Chadric put in casually, “my lady wife and I have a little idea that might intrigue you. Why don’t we go back in and let her astound you?”
“Am I going to like this?” Maarken asked Walvis.
“Damned if I know. First I’ve heard of it.”
Chadric only smiled.
As the rough soil crunched under their boots on the way back to the keep, Maarken said, “By the way, Pol wants to know who won the bet.”
The other two exchanged glances. “What bet?” Walvis asked.
“Daniv, Jeni, and Sethric.”
“Oh. That bet.”
“Well?”
“There were several ... variables,” Chadric replied thoughtfully.
“Who, when, and how being the primary considerations,” Walvis added.
“Taking into account that some of us were right about who but not when, and some about how but not who,” Chadric reminded him rather pointedly.
“—with the prizes pretty much evenly distributed among us, we agreed that the only real winners were Jeni and Sethric,” Walvis finished.
Maarken rolled his eyes skyward. “Nobody’s willing to own up, eh? How’s Daniv taking it?”
Walvis laughed. “He says that since he was the one who gave them the appropriate shove, they’d better Name their firstborn after him!”
Audrite was waiting for them upstairs with hot taze to steal the chill from the evening. Daniv, she said, was in fascinated military conversation with Draza, Isriam, and Laroshin; Meath and Feylin were with Rislyn; Alleyn and Audran were pestering Jeni and Sethric; and Chayla, she added with a smile, was tending Kazander.
“With Visian in attendance, I trust,” Maarken replied blandly, refusing the bait. “Her Isulki thistle. Half the time you don’t notice him much—he’s like Laroshin that way— but if she makes a move he thinks might so much as break a fingernail, he makes his presence known.”
“Kazander made him account for every instant since he charged him to protect her,” Walvis said, accepting a cup from Audrite with a nod of thanks and seating himself be-«ide the hearth. “It took most of the afternoon.”
“So,” Maarken said, sprawling comfortably in a chair. “What’s this scathingly brilliant idea you’ve come up with?”
When Audrite completed her five concise sentences of ex-r;anation, Maarken didn’t know whether to laugh or call r’eylin to give the princess something to cure her wits. A ijick glance at Walvis showed him to be of the same mind.
“We have to get them to Skybowl,” she said when the par- alyzed silence stretched out too long. “This will do it nicely, we think.”
“Simple, practical, and effective,” Chadric added. “My father would’ve loved it.”
This was too much for Maarken. With sure knowledge of Prince Lleyn’s sense of humor to prompt him, he snorted, then chuckled, and finally burst out laughing.
“We thought you’d appreciate it,” Audrite said demurely.
Walvis divided a bewildered look among them. “You’re not really serious, are you? I mean, what’s Riyan going to say when you propose to hand over his castle to the Vellant’im?”
Chadric eyed Maarken. “When he gets his breath back, we can ask.”
“Ouch,” said Pol, wincing.
Riyan grinned broadly. “It’s only a little lie.”
“That’s just the point,” Sioned told him. “It’s uncomfortably close to the truth. We haven’t been protecting our vassals’ lands and people.”
“Hardly your fault,” Ruala soothed.
Sioned nudged her son with fingers in his ribs. “Stings, though, doesn’t it?”
“I’ll live.” He leaned back on the couch beside her. “But I’m going to practice looking terribly, terribly hurt for when I see Audrite and Chadric again!” He looked up as Andry entered the Attic in response to Sioned’s summons. “Ah, excellent. My Lord of Goddess Keep, you’re just in time to witness foul treachery, high treason, and the breaking of sworn oaths.”
“I beg your pardon?” he asked blankly.
“Riyan and Ruala are about to cancel their bargain with the High Prince,” Sioned explained.
Riyan nodded, enjoying Andry’s bafflement. “We hold our lands the way your father holds his—free and clear, down to the last stick of furniture and the last drop of water in Skybowl’s lake. We’re sick and tired of bending the knee to the High Prince. So we’re canceling him.”
“And,” Ruala finished sleekly, “inviting the Vellant’im to a peace conference at Skybowl.”
Andry greeted this cheerful destruction of centuries of tradition with a whoop of laughter.
“You’re not treating this with the gravity it deserves,” Pol complained.
“Indeed, your grace,” Andry responded, instantly assuming an air of spurious solemnity, “I am shocked and grieved at the—what did you call it?—the foul treachery of this ungrateful pair.” He turned to Riyan and Ruala. “Do you kick him out of Feruche as well as Skybowl?”
“On his backside, and his dragon with him,” Ruala confirmed.
“And are all his relatives included?”
“Oh, we’ll make an exception or two,” Riyan said breezily.
“Dare I hope—?” Andry gave them a pleading look, hands folded at his heart.
“Oh, stop it, all of you,” Sioned laughed. “I’ll admit it has its amusing aspects, but this really is serious. We have to make it look good—and you’re right about our being here at Feruche, Andry. How do we get around that?”
Pol answered, “We’ll send the Tiglathis back home, carrying my banner with them. That ought to work.”
“All right, then,” she said briskly. “That’s one. The next is how to convince the Vellant’im of Riyan’s good will and honest intentions.”
Andry joined Ruala on a second couch. “If Skybowl is left open to’ them, they can’t help but suspect a trap. What can be said or done to impress the High Warlord that it isn’t?” Barely seated, he sprang to his feet again. “Of course! We give them what they want! No, not you, Pol! What have they been trying to get back since this started? The pearls!”
“Tilal has them—and Karanaya would have a seizure,” Pol reminded him.
“Karanaya is the least of your problems. For maximum effect, it should all happen at once. A letter from Riyan and Ruala, along with the pearls as token of good faith.”
“Which means whoever delivers them has to come from the north.” Pol tapped a finger on his teeth. “Andrev can explain it to Tilal, and he can send a courier. Ours will meet him out in the Long Sand somewhere, make the transfer, and circle back around to approach Stronghold from the north. How’s that?”
“We’ll have to use people who know the Desert intimately,” said Andry. “The Long Sand is a big place to get lost in.”
“I’ll make a list. I—“ He happened to look at his mother, who was smiling in a way that interrupted his thoughts. “What?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“No, I want to hear it. Is there something wrong?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“I’m glad you approve,” he said impatiently, “but what are you thinking?”
Her gaze darted from him to Andry and back again. “Not thinking, exactly. Listening.”
Pol met his cousin’s eyes. Sheepish smiles spread over both faces.
“ ‘When dragons sail the sea,’ “ Andry quoted softly.
Pol nodded. “So they have. And here we are.” He rubbed his hands together and went on, “We’ll need a letter, and a chat with Andrev—speaking of seizures, Tilal’s apt to have one over this—and to choose a courier. Mother, will you talk to Sionell about taking her people back home? Thanks. I’ll find Maarken and tell him we’re agreed.”
“Ummm ... just one little thing, Pol,” Riyan ventured. “Almost insignificant, really.”
“Yes?”
“Please tell me that my castle will still be standing when you’re finished with it.”
“If not, he’ll buy you a new one,” Sioned soothed.
“Mother!” To Riyan, he said, “My word on it—that Skybowl will be intact, I mean, not that I’ll pay to rebuild—“ Sioned elbowed him ungently. “All right, all right! But you don’t have to worry about it, Riyan. It may get slightly torn around the edges, but that’s all. I promise.”
Andry lingered after the others had left. Pol delayed going to the windows to weave moonlight, wanting to hear what was on his cousin’s mind.
“I knew it must be Skybowl,” Andry said abruptly. “I dreamed it.”
Pol arched a brow.
“It was after they took Meiglan,” he went on, his voice low and soft, blue eyes clouded with memory. “I’d been wounded. The Goddess appeared before me, juggling crystal spheres with castles inside. Some she let fall. They shat- tered. Stronghold, Tuath, Remagev. Feruche as it was before Sorin rebuilt it. The old Sunrunner keep on Dorval. Of those that were left, she said one more must fall. And I knew it would be Skybowl.”
“Why?”
Andry’s gaze focused on him. “Because it’s expendable. I bought Radzyn’s safety with my belief in the dreams she sent me, dreams of the war. Swalekeep has already been attacked and spared. Tiglath, the same—and too remote in any case. None of the others made any sense.”
“Was Goddess Keep among them?”
Patience obviously strained, Andry said, “She showed me that another castle would fall and that would end the war! Why can’t you believe me? I dreamed the dragon ships. And this justifies your own decision that the battle must take place at Skybowl.”
“But it doesn’t have to shatter. You weren’t paying attention to your own dream. Stronghold, Tuath, the old Feruche, and the Sunrunner keep are all gone. Destroyed. But the fifth was Remagev—and it still stands.”
Andry paced a few steps, swung around. “If it comes to a choice between Skybowl and lives—“
“It won’t. You say you bought Radzyn with belief. That’s how I’ll buy Skybowl.”
Andry’s lips twisted. “Whose belief? Yours?”
“No.” He.smiled. “Theirs.”
“With a letter and a few pearls?” he exclaimed.
“With their superstitions.” It trembled on his tongue to remind Andry that he was no stranger to that sort of thing, with his sunburst sign and his songs and his “sins,” but managed to keep his mouth shut.
“You can’t run a war on trickery. Damn it, Pol, if we’re forced to work together, then let me do what I came here to do.”
“Weave all of us together in a ros’salath, you mean? Let you use our gifts as well as your own to kill? Don’t you see that’s what I’m trying to avoid?”
“Have you suddenly turned squeamish? Or—no, it’s that you can’t bear the thought of subordinating your power to mine. How it must gall you to know you need me.”
“You’re dreaming again—this time with your eyes wide open.” As swiftly and easily as their minds had sparked ideas earlier, now did they spark anger. It would be like that until one of them was dead. He’d been a fool to think he could work with this arrogant, ambitious, bloodthirsty, self-righteous—
“I don’t give a damn what you think of me,” Andry hissed. “I don’t need or want your approval—but, by the Goddess, I will have your respect!”
Pol grabbed for his temper and missed. “You sicken me,” he breathed, the fury so abrupt and so great that it took all his strength.
“No, I frighten you,” Andry shot back.
“I’m afraid of those who might be stronger than I. You are merely an annoyance.” He took a step closer to Andry, his voice and his hands shaking. “I tolerate you because of your parents and Maarken, and a promise I made to Sorin years ago. But I’m sick of wasting my time.” He turned on his heel before his clenched fists could satisfy their need to connect with Andry’s face. “You have my permission to leave.”
A strong hand clamped onto his arm, dragged him around. “Your permission? You insolent son of a whore!”
“Let’s leave lanthe out of this.”
Andry’s face blanked. Pol tore himself free.
“You knew. Don’t pretend you didn’t. That mirror of yours—you must have used it to see what I am. I’ve been waiting for you to say something for years now. Well, surprise, my Lord—your secret knife is dull and you’ll get no blood from me. I know what I am and I know that you know it, and I couldn’t care less. Now get out before I forget., whose brother you are.”
“Why remember?” Andry invited, stepping back, body relaxed and ready. “Come on, cousin, let’s have at it. Right now.”
“Don’t,” Pol whispered, rigid with tension. “If I started, I’d kill you.”
“No, you won’t. You need me,” Andry taunted. “Admit it, Pol—or let’s settle it now. What’s it to be—swords or the Star Scroll? It’ll come to it eventually, we both know that. Why not now? Are you that afraid of losing?”
He did with his fist what he ached to do with his mind. Andry was flat on his back on the carpet, blood smearing his nose and upper lip. But he was smiling. As if he’d won.
Pol fled. He trembled as if bones would come loose from muscles and flesh and skin. He climbed stairs, not knowing where he went in this castle that stood in place of the one where he’d been born. It wasn’t until the chill night air slapped him in the face that he heard his own ragged breaths and felt the quicksilver sweat on his body.
Father was right. I am a barbarian. A savage. But I can’t be. I’m a prince. High Prince. I don’t have the luxury. I have to be vigilant against what I am—for if I’m not, who else will make peace out of this horror?
But there could be no peace, not until the violence was played out and the enemy who had brought it with them was dead.
I can’t let them make of me what they are, he told himself, truths blistering his mind, the night wind having no power to cool him. But it’s there inside me. Waiting for rage, for battle. If it hadn’t been this war, it would have been Andry, sooner or later. Right now, it is Andry. He made of me less than I am—no, he only showed me what lurks inside me.
I ought to thank him for it. He did me a service. I’ve seen. I’ve succumbed. I know what it feels like now. I won’t let it happen again.
But he knew that it would. Any kind of power—political, physical, magical, emotional—was addictive. He could use the power of his position to lead men and women into battle, command them to die for his sake. He could use the power of his strong sword arm to kill and kill and kill. He could use the power of his mind to do the same. He could use the power of his feelings to gain him Sionell—wear her down, make it impossible for her to refuse him again. He could have whatever he wanted, because he was a uniquely powerful man.
And with each use, using would become a little easier. A little sweeter. Until its poison addicted him as surely as dranath.
I understand now, Father, he said to the starlight. I know why you were afraid of this war. It wasn’t that you’d lose everything you’d built, you and Mother—it was that I’d enjoy being a savage so much that I’d never—
Forgive me! I didn’t understand! I’ve had an army around me and a sword—your sword—in my hand, and I could justify the rage and the killing because killing is necessary in war.
But it was Andry he’d wanted to kill just now. His kinsman. Sorin and Maarken’s brother, Chay and Tobin’s son.
Lord of Goddess Keep. A man he did need. All of it forgotten in his need to kill.
That frightens me the way you were frightened for me. I understand now. Goddess help me, I understand what I really am.
“You’re Rohan’s son, all right,” Chay’s voice said behind him, and Pol turned awkwardly to face him. “Whenever he was troubled, he flew to the highest perch he could find. Is it the sight of the Desert you love, or simply being away from everyone else?”
“It’s the quiet,” Pol heard himself say. “I can hear myself. Listen to myself.”
“And tonight’s conversation doesn’t seem pleasant.” He sighed gently. “Andry again.”
Pol nodded wordlessly, ashamed.
“For what it’s worth to you—“ Chay hesitated, then approached and stood beside him at the walls. “Do what you must. Tobin and Maarken and I stand with you, whatever happens. Whatever you decide.”
He felt a portion of his heart break. “He’s your son.”
“You are my prince.”
“That’s not reason enough! I don’t deserve this from you, Chay! I’m not worth what you’re offering!”
A short, stunned laugh. “Do I hear correctly? Unworthy? Your
Pol flushed and glanced away from gray eyes luminous in the torchlight.
“And there’s a reason for you, my prince. It wasn’t Rohan’s, you know. He believed in all of us so powerfully that he took us right along with him, whatever his doubts of himself. How can you resist a man who makes you feel you can be so much more than you are?” Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Pol, he gazed out at the Desert night. “But you—n0f your belief is in yourself. Your challenge is different. You expect us to be everything you need us to be, so that you can become what we expect of a prince.”
“But—Andry—“
“—expects the worst. He believed sorcerers to be a danger, so he killed as many as he could before you stopped him. He saw an enemy. You didn’t. This idea of ‘sin’—he expects people to offend against the Goddess or the Sunrunners, and so anticipates it by providing a punishment in advance.”
“He doesn’t believe that he’s right and everyone else is just misguided,” Pol blurted. “It’s that he’s right and everyone else is wrong—deliberately wrong. I’m no better. We both believe in ourselves instead of other people.”
Chay held his arm exactly where Andry had—and Pol felt the difference between them in that simple touch. “You’re learning. Granted, you have to be bludgeoned into it most of the time.” He smiled, too briefly. “My prince, there used to be three people Andry felt he could learn from: me, Maarken, and Lady Merisel. Now there’s only one.”
“And she’s been dead for hundreds of years.” He bit his lip, then muttered, “I need him, Chay. It curdles my stomach to admit it, but I do need him.”
“As I said—you’re learning.” He rested both elbows on the wall and stared at his clasped hands. “I wish I could,” he continued softly. “I’m too old for it. I’m glad I’ve come to the end of my life. When a man can’t understand the world anymore...” He shrugged. “When I was young, there were Sunrunners, and there were the rest of us. They had their duties and we had ours. No sorcery, no sorcerers—not where we could see them in our lives, anyway. No Star Scroll spells. No magic. No conversations with dragons...” Another quiet sigh. “Life was simpler, I suppose I’m trying to say. Less civilized, Rohan might call it. Both are correct. But I can’t help feeling I’ve outlived my time. And my prince,” he finished in sorrow.
It took several moments for Pol to find words, several more before he could speak them. “I need you, too. More than I need Andry—more than even my father needed you. I think that’s what I was hearing in myself tonight. I have to believe in myself—but not because there’s nothing else to believe in.”
Chay turned his head, his gaze pale and curious. “There’s more than your power, your position?”
He accepted the gentle rebuke stolidly, knowing he deserved worse. “All of you—the Desert itself—all the princedoms, the people in them—“
“Hmm. You really are learning.”
“Chay—I don’t want anyone else to die. But if there’s another battle—even if it kills all the Vellant’im, our own peo-pte will die, too. I have to be able to use what I am to keep it from happening. Goddess, I’m so sick of killing!”
Chay returned his gaze to the Desert and was silent for a long time. Finally: “Whatever happens, whatever you decide, I am your man as I was your father’s. But by the sound of it, this isn’t something I’m qualified to advise you on.”
“Just—be here,” Pol said helplessly. “For me, the way you were for Father. And—for Andry, too.”
Sioned held out her cup for more taze.
“Sorry it’s cool,” Sionell said as she poured. “It’s a long way up from the kitchen, and my hearth doesn’t have a rack for keeping the pitcher hot.”
“It’s fine.”
“So do you think it will work? Will they have scouts this far north still?”
“We have to assume they do,” Sioned replied. “Even if they don’t, we have to put up a show just in case they’re watching. So take your people back home, my dear, where they belong.”
“I’ll send them,” was the immediate correction. “I’m staying.”
It didn’t even occur to Sioned to argue. She knew her Namesake forwards, backwards, and sideways. “Then perhaps you’ll consider coming with me to Skybowi.”
Sionell’s eyebrows scrambled up her forehead. “What? You? Why?”
“I have always admired the succinct quality of your speech,” she chuckled. “In order: what I propose is sneaking into Skybowi as a servant to mingle with those few who will be left behind. Me, because I’m a Sunrunner witch with a few good spells left in me. And why—“ Her humor vanished. “To get Meiglan out.”
Sionell nodded. “Yes. I’ll come.”
“No doubts, no misgivings, no questions about what I’m going to do or how?”
A tight, almost feral smile curved Sionell’s lips. “Succinctly? No.”
They relaxed a little, sipping hot taze, each keeping silent company with her own thoughts. At length Sioned put her cup aside and stretched.
“I’m too old for this. I don’t see the future as clearly as I once could.”
“You never said you could—“
I
“Oh, not like that. Except in Fire and Water—but frankly I’m not eager to look.” Sinking back in her chair, she mused, “I always felt sorry for poor little Brenlis. She saw whether she wanted to or not.”
“Brenlis? Oh—Andry’s ...” She trailed off tactfully.
“Yes,” Sioned agreed. “Andry’s. But no one’s, actually. Not even her own, I think. There was something about her that seemed—brushed by the Goddess’ fingertip. Not enough to let her see everything and know exactly what it meant, but a more definite touch than that and she would have gone mad. I knew it the first time I ever saw her, when we visited Faolain Riverport—oh, years ago. She was brought to me as a sort of local curiosity. In some ways, she reminded me of myself, and the way my brother’s wife used to look at me from the corner of her eye.”
“Brenlis saw the future?”
“Bits and pieces. Nothing to connect with anything else until after it had happened. Which doesn’t make much sense, I know. Andry and I were talking about her recently. He told me that in Autumn she saw herself at her parents’ farm near Riverport. Word came shortly thereafter that her family needed her, so she left. And she was the first Sunrunner to be killed by Vellant’im.” „
“But she didn’t know it would happen?”
“No. What she saw had significance, but could only be understood later.” She gave a shrug. “Just before the Rialla this year she “caught a glimpse of Arnisaya of Fessenden wearing a white fur cloak, riding through the snow. She told Andry—she told him all her seeings, but of course neither knew what to make of it. Now we know.”
“I wonder she didn’t go mad.”
“I suppose she merely accepted what the Goddess chose to show her the way a pitcher accepts wine. Nothing she could do about it, after all.” Sioned paused a moment. “I’ll tell you something else because it concerns you, but you must never repeat it. Andry says she knew about Meig several days before he was born—that the child was a boy, and what you’d Name him. So keep an eye on him. Someday he’ll do something important.”
“Or something will be done to him.” Her shoulders shifted as if to rid herself of the knowledge. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”
“You’re his mother. You deserve to know.” After a few moments’ silence, she said, “I won’t look in Fire and Water again. I don’t want to know what’s waiting for us. What I see always comes to pass.”
“Didn’t Lady Andrade always say that nothing was written in stone?”
“And even if it was, the stone could be broken.” She paused to sip lukewarm taze. “I saw Pol, you know, long before he was born. I was holding a baby, and there was a scar on my shoulder. But that’s not where the scar turned out to be.” She touched the crescent-shaped mark on her cheek. “Ruval gave Pol one to match it. What it all means, I’ve no idea. Because my scar is in a different place, I suppose I could change what I saw—if I looked. But I won’t. If Pol wants to know, let him try it himself.”
Sionell set her cup down. “What do you plan to do about Meiglan?”
“I have an idea or two. I’m hoping to take Alasen with us. Ruala will come, of course, but as herself, to welcome the Vellant’im.”
She noted the names, as Sioned had known she would. “Two faradh ‘im and one diarmadhi—I don’t fit, Sioned.”
“No.”
Green eyes locked with blue. Neither woman had to say what both knew: that risking her own life to ensure Meiglan’s would be atonement for the wrong Sionell had done her. No words would ever be spoken between them; Meiglan need never know. Sioned had been told to stay out of it, and she would. But she wondered sadly if anything could ever cure the wrong Pol and Sionell had done to themselves and each other.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO a~f 1 want to go back to Feruche, Meath. Please, can we go today?” Rislyn walked across the bedchamber with surprising confidence, hands held out to touch. “I’m much better. I can ride with you—“
“I hope you mean with me on my horse!”Meath cradled her fingers in his palms. She couldn’t see his expression, so he put the smile into his voice. “Or did you want me to be your dragon, and fly you up to Feruche on my back?”
She laughed, and he rejoiced in the renewed strength of it. Her eyes were as clear and bright a green as Sioned’s: no cloudiness, no dull stare, no aimless tracing of things that did not exist. Her pupils reacted to light, contracting as he led her toward the window. It was her brain that was damaged, not her eyes. If one didn’t notice telltale reactions to sudden sounds—a voice, a door opening, a footstep, a dragon’s cry—one would never know she was blind.
Meath lowered himself into the window seat and settled her on his knee. Turning her face to the morning sun, Rislyn smiled as warmth brushed her thin cheeks with color. Color— how he wished he had Jihan’s talent for seeing a Sunranner’s colors without effort. More, he wished he’d had the wits to ask Jihan to share Rislyn’s colors with him. Rings didn’t make a Sunrunner—and neither, it seemed, did age. He’d made the same mistake with Jihan that he’d made with Pol as a little boy at Graypearl; he of all people should never underestimate the talents and perceptions of a child.
To see Rislyn’s colors, he must first teach her to call Fire. But she couldn’t see to place it where it would do no harm.
He couldn’t hold out the hope of Sunrunner sight until he was able to show her how. Stroking her silky hair, freshly washed this morning and brushed to glorious gold, Meath cursed his own inadequacy. All he could do for her was to take her back to Feruche.
But not today. Her frailness worried him, though Feylin was optimistic. Having taken her sight, the fever had vanished like a thief. Recovery would be complete, and fairly quick, for all her delicate looks. Or so Feylin said—even as she cautioned against taking the long ride to Feruche too soon.
“Meath,” Rislyn said again, “can’t we leave today? Please?”
“Not even your father says ‘yes’ when Lady Feylin says ‘no.’ Such is the power of physicians.” He paused, seeing movement in the courtyard below, “Laroshin is waving to you, my lady.”
Rislyn waved back. He shifted her subtly in his lap so her greeting went in the right direction.
“Now he’s giving you a bow as elegant as Lord Maarken’s, and a great deal more elegant than your father’s.”
“Papa doesn’t get much practice bowing,” Rislyn observed slyly. “Except to Granda Sioned! If we can’t leave today, can I take a walk to the lake instead?”
He knew no reason why not. Mild exercise was allowed. Holding her hand, he escorted her out of the room and into the hallway. She didn’t reach to feel for doorways or walls— trusting him to guide her. It half broke his heart.
“Jihan swims all the time at Dragon’s Rest,” she said. “I can’t. Does that mean I’m more of a Sunrunner than she is, or less?”
“Maybe a different kind of Sunrunner,” he equivocated.
They had reached the stairs. She tugged her hand free. “I can do this myself, Meath. I practiced.”
Finding the banister, she laid her hand firmly atop its polished smoothness. The first three steps were hesitant. But once she sensed the rhythm of the risers, she went down them with perfect ease.
Visian, in the entry hall applying charm and flashing dark eyes on a lissome young soldier from Graypearl, called up the stairs, “The Goddess has sent a second sunrise this morning, and her name is Princess Rislyn!”
SKY BOWL
399
The child giggled, and the guard winked at Meath. “With a handsome escort, too,” she said. “You Desert ladies have all the luck!”
“Your wits have curdled, my girl,” Meath growled.
“Meath!” Rislyn exclaimed. “You are handsome! And besides, Samlia’s with Lord Visian, and that shows she knows handsome when she sees it. Jihan says he talks almost as pretty as Lord Kazander, and only half as crazy!”
Meath and Samlia burst out laughing. Visian bowed low. “Your grace honors my unworthy self. My poor words have failed with the Warrior-Lady Samlia.”
“Keep talking,” Meath advised. “Sooner or later you’re sure to find a few she likes.”
On their way out of the keep, many people greeted Rislyn. She answered some of them by name, separating familiar voices from those she wasn’t yet sure of. Meath wished she could see the delight in their eyes that had replaced worry— but he was just as glad she couldn’t see their pain and their pity. She’d react as Maarken had.
“My princess,” said Laroshin, hurrying to her side. “Should you be up and about?”
“Oh, please, Laroshin?” She groped for his hand. He clasped her fingers gently in his huge, battle-scarred paws. “Meath is going to take me out to the lake. If I get tired, I promise I’ll tell him and we’ll come back.”
“I’ll come with you, if I may.” He glanced at Meath, who nodded and mouthed Thank you.
They left through a postern gate, walking at an easy pace down the road to the lakeshore. Both men kept close watch on the child, alert for any signs of fatigue or fever. But Rislyn seemed to soak up strength along with the sunlight. Not yet strong enough to run riot, as she had done with her sister and the other children at Feruche, still she looked bright and lively. Meath began to think that leaving tomorrow might be possible after all.
“I can smell the water,” she said. “And the dragons. How many are there today, Meath?”
He squinted at the far shore. “Maarken’s Pavisel is curled up with her tail in the lake, taking a nap. 1 don’t see Abisel—it must be his turn to go up to Feruche and see Hollis. That big bronze monster of Riyan’s—“
“Sadalian,” she supplied. “And he’s not a monster. And more greenish than bronze.”
“As you say, my lady. Anyhow, he’s circling around as if he can’t make up his mind—ah, there he goes. Off hunting, I guess.”
“What about Granda Sioned’s Elisel and Papa’s Azhdeen?”
“You know them all, don’t you?”
“Of course she does,” Laroshin said. “They’re here, dozing in the sand. And one of the strays, as Lord Maarken calls them, he’s—“
“—taking a bath!” Rislyn exclaimed. “I just heard the splash! Where’s the other one? And is Azhly up at Feruche, too, visiting Lady Ruala?”
“Maybe he’s out hunting with Sadalian,” Meath said.
“They must miss Dragon’s Rest as much as we do,” Rislyn sighed. “All they have to do there is pounce on the | sheep. I love watching them—“ ‘
She broke off, and Meath traded an agonized glance with Laroshin. The latter said quickly, “Ah, here’s the other stray now. She’s a pretty thing—black as soot, blue underwings. Her talons look almost silver. Good growth, too, for a youngling. She just flew in from the southeast—looks like she’s had her breakfast and now she wants a nap.”
“A bath, from the way she’s circling the lake,” Meath observed. “Actually, Laroshin, I think she’s colored more like the cliffs around Goddess keep on a rainy day.”
And she was flying right toward him, he noted, frowning. The wild thought occurred to him that she might have fixed on him, a Sunrunner, to become hers. He didn’t want a dragon—he didn’t have the time or the iron head that seemed to be required. The females were gentler with their humans than the sires, but he’d seen Sioned wince often enough after a conversation with her dragon, and Maarken had been fairly staggering yesterday after Pavisel’s attentions.
The black dragon landed with delicate precision a little way from them. Meath felt Rislyn’s fingers clench around his.
“Oh, Meath,” she whispered. “I can hear her—wouldn’t it be wonderful if she wants to talk to you? Then you’d have a dragon just like Papa and—“
She broke off with a soft cry. Laroshin drew his sword; Meath gestured frantically at him to put it away. The dragon was making low, gravelly noises, her wings folded, her neck stretching out toward Rislyn.
The little girl’s eyes were closed. She let go of Meath’s hand. Slowly, surely, she walked toward the dragon as if she could see every stone, every glint of lakewater, every wisp of distant clouds in the vast blue sky.
Pol barely felt Meath’s colors fade back toward Skybowl. He stumbled a little, then crumpled hard onto the steps behind him, put his head in his hands, and wept.
The people in the courtyard respected his privacy, though speculation sent darting glances among them. A disaster would see him shouting orders, wouldn’t it? Or was the calamity so terrible it had crushed him? Someone had the presence of mind to run into the keep by a side door, looking for anyone who could approach him, help him—find out for everyone what new horror had befallen them.
It was a long time before a hand fell lightly on his shoulder and a voice murmured his name. He looked up, and through tear-blurred eyes saw the dark red hair and pale triangular face that meant Sionell. As if he’d needed sight of her to confirm what his senses had already told him.
“Lir’reia,” he said. Confusion knit her brows. Pol cleared thickness from his’ throat. “Rislyn’s dragon. She’s Named her Lir’reia.”
Sionell gave a start like a hawk unhooded in too-bright sun. “Goddess,” she breathed. “Pol, are you sure?”
“This morning, at Skybowl. Just now.” He scrubbed the moisture from his eyes and tried to stand, making it on the second try with her help. “I can’t quite believe—I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself, but—“
She shook her head. “ ‘The Princess’ Eyes’—isn’t that what it means?”
“Yes.” Drawing in a shaky breath, he managed a smile. “Meath can see and pattern her colors now. The dragon did it for him, in a way. He says not to be surprised if by tomorrow I can speak with Rislyn on sunlight.”
Sionell’s answering smile was wry, still a bit bemused. •Jinan will be wild to have a dragon of her own, you know!”
“She’ll just have to wait until a dragon picks her out the way Lir’reia did Rislyn. We don’t choose them, they choose us. And Lir’reia has chosen Rislyn!” Laughing, he seized her around the waist and swung her in the air.
The servant who had fetched Sionell—and lingered in a shadow to listen—breathed a sigh of relief and hurried to spread word of the dragon who had become Princess Rislyn’s eyes.
“Put me down, you idiot!” Sionell demanded breathlessly.
He did so, flushed and grinning, filled with joy as he had not been in longer than he could remember. His father had been right: Sunrunners, dragons, and the Desert, none would ever fail him.
“I hate to spoil your mood,” Sionell said as she tucked her shirt back into her belt, “but your mother commands—her exact word—your presence upstairs. She and the diarmadh’im are waiting for you in the Attic.”
“Nothing could spoil my mood, and my mother was the second person on my list this morning. Riyan was first, but he’ll have to wait.” He beckoned a groom over. “You’ll find Lord Riyan in the back garden. Please give him my apologies and tell him we’ll talk later.” To Sionell, ushering her back up the steps, “Have you thought about taking your people back to Tiglath in aid of our little deception?”
“They’ll leave whenever you give the word.”
He paused at the foot of the main stairs, one hand on the banister. “They?”
“I’m staying,” she said blithely. “Don’t even try, Pol. I have a direct order from your mother, whom I’ve been obeying a lot longer than I have you.”
“When did you ever?” he asked sourly.
She smiled. “Exactly.”
“What does that impossible woman have in mind now?”
“I’ll let her tell you.” She started up the stairs. “Did Meath say anything about Lord Kazander?”
“Doing just fine.” Pol caught up with her in two long strides. “You’re fond of him, aren’t you? All the ladies are. He’s a maniac, but eminently lovable!”
“His father offered to marry me.” She chuckled at the memory. “I was about ten years old at the time. He was so tall I had to tilt my head all the way back to look in his face, and he had the most wonderful laugh and brought me such lovely presents.” She flicked a finger against the pendant white jade earring that swung near the corner of her jaw.
403
“There’s a necklace that goes with these, all the beads carved like fringepod flowers.”
“After so skilled a courtship, I wonder that you refused him,” Pol teased.
“No wonder at all. I would’ve been his seventh wife—or was it the eighth? Whichever, I was rude enough to inform Lord Velianpashevisel that I was honored but intended to be an only wife.”
She was smiling as she said it, but he winced inwardly anyhow. To cover it, he blinked his eyes wide and said, “Lord Velian-what?”
“Velianpashevisel. Roughly translated, it means ‘My sword is like the wind, and the air turns to fire beneath my wings.’ “ She laughed at his expression. “That’s nothing, oh you of a single syllable! His father’s name was—let’s see if I remember—“ She frowned in exaggerated concentration. “Barcataliznartiel.”
“You’re joking.”
“Certainly not.” She slanted him a laughing look.
“But Kazander has a short name.”
“His mother’s reasoning was that by the time you finish yelling the korrus’ name in battle, the battle shouldn’t be over.”
Pol heaved a great sigh. “1 can see it coming, but go on— tell me what Bar-and-so-on means.”
“It’s fairly straightforward. ‘Many bows feast on red victory’—otherwise known as blood.”
“I’m beginning to feel decidedly inferior with my paltry single syllable!”
“Why do you think Kazander calls you all those outrageous things? He has to make up for the neglect somehow. ft would be insulting not to address a great highborn with enough sounds to impress the common folk.”
“I’m glad my mother believed in simplicity. My hand .vould fall off if I had to sign everything with a name like Barcatal-whatever.”
“Mama! Mama, come make Uncle Lord Andry Goddess iveep teach us Sunrunner lessons!”
Sionell gave a martyred sigh as her youngest’s piercing -•nand rang down from the next landing. Po! laughed at
“Meig likes plenty of impressive sounds, too—the louder _ better. But when did Andry become his uncle?”
“Jihan claims the relationship to irritate Tobren, and Meig calls you Uncle Pol, so in logic—“ She shrugged. As her son’s mouth opened wide to yell again, she called up the stairs, “Meig! Hush up! I’m coming, I’m coming! And if you’ve been plaguing Lord Andry, I’ll tack your hide to a wall and paint you purple!”
Meig chortled at the threat. Although, at not quite five years old he was not quite as tall as the banister, lack of height didn’t prevent him from scrambling up as if it were a saddle.
“Meig!” Sionell cried. “No!”
Too late. The child skimmed down polished wood, crowing with laughter, feet and hands waving wildly. Pol’s stomach lurched as he glanced down the stairwell at the three stories of thin air between Meig and the floor. He and Sionell ran to catch the hurtling little boy. Meig saw them coming. He flung his arms wide and launched himself for all the world like a dragon taking off. Slamming into his mother, he clamped his arms around her neck, nearly throttling her.
“I want to go all the way down like that!”
“Not a chance!” Sionell dealt him a resounding thwack on the backside. “And there’ll be ten more just like that one if you ever do that again!”
Meig didn’t cry; he looked absolutely stunned, thoroughly insulted, and so betrayed that Pol had to look away to hide a grin.
Sionell set her son on his feet, latching onto one hand. “You come with me, bandit, and we’ll go find Lord Andry. If his grace will excuse us—?”
“Uh—yes,” Pol managed in a slightly strangled voice that earned him a disgusted look from Sionell.
Meig didn’t have to recover his dignity; he’d never really lost it. He gave Pol a serene smile and a nod, and decorously descended the stairs with his parent. Pol had to bite both lips between his teeth to keep from laughing when he heard Sionell mutter, “And this is to be a great lord someday! Goddess help us!”
A few moments later Pol sauntered into the Attic with a grin on his face that even his own mother’s acid glance couldn’t dim.
“What was all that racket?” Sioned asked. “Have you been inciting children to mayhem again?”
“Me?” Pol greeted Thassalante and the four elderly diarmadh’im present graciously enough, hiding his surprise—and his curiosity at the configuration of chairs. Seven had been taken from around the table and the other furniture moved aside so they could form a half-circle facing the daltaya. Even more interesting was the fact that the curtains had been drawn against the sunlight and the room was lit only by a candle branch on the table. He looked briefly at the mirror; nothing. The angle of its mounting kept the Fire from its reach.
“Sit down, Pol,” Sioned told him, indicating the chair in the middle. The others did likewise, while Sioned stood behind the chair nearest the window. Her hair, clean and curling, shone red-gold-silver by candlelight, her eyes oddly dark with a kind of repressed urgency.
“When Meath found the old Sunrunner keep on Dorval, he saw a pattern repeated several times in the ruins. The same pattern of leaves and apples, that frames this mirror. Now, Master Thassalante says that this pattern is familiar to diarmadh’im of education. All of you recognized it. I saw this mirror for years in Camigwen’s room at Goddess Keep, and years more at Stronghold. When Ostvel was given Skybowl, it was taken there. In all those years—and countless more before Cami owned it—thousands of people passed by and never saw anything but their own reflections. Even though Cami was diarmadhi, and her son Riyan is as well, and we must assume others called Fire near this mirror, it wasn’t until Princess Alleyn and Prince Audran of Dorval looked into it that this was revealed as a daltaya. A Shadowcatcher.
“I won’t speculate on the whys of all this. Lord Riyan and Lady Ruala have looked into this mirror—and she says that the face within it is uncannily like her father’s. We know now that Riyan and Ruala are distant cousins. All of you people seem to be. How Alleyn and Audran fit into this, I haven’t a clue. But whether only Lord Rosseyn’s descendants can see him in the mirror or whether all diarmadh’im can is of but passing interest to me. I’m concerned with the frame.”
Sioned moved around the chair and stood before the mirror, her back to it. “Meath saw this pattern in tile set with colored crystals.” She paused as if waiting for a reaction. Pol sensed nothing—and was instantly suspicious. There should have been some sort of response at finding out the Sunrunners had used the same decoration as a sorcerer’s mirror.
“Meath made a drawing for me, with the crystals colored in. Very pretty, very elegant. Very puzzling. For there are spaces on this frame that correspond to the places where crystal was set. But I don’t think mere colored glass was meant to be put there at all.” She clasped her hands at her waist, then brought them to her lips, watching her audience with brilliant green eyes over the equally brilliant emerald on her finger. “I think the frame was meant to be set with jewels.”
Pol glanced involuntarily down at the amethyst of Princemarch, then the great topaz of the Desert. He thought of Lady Andrade’s rings and wrist cuffs, glittering with the whole rainbow of gemstones. Her moonstone was also on his hand. But his gaze returned at once to Sioned’s emerald ring.
“Special jewels,” she went on, very softly. “Jewels that for one reason or another have more meaning than the usual symbolism—garnet for constancy, pearl for purity, sapphire for truth, and so forth. Jewels that possess power.”
At Pol’s side, Thassalante trembled. “Lady,” he begged in a hoarse voice, “please—you don’t know what you speak of—“
“Don’t I? Not all of it, perhaps. But—watch.”
Her fingers unlaced in a supple, graceful movement, and the candleflames vanished. Pol flinched, knowing how much she feared absolute darkness, and why.
But the darkness was not absolute.
The emerald ring glowed. Pulsed. Lived.
Thassalante moaned as if a sword had pierced his heart. The other diarmadh’im gasped or shifted in their chairs; one of them muttered something too low for Pol to hear.
Fire danced once more atop the candles. Sioned finally sat down in her chair, hands folded in her lap.
“The stone has been blooded,” she said quietly. “And now 1 ask you to tell me why.”
Thassalante was stricken mute, head bowed. Another of the sorcerers quavered, “Lady, it is not a thing faradh ‘im may know.”
“1 assumed that, Master Pandradi,” she replied. “But con- sider this. I am faradhi, you are diarmadh ‘im. Aside from some small differences, the gift of power is the same.”
“No,” Pandradi whispered, but Pol was unsure if the woman protested the equation or the sharing of knowledge. He gathered himself to tell them who and what he truly was, but before he could speak, Sioned addressed them again.
“Why does a blooded jewel beat with the heart of its wearer? Why do such jewels fit into the frame around a daltaya with Lord Rosseyn trapped inside? I am not asking for myself. The mirror is empty to me, its power beyond my reach.”
Thassalante looked up. “How did you know—?” Then he compressed his lips and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said dully. “Your cunning is well-known. You cannot see Lord Rosseyn, but you saw everything else that is there to be seen. It is true that you cannot use the mirror. But we will not. We cannot.”
“Is it forbidden?”
“It is death to diarmadh’im! Worse—it is no death at all.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, ignoring Pol as his gaze fixed almost desperately on Sioned. “Of all the things that were lost or stolen from us, I wish this evil had been among them!”
Pandradi shook her silvery head. “With respect, Thassalante, I disagree. If we did not know, we could still be caught Because we know, we are safe. I regret, your grace, my lord, but we fear for our lives. The mirror will remain silent We will not use it—and neither of you can.”
“You’re wrong,” said Pol.
“Well,” Sioned murmured. “That was interesting.”
Pol looked at her with shock-dulled eyes. After a moment he said, “I will never understand how Father managed to keep his sanity around you.”
Smiling tiredly, she rose to open the curtains. Sunlight flooded in at an angle that surprised her. “Is it really that iate? We must’ve been in here all day.”
“Are you sure it’s the same day?”
Turning, she laughed at him. “That, my son, is how your ather kept his sanity. He never lost his sense of humor.”
Pol stood and stretched, joints cracking. “I’m serious. It’s been at least a hundred years since I walked into this room. I feel as old as Pandradi.”
The sorcerers had left them a short while ago, exhausted by revelations and by telling Pol everything they knew about the mirror. Sioned had been an intrigued observer, and occasionally an appalled one. For the mirror was not what she had expected.
“We’ll need some time to assemble the appropriate jewels,” she said. “So you’ll be able to rest up.” One of the dozen display cabinets had recently been redecorated with rolled-up maps and parchment for notes; she selected a few clean pages, a pen and inkpot, and sat at the long table. “My emerald, to begin with. Your amethyst and topaz—“
Pol dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “If we’re borrowing power that seeped into the gems from previous owners, then neither of those will do, will they? Roelstra wasn’t gifted. Father was a halfling.”
Sioned merely shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Naydra who gave her father that ring. The way things are going, it probably belonged to Lord Rosseyn himself.”
“Or his betraying lady.”
She watched him eye the ring slightly askance, and smiled. “Power is power. We can’t be choosy.”
“If the cap fits, wear it or get out of the rain?” He smiled back, but his voice had an edge to it.
“Mmm. Not a Desert expression, but I can think of one that applies to that mirror. If one undertakes to ride a dragon, one had better not try to get off.”
“You’re comforting tonight.”
“These are comforting times.” She started a list of the needed gems in order of their placement in the frame. “By the way, I wouldn’t disparage that topaz if I were you. Ro-han had more gifts as a so-called halfling than most trained Sunrunners. Let’s see—amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, garnet, ruby, and a diamond in the center. The only one we have for certain is my emerald. But I’m betting your two will work as well, after they’re blooded.” Giving him a sidelong glance, she added, “I think that can wait. It’s been a long day.”
“Tell me,” he muttered.
She put down the pen and folded her hands. “No, you tell me.”
He lost ten winters in a single smile. “I was going to, earlier. But you didn’t give me a chance. Rislyn has a dragon. Or, more properly, the dragon has Rislyn.”
Sioned felt her lips move. No sound came out.
Pol held both her hands between his own. “She’s called her Lir’reia.”
Her brain gave her the translation effortlessly, and he saw it in her eyes and nodded.
“Meath has Rislyn’s colors now. She’s sleeping off the initial contact—and don’t we both remember how that feels!—but when she wakes he’s going to teach her how to use the sunlight to see what her eyes no longer can. You were right, Mama—about Tobin, about Rislyn—you’re worse than Lady Andrade,” he teased. “Don’t you ever get tired of being right?”
She laughed and flung her arms around him. “Not in my whole life!”
He hugged her and let her go. “Back to work, High Princess—I’m feeling much better and would feel better still for a little wine.”
“On an empty stomach?” She poked him playfully, then frowned and felt at his ribs. He squirmed away, ticklish. “You’re too thin, Pol.”
“So are we all. War has that effect on the figure.” Then he smiled and lifted a dismissive shoulder. “I was getting fat, anyway.”
Sioned returned her attention to the list of gems to disguise her worry. Three new holes had been cut into his belt to keep it snug around his waist; the seams of shirt and tunic had been resewn to accommodate warrior’s muscle. But there was no flesh left to support that muscle. His face was leaner, its lines taut with day after day of strain: width of jaw more pronounced, nose sharper, blue-green eyes dominating his features more than ever. War had taken things from him, demanded its price in flesh and youth. But it had not diminished him, or tarnished the brightness that was so ke his father’s. And yet—the shining of him was fiercer, .;rsher than Rohan’s had ever been.
“We can’t test every ring and necklet at Feruche for latent rower,” she said briskly. “No matter how old the gems are or who once owned them. We have to think first about which would respond.”
“Or people will start asking some very awkward ques-::ons,” Pol agreed.
“People, meaning Andry,” she interpreted. “My emerald, your amethyst and topaz—you know, if we had all the princes assembled, we’d have a pretty good collection of very old jewels. All of them go back so far as symbols of princely power that people have forgotten who originally owned them. Velden’s ruby, for instance—it’s a sixteen-facet table-cut that doesn’t let half enough light in, and no one has worked gemstones like that in hundreds of years.”
“Can you imagine prying our dear cousin away from it? And anyway, we don’t have the princes within reach. All we’ve got is—“ His eyes lost focus, almost as if he was Sunrunning, but the light from the window was nowhere near him.
“Pol? What is it?”
“—Andry,” he said as if there had been no pause. “Lord of Goddess Keep.”
Sioned looked at her hands, picturing the ten rings, some set with rubies or diamonds, and the wrist cuffs with their great chunks of sapphire and moonstone.
“There’s power for you,” Pol went on, leaning back in his chair. “Power and to spare. We can only get three out of him—ruby, diamond, and sapphire—but I don’t know of any other stones we can be as sure of.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Andry kept insisting that I need him, and so I do. For a sorcerer’s spell!”
Sioned felt something dart teasingly past the edge of her mind, too quick to catch, too elusive to recognize. She let it go, knowing it would come back to demand her attention if she ignored it. She said, “So it was you who split his lip. I thought so.”
“He’s lucky it was only that. I wanted to split his skull.” He contemplated the hands that had done the damage. “Mother, I wanted to kill him.”
“You remind me of two little boys squabbling over who gets the last slice of pie—and neither of you sees that someone’s sneaking up to steal it behind your backs.”
He looked up angrily. “Go on, tell me to grow up. But you’d better give Andry the same lecture.”
“He’s not my son,” she replied. “The question is, does he care more about trying to beat you than he does about the thief?”
“He wants both. He’s positive he’ll get both. He’s wrong. Believe me, Mother, the mighty Lord of Goddess Keep is wrong!” Pol brought a fist down on the table. “But why do I have to go to him for what I need?”
The idea settled smugly right in front of her, and spoke with her voice. “It doesn’t have to be the Lord of Goddess Keep.”
“I hate the idea, too, but where else can we be sure of finding stones of sufficient power?”
Sioned stared at the list of gems. Emerald they had; amethyst and topaz, probably. That left sapphire, garnet, ruby, and diamond, And the hands she pictured as she stared at her own were not the strong, capable hands of a man in his prime. They were very like her own hands, long-fingered, confident, beautiful still but showing the marks of age. They were as familiar to her as her own.
Tiny chains crossed the back of each palm, joining the glittering rings to heavy wrist cuffs. And crowning each circle of gold or silver was the complacent sparkle of an old, old jewel.
“Not the Lord,” she said. “The Lady.”
Pol caught his breath. Then, slowly and reverently: “Mother of Dragons.”
“No,” Sioned told him, grimly amused. “Only Andrade.”