1 nat night, Pol blooded the amethyst and the topaz.
They were what Sioned had thought them to be: alive in pitch darkness to the pulse of their wearer’s heart. She watched them throb, strong and quick with Pol’s astonishment, and wished Meath could know that he’d been right.
“I rather think you’ll have to do the same for my ring,” she told her son once candles had been lit again in his chambers and she could see his face. “But not just yet.”
“No,” he murmured, staring at his clenched fists. “This is enough for one day.” Then, pouring strong wine, he continued, “Had you thought about the others yet?”
“Tobin brought her jewel coffer with her when we left Radzyn.”
“And ... ?” he prompted.
“The diamond was made into an earring for Chay—thank you, only half a cup—and Tobin had the ruby set into her coronet.”
He nodded. “Amethyst, sapphire—what can we use if Chadric doesn’t have it with him?”
“I have a feeling he will. It was precious to Lleyn, after all—a remembrance of an old friend. If Chadric wasn’t wearing it, then somebody among the servants probably snatched up the valuables when they fled Graypearl. Tibalia did the same with my boxes at Stronghold.”
“If you say so. Anyway, there’s your emerald, Father’s topaz, Tobin’s ruby, and Chay’s diamond. We’re missing a garnet.”
“Between my rock collection and Tobin’s, there must be something—though neither of us particularly favors garnets.”
“What about Ruala? If any gem has a chance of being useful, it’d be one that came down in her family.”
“I’ll ask.” She traced the rim of her goblet with one finger—around and around, like an unbroken circle of thought or tragedy or Sunrunner’s ring. “Rohan had the one Andrade wore.”
Pol gave a start. “I thought the agate—“
“It was supposed to go to Andry,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “But by the time Urival could bear to part with the stones, he was so furious with Andry that he found another garnet. Identical—but dead, as we now know. I don’t know what Andry did with it.”
“Father’s was set into an earring, wasn’t it?” Pol asked.
“Yes. He may even have been wearing it, you know.” She shrugged. “Who knows but that the High Warlord himself has it now?”
“If he does,” Pol said slowly, “and if there’s a—a resonance—when the other ones come alive—“
“I hope it catches Fire and burns him to ashes.”
Pol studied his own rings again. “I’m still not sure I quite believe this. By tradition, we assign certain qualities to jewels. Emerald for renewal, moonstone for wisdom, pearl for purity, and so on. But to think there may be some truth in it—“
“There usually is, somewhere back behind the legends. Look at dragons. The songs have it that they hoard gold. And in a way, they do.” She finished her wine and rose. “It’s late.”
“Yes “
“Go to bed, Pol.”
“In a while.”
She watched his eyes search hers, and saw Meath in them. They had not spoken of him, the hurt too new. She sighed impatiently. “No, I’m not going to my rooms and drink myself into oblivion again. For one thing, it doesn’t work.”
“And for another, you need all your wits about you to plot something. Sionell hinted at it earlier, but she’s not clear on what it might be.”
“Oh, so you two are actually speaking to each other?”
“Don’t evade the issue, Mother. What do you have in mind?”
“There are times, my own, when I could wish you resembled your father a little less.”
“Stop it. I’m not in the mood.”
“Neither am I.” She paused. “You were a rather boring little boy, you know. Always so proper. So mannerly. Chay told me once that it worried him—you never got into any serious trouble, and what small scrapes you did get caught in you always talked yourself out of. It looks like you saved all your childhood shortcomings to live out in adulthood.”
Pol appeared unperturbed. “You’ll have to tell me eventually.”
“Will I?”
“I want the truth, Mother.” He held her gaze with ice in his own. “All of it.”
“It’s better to be frugal with the truth—there’s so little of it.” Sioned brushed the overlong hair from his eyes. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, and remember as much as I remember, you’ll know that.”
“I’ve enough bad memories. I wouldn’t want yours.”
“No, darling,” she said softly. “Nor my dreams.” Bending to kiss his forehead: “Good night.”
She was at the bedchamber door when he spoke again. “Don’t fight me, Mother. I won’t risk you or Sionell or anyone else. You’ll tell me what you plan to do or, by the Goddess, I’ll have you locked up under guard.”
Sioned glanced over her shoulder. “Do you think this castle—any castle—could hold me if I wanted to leave?”
Pol sipped wine before asking, “Is what you have in mind that dangerous, or that insane?”
“It seems to me that sometimes what people call ‘insane’ are usually things they neither know nor understand—nor could possibly guess at. Such is the fate of those cursed by a total lack of imagination. If you use yours, you might know why I want to go to Skybowl before it fills with Vellant’im.”
“Tell me or I will lock this castle—“
With a little shrug, she replied, “You’re becoming predictable—not a healthy quality in a prince. Good night.”
There was only one person at Radzyn who knew the Long, and well enough to ride it successfully without the aid of even a map. Unfortunately, that person was Tilal—no longer confined to bed but in no shape for a solitary four-day gallop. It was a tribute to his good sense that he didn’t even try to convince his companions otherwise. But sense had little influence over his temper, already strained by enforced idleness.
He was not so far gone in irritation, however, that he failed to seize instantly on the next best choice. If not someone who didn’t need a map, then someone who would never need a map. A Sunrunner. To the point, Prince Saumer of Kierst-Isel.
With the pearls tucked into a pouch around his neck, he rode out of Radzyn at midday on the eightieth of Winter, He was armed with a powerful bow and a quiverful of arrows for discouragement of Vellant’im at a distance; his sword and several knives in case it came to close quarters; food and water; and the firmly memorized colors of the High Prince, the Battle Commander, Lady Hollis, and the elder son of the Lord of Goddess Keep. It was hoped that the only armament he’d require would be his own gifts in spying out Lord Isriam’s progress and adjusting his own accordingly if he got off track. • Trouble was, there was no track.
Saumer did take a map—for all the good it did him once out of sight of Radzyn’s eight towers. One sand dune looked exactly like the next, and the next, and on into infinity. By evening he swore to himself that whatever direction his life might take in the future, if k showed him a road leading to the Desert he’d turn and gallop the other way.
Well before the moons set near midnight, he had found the half-buried way station used that Autumn as shelter on the way to Remagev. He regretted having to stop, but once total darkness swept over the Desert it would be too dangerous to ride farther. He didn’t know the land, and he couldn’t use the stars. Nor the moons, either, come to it. So he tethered his horse securely outside, dug the sand out of the shelter’s doorway, rolled himself in his cloak, and slept with his sword in his hand.
And woke just before dawn to find Andrev seated in the doorway. No mistaking the slight form curled for a nap with his spine against the stone lintel, or the bright blond hair shining even in the dimness.
Ihat in all Hells are you doing here?”
Andrev’s head jerked up from his knees. “Wha—? Oh. Don’t be angry, my lord,” he began.
“Too late for that.” Saumer got to his feet, sheathing his sword. A goodly portion of his annoyance was because he had heard nothing of the boy’s arrival. He tried to soothe himself with the idea that his senses had registered friend and allowed him to sleep on. If Andrev had been a Vellanti warrior, Saumer would never have woken up. “How long have you been here?”
“I was only thirty measures behind you, give or take.”
“And Prince Tilal doesn’t know you’re here.”
“I left him a note.” Andrev pushed himself to his feet. “If one Sunrunner is good, then two are better for this. Somebody has to keep an eye out for possible danger to Lord Isriam, and—“
“And you’ve left Radzyn without a Sunrunner at all! Did you think of that, eh?” He dribbled some water from a skin onto a scrap of cloth and used it to scrub his face. “Making a habit of disobedience, I’d say. First sneaking away from your father at Goddess Keep, and now away from your sworn lord. You’ll be lucky if Prince Tilal doesn’t send you back to your father in disgrace.” He flung the cloth against Andrev’s chest with a soggy slap. “Wash, have something to eat, and get back on your horse. I’m sending you back to Radzyn.”
“You can’t!”
“No? Watch me.” He rummaged in a satchel for bread and cheese. “And by the way, never tell a prince that he can’t unless you’ve got either the law or an army behind you.”
“I’m sorry, my lord—but you really can’t. Before I got here last night your horse gnawed through the reins and ran off.”
Saumer used several of his mother Hevatia’s favorite phrases, making Andrev’s eyes pop. Shouldering past the boy, he looked outside. Sure enough, dangling from one of the iron rings set into the stone for the purpose were two strips of leather, ending in chewed ruin. Andrev’s gelding was tied to another ring—and hobbled.
“He was gone before I got here,” Andrev repeated. “I didn’t see any sign of him. My grandsir’s horses are trained not to spook during a night in the open, but it’s a good idea to tie their front legs anyway, and—“
Saumer shut him up with a single look. He couldn’t send
Andrev back—not on foot. The gelding was big and strong, the boy was small, and there was no choice to be made.
“Get my saddlebags,” he ordered, and started cinching the saddle girth.
Neither said much for the first ten measures. Then Saumer glanced halfway over his shoulder at the boy perched lightly behind him.
“Why did you follow me?”
“Because you’re not as good at Sunrunning as I am,” Andrev replied forthrightly, with no hint of conceit. “And yesterday I saw some scouting parties heading out from their camp at Stronghold.”
Saumer hadn’t. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
Saumer relented with a rather sour smile. “Second lesson in dealing with princes: tell them the facts even if they don’t want to listen.”
“Yes, my lord.”
It lacked a line before midnight on marked candles when Maarken rode back into Feruche by the Desert-side gates. Hollis had seen him coming on the moonlight, and warned selected persons of the arrival.
Pol took his sleeping daughter from Laroshin’s arms, spared the man a glance of thanks that would be augmented later, and took her upstairs.
Hollis received her own daughter into her arms, frightened by Chayla’s white and rigid silence. Visian shook his head helplessly when Hollis looked a question at him. His eyes were swollen and red with weeping.
Sioned accompanied Maarken upstairs after he gave the proper—and unnecessary—orders for the comfort of soldiers and horses. None of the grooms bristled with insult that he told them their jobs; thoroughness was expected of the Battle Commander, and all knew that Maarken—like his father before him—would delay his own ease until everyone else’s had been seen to.
His steps were heavy and slow as he trudged up the stairs beside Sioned. On his face was a doubled grief: for Meath as well as for Kazander.
“Draza stayed behind with the wounded—we sent them
441 back to Skybowl,” he told Sioned as they climbed slowly up to his chambers. “Goddess, Sioned, I’m tired. We’ve been riding without a break since yesterday noon—the poor horses are near foundering.”
“I saw,” she told him briefly.
“I had to get Chayla back home as soon as I could. There’s been nothing, Sioned. Not a single tear. Nothing.”
“Crying is vastly overrated. I’ve learned that, if nothing else.” She paused. “Rislyn?”
“Exhausted. The dragon followed us, and several times spoke with her, so—“ He shrugged. “Children are adaptable, but this—“
“Perhaps she doesn’t believe yet that it’s forever.” She put an arm around his waist to support him. “Lir’reia got here just after sunset. I persuaded Elisel to share part of the maze garden as a nesting place. They flew off to hunt a little while ago.”
Nodding, he said again, “I’m just so damned tired...”
“I don’t know why that surprises you.” They reached his door and Dannar appeared to help him disarm. Sioned poured wine, which Maarken downed in two gulps, beginning to totter on his feet.
“I’m not hungry,” he said when she offered soup and bread.
“Eat it anyway. Dannar went to a lot of trouble—“ She sent the boy a warning glance when he would have protested that it had been no work at all. “—and he’s not even your squire.” She set the bowl and half-loaf on a table beside the bed.
“It would choke me!” Maarken snarled, then rubbed his hand over his face and sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I’m sorry.” Freed now of his armor and the filthy, stinking shirt and tunic beneath it, he sank onto the bed. Dannar knelt to remove his boots. “Sioned—Chayla talks to you, doesn’t she?”
She heard the plea in his voice and nodded. “Yes. I’ll go to her tomorrow.”
They were silent until Dannar had finished his duties— laying out a nightshirt, gathering armor and clothes and boots to be cleaned and repaired, making sure there was wine enough for their thirst. He bowed his way out, having said not a single word the whole time. Tactful silence was a gift he must have inherited from Ostvel, Sioned decided;
Goddess knew, Alasen’s branch of the family was loquacious enough, and possessed all the subtlety of an angry dragon. She ought to know—she and Alasen were cousins.
Slowly, dully, Maarken began to spoon soup into his mouth. As Sioned had anticipated, eating a little revived him enough to eat it all. And with the strength of food and wine in his belly, he was brought back from the bone-weariness that made sleep impossible. It was strange, but frequently demonstrated, that after terrible physical and emotional effort, one had to be roused from a stupor in order to collapse into sleep.
She took the empty bowl from his hand, set it aside, and held up the nightshirt. He slid his arms into it like a good little boy.
“She doesn’t talk to me,” he said. “She won’t talk to anyone. Just Rislyn, to see if she is all right.”
His head poked through the neck opening and she tied the laces loosely at his throat. “Off with the belt now, my lad. There we go. Stand up. Lean on my shoulder—Goddess, not so hard, I’m old and brittle these days.”
“I can get undressed by myself,” he complained.
“Of course you can.” She tugged his trousers down to his knees, then pushed him with a single finger back down onto the bed. “I’ll speak with Chayla in the morning. Don’t worry so much, you’re getting wrinkles.”
“She won’t eat.” Maarken lay back and Sioned yanked his pants off by the hems. “This morning it was cold—we only slept a little while—Visian brewed some taze and I thought she’d throw up. She didn’t see Kazander die, the Goddess spared her that—or maybe it wasn’t a mercy after all ... I don’t know anymore.” All at once he opened his gray eyes wide. “Oh, Sioned—I’m sorry—Rohan—“
“Hush. I think it is better that she didn’t see it.” She dragged his legs onto the mattress and pulled up the covers. “She’s a physician. She would have blamed herself for not being able to help him—even when there was no hope. This way, she wasn’t there and it happened without her, so there’s no guilt.”
“Not over that, anyway.” He worked his shoulder into the pillows, sighing again. “He loved her, Sioned.”
“I know. And she him—at least as far as she’ll allow herself to admit it. I’ll talk with her. Perhaps Sionell ought to, as well. We know how it feels.”
“Yesss...” Eyelids heavy with curling brown lashes drooped shut. Almost at once they lifted again. “Oh— forgot.” He pushed his hair back and she saw the sapphire sparkling from his earlobe. “Chadric’s ... compliments.” The last came in the midst of a huge yawn.
After removing the earring, she ruffled his hair. “Thank you. Go to sleep.”
“Sioned—“ Urgency fought with fatigue. “Why does Pol want Andrade’s—“
“So you realized that, did you?” She talked to be talking, using her voice to lull him. “Yes, the sapphire was Andrade’s. Isn’t it funny, how we didn’t have to lure them with the dragon gold after all? Instead—a letter full of lies and a handful of black pearls. I’ll tell you a secret, Maarken. I didn’t think the gold would work. The feel was wrong, somehow. That’s it, close your eyes, that’s the way.”
“No—wait for Hollis...”
“I don’t think so, dearest,” she murmured. And she was right. A breath later he was asleep.
When he woke the next morning, he couldn’t move. Hollis was wound delicately around him—legs, arms, her head on his chest, her hair a sweet and silken tawny cloud against his face. But he couldn’t move. Not to shift position or stroke her back or even turn his head to judge the time by the shadows.
“Hollis—“
She stirred drowsily, lifted her head, and smiled—but only for an instant. “Maarken? What’s wrong, love?”
He gulped back panic. Had what happened to his mother happened to him? No, he could still speak. He just couldn’t get muscles to respond in arms and legs. His heart was pounding and it felt as if a stack of glass ingots pressed down on his chest. He thought of Rohan, and Feylin’s guess as to how he’d died, and battled new fear.
“Hollis—I can’t move!”
“Well, of course you can’t—I’m practically pinning you to the bed. You were having awful dreams last night.” She unthreaded her limbs from his. He felt the gentle slide of skin against skin, the caress her foot gave his ankle. But he couldn’t move.
“Get Evarin,” he said.
Hollis sat up, twisting her hair over one shoulder. “Maarken, what are you talking about? Were you hurt in the fighting? Sioned didn’t say—“
“Damn it, I’m telling my legs and arms to move and they won’t! Hollis, look at my face. Is it anything like Mother’s?”
“You’re serious.” She shook herself and touched his cheek. “There’s no difference. Can you take my hand?”
“No! Didn’t you hear me? I can’t!”
A little while later—Maarken still immobile and flat on his back in bed—Evarin completed an examination and stood back from the bed.
“If it was the same thing that afflicts Princess Tobin, it’d be the damnedest case of it I’ve ever heard of. But that’s not what’s wrong with you.” He eased himself into the chair Hollis had pulled over, nodded thanks, and went on, “My lord, you are a strong man of forty-four winters who is simply, completely, and utterly exhausted. You’ve been in one battle after another since the middle of Autumn. You’ve ridden Goddess alone can count how many measures. You’ve had scrapes and cuts and minor wounds. You’ve lost friends and your uncle the High Prince. You’ve carried more responsibility than any other five men I could name—saving the current High Prince, of course, but he escapes the duties of Battle Commander. You’re worried about your son, your daughter, your wife, all your other family, and whole princedoms besides. And as if any three of those troubles weren’t enough, you lost half your lower left arm to a sword.” He paused for breath. “Now, you tell me why your body has taken this long to decide it needs to rest.”
“I don’t have time!”
“That’s what your mind will argue—and with perfect futility, I might add. You’re going to lie there while your body recovers from what you and the Vellant’im and everybody else have put it through, and there’s no way around it. That’s why you can’t move. Your muscles hear the orders, all right—they just refuse to obey, and with good reason. They’re worn out.”
“When will he be all right again?” Hollis asked, trying to sound calm.
“By this evening? No. Tomorrow? I wouldn’t take bets on it. In a few days, probably. My lady, what he needs is rest.
No visitors, no distractions, not even his parents—nor Lady Chayla, either. And certainly not his brother or the High Prince. I want him to sleep the rest of today—you know how to do that for him? Good. And don’t fight her, either,” he warned Maarken, pointing a stern finger. “When you wake, eat. Good Goddess, man, you ought to be at least a silkweight heavier than you are right now. And as for you,” he added, turning finger and glare on Hollis as he got to his feet, “you join him in eating, my lady, or you’ll be joining him in that bed, in the same condition.”
Maarken glowered up at him. “If my daughter wasn’t one, I’d be tempted to hate physicians.”
“But you’ll make an exception in my case.” Evarin smiled at him. “When you’ve had enough rest, your body will let your mind take the reins again. You’ll be better for it, believe me.” His smile faded. “But I’ll tell you something else, my lord. When all this is finished and done, none of this going back home and starting in on another sort of backbreak-ing work. Twenty or thirty days of doing absolutely blissful nothing, or one of these days you will go through what your mother did—and probably get a taste of the heart seizure that killed your uncle as well.”
And with that parting shot, he limped from the bedchamber.
Hollis sat at the foot of the bed. “Well? Are you going to fight me?”
He tried to raise his head so he could see her more clearly. He couldn’t. “Hollis, I feel old.”
“You look it.”
“This couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” he fretted.
“No? It could have been four or five days from now, when Pol is ready to march on Skybowl. You just think about that.”
“If all you’re going to do is give me the sharp side of your tongue, then send me to sleep and leave me alone.”
Hollis sprang to her feet, shaking. “Damn you!” she cried. “Don’t you understand? Didn’t you hear him? You’re lucky you aren’t dead!”
“That’s not what he—“
“You weren’t listening! Not to him, not to me, not to—oh, I’m sick of talking to you!”
And sleep spun around him so fast and thick that he blacked out like a snuffed candle.
“Lord Isriam!” Saumer halted the gelding a few paces from the dry well and let the reins drop, holding both hands out to his sides to show they were empty. “Put up your sword!” he shouted. “I’m Prince Saumer of Kierst-Isel, and this is Lord Andry’s son!”
The lanky young man rode a little closer to the tattered pile of stones between them, naked steel glimmering yet in his hand. ‘Til need more identification than that!”
Saumer’s hands fell to his thighs. “What do you want me to do, tell you who won the third race at this year’s Rialla? I can’t—I wasn’t there!”
“What color are Prince Tilal’s eyes?”
“Oh, for—they’re green!” he yelled across the sand. “Like my brother Arlis, my aunt Alasen, my cousin Sioned, and my cousin Dannar! Satisfied?”
Isriam sheathed his sword and approached. “You didn’t have to run through your whole family, you know. I beg your grace’s pardon, but I had to be sure.”
“I realize that. What I don’t understand is how you could suspect my friend here, with his hair and eyes.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at Andrev, perched behind him on the gelding. “You look more Vellanti than he does.”
“That’s all right,” the boy said. “Lord Isriam was right to question. You would’ve done the same thing, my lord, if you hadn’t seen him on sunlight this morning to know his face.”
“Well, yes,” Saumer admitted. He delved into his shirt front and produced the leather bag of pearls. “Here’s what you came for. Do you have time to rest and share a meal with us? I know we were a little late getting here.”
“So was I,” Isriam said with a shrug. “They sent me because I’ve lived in the Desert, but there’s a dry well just like this one about ten measures back. I only knew to keep going because I saw your dust.” He swung down from the saddle and got out a wrapped package. “Venison—the hunters up at Feruche have had some luck lately.”
Andrev dug around for cheese and bread—a little stale— and they sat on the sand with their reins wound around their ankles to make a meal washed down with water. Hard riding had made all of them hungry, so for the first while no one said much. Then, passing the waterskin over, Isriam asked why there were two of them and only one horse.
Saumer let Andrev explain—including the circumstances of his presence. Isriam arched both brows but made no comment, and, indeed, treated Lord Andry’s son with respect.
“You’ll be glad to know your father has completely recovered from the bump he took on the head. Your sister Tobren is busy these days, learning to be a Sunrunner and taking care of your grandmother. She’s better, too, my lord.”
“Is there any news of my brother in Firon?” Saumer asked.
“They landed without a fight at Snowcoves, as you probably know. There’s been a storm, so nobody’s been able to see anything for quite some time. The High Prince assumes they’re on the way to Balarat.”
“I wouldn’t like to be in Lord Yarin’s boots when Arlis catches him,” Saumer chuckled. “That’s going to be a battle and a half.”
“What about Goddess Keep?” Andrev wanted to know. He tugged at the gelding’s reins when the horse strayed a little. “Have the Vellant’im landed yet? Has there been any fighting?”
“No, and it’s got your father and everybody else wondering what they’re waiting for.” Isriam tore off a hunk of dry bread. “It begins to look as if it might be the same reason the Vellant’im are just sitting outside Stronghold. That’s why the High Prince wants them to move when he wants them to—get them to Skybowl with the pearls and the letter and all that.”
“Work to our time schedule, not theirs,” Saumer approved. “What does he want us to do down at Radzyn?”
Isriam shrugged, chewed, swallowed, and replied, “Wait. Like everybody else.”
“Prince Tilal won’t like that,” Andrev commented. “Even though all he’s allowed to do is wait anyhow.”
“Is his wound healing well?”
Saumer grinned. “With an army of physicians to hand, he’d really have to work at it not to get better!”
The waterskin was passed around once more. Isriam cap-~;d it and slung it around his neck. Saumer asked if he nted one of theirs; he shook his head.
“No, thanks, your grace. Lady Feylin ran up just as I was leaving and gave me an extra, so I’m fine.” He hesitated. “Do either of you know what happened up at Skybowl?”
“When?” Saumer frowned.
Isriam sighed. “I was hoping you’d taken a look. Just as I left Lord Maarken’s army to ride here, Vellant’im showed up.”
“And you left anyway?”
His spine and shoulders stiffened. “These were more important.” He gestured to the pearls in their sack around his neck.
“Sorry, of course you’re right,” Saumer apologized. “Andrev, you’re better at Sunrunning than I am—as you’ve often told me,” he added pointedly. “Take a look, why don’t you?”
“It was two days ago,” Isriam said. “There’s probably nothing to see.”
“I’ll let you know,” the boy said, and closed his eyes.
Saumer spoke softly so as not to distract him. “I understand you’re a Prince of Fessenden, so you can stop ‘gracing’ me, you know. It makes us cousins of the courtesy sort.”
Isriam shook his head, so vehemently that the black cord tying back his overlong hair loosened and strands fell in his eyes. “No. Pirro won’t acknowledge me—and I don’t blame him. There’s no proof but my mother’s word.”
Looking him over, Saumer had to admit there was no resemblance to any of the Fessenden royal line that he’d ever met. Then again, Isriam didn’t look at all like Sabriam of Einar, who’d guested at Zaldivar right before Saumer left for Kostas’ service at High Kirat.
“I look like my mother,” Isriam told him, correctly interpreting the scrutiny. “Prince Camanto was blond.”
“Well, Hell—I don’t look much like anybody else in my family, either,” Saumer lied. “I think you’d make a good prince. As Rohan’s squire, and now with Pol, you certainly have the training for it.”
“Perhaps.” Isriam shrugged again. “I’m still trying to get used to the idea. But if Pirro has his way, I won’t have to. I won’t have anything—not Einar, not any portion of Fessenden. Nothing to offer—“
Saumer, never particularly subtle, couldn’t miss how Isriam swallowed the rest of it. “You mean in marriage?”
Tanned cheeks flamed with color. “No. I didn’t say anything. Understand?”
“Uh—yes.” At seventeen, Saumer was barely a year Isriam’s senior—and he couldn’t imagine marrying anybody, no matter how compelling, for at least five years. Maybe ten. There were too many pretty girls in the world to narrow his view to a single one just yet. But it appeared that Isriam had, and he wondered who she might be. Whoever, she could end up Princess of Fessenden. Or wife of a man landless, disinherited, and illegitimate, no matter how highborn.
But Pol would fix that. Or Sioned would. Through his brother Arlis’ influence, Saumer had infinite faith in the power that emanated from their cousins.
He reached over to unwind the reins from Andrev’s ankle; the gelding had wandered again. At his touch, the boy blinked and started.
“What—? Oh.”
“He was about to borrow your leg. Did you see anything?”
“The remains of a very large pyre out in the Desert. I think that’s where they burned the Vellant’im. There’s a smaller one beside the lake for our people—not that many, looks like. But there were two more that I don’t understand. Individual ones. And that means somebody important died.”
“Who’s inside the keep? Wait—check on Feruche as well,” Saumer ordered.
“That’s what took me so long,” Andrev replied with a touch of impatience. “Nobody’s gone from Skybowl that I know to look for. Lord Walvis and Prince Daniv were crossing the courtyard. The curly-haired one—Sethric of Grib?—he was limping after Jeni, but she was ignoring him. Uncle Maarken is nowhere to be seen at Feruche, but I saw Aunt Hollis and she looks worried but not like a widow, if you know what I mean. I don’t know who we lost.”
“Lord Draza?” Isriam asked. “He came down from Feruche with us. Tall, about thirty winters old, dark hair, a moonstone thumb-ring on his right hand—“
“I didn’t see him.”
“Goddess, I hope it wasn’t him. Anybody there to ask?”
Andrev shook his head. “I don’t know Jeni’s colors, and Aunt Hollis went back inside before I could touch her. No other Sunrunners were in reach.”
“Not Walvis, Daniv, Sethric, or Maarken,” Saumer mused.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll hear the worst of it soon enough. That’s the one thing you can count on in a war.”
“Not even faradhi communication works all the time,” Andrev said. “We’re at the mercy of the sunlight and who’s in it.”
“If we were infallible, where would the challenge be?” Saumer asked wryly. “Speaking of sun, cousin, you’d better start back before it starts back down the sky.”
Isriam’s brows quirked in surprise. Then he gave Saumer a shy smile, grateful to be acknowledged as a prince. They mounted up, wished each other farewell and a safe journey, and turned their horses in opposite directions—Saumer and Andrev back to the safety of Radzyn, Isriam to the unknown perils of Stronghold.
TWENTY-FIVE
Pol sat down that evening to a dinner he didn’t want to eat in the company of people he didn’t want to see. There were six around the Attic table: Ruala and Riyan, Alasen and Andry, Sionell and Pol himself. One couple who were married, one couple who might have been, and one who perhaps should have been. No one remarked on the pairings or on the careful distance between occupied chairs. In fact, no one said much of anything beyond a few murmured requests to Dannar and Kierun, who served the meal in wary silence. What was there to talk about? Meath? Kazander? Rislyn? Maarken’s strange illness, the lack of news from Firon, the departure from Skybowl, whatever might or might not be happening at Goddess Keep?
None of the others present had any appetite, either. But for all their vagaries and variants in character they were practical people. None of them had ever been so foolish as to neglect the physical needs of bodies they relied on. Too many other people and too much of importance depended on their continued health and strength. So they ate, but they tasted nothing.
With the taze came Visian, tense and apologetic. Though it was amazing enough that he had abandoned his post outside Chayla’s closed door, the expression on his face alerted all six highborns to something extraordinary.
“Your grace,” he said to Pol, “a courier is here. He—“ After considerable difficulty, Visian finally blurted, “From Stronghold! A Vellanti priest!”
So it proved to be. Laroshin escorted the man upstairs— bound in steel cuffs linked by a heavy chain, with Laroshin’s sword at his spine. Riyan had quickly changed places with Pol to give him the master’s chair; Pol gestured to Andry to sit at his right hand. A glint of bitter amusement had acknowledged the tactic in blue eyes and blue-green.
Before the captive arrived, Ruala mentioned something about leaving. “No, stay,” Pol said. “Isriam won’t deliver your message until tomorrow sometime—this priest doesn’t know about that. You’re still only plotting against me, not in open rebellion yet.”
“All right. Riyan and I will glower at appropriate moments.”
Laroshin and Visian between them prodded the Vellanti through the doorway. The priest was all plain dark beard and black eyes starting from his head at beholding the enemy. The tremors in his knees were due to simple exhaustion, but the intermittent quiver of his hands was an expression of the superstitious terror in his eyes.
He was filthy dirty, his thigh-length tunic and loose trousers more dirt and sweat than white cloth. Tongue flicking nervously over thin lips, his gaze darted around to note everything from the food on the sideboard to the rugs on the floor. He ignored the women. Pol wondered how these ladies would react to being considered of less importance than the furniture.
“Bend your head to his mightiness the High Prince and the dread Lord of Goddess Keep!” Visian commanded.
The priest got control of himself. His chin jutted upward in defiance. Pol, whose lounging posture in Riyan’s chair was entirely deliberate, watched from a corner of his eye while, just as deliberately, Andry leaned forward with beringed hands clasped on the table. They were each other’s instinctive mirror tonight, amused disdain contrasting with tense interest.
Andry’s good, Pol thought with reluctant admiration. Almost as good as he thinks he is.
“Speak your name and your message.” Laroshin emphasized the order with a jerk of the sword.
“Perhaps,” said Andry in the softest of voices, “a little water might serve to ease his dry throat.”
“Will it cure his stiff neck?” Pol asked.
Andry was all oil and honey, balm to the priest’s weariness and fear. “He’s ridden a long way, your grace.”
Pol nodded permission. You be charming and I’ll be nasty. Come on, cousin—let’s shake him and see what rattles.
“Tell me, Laroshin,” he said as Dannar poured water into a cup and Visian poured some of it down the priest’s throat, “why is this man still alive?”
“Ibeg your grace’s forgiveness. I stayed Lord Visian’s hand.”
Pol made a dismissive gesture. “He’s here, we might as well listen to him.”
“We brought his saddlebags, your grace,” Visian said. He placed the leather satchels on the table. Pol opened one side, Andry the other.
“Let’s see. Food, an empty waterskin—oh, here’s another dragon for my collection.” Pol held up an exquisite little token made of solid gold, outstretched wings glinting by candlelight.
“Sapphire eyes,” Sionell contributed sweetly. “It resembles your grace.”
The Vellanti, who had gone rigid as the accursed Azhrei dared touch the dragon, gave a start when a woman spoke. The outraged look he turned on Sionell fairly screamed that she had no right to be here, let alone open her mouth. She returned the scorn with a serene smile.
Pol appreciated the interplay, but there could be only two players on his side of the game. Delving in the saddlebag for other items, he found only a silver comb. “Lord Andry?”
“Just this, your grace.” He extracted a bulky package wrapped in white silk and tied with silver cord.
The priest—well watered by now, under Visian’s ungentle ministrations—cleared his throat. “Cloak for Azhrei, from Kir’reia.”
You piece of filth, what have you done with my wife!
He made himself toy idly with the knotted cord. “My lady s ever thoughtful of my needs. I trust you left her well?” He bowed the man his teeth. “If you did not, I will add one day :o your death for every discomfort she suffered.”
“Killing priest is sin. But I am ready to die.” Pol kept his mouth from curling in disgust. Andry seems
••••> have something in common with him other than a liking }r white clothes.
“That’s good,” he said aloud. “I admire a man who’s pre-rared for anything. My Lord, let’s see what this cloak looks :ke.”
Andry beckoned to Kierun. After unwrapping the pack- age, he gave the neck of the cloak to the boy to hold. Unfurled, it was a magnificent garment of violet silk lined in blue, lavishly embroidered.
Sionell filled the puzzled silence with an exclamation. “Oh! It’s beautiful!” She hurried over, taking the cloak from Kierun, shaking it out so the silk seemed alive with reflected light. “Such fascinating patterns! Look at all the work that went into it!” She sounded as if she’d found it in a booth at the Rialla Fair.
But patterns was her delicately emphasized clue, and as Ruala joined her in praising the work Pol traced the stitchery with his gaze. Words ran together in one long sentence along the hem. The only punctuation was a series of dashes; the words were badly spelled, the capitalization any which way. Not Meiglan’s doing. This had been commanded by the High Warlord. He didn’t dare ask why.
The priest, having found his pride and his footing, conveniently told him. “For burning. Your death cloak, Azhrei.”
His what?
He ran the hem through his fingers to read the whole message. As he spoke the words aloud—stumbling over several; the spelling really was atrocious—he kept hearing Sionell say patterns. What had she seen that he did not yet see?
Pol—high prince—lord of eigtie manors Nine palaces— Dawn defeating darkness—shining eyes like Sky—Ritual fire clensing—mighty Dragon seeking prey-^punisshing evil by Ancient law—cloaked in rightness—all Wrongs dead at his feet—he will Keep all sons and daugters by his strength Safe—Pol—high prince—Beloved of Meiglan
The incredible nonsense of it paralyzed his brain. His face turned away from the priest, he looked up at Sionell in complete befuddlement. She used the cover of the heavy silk to dig her fingers into his shoulder by way of warning.
“ ‘Beloved of Meiglan,’ “ Andry echoed softly, almost tenderly, as aware as Pol that it was too quiet. “How devoted she is to your grace, to have made you this wonderful cloak to wear at your victory.” He bestowed a smile on the priest, kind and pitying. “You know, of course, that we’re going to win.”
The Vellanti smirked.
“But perhaps Meiglan knows something,” Ruala said ten- tatively. “Why would she have made this cloak for a Bum-ing ritual unless—“
Pol swung around to snarl at her. “Do you dare doubt me?”
Her cheeks flared with angry color. “I didn’t say I did!”
“If you do,” he went on in a voice of cold menace, “if you think for an instant that we won’t slaughter every last one of these vermin, get out of my sight! And take your husband with you!”
“Cousin, cousin!” Andry pleaded. “Lady Ruala and Lord Riyan are your loyal friends and vassals!”
Alasen interposed then, rising to take her stepson’s arm, looking desperate to mend the breach. “Of course they are. You know that, Pol. It’s only that these are uneasy times, and we know the Vellanti force to be large. Four hundred horse, at least—“
The priest’s face was wiped clean of all expression. More than that, or less? Pol wondered. Or is Alasen’s guess too accurate for his comfort?
“—and a thousand warriors,” she was saying, and this time the tiniest of smiles twitched a corner of his mouth. The estimates must be low, then. “But we have almost as many, and something more besides,” she finished with the most unsubtle flattery Pol had ever heard from anyone in his life. “We have the mighty Azhrei and the dread Lord of Goddess Keep!” -
Andry inclined his head graciously, not a hint of ironic sparkle in his blue eyes. “Indeed, and I thank you, Princess Alasen.”
“Of no matter,” the priest announced. “Your sin power will die. You will die. So is it truly written.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” Pol deepened his frown. “Beg me nicely enough, and I may leave one or two of you alive to write down what will truly happen. Laroshin, take this thing away. -is fouls the air every time he breathes.”
But the priest had one last smugness, and this one came :ose to igniting Pol’s temper for real. “The High Warlord, nay he sire a thousand sons, permits letter written for the \’ir’reia.”
Oh, Meggie—dear heart, don’t be afraid, everything will ~e all right—
It took everything he had to relax back into the chair and kick one leg casually over its arm. “Now, why should I bother to write her a letter when I’ll be seeing her so soon? Get him out of here, Laroshin.”
Visian spoke up eagerly. “May I kill him now, mighty Azhrei?” He had understood nothing of the game just played and cared even less. Here was a Vellant’im, one of the barbarians who had murdered Kazander.
“I don’t think that would be wise,” Andry cautioned.
Pol had no difficulty with a sharp glance upward as his cousin rose. Andry returned it innocently.
“Your grace, the man is unarmed and helpless. It’s no part of honor to kill someone who—“
“Then I will give him a sword first, to fight with!” Visian said through gritted teeth. “It is he we fought at Skybowl, he who escaped my sword then!”
“Is it?” Andry blinked, caught off-guard.
The priest looked pained. “A mistake. No battle meant then. You killed and killed—all but me,” he added fiercely. “The Father of Winds gave dragon wings to my horse—“
“My father’s horse,” Andry couldn’t help saying.
Pol hid a grin. “He knows too much about us,” he said darkly. “He’s seen too much.”
Laroshin, struggling to comprehend which Pol wanted— free the priest or kill him?—summed up the arguments for both. “He’s seen the garrison below, your grace—the scouts found him first, then sent for me—and the back stairs. No more than this. But—as your grace has said, too much. He has seen you, and the Lord of Goddess Keep.”
Pol spoke musingly. “So they took you by surprise at Skybowl, did they? And you’re the only one left to tell of it?” He let a smile spread across Ms face. Not the charming one; the one that made him look like a wolf scenting easy prey. He glanced up at Andry again. “Cousin, honor aside, I think you’re right. While the ninety who died will be missed eventually, if this priest doesn’t go back and tell them what happened, the High Warlord might think they’re wandering around lost in the Desert.”
Andry bent his head, with such meekness that Pol nearly snorted. “Your grace is wise. If I may, I will escort him back to his stolen horse. Also, his food is scanty and his water-skin empty—“
“Water. No food. He might feast along the way, and grow drowsy, and then one of my dragons might decide to feast off him.”
The priest’s initial fear returned. Pol was so intrigued by the strike of his little arrow that he almost didn’t follow up on the advantage until Alasen gave him the perfect opening.
“Oh, your grace,” she said breathlessly, “before you let this man go, you must tell the dragons not to harm him.”
“Yes, I’ll have to do that, won’t I?” He let his smile turn terribly sweet. “Goodness, I do hope I don’t forget.”
Laroshin and Visian led the priest away—the former certain now of his prince’s desires, the latter glum at being forbidden his kill. The Isulki’s black eyes hinted that although the priest would leave Feruche safely enough, he’d leave with bruises to remember it by.
Leaning down, Andry whispered rapidly to Pol that he would accompany them and find out what he could. Pol told him to do that—and bring Sioned back with him when he returned. The door closed behind Andry, and for a long moment everyone simply stared at everyone else.
“Well!” Alasen said brightly. “It turned out to be an interesting evening after all.”
“My compliments,” Pol agreed. “Every word sung in tune and right on cue.”
“You weren’t much help,” Ruala chided her husband. “I know it offends you even to pretend disloyalty to your prince, but you could have at least looked angry when he yelled at us.”
Riyan drew himself up with great dignity. “I was calmly and thoughtfully plotting out my treachery in the face of his irrational complaints.”
Sionell ignored all of them. After piling the cloak into Pol’s lap without a by-your-leave, she used one arm to sweep all the dishes and crockery from one side of the table. Dannar and Kierun leapt to remove the meal’s debris from the other side. With Alasen’s help, she draped the cloak over the table, lining down, so it was spread to its fullest and they could see all of it at once. Ruala ran a finger over the hem, shaking her head.
“The work of a whole season, crammed into—how long have they had her?”
“At Stronghold, seventeen days,” Pol said quietly.
“You can see how tired she is. Look here—and here,” she said, pointing. “The weave is clearly defined. This heavy stuff always is, the separate threads are so big. They form neat intersections that on finer silk you can barely see. But look how she’s missed stitching a straight line guided by the fabric. As if she was so exhausted she couldn’t work the needle in properly.”
Oh, he’d really needed to hear that.
“She must be frightened half out of her wits,” Alasen added pityingly.
That, too.
“These words along the hem,” Alasen went on. “ ‘Eighty manors and nine palaces’? There’s no sense in it”
“You think not?” Sionell gave her a curious glance. She crossed to the other side of the table, saying as she went, “Kierun, pen and parchment, please.” She picked up the hem Alasen was holding and followed the words halfway around the cloak.
“Ell, what are you looking for?” Pol sat forward, flattening his hands on the violet silk laid out in front of him. “What’s here to be seen?”
“She was tired when she wrote this, yes—but she wasn’t frightened. She was thinking more clearly than any of us could ever hope to!” She met his gaze, blue eyes blazing, and walked back to the beginning of the sentence. “See how she abuses the language to her own purposes. Words spelled wrong, the oddest placement of capitals since my elder son learned to write his name—“
“I saw that while I was reading it.”
“But you didn’t see what she was doing. Take just those strange words, and forget the others. Kierun, write down what I say.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Pol, eighty, nine, dawn, sky, ritual, cleansing—“ She paused to pull more of the hem through her hands. “—dragon, punishing, ancient, wrongs, keep—“ Impatiently she yanked the silk from under Pol’s elbow. “—daughters, safe, Pol, beloved, Meiglan!” she concluded triumphantly. “Wrong capitals and misspellings, those are the words she wanted us to know!”
“Gentle Goddess,” Riyan murmured. “She’s told us where, when, and why.” •
Pol nodded, his fingers clenched now around emptiness. “But not how.”
The priest was singularly uncommunicative. Andry soon gave up trying to trick him into revelations through a careful show of sympathy, and let Laroshin and Visian take him back down to the garrison. Then he went to find Sioned.
The gift of the cloak was beyond an oddity. Sionell had seen something, he had discerned that much. What? And would Pol reveal the information to him?
Once again they’d worked together like hand and hammer, nailing that fool of a priest. Andry liked best of all Pol’s casual claim that the dragons were his—and Alasen, bless her, had picked it up instantly. As he climbed to Sioned’s rooms, he reflected that even at nineteen, he’d had very good sense to love her. None compared—not even fey and gentle Brenlis.
Ah, well, he thought. First love—one never really lost all of it, even when its object was lost for all time.
Sioned was not in her chambers. He knocked on her door, opened it, poked his head in, went through the anteroom calling her name, found nothing. Back in the hallway, he tried to guess where she might be. With Jihan and Rislyn, most likely. He turned for their rooms, then hesitated. Evarin had forbidden Maarken’s bedside to everyone except Hollis. But perhaps—
Pivoting smartly on one heel, Andry made his way to his brother’s chambers. His knuckles were just about to connect with the door when it opened to reveal the Master Physician’s surprised and then accusing face.
“Aha! I knew it!”
Andry felt absurdly like a child caught filching sweets. Knew what?” he parried, lowering his hand quickly.
“You know very well what.” Evarin stepped out and shut he door firmly behind him. “He’s just nodded off, without ;ither my help or his wife’s, and I won’t have you disturbing :im. Your lady mother was here this morning, and the High Drince this afternoon. I sent them packing and I’ll do the ame for you, my Lord. I’ve been waiting for you to show
JP-“
Andry sighed. All physicians were tyrants. “How is he?”
“Better.” Taking Andry’s arm, he walked firmly away -om the door. His limp had almost vanished. “He ate like a orse tonight, and that’s an excellent sign. He’ll be fine in a ay or two, I’m sure. No, you can’t go visit him tomorrow, ‘erhaps the day after.”
Sketching an elaborate, mocking bow, he replied, “I hear and obey, oh mighty lord high physician!”
Evarin snorted.
“What about your other patients?”
“Lady Feylin was correct about Princess Rislyn. The fever burned away her sight. Thank the Goddess for that dragon— who’s currently skulking around the garden, trampling the flowerbeds. Although,” Evarin mused, “I think Princess Jihan is a little jealous.”
“That’s to be expected. She takes the lead in everything. Rislyn’s having a dragon first would—“
“No, that’s not what I meant. Jihan wants to be her sister’s eyes herself.”
Knowing Jihan, that surprised him—but only until he thought of his own twin. “Ah. Of course. Well, between Jihan and the dragon, Rislyn will be all right.”
“Tell your brother he’ll hardly miss his arm,” Evarin retorted. Pausing on the landing to lean against the banister, he said, “It’s not my affair, of course, but are you and the High Prince in conflict over something? More than usual, I mean.” His gaze descended from Andry’s eyes to his healing lip.
“Nothing special.”
“Good. Keep it that way.”
“You’re right, it’s none of your concern,” Andry observed smoothly. “But I’d like to know why you ask.”
“Your niece has the makings of a brilliant physician.” Evarin paused a moment while Andry wondered what Chayla had to do with any of this. “But while she knows how the body works—and how to make it work again after a battle wound—she treats only the body.”
“So?” he asked, impatient.
“So there’s no physical cause for your brother’s malady.” Andry nearly slugged him. “Are you saying it’s something to do with his mind? Maarken’s the sanest man I know!”
“Did I say he’d lost his wits?” Evarin growled, “He’s exhausted in body, naturally, and that’s part of it. But there’s a tired mind to go with it. Yes, I know, everyone’s feeling that way. Not everyone is lying in his bed, unable to move more than his arms.”
Andry tried to picture his vigorous brother helplessly paralyzed. Impossible. He opened his mouth to say so, but Evarin spoke first.
“Yesterday he couldn’t move at all.”
“He—“ Andry clutched the physician’s arm. “Why?”
For a moment Evarin searched his face. “No, I didn’t think you’d see it. Andry, it’s coming down to it now—all the fighting, all the worry. Whatever happens at Skybowl—he can do what needs doing. He proved to himself that he’s nearly the warrior he always was. No, it’s the battle between you and Pol he fears.” He sighed, shaking his head. “It took most of this afternoon while he was sleeping to coax even half of that out of Lady Hollis. I’d guessed some of it from his relief—he tried to hide it, but he’s not much of a liar, is he?—when I told him neither you nor Pol would be allowed in to see him,”
“Oh, dear Goddess,” Andry breathed, understanding too much. “He’s afraid of having to choose between us.”
“His duty as a Sunrunner and his duty as Battle Commander and athri stare back at him whenever he looks at the two of you. His mind can’t turn to one side or the other, so it decided his body wouldn’t be able to, either.” Evarin shrugged again. “He doesn’t realize it, of course. His wife does—she’s one smart woman, your sister-by-marriage. And she’ll skin you both without a second thought if she feels you’re threatening his peace.”
“Well, then, we won’t.”
After a slight hesitation, Evarin ventured, “You’ll submit to Pol?”
“I’ll create circumstances wherein submission won’t be necessary. And even if I fail, and have to slap Pol down— Sunrunnerly speaking—Maarken won’t know about it I’d sooner cut off my own hand than do that to him.”
“Persuade Pol of the same, and perhaps tomorrow I’ll let you both see him. No false smiles and sweetness-and-light, mind you—there’s nothing wrong with his eyes and he knows you both.” More briskly, he continued “Now, what did you come to ask about?”
“What? Oh—do you know where I can find Sioned?”
“With Chayla. Where else?”
While Pol was reading the hem of the cloak aloud in the presence of the Vellanti priest, Sioned sat with Chayla in the girl’s bedchamber, waiting as she had waited throughout their shared dinner. Not for tears of grief over what had never been—Sioned didn’t think she could stand that, it was too close to her own guilt and sorrow. No, there was something else in the lightless blue eyes, something more than Kazander’s death. Something worse.
At length Sioned poured out the remainder of the taze into her own cup; Chayla had earlier refused with a sharp shake of her head and a sudden unexplained pallor.
“Chayla. Tell me what’s wrong.”
She stared straight at Sioned without seeing her. Slender, clever fingers twisted around each other like tangled skeins of sunshine. With a startling burst of nervous energy, she rose, paced to the hearth, then drew a deep breath and faced Sioned.
“I’m pregnant.”
When Sioned utterly failed to react, Chayla went on feverishly, “I can’t tell my mother. Do you understand? I didn’t tell her about—how could I talk to her now about this? I haven’t told anyone but you. You’re the only one who knows what happened to me. I know you do—everything you said that day, about forgetting—“ Her hands clenched in the hem of her tunic. “I thought I could forget, in time. That it would go away. So I didn’t tell anyone.” She paced a few steps, arms hugging herself tight. “How could I? If my father found out what happened—I was afraid of what he’d do.”
Rightly so. Maarken would rage out of Feruche to slaughter Vellant’im until he dropped dead of exhaustion. Chay would be only a half-step behind.
Sioned rose and locked the door. Leading Chayla to the window seat, she coaxed the girl to sit down and pulled a chair over so they were knee-to-knee. With the cold hands folded between her own, she said, “I understand. And you’re right, I knew what happened to you from the start. But first things first, my dear. Are you quite certain?”
“Yes. I think I knew several days ago, but I didn’t want to.” She tried for a physician’s calm voice, but succeeded only in a colorless monotone. “My cycle is regular. It always has been. When I didn’t bleed, I thought it was from shock. That happens. It’s not uncommon. I’m not giddy or sick to my stomach—just at the smell of taze. It’s only been twenty-three days since—since it happened. But I feel ... different, somehow.”
She thought of lanthe, who had known scant days after conceiving Rohan’s son. “I’ve felt it several times. I know what it’s like—the difference.”
“Then you think I’m right.”
“I believe so.” She hesitated. “You’re very young, dearest, and the women of your family don’t bear easily. What I’m trying to say is that there’s a good chance that your next bleeding—“
“No! I want it gone! Now!”
Sioned had never known this unique horror. Long before that time at Feruche, the Plague had damaged her so that she would never conceive again. But she knew only too well how rape could violate the mind and spirit long after the body had healed. She had denied it, walled it up for half a lifetime, and nearly gone mad when the memory finally broke through. Chayla did not have the luxury of years of denial. She must face it now.
“What do you want to do?” Sioned asked softly.
“I told you. I want it gone!”
She hated herself for the images her next words would bring to Chayla’s mind, but she had to ask. “You are certain you could not carry it, give birth, and raise your baby?”
Chayla yanked her hands away. “Goddess, Sioned—how can you? It’s not mine! It’s not a baby, it’s not a life—it’s a thing inside me and I don’t want it!”
“Then you’re asking me to help you rid yourself of it.”
“Yes!”
For years all Sioned had wanted in the world was a child. Every hope she’d ever had was taken from her in sudden blood. How cruel life could be to some women. How brutal to others.
Chayla spoke stiffly. “Will you help me?”
Sioned nodded. “I only wanted to be sure you couldn’t—“
“Never!” She rose, quick and adamant, pacing again. “I could never look at it and not be reminded. I won’t give th to something that would look at me with his eyes!” She upped her arms around herself again, shuddering. “It’s not _->t that. No child should be hated by its own mother. That’s -v evil as what he did to me, I won’t do it!”
Sioned got slowly to her feet, feeling a thousand winters ^rtle in her bones. “It doesn’t happen often, and I wouldn’t npect you to know anything about it. But sometimes at Goddess Keep the count of days is wrong and a girl is made pregnant on that first night. A friend of mine long ago— well, I know what must be done.”
She was unlocking the door when Chayla whispered, “Sioned? If this were Kazander’s baby—I would have loved it. I should have loved him. And now it’s too late.”
“He knew. I promise he knew that you loved him.” Turning again, she saw tears slide down pallid cheeks. “Oh, my darling, no. You mustn’t.” Swiftly she went to embrace the girl.
“It’s inside me,” Chayla stammered, trembling. “It’s his leavings inside me—I can’t stand it, Sioned, I hate even the thought of it—“
“Hush, love.” She smoothed the bright hair. “Hush now. It will be all right. I promise.”
Pol spread the cloak wide on the table, too stunned by Meiglan’s achievement to hear the others decide on the exact meaning of the words sewn along the hem. The dragon on the back reared up in golden splendor on violet silk— beautiful work, even though so quickly done.
Alasen set the pen down with a snap that snagged his attention. “Here’s what we have. At dawn at Skybowl, on the eighty-ninth of Winter, the Vellant’im will perform a ritual to cleanse the dragons and punish an ancient wrong.”
“A ritual cleansing,” Riyan mused. “To free them of the Azhrei’s taint and influence?”
“That’s how I read it,” Sionell agreed. “As for the ancient wrong—that was the diarmadhi invasion of their lands.”
“The eighty-ninth—six days from tomorrow.” Ruala shook her head, glossy black braids sinuous around her shoulders. “That’s not very much time, is it?”
“Compared to the last hundred and thirty or so days?” Sinking into a chair with the parchment copy of the message before her, Sionell tried a smile. “I was beginning to feel this would last forever.”
“It won’t,” Pol said abruptly. “Ell, look at this.” She sat forward to inspect the dragon. “The same as on the battle flag, and the tapestry.”
“Look again.” After a moment she met his gaze with wonder in her own.
“He’s holding a parchment scroll, not the emerald ring. And look what he’s standing on.”
She traced a finger over the threads. The others crowded up to see. Pol and Sionell both ran their hands flat over the silk, neck to hem.
“Nothing.”
“The seams?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Alasen gasped as each took up a table knife and ripped at the stitching. “What are you doing? You’ll ruin it!”
She was ignored. The center seam yielded, and those that curved the cloak at the shoulders. Sionell tore at the fabric and spread it wide.
And there, thin and soundless and aglitter with golden thread, was a letter written on violet silk.
“ ‘Cloaked in tightness,’ “ Alasen murmured. “I’ve never felt so stupid in my life.”
Pol lifted the scrap of cloth and smoothed it on the table. Long, swift stitches spelled out terse words and numerals, punctuated only where absolutely necessary. He read them aloud.
600 horse 2000 foot 100 priest. All men here. No threat for generation. High Warlord revenge only— others believe dragon legends. Skybowl ritual gold knife cancels power over dragons, immediate battle victory assured. Priests dangerous.
“So they think their little ceremony will cancel your power, do they?” Ruala asked. “They’re in for a shock.”
Pol had once more locked gazes with Sionell.
“The priests are dangerous,” she murmured. “They believe the legends.”
Sioned returned to Chayla’s room carrying a small pouch of powdered belmayce. Feruche’s entire stock of the herb was in Sioned’s possession, taken from Ruala’s medicinal stores eral days ago for another purpose entirely. A pinch in a glass of wine acted as a mild purgative; a handful in a cauldron of soup would kill. But mixed with a few things from Chayla’s own medicines, a carefully measured amount of belmayce would induce a miscarriage.
Like sensations Maarken sometimes felt in a hand no longer there, Sioned remembered how it felt to miscarry. She also remembered rape. Chayla, at not even sixteen, had known one already and would soon know both.
Opening the door, she called softly through to the bedchamber, “It’s all right, dearest. It’s just me. By tomorrow it will be over and no one will ever know—“
She stopped cold in the anteroom archway. Chayla stood by the hearth, rigid with nerves. Between her and Sioned was Andry.
“What is there to be known, Sioned?”
“So that’s why you’ve been shattering crockery!” Riyan exclaimed. “Dragon’s teeth!”
“Yes,” Sionell said. “And if all of you work together on a conjuring, we just might be able to pull it off.”
Alasen sat down hard in a chair. “A whole army?” she asked faintly. “You’re asking them to conjure a whole army?”
“I don’t think we’ll have to,” Pol mused. “My father was fond of saying that very often it’s the impression one gives that counts. If they believe that thousands of warriors will spring up from the Desert, that will work more in our favor than if it actually happened. If they think broken dishes are dragon teeth, they’ll believe anything. I’m more worried about the priests.”
“Leave that to your mother and me,” Sionell told him.
“She’s been avoiding me on that topic. I await enlightenment.”
“You’ll wait a little longer. It’s not my idea to share.”
“Ell—“
“What else can we use?” Ruala asked quickly. “Sionell’s idea about the pottery was inspired, but why stop there?”
Kierun stepped forward shyly. “Could we put red dye onto our arrowheads? Like dragon blood?”
Riyan shook his head. “It’s supposed to be poisonous, and they’d know it wasn’t the moment they touched—no, wait! That paste you smeared on everything at Remagev—why not
,i mix up some and color that red to dip our arrows in? I’m told it burns like the Long Sand in midsummer.”
Sionell scribbled it down. “That’s one to me, and one each to Kierun and Riyan. Ruala? Your turn!”
She thought for a moment, then smiled. “I could show them the dragon gold at Skybowl. If they start arguing over it—“
“They might not, though,” Riyan said. “They took nothing but horses everyplace else. And Meiglan says the High Warlord is here only for vengeance.”
Ruala shrugged. “There aren’t many who don’t covet gold, so anything he says to forbid looting may not work this time.”
“Whichever,” Sionell said impatiently. “The idea is to give them things to see that will make a better foundation for their superstitions. One to Ruala. Alasen, you’re next.”
“Oh, thanks,” the princess said with a grimace. “All the good ones are taken! We want to take the fight out of them before the battle begins, right? They’re not frightened of dragons anymore—not enough not to kill them—so turning them to stone with a dragon’s glance is out. The hatchlings are all gone south and they’re too old now to breathe fire anyway. What’s left?”
Sionell caught Pol’s gaze again, and what had been formless a little while ago became crystal-sharp for them both. He saw it in her eyes before he knew it in his mind.
Not what was left. Who.
Meiglan.
“I was raped,” Chayla said bluntly. “I’m pregnant. By tomorrow I won’t be.”
Sioned didn’t breathe. She knew Andry would not rest until he had learned the truth; Chayla had been brave enough to tell him. But now the girl wilted into a chair by the fire, arms wreathed around her drawn-up knees.
“And that’s what there is to know,” she mumbled, bending her head.
Andry turned to Sioned, asking with an arched brow.
“Yes,” she answered.
He said nothing for a long while. His eyes had gone opaque, his face immobile. Then, slowly, he said, “This is a Goddess-given life. You have no right to destroy it, Sioned.”
Chayla’s head snapped up, her eyes huge with disbelief. Sioned marched forward, grabbed Andry’s arm, and hauled him by main force through to the antechamber. She slammed the connecting door and set her back against it.
“Explain yourself.”
His shoulders set into hard lines. “No matter what the reason, it’s wrong to kill the gift of the Goddess.”
“A ‘gift’ left inside her after she was raped—as you damned well know!”
“But the child doesn’t know that.”
“A child? Andry, I’ve seen what emerges at fifty days from a womb—my own!” she flung at him bitterly. “For her, it’s not even thirty!”
“I believe that it is a child, a life,” he said stubbornly. “You were about to kill it. And that is a sin.”
“What about the sin committed against Chayla? Violence was done to one of your sacred holy Sunrunners, Lord of Goddess Keep! And that sin is still inside her—“
“A life is inside her.”
“It has no mind, no breath, no existence apart from hers—I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” she exclaimed. “You know what happened to Chayla! She’s not even sixteen! How can you condemn a child to bear the child of rape?”
“How the baby was conceived doesn’t matter!” His voice rose, as passionate as hers, “What you’re doing is wrong. It’s always wrong, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Is that what rape is to you? A ‘circumstance’?” She took a step toward him, her voice a low and menacing hiss. “Shall I help you see what it’s like, Andry? Can you imagine it? Can you? Violence and pain shoving into you over and over again—the blood, the fear—think about having that done to you!”
“I know what rape is,” he snapped.
“Do you? Has it ever happened to you? It did to me—I don’t even remember how many times. You can’t breathe, you can’t fight, you’re less than an animal, less than the dirt!”
“That has nothing to do with—“
“It’s still inside her, Andry. The memory of it is growing inside her. Can you imagine feeling it in your body, day after day—and then giving birth to it in more pain, more blood?”
She turned away from him, sick with disgust. “Be glad you’re not a woman.”
Coldly, he replied, “Taking a life given by the Goddess is a sin.”
“Given by the Goddess?” She spun around. “Was she the one who raped Chayla?”
Ruby and diamond fire trailed from Andry’s rings by candlelight as he gestured,his frustration. “Don’t you understand?” he cried. “Either all life is sacred or none is!”
“Oh, very noble! What about Marron’s life? Was that sacred? I don’t recall you had much trouble killing him! And with your gifts, too—now, there’s ‘sin’ for you, my Lord! Against the vows you swore as a Sunrunner!”
“He deserved to die!” Andry shouted. “For what he did to Sorin—he was guilty and he deserved—“
“His death I’ll grant you willingly—him and that walking pestilence Miyon. But what about the others, Andry? The sorcerers you murdered? You had no qualms about executing them! Their only guilt was the blood in their veins!” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “What if it had been a sorcerer who raped Chayla and fathered a child on her? Would you still be prating of sin?”
He flushed. “There’s a difference between—“
“Either all life is sacred or it isn’t! Make up your damned mind!”
Andry paced off a threatening step of his own. “What I do as Lord of Goddess Keep is no concern of yours. You threw away your rings long ago, and with them your right even to discuss such matters with me. Definition and punishment of sin are not on your-list of duties, High Princess. You have no rights here. And Chayla isn’t even your blood-kin.”
“Don’t you wave the Radzyn family banner at me, you hypocrite! If you cared about Chayla at all—“
“I’m tired of arguing with you,” he said flatly. “Chayla is a Sunrunner. The child she carries has the potential to become one as well. That makes them my responsibility. As a Sunrunner, one of the Goddess’ own chosen—“ He shook his head impatiently. “Who’s to say that this was not the Goddess’ will?”
“Oh, no,” she whispered. “No, not even you could be that cold, to see that girl as nothing but a—a brood mare!”
“Stop it, Sioned! Stop twisting what I say!” Andry bit his lip, regaining control. “I don’t give a damn what you think. The fact remains—“
“—that you will say what is a sin and what is not?”
“I am the Lord of Goddess Keep,” he said, as if that justified all.
Trembling, her fists clenched, Sioned understood at last Pol’s instinctive loathing of this man—deeper than any act of will to work with him, to coax him into sharing his power freely, to tolerate him for Sorin’s or Maarken’s or Chay’s or Tobin’s sake.
“Get out.” Her voice shook with the thunder of her heartbeats. “Get out of my sight before I forget whose son you are.”
Andry didn’t even flinch. “I forbid you to kill that child.”
Sioned searched his eyes for a long moment. Slowly, very softly, she said, “If you go to Maarken and Hollis with mis ... I swear by Rohan’s ashes, I swear to you that I will break you.”
Scorn glittered in his half-smile.
“You have never tested me, Andry,” she continued. “Never found my limits. Never pushed me far enough.”
All he did was shrug. “Can you be so certain you know my limits, Sioned?”
She allowed an answering smile, as chill and ruthless as his, to lift one comer of her mouth. “I’m certain that you don’t want to discover mine.”
They faced each other across the narrow flowered carpet, white and rigid with rage, ready to test all limits right there and then. Ready to tear each other’s minds apart, to send color and power and Fire howling across the whole Desert, to bring Feruche down stone by blazing stone.
“No. Stop this.”
Chayla stood in the bedchamber doorway, one pallid hand clutching the frame for support.
With a gentleness that made Sioned want to claw his tongue out, Andry said, “I’m sorry you had to hear this, Chayla. I didn’t mean to upset you. But surely you must see that killing your child is wrong.”
“It’s not mine,” she replied quietly. “It’s not a child.”
“I understand why you might feel that way.” He came toward her, hands open and outstretched. “But I would hope that you’d be strong enough to give this baby life no matter how it was conceived or who its father was.”
“And what would you know about it?” Chayla’s voice was calm. “I hate what he did to me and I hate what he left inside me. If it was born, I would hate it as long as I live. And that, my Lord, would be a sin.”
“Chayla—don’t do this,” he pleaded. “We’ll talk, you’ll come to see how wrong it would be—“
She met his entreaty with quiet self-possession. “You said nothing to her that I hadn’t already considered on my own. But what she said to you doesn’t even begin to describe—“ She paused. “If I could conjure it for you, or somehow make you feel what I felt, I would. Maybe you’d understand. But please understand this. As my kinsman or as Lord of Goddess Keep, you have no say in this. My life is mine.”
“Please wait. Once the child moves within you and you feel its life—“
“My life!” she cried. “And I will not give any of my life to this thing!” She drew in a long breath, composing herself again. “I’ve tried to respect your position and our shared blood, but I will hear no more of this.”
Andry’s gently persuasive tone did not change; neither did Sioned’s desire to flay him alive for it. “The Goddess gave women the privilege of creating new life. It is a gift, Chayla, no matter how it happened. Abortion is wrong.”
Though her blue eyes blazed, her voice was cool as she said, “My Lord, when you can get pregnant, then you may have an opinion.”
Sioned opened the hallway door in silent invitation to get out. But she winced back, startled—Pol stood just outside, hand raised to knock. His eyes sparked with surprise at being anticipated. Then his brows knotted and Sioned had the frightening impression that his fist was about to descend on her.
“You knew—Goddess damn you, you knew!”
Taken completely off-balance, she could only echo stupidly, “Knew—?”
He dragged her out into the hallway and slammed the door shut. “It was all there to be seen—but you made damned sure I never looked in the right direction, didn’t you?”
“Pol—I don’t know what you’re—“
“When were you going to tell me?” He shook her by the shoulders, his face contorted with rage. “When they had the knife at her throat?”