Never, never, never again, Arlis swore, will.I spend a single day in the snow. I hate the snow. I hate the cold. I hate the wind. No, I’m a sailor at heart, I don’t hate the wind. But I hate everything else about this misbegotten, Goddess-forsaken place!
Laric’s recommended remedy was a drink called Fironese Frostbite: grain liquor (damned near raw alcohol) heated just to boiling and poured into a cupful of snow. Of course, Laric was out of his mind. Eighteen winters of this gigantic icicle he called a princedom had warped his wits. How else to explain the smile teasing his lips, the bright excitement in his eyes, the despicably supple way he swung up into his saddle?
All day sun had competed with wind to a maddening standstill, alternating relative comfort with numb insensibility. Arlis shivered, then sweated, then shivered some more. The only constant was the single needle of burning ice that pierced each joint at random. Wonder if Pol has a spare cas-tle in the Desert he’ll lend me while I thaw out. Shouldn’t :ake more than a couple of years... Hells, I’d settle for a :ent outside Rivenrock. Demalia, darling wife, pack up the children and let Saunter run Kierst-Isel for a while!
“Only another thirty-five measures,” Laric said cheerfully.
Only. Wonderful. They’d stopped to rest the horses, gnaw ;ff something to eat, and attend the demands of nature. Arlis stayed on his horse. Once he got out of the saddle, he’d •ever get into it again. Besides, he’d let his bladder explode before he exposed a certain very valuable portion of his anatomy to the cold. Like as not, it’d freeze and fall off.
“We’ll stop at Ramblewalk. It’s a village about ten measures from Balarat. Yarin knows we’re coming, so surprise is out of the question. We’ll rest and get warm—“
Arlis made astonished eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling cold on this sweet and balmy morning?”
Laric grinned. Arlis hoped his teeth froze.
“Want some wine?” the older prince asked maliciously, knowing very well why Arlis remained in the saddle during these rest stops.
Any liquid he put into his body would eventually want out long before that nice, sheltered, warm village. “No, thank you.”
“I didn’t mean for drinking. Alcohol doesn’t freeze, you know.”
Arlis stared at him.
“You could pour some over your—“
“No—thank you!”
The blue eyes were all innocence—why was it people with blue eyes could do innocence so much easier than those with dark? “It was just a suggestion.”
“You can take your suggestion and—“
“My lord? Everyone’s ready to ride again.” Idalian reined in beside them and shrugged his cloak back from his shoulders. “Getting warmer, anyway.”
“Warmer,” Arlis growled. He kicked his unwilling horse out into the snowy road again, leaving his princely cousin chuckling behind him.
Laric had no business being so damned cheerful. Even given his intimate knowledge of his castle and Aldiar’s inside knowledge of what was going on within it, Balarat presented a formidable problem. It was full of traitorous ministers, disloyal vassals—and sorcerers.
Arlis had been considering methods of taking the place. Laric shook his head to all of them. “I haven’t fought a battle thus far, and I don’t intend to if I can help it. And certainly not a battle that will wreck my own keep. No, we’ll think of something else.”
A siege was out of the question. Shelter against vicious winters of always uncertain duration, Balarat was stuffed to the seams with provisions. It might begin to feel a slight pinch in its stores of food by next Summer. Maybe. As for fresh water—Arlis squinted into the dazzling white landscape and snorted. While they had fuel to burn—or a diarmadhi to call Fire—they could drink until they sloshed, take six baths a day each, and still have water enough to sluice the middens
(and wash the castle from spires to foundation stones. No battle. No siege. There remained two alternatives, neither of which Arlis particularly relished. The first was to infiltrate, kill Yarin and all the sorcerers, open the gates, and take their chances with the regular troops. This was assuming that everyone with the power to kill could be killed quickly.
Unlike his kinswoman Sioned, Arlis wasn’t that much of a gambler. i The second choice was the one he suspected Laric would
! put forth as the only feasible one: Sunrunner help. Arlis wondered sourly where he thought it would come from.
Pol’s duty as High Prince was to do everything he could to help everyone else—but he was hard-pressed himself and
» besides, only the Sunrunners at Goddess Keep had any real experience in working together for defensive purposes. They had their own problems, in the form of Vellanti ships waiting for nobody seemed to know what. And this was assuming that Andry would even allow his devr’im to come to Laric’s aid.
Arlis considered that for a time, deciding eventually that if helping Laric was possible without serious danger to Goddess Keep, Andry would not just allow it, he would order it. What a chance to increase his influence and standing—and make Pol furious.
A pretty state they were in when people did what was right only for what it would gain them. Arlis was honest enough to include himself in the indictment. No prince worthy of the trust his people placed in him did anything that didn’t sooner or later provide an advantage to those people. This little adventure hadn’t cost him much so far but frozen toes. But he would have suffered much more for the prospect of favorable future trade with a grateful Firon. It had been in his mind from the moment Laric asked his help back in Einar. He wasn’t ashamed of it. Why should he be?
Why should he damn Andry for thinking much the same things?
Because Sunrunners are supposed to help everyone, no matter what. Because Andry wants power over the way peo- pie think and believe. Because his instincts aren’t the same as mine. Because I don’t trust him.
Aware that his familial connections had a lot to do with his reactions, he ended the mental meanderings and turned to Idalian, who rode at his side.
“So. What do you think we should do when we get to Balarat?”
The young man’s answer was prompt and emphatic. “Not trust Aldiar with our plans, my lord, whatever they may be.”
“You don’t much like him.”
Idalian flexed gloved fingers, as if readying them to connect with Aldiar’s jaw. “I know what he did for Rohannon. I know he was right about getting Tirel to safety. I ought to i feel grateful—but I don’t trust him!” he burst out. “I spent too long locked up in Balarat, I couldn’t do anything—“
“Personally, I’d say you accomplished the damned-near impossible. You kept Tirel alive.”
“And Yarin still sits in Prince Laric’s chair, and his sorcerers with him.”
“Are they his? Or is he theirs?” Arlis shook his head. “I don’t especially trust the boy, either, But he’s done all right for us so far—“ Reminded of his recent musings about why people did what they did, he wondered suddenly what Aldiar thought to gain. Changing the subject, he asked, “How’s Rohannon?”
“Avoiding everybody,” Idalian said.
The prince grunted and wrapped himself more tightly in his cloak. Warmer, his ass.
Pol slept until midmorning, waking only when Azhdeen’s howls outside his window became too loud to ignore. At least sorcery didn’t leave one with an aching head, unlike encounters with a dragon who demanded to know what was going on. Unable to tell him in words, Pol braced himself in the spill of late winter sunshine and tried to communicate reassuring confidence.
Azhdeen countered with a swirl of colors that resolved into impressions of the Vellanti army on the march from
Stronghold.
They fell for it? They fell for it! He broke contact himself, earning an outraged yelp from his dragon and a stab of pain from one side of his skull right through to the other. When his vision cleared, he grabbed up a robe and pelted down the hall to his mother’s rooms.
“Mother! It’s going to work! They’ve started for Skybowl and—“
He stopped and stared at the neatly made bed.
“Mother?”
But Sioned’s rooms were empty.
So were SionelFs.
And Alasen’s.
By noon he had the truth from Tobin—though she refused to speak to him on sunlight, thus drawing out the interview with what he was positive was an exaggeration of her difficulties in speaking. She was perfectly unrepentant about the part she’d played in the escape from Feruche. Her only regret was that she wasn’t strong enough to go with them.
“How could you?” Pol raged, while her husband and younger son glared their own accusations. “Of all the stupid—why did you help them?”
Andry was the one who answered. “Because none of their rooms has the right kind of hidden exit—isn’t that so, Mother? I know the plan of Feruche, too.”
Pol rounded on him. “Well, I don’t! What’s so special about this one?”
“SionelFs fireplace stairs lead to the kitchen. The passage from Alasen’s room goes down only one floor to a closet beside the main stairs. Neither is practical for getting out in secret. There’s a steep spiral down from Sioned’s antechamber—“ He paused to think, then nodded and continued, “—to a passage though the Desert-side wall. Which doesn’t help much, either— not compared to the one in this room. It goes to the stables.”
Tobin applauded sardonically, clapping her good hand against the one that lay strengthless in her lap.
“Where’s the exit here?” Chay asked, fascinated despite himself.
Andry strode to the wood partition between the bedchamber and small dressing room, found a certain pattern in the carving, and pressed it. A catch snapped; a section of the adjacent stone wall became a door. “And there we have it. Right down to a passage under the main hall, and from there all the way under the courtyard to the fifth stall from the right. I’ll bet Sioned’s own horse was in it, too, all saddled and ready to go.”
“Charming,” Pol snarled. “When I find the grooms who did the work and the guards who let them through the gates—“
“You won’t,” Andry said. “Because they didn’t. The guards, I mean—I’m not sure if anyone saw them leave the stables.”
“Let me guess,” Pol said through his teeth. “A trapdoor under the tenth feed bin from the left, triggered by the third bridle hook in the top row?”
“Actually,” Chay remarked, “the whole back wall of the tack room. I know a thing or two about this castle myself. Sorin,” he added thoughtfully, “had a rather devious mind. All my sons do.” He cast a disgusted look at his wife.
Andry gestured impatiently. “Why blame her? We’re half yours.”
Pol advanced on Tobin. “How did my mother know she’d need this room?”
She gazed up at him serenely. “Didn’t. Beth did.”
Sorin’s Chosen—the daughter of the castle’s architect. Pol clenched both fists. “So she went with them, did she?”
Tobin nodded. “Ruala, too.”
“Damn it to all Hells! I should’ve put the woman in chains, even if she is my mother!”
“Begging your grace’s pardon,” Chay said with elaborate politeness, “but I’d have loved to see you try.”
Tobin gave a snort.
Chay cast a quelling look at her and went on briskly, “Well, they’re gone, all five of them. What can we do about it? Nothing. So let’s get on with what we can do. Pol, Andry, I’ll meet you in Maarken’s rooms in a little while. Go.”
When they had obeyed—even a High Prince and a Lord of Goddess Keep obeyed the Lord of Radzyn in that tone of voice—the Lord of Radzyn turned a mildly accusing gaze on his Lady.
“You,” he said, “are going to be the cause of my death by reason of raving insanity.”
She smiled at him—not with the half-smile of most of the Winter (including a few moments ago), but with all her face. When she spoke, her voice was strong and clear, very unlike the quaver with which she’d answered Pol’s questions.
“Liar. You loved it!”
“Well, yes,” he admitted, with a grin more suited to a twelve-year-old boy. “I don’t often get the chance to twitch my all-powerful nephew and my high-and-mighty son!”
Hitching herself straighter in her chair, she grinned back. “Most fun I’ve had in years. But if they ever find out we both helped Sioned, I’ll tell them it was your idea.”
“They’d never believe you.”
“I fooled them with my pitiful act,” she challenged.
“You would’ve done even better if you hadn’t kept looking at the water-clock.” He knelt before her and framed her delicate face very carefully between his palms. “But watching you pretend to be worse again, to drag out the time—it scared all Hells out of me, Tobin.”
“Stop worrying.” She put both hands on his forearms, caressing the muscles. “It was just pretend, love. I’m fine.”
“Let’s hope Sioned can pretend humble serving maid to equal effect. That’s something I’d really like to see!”
“Me, too. I wish I could’ve gone with them.”
“Ha. I can just imagine you bowing and cowering.”
“Me! You’d give the game away in two shakes of a d-dragon’s tail.”
Chay frowned at the slight stammer. Tobin responded by fitting her hands threateningly around his throat.
“Stop worrying,” she repeated sternly. Her grip eased and she stroked his cheek. “About me, anyway.”
He said nothing for a moment, knowing who she meant. They were well on their way to Skybowl by now. Two Sunrunners—one completely untrained—two exceedingly clever young women, and a diarmadhi who’d learned all she knew about using power from her faradhi-trained husband. If they succeeded, the enemy threat would be defeated before a single sword was unsheathed.
Jf they failed, they would die. And Meiglan with them, countless others in the battle Pol would fight with s own sons beside him.
He turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm. “I’d better go. They’re waiting for me.”
“Chay—we were right to help.”
He gave her a crooked smile and rose. “We just couldn’t cook up better reasons for staying than they had for going.”
It was another way of saying nobody could have stopped aem. No: stopped Sioned. She had offered no reasons at all, tad had merely told them where she intended to go and what she intended to do.
Chay went to his appointment with his sons and his prince, his head filled with a lifetime of military lore and battle experience. I may be old, but I’ve got one more good fight left in me—no matter what anybody else says. If Stoned can pull this off, I can hang up my sword without having to use it ever again. If she doesn’t... well, if my ancient carcass doesn ‘t survive the battle, I’d better think up some way to explain all this to Rohan.
Rohannon wasn’t so much avoiding everyone as he was keeping an eye on Aldiar. And since the diarmadhi youth held himself apart from everyone else, watching him meant riding the tag end of the army. Aldiar made no secret of his forays on sunlight, and shared the information easily enough with Rohannon. But it nagged at his mind that perhaps scouting the road ahead wasn’t all that was being done. He couldn’t forget that scene in the woods, with the stone circle and the Fire and the three braided cords.
His wariness shamed him. Aldiar had saved his life. Miserable as drawing breath still was when dranath hunger caught him unprepared, he was alive. The need came less often and faded faster each time, but in a perverse way he welcomed the spasms. They meant he was alive. And this was entirely due to Aldiar.
Rohannon didn’t lack gratitude. What was missing was trust. Even after all he’d learned from the boy—yesterday his mother had contacted him on sunlight and confirmed the tale as the same told by sorcerers now at Feruche—and even though it all made a dreadful kind of sense, something about Aldiar wasn’t quite right.
He wished he could talk it over with his father. But without the dranath, he wasn’t sure he had the strength to go Sunmnning so far on his own. Hells, he barely had the strength to ride a horse.
They were taking a break four measures out of Ramblewalk when Rohannon decided to end the morning-long silence between him and Aldiar. Their horses were spared the exhausting plunge through snowdrifts that the lead animals suffered, but back here the dangerous slush required an alert rider once the horse was too tired to care. Rohannon ached from straining to see between his horse’s ears to the sloggy footing, his eyes stinging with snow-brightness—though not as bad as some people’s. A Desert childhood was good training in the fine art of squinting.
“What do you think the princes will want us to do?” he asked, stretching his shoulders to work the kinks out. “As a Sunrunner and a sorcerer, I mean.”
Aldiar shrugged. “Keep out of the way, probably. You’re not well, and I’m not trusted.”
Salient, unanswerable truths, Rohannon closed his eyes against the glare, resisting the urge to rub, and eventually came up with, “But they’ll have to use all the resources they’ve got.”
“Depends on what happens, doesn’t it?”
“You don’t sound very optimistic. If you don’t believe we can win, why are you here?”
“Because my family wants to live in the open, without hiding what we are. That’s what the others want, too—the ones supporting Yarin. But they’re going about it the wrong way. So I’m here, not there.”
“Yarin’s side wants things the way they used to be,” Rohannon mused. “Surely they know that’s not possible.”
“If Laric isn’t very, very clever, they’ll keep Balarat, if not all of Firon, and work outward using the castle as their power base.”
“But they’re fighting the wrong enemy.” He listened to what he’d said, and gulped. “Goddess—we all are, here in Firon!”
The dark face frowned at him. “What? How do you mean?”
“It’s not just that we should be in the Desert or at Goddess Keep,” he went on, words tumbling in his agitation. “The sorcerers here know who the Vellant’im are and what they want. They’ve known from the first. They figured the war would go badly in the south for us, so they felt safe in taking Firon.”
Aldiar shook his head, stringy black hair falling in his eyes from beneath a woolen cap. “This was years in the planning.”
“But the Vellant’im made it easier—and absolutely essential to succeed! Any way you look at it, your people will need a safe haven. A castle that can withstand a whole army, not just a bunch of obscure villages.”
Aldiar’s mouth hung a little open. “If Pol wins—“
“When he wins!” Rohannon snapped.
“The Vellant’im came for vengeance against us. The war is our fault.”
“That’s how people will see it,” Rohannon agreed. “And if, Goddess forbid, the Vellant’im win—“
Aldiar shivered. “There’s nothing to choose between outcomes. Nothing. Either way is the destruction of my people.”
“My cousin Pol would never allow that,” Rohannon argued.
“But your uncle Andry would be calling for our blood. And you’d be caught in the middle,” Aldiar finished shrewdly.
“It won’t come to that,” he said firmly, sounding more confident than he felt—and understanding all at once the terrible choice his father might have to make between Pol and Andry. “It can’t, if the diarmadh’im do the sensible thing and join us against the real enemy! They should have, all along! They are, in the Desert. That’ll count for something—“
“Not much. We’ve watched your uncle for a long time, Rohannon. And he’ll have plenty of people on his side—and all the power of the devr’im, too.”
“But if all the sorcerers can be persuaded to fight the Vellant’im—“
Aldiar bent his head. “I hadn’t thought it out this far. But others have, be sure of it. They’ll hold Balarat now in terror of their lives. If Pol wins, if the Vellant’im win, it’s all the same.” Gloved hands gripped the reins tighter. “You’re right, we’re all fighting the wrong war. Arlis and Lark should be with Pol. We diarmadh’im ought to be at his side, too, fighting the real enemy.” He glanced up with bitter black eyes. “War is so stupid, Rohannon. Stupid and insane.”
“So we’re all idiots and fools for being here,” he replied impatiently. “Come on, we have to tell Arlis and Laric about the sorcerers and Balarat.”
“They’re both up front.” Aldiar paused, giving him a curious look. “Why did somebody as practical as you ever think he could beat dranath?”
“I did, though, didn’t I?” Rohannon heard the sharpness of his voice and shook his head. “Sorry, I owe you my life, Aldiar. I know that.”
“Makes you uncomfortable, doesn’t it? But you’re too much the highborn to admit it. Always the noble lordling.” His mouth curled in a smile too wide for his thin face. Jam- ming his cap down over his ears again, he went on, “Well, I’m not going to cancel the debt. One day I’ll collect, Rohannon.”
“A life for a life?” he challenged warily.
“A life for a life.” Aldiar kicked his weary horse out of the road’s mire onto a snowbank. “But not necessarily my own.”
Pol was singularly and uncharacteristically reticent while the battle was planned. He paid attention, asked a question or two, nodded his understanding—but Andry knew that he wasn’t entirely present. Given that his wife was in enemy hands and his mother was even now galloping to join her, his distraction was no surprise.
Andry wasn’t all that interested either in what his father and brother were better at than he was. Alasen was with Sioned. Why, she and the Goddess who made all headstrong women only knew.
Betheyn’s knowledge of Skybowl’s secrets was essential; Ruala had to be there or the Vellant’im would suspect a trap; Sioned did what she did and be damned to anyone else. Andry even understood Sionell’s reasons: Meiglan and guilt. He had eyes, he had seen the looks she and Pol didn’t give each other. He also had ears, and Sionell’s name had never once left Pol’s lips since he’d learned she was gone.
But Alasen ... what did she think she was doing? She knew next to nothing about faradhi arts. The thought of her fetching and carrying for the Vellaht’im nauseated him—and he was certain she could no more pretend to be a common drudge than she could take wing and fly. They’d know her for the highborn she was the moment they saw her.
Women! he thought, in the mental tone of voice used by countless generations of men. He’d chased Alasen across two princedoms in the dead of winter in an attempt to keep her safe. And how where was she bound? To Skybowl. The sacrificial castle, the last place to fall to the Vellant’im. Why did the woman have to do these crazy things?
A voice readily indentifiable as his conscience answered the exasperation. No mistaking the sarcasm. She couldn’t possibly—just a wild guess, mind—but I suppose it’s perfectly inconceivable that she’s escaping you.
All I did was try to kiss her, he argued. To show her the past is over and done with, and we can be friends now. It didn’t mean anything more than that
Dry as wine aged to vinegar came the reply: Really.
Oh, shut up.
What nonsense. Alasen was no shatter-shelled young girl, panicking over a friendly kiss. (But how very interesting, he thought suddenly, if he had gotten to her, just a little ... ridiculous.) No, she was simply doing what every willful female did: whatever she pleased, and whatever she could get away with. Every woman in his life was the same, starting with his mother. Even gentle Hollis, friend of his youth at Goddess Keep, stood fierce and resentful guard near Maarken’s bed, blue eyes glaring at him and Pol for disturbing her husband’s rest. Surely she ought to know that showing him they could work together would speed Maarken’s recovery. Evarin must have explained it to her— though not in the stern lecturing tone used on Andry and Pol in the anteroom.
“You can have him until mid-afternoon, but no longer. I’ll be listening. At the first words of contention, you’re out. And believe me, my Lord, your grace, you’d rather be ejected by me than by Lady Hollis.”
Sneaking a glance at her now, Andry judged that their time was just about up. Not that a single sharp word had passed between him and Pol. Maarken was simply growing tired.
The bed looked like a child’s imaginary landscape. Pillows lumped under the sheets formed the Veresch Mountains; Skybowl was a silver goblet. Bits of bread from the breakfast tray represented the Vellant’im. Cheese stood in for Tilal’s forces coming up from Radzyn, Hollis’ hairpins for their own troops. Maarken sat at the head of the bed, knees drawn up under his chin, frowning as he and Chay discussed tactics and possible casualties.
They ‘re good at this, Andry thought with pride, much better than Pol or I. But Maarken’s got Father beat in one thing: he’s a Sunrunner. He knows how to use his own kind.
Yet as he listened, Andry realized Maarken avoided almost all mention of Sunrunners in combat. At the outset he’d rejected using the encirclement maneuver he’d named Sunrunner Rings. The Vellant’im would recognize it and do what they had done at Stronghold: shatter it with iron. And after that, magic had not entered the conversation again.
Andry had a good idea why. Any spells cast would be a source of conflict between himself and Pol. Which was ridiculous, as far as Andry was concerned. He was no warrior; Pol was. The Lord of Goddess Keep belonged with his Sunrunners, directing their attack. The ,High Prince’s place was with his troops in the field. But Pol had to be in control of everything, leading everyone, doing it all himself.
That made Andry furious. II you ever learned anything from your father, it should have been that you tell people what you want and leave them alone to do what they’re best at. But not you. Not the Sunrunner-sorcerer High Prince. Has to be your show, doesn’t it? All the credit, all the glory— and all the work, he added honestly. Pol was showing the strain of it, too. He looked worse than Maarken. Goddess, who wouldn’t? How long since all this started? One hundred and thirty days, give or take. Battles lost, castles captured or in ruins, his father dead, his mother nearly losing her mind, his wife and daughter seized, Rislyn blind, that mess up in Firon, so many people dead—dear and gentle Lady, thank you for letting me serve you as Lord of Goddess Keep! I wouldn ‘t be High Prince for anything in the world.
The Hell of it was that if Andry offered to take some of the burden from him, to lead the Sunrunners’ efforts in battle, Pol would think it a scheme to become exactly that. How stupid could one man be? Andry had ridden the width of the continent under uniformly miserable conditions, hiding who he was, at constant risk of discovery. He’d almost been killed in the Vellanti ambush arranged by Meiglan’s own father. He had done Pol the favor of depriving Miyon of a life that was a burden to everyone who knew him. He had demanded nothing but to help however he could.
But Pol would never understand that Andry, Desert-born and Desert-bred—more truly than Pol himself, if it came to it—could not sit safely in Goddess Keep while his home and his family were in danger.
That’s why he thinks he has to do everything himself, Andry thought suddenly. Not just because of me, to keep me from gaining power I don’t even want. The Desert is his now. Every grain of sand is his home and every person who lives here is his family.
What did Rohan used to say? “I’m High Prince, that makes it my fault.” Now it was on Pol’s shoulders. But Rohan had had Sioned, Chay, Tobin, and a dozen others he trusted to work with him and for him. People he knew shared his purpose and his dream. Pol had nobody to lean on. Chay was old. Tobin hadn’t recovered from her illness. Maarken couldn’t face the idea of being torn between his brother and his prince—and Hollis would kill either or both of them if that happened. Sioned had gone off on her own without telling Pol anything. And Meiglan was no Sioned.
To any of a dozen exquisite Hells with Sioned, anyway. Just as well that she was gone, after what had happened with Chayla. If he lived another hundred years, Andry would never forgive either of them for killing that baby. They’d never forgive him, either.
Neither would Hollis, if he didn’t say or do something to ease Maarken’s fears. Well, he and Pol were after the same thing in the end, weren’t they? So it shouldn’t be too difficult. If he swallowed some of his pride, Pol could certainly choke down a bit of his own.
Besides, he really does need me. He’s even more alone than I am.
. Pol stirred at the foot of the bed: a quick glance at Maarken, then at Hollis, and finally at Andry, who had the uncanny sensation that Pol had felt his compassion.
And resented it.
“This is all very interesting,” Pol began.
“He speaks!” Chay clasped a dramatic hand to his heart. “He might even have been listening. Imagine my amazement.”
Pol gave him a weary grin, more because it was expected than because he was honestly amused. “Sheer amazement at your brilliance kept me quiet so long,” he replied lightly, then sobered. “But everything I’ve heard confirms a decision I made last night.”
“Which is?” Maarken prompted.
Somehow Andry knew what he would say before he said it.
“There will be no battle.”
Andry nodded to himself. Yes; that follows. No surprise.
Neither Maarken nor Chay thought so. “What in all Hells do you mean?” demanded the Lord of Radzyn. The Battle Commander abruptly straightened long legs out under the sheets, destroying the makeshift map, and warned, “If we’ve been wasting our time and breath, why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“It wasn’t wasted. I needed to hear from those who understand war better than I do. And what I’ve heard is one undeniable truth: for all their lack of imagination, the Vellant’im are superb fighters. They outnumber us. We can deal with that, but even if we win, we lose. Too many dead, too many wounded and maimed. I won’t stand for it. Not again.”
Maarken shook his head. “Pol—I know how you feel. But we’ve set them up to be where we want them and to believe what we show them. Thanks to Ruala, they’ll be in Skybowl by tomorrow night. Thanks to your mother, we’ll have enough people there to listen in more than one place and tell us everything we need to know. Not to mention spreading a few artful lies where they’ll do the most good. We can do this, and with minimal losses.” He glanced up at his father.
After a moment’s hesitation, Chay said, “Meiglan will be safe, Pol. Sioned told Tobin to give you that promise.”
At mention of his wife’s name, the High Prince jerked to his feet, taut as a drawn bowstring.
“We all do what we must.” Andry nodded again to himself. But Pol needn’t battle the Vellant’im single-handed—or single-minded.
“Pol,” said the Lord of Goddess Keep, “if it’s magic you want to use—and we all know it is—you might as well share it. The gifteds among us can help.”
Pol searched his eyes with a ruthless intensity reminiscent of Lady Andrade at her worst. Andry endured it, patient and honest and hoping his cousin would finally understand him.
At last Pol drew in a deep breath. “If you could help, I’d accept with thanks. Frankly, it scares Hell out of me. But I have to do this alone.”
Stubborn, stupid, stiff-necked fool. Andry should have known he’d never—
Pol was continuing, “There aren’t many advantages to being the son of the mother who bore me—but if I was only faradhi I wouldn’t be able to do this.”
That stung Andry where he was most vulnerable, and he knew it. So did Pol. “There’s nothing a sorcerer can do that a Sunrunner can’t. The Star Scroll proves it.”
Pol nodded without rancor. “I know. It’s no reflection on you, Andry. I may accept your offer yet, if what I have in mind doesn’t work.” He paused, smiling slightly. “And it might not. It’s a little like having to sing a complicated ballad for the bard who wrote it, when I’ve barely learned how to whistle for my horse. And the Vellant’im are going to be a tough audience.”
Maarken sat up even straighter, slapping his hand on the quilt. “Say that again!” he ordered.
“Say what again?” he asked, confused.
Andry had heard it, too. So had Chay. The three of them traded glances. A grin spread over Chay’s face, canceled almost immediately by a grimace.
“Build the pyre and burn me, quick,” he grumbled. “I’ve gone senile. Why didn’t I think of that before?”
“Think of what?” Pol looked from one to the other of them.
Hollis spoke for the first time. “Because anytime we’ve been close enough, the Vellant’im have been there to haul back on the reins.”
“Damn it, Chay, if you don’t tell me—“
“Hollis,” Maarken interrupted, “we need a list of the studs at Whitecliff.”
“Will somebody please—“
“Don’t forget the two I lent you last summer,” Chay said. “I’ll put together my own roster. Andry, start thinking about where else they stole horses from—“
“Hey!” Pol banged a fist on the wooden bedpost. “Care to let me in on it?”
Maarken laughed at him. “You go right ahead and sing your lungs out, Pol. We’ll just whistle.”
Music of another sort was on the minds—and, regrettably, in the ears—of the highborns at Radzyn Keep. Tilal’s captain, Chaltyn, had struck up a friendship with Kostas’ man, Havadi, and they were warbling the entire songbook of Athelig the Gribain as they kept the evening watch. Neither man could carry a tune if it was knocked unconscious and tied to his back. So with their every pass on the battlements below, those gathered in the sitting room of Tilal’s suite paused in their conversation to wince, or sigh, or threaten to throw a boot at them.
Tilal refused to receive any lady other than his wife while lying in bed. He had hobbled to a large, deep-cushioned chair for the occasion. It was a pretty scene of hearthside serenity, considerably improved by the two princesses in attendance. Iliena and Nyr were ensconced in chairs on either side of the fire; their husbands perched on footstools beside them, Andrev and Saumer, tellers of tales for the evening, sat in straight-backed wooden chairs. Master Chegry was apart from the group over in the window embrasure, keeping an eye on Tilal and Nyr for signs of fatigue.
“So you have your Sunrunners back once more, Tilal,” Ludhil said after the story of the pearls was completed. “I must say, it’s a relief to have a couple of you around again. We were so isolated on Dorval that sometimes I feared we were fighting the Vellant’im all alone.”
“I never thought much about it, myself,” Saumer admitted. “I mean, Sunrunners are always there when you want them, aren’t they? But now that I know I’m one of them, I feel the responsibility. It must’ve been rough on you, Prince Ludhil.”
“It didn’t need to be,” said Iliena. “If only I’d known...”
“Well, how could you?” Tilal asked forthrightly. “None of us even suspected.”
“My brother knew,” she replied, and the firelight shaded her dark Fironese beauty, softening the bitter curve of her lips.
“When my brother gets hold of him...” Ludhil’s jaw set.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Laric can do what he likes with Yarin after Lisi and I take a few pieces out of him.”
“All of you may have to stand in line behind Pol,” Tilal reminded them.
“And my father,” Andrev put in. “After all, Lord Yarin had the Balarat Sunrunner killed, didn’t he?”
The right of the Lord of Goddess Keep as interpreted by his eldest son and as measured against the right of the High Prince and everyone else was not something Tilal wanted to discuss. “Let’s not hatch that egg before it’s baked, shall we? Saumer, you didn’t say if either of you happened to see Princess Meiglan while you watched Isriam deliver the pearls.”
They hadn’t seen her. Tilal was spared trying to think up another topic of conversation: the songsters were back. This time they wailed a deplorable drinking ballad as if their hearts would break for love of the lady whose charms were graphically detailed in twenty-nine increasingly obscene verses.
Chegry opened the window to yell down a cease-and-desist order. Then he leaned out as far as he could without tumbling to the cobbled courtyard. “Alert the watch!” he called back over his shoulder. “By the torches, we’re about to host a small army!”
And so it proved to be: over two hundred men and women, marching beneath the wheat-sheaf banner of Ossetia. Tilal limped to the window to watch them enter Radzyn’s main gates. He began a growling catalog of curses that made Andrev’s eyes pop. Even Saumer looked impressed—he whose mother Hevatia had been quite creative with language when moved to it.
Ludhil shrugged. “Look at it this way, Tilal—at least Gemma didn’t come with them.” He cast a speaking look at his own wife, who had jumped from a boat supposed to take her to safety and fought at his side across half of Dorval.
Amiel, giving Nyr much the same glare for much the same reason, said, “Your wife appears to have some sense, cousin.”
“You don’t have to live with her!” Tilal looked around for anything to use as a cane. “Leaving Athmyr unprotected, and the children—! Women are idiots! All of them! And I should know—I’ve been plagued with them all my life! Not one was ever born with a shard of—damn it, Ghegry, help me downstairs!”
It was unnecessary for the physician to forbid the plan. Chaltyn knocked on the door, entered looking slightly dazed, bowed to his prince, and said, “My lord—your lady wife!”
Gemma strolled in, all smiles.
After everyone had been greeted—briefly, for the look in Tilal’s green eyes made them all hasten to be elsewhere— and the pair were alone, Gemma sat with perfect calm at Tobin’s dressing table to unplait and brush out her hair.
“Chaltyn tells me your wound is healing very well, darling.”
He said nothing.
“Sioneva and Sorin were wild to come with me, of course.”
He said nothing.
“But somebody had to stay at Athmyr to help Allun run things. He’s entirely capable, of course—Lower Pyrme is a very large holding—but every keep has its own little ways of doing things. Sioneva should have a lovely time playing lady of the castle.”
He said nothing.
She had finished untangling her braids, and now spread her wealth of autumn-bronze curls across her shoulders. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was. They’d never been apart more than twelve days in a row during the eighteen years of their marriage—and it had been ten times twelve days since he’d last seen her. She knew that, of course. Her little smile as she faced him told him she was counting on it.
But that wasn’t what decided him against anger. It was the gray in her hair. He’d noticed it back at Kadar Water, but then it had been only a few strands, fascinating highlights. Now the silver swirled back from her temples as if moonlight had brushed her hair.
He pushed himself to his feet and went to her— fortunately not too many steps, for he was unsteady for more reasons than his wound. “Why did you come?” he asked quietly. “And don’t say it’s because I didn’t specifically tell you not to.”
“Or because I was bored and needed a change of scene?” But her smile didn’t reach her liquid brown eyes. “How about I missed you—I need yeu—when I found out about Rihani, I nearly went mad—oh, Tilal, our beautiful son—“
He bent and buried his face in her shining, silvering hair. i
TWENTY-EIGHT
1 ne departure of the Tiglathis for home some days ago had eased the strain on Feruche’s resources. But as people from Skybowl arrived on the afternoon of the eighty-sixth day of Winter, the castle once more threatened to burst at the seams.
Hollis marveled that things were going so smoothly. Then again, they’d all had a lot of practice at this recently. The wounded, both litter-bound and comparatively ambulatory, were seen to first. The garrison below the keep—already housing dozens of injured and a full complement of guards—was stuffed to capacity, the rest were packed into the infirmary. As for the soldiers and servants, Riyan had ordered the great hall cleared of tables and benches.
“So much for civilized dining,” he’d said wryly. “People will just have to eat standing up wherever they can.”
Sleeping space was definitely at a minimum. So were stalls for the horses, which in Chay’s opinion were much more important. The back gardens were therefore sacrificed to threescore additional sets of hooves, and recuperating soldiers paced guard duty to preserve the new vegetables.
The Prince and Princess of Dorval, together with their two grandchildren, were given Sioned’s rooms; not a single chamber could stand empty and even the highborns were doubling and tripling up. Maara, very conscious that she was Lady of Feruche in her mother’s absence, had taken charge of Alleyn and Audran.
“They’re in Maara’s schoolroom with the other children,” Hollis explained as she accompanied Audrite upstairs for a badly needed rest. “That and the Attic are the only two real sanctuaries at Feruche. Everyplace else is four-deep in bedrolls. But it’s only for a little while.”
“I understand that the target date is three days from now.” Audrite paused on a landing to glance back downstairs. Chadric was still talking with Andry and Maarken—who, thank the Goddess, was now up and about as if he’d never been ill. Hollis didn’t know what had been said or not said, but something had ended his terrible inner conflict. For now, she told herself with a hidden shiver, and refused to think about it.
“The eighty-ninth,” she replied to Audrite. “I only wish I knew why the Vellant’im chose it—not that it matters, but it’s puzzling.”
“Not really.” She leaned over the banister and called down, “Get up here, you old warhorse, before they have to waste their valuable time and energy to carry you!” Before Chadric could answer, she resumed the climb. “It’s perfectly understandable. The oratory from the old Sunrunner keep wasn’t just a yearly calendar. Some of the references nearly drove me mad until I realized they were calculating events that happen every fifty years, or every few hundred.”
“Like eclipses?” Hollis opened the door of Sioned’s rooms.
“Those, of course. But those are relatively easy.” Audrite eased her tired body into the nearest chair. “Oh, Meath and I did have a time—“ She stopped, her eyes closing in pain.
Hollis sat on the couch and stared down at her folded hands.
At length the princess straightened her shoulders. “I spent enough time and parchment scribbling out the mathematics to remember quite well. Starting on the forty-eighth day of Winter two years from now, we’ll get a long-tailed star in the night sky for about ten days. It happens every ninety-one years, so nobody’s ever seen it twice.”
“Lady Merisel did,” Hollis said. “It’s in the histories. She was born a year before the tailed star appeared, and died a year after it came again, at ninety-three winters old.”
“I feel ninety-three these days,” Audrite remarked. “Anyway, what’s going to happen on the eighty-ninth is something that occurs once every two hundred and seventy-four years. It ought to be fascinating, actually. That morning, only two moons will rise.”
Hollis blinked. “What? Where does the third one go?”
“Don’t worry, k’s still there.” Audrite smiled. “It’ll be hiding behind the biggest one, and come out midmorning. Your ancestral Sunrunners were at great pains to show that in the oratory tiles. It seems there were superstitions about the moon coming down from the sky on that day—all sorts of nonsense about whiteness and purity and so forth, with some special person actually being the spirit of that moon.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Yes, that’s what I said, too, when I heard the date of the battle and made the connection. Which took me long enough,” she added in irked tones.
“Do the Vellant’im really believe—“ Hollis interrupted herself. “Of course they do.”
“I’m told Sionell thought up some delightful things to encourage their silly beliefs. If she’s not too busy later, I’d like to congratulate her.”
“You mean you didn’t—no, I suppose you wouldn’t have seen them.”
“Seen who? Where?”
“On the way to Skybowl. Sionell, Alasen, Ruala, Betheyn, and—“
“—and Sioned,” Audrite finished. “What in the Name of the Goddess has she done now?”
Walvis was asking that of Pol at that moment. Pol’s answer was Hollis’—but considerably less polite.
“Why ask me? Why ask anybody?” He flung himself into Riyan’s desk chair and glowered. “Who ever knows what the Sunrunner witch has in mind?”
“Well, yes,” Walvis acknowledged, combing his fingers through his beard. “But surely she said something to somebody.”
“Tobin. You want to try prying it out of her, be my guest.”
The older man sat down opposite him at Ruala’s desk.
“No, thanks. I’ve known her longer than you’ve been alive.
What do you have in mind? Chadric says you wanted his sapphire earring. He didn’t say why.”
“He doesn’t know.” Pol chewed a thumbnail. “And I’m not to know, either?”
“Everyone will find out—if it works. If it doesn’t—”
“Then you don’t want to be embarrassed, the way you were at Radzyn, trying to burn their ships.” Walvis shrugged. “Especially not in front of Andry.”
I
“I couldn’t care less about Andry’s impression of me. I care about the people here who don’t need to see their High Prince fail again.”
“We’ll leave the ‘again’ part for another discussion. Tell me what else is going on.”
“Nobody talked to Jeni on the way here?”
“How should I know? Jeni’s not talking to anybody— including Sethric.”
Pol groaned. “Spare me any and all romantic tangles, please!”
“They’ll work it out.” Walvis propped his elbows on the desk. “What news from Radzyn and Firon?”
“Saumer and Andrev gave Isriam the pearls. He delivered them to the High Warlord. I’m expecting him back here any time now. Gemma brought about two hundred fresh troops from Athmyr—women are all crazy, aren’t they? Tilal was fit to be tied, of course. Now he’s saying he’s fit to sit a saddle. He’s not, but they’ll start out tomorrow anyway.”
Walvis frowned. “Don’t you want him to?”
“I hope I won’t need him to. But that’s something else that’ll have to wait. Oh, and you’ll love this. Lark is camped outside Balarat. He sent a message to Yarin this morning—Maarkin heard all this from Rohannon, since the sky actually had the decency to clear over the Veresch. Anyway, Laric told his precious brother-by-marriage that if he surrendered immediately, he’d be allowed to live, and all his sorcerous allies with him.”
“And Yarin laughed in his face.”
“More or less. He sent the message back in shreds and the messenger on foot. So there they sit, .Yarin snug inside Balarat, Laric and Arlis not so snug outside it.”
“With nothing you can do about it.”
“Nothing.” He hooked a leg over the arm of the chair. “As for Goddess Keep, the Vellant’im still hover offshore. Elsen is bedridden because of his bad leg, Norian is furious, and Edrel is trying to figure out what to do. I learned all this, by the way, late last night, when I finally found out who my mother’s informant is.”
“Antoun.” Walvis grinned broadly at Pol’s startled exclamation. “Who else could it be? They grew up together at Goddess Keep. He was with the group that came with her to the Desert in 698. All the rest of them worked for her or with her in one way or another—but Antoun hasn’t been anywhere near her in twenty years, which should have made everybody suspicious long ago.”
Pol snorted. “She does have a way of attaching people, doesn’t she? Especially men.”
“When I was a lad, I thought the moons rose and set at her command.” His lips curved in a reminiscent smile. “Until I found another redhead who made the sun rise.”
“What is it about redheaded women?” Pol heard himself ask that question and fought a blush. All he lacked at this point was for Sionell’s father to find out about another romantic tangle. Quickly, he added, “They’re all insane. My mother, Feylin, Gemma, Sionell, even Chiana—did I tell you what Nyr did, secretly joining Amiel’s little army of physicians even though she’s pregnant?”
“It’s not limited to redheads. Take this lot on their way to Skybowl. Alasen’s almost a blond, Ruala’s hair is black as a raven’s wing, and Betheyn is—well, maybe you’re right, there’s a reddish tint to her hair in summer, too. And Alasen and Ruala both have green eyes...”
“Like Lady Merisel’s,” Pol said. “That emerald ring of Mother’s—it originally belonged to her.”
Walvis scowled. “How do you know that? No, forget I asked. I already know you won’t answer.”
“Not won’t. Can’t. I’m sorry.” He hesitated, then said, “You’ve undoubtedly figured this out on your own, but—it has to do with that mirror.”
“I thought about asking, then thought better of it. Just tell me if it’s dangerous, Pol.”
“Not to me.” It was the truth; Lord Rosseyn had said so, and Thassalante had told him that Sunrunners were safe from it. But he was half a sorcerer. What if that half was snared by the Shadowcatcher?
No, Rosseyn had assured him he would not be harmed in any way. He trusted the man—who was hundreds of years dead, only a shadow in a mirror.
Had he just accused women of being insane?
“Speaking of Alasen, where’s Ostvel?”
Pol was glad of Walvis’ training at Rohan’s court; he always knew when his prince needed a distracting change of subject. Pol didn’t mind being relatively transparent to those who loved him as much as Walvis did. He just hoped Andry couldn’t read him even a quarter as well.
Ostvel was an excellent subject, and Pol smiled with gen- uine pleasure. “He’s taking Chiana and Rinhoel to Dragon’s Rest. They’ll get part of their wish—entry into the palace— but not quite the way they had in mind.”
“I suppose he thinks he’ll leave them there under guard, then hop over the mountains to Skybowl.”
“He won’t make it in time—and thank the Goddess for it. But after the festivities with the Vellant’im, there will be another little celebration. That’s the one I don’t want him to miss—or Chiana and Rinhoel, either.”
Walvis arched both brows. “You have something particularly nasty in mind for them, I hope?”
“Nothing definite yet. I thought I’d ask around, get some ideas.” He grinned. “My friends and relatives are rather creative people.”
Andry was doing some creative thinking based on something Chadric had said to Maarken. An earring was an odd thing to mark the beginning of a path, but Andry followed it as he collected books from the library.
An earring, he thought, pulling volumes down at random to take to the infirmary. Maarken’s face had gone momentarily still at Chadric’s words and his gaze had stayed very carefully away from Andry’s.
“I hope that earring was satisfactory,” Chadric had said as they went into the castle.
Andry had been about to ask What earring? when he noted Maarken’s blank expression. He knew his brother’s face as well as he knew his own.
“I’ve no idea. Sioned took it when I got back here.”
At that moment Audrite had called down from the stairs. Andry was certain Maarken had stifled a sigh of sheer relief.
Earring. What sort of jewel would Chadric have that Sioned would want? And for what purpose? He looked down at his own hands, the rubies and diamonds of his rings, the moonstone on one wrist and the sapphire on the other—
Chadric had always worn a sapphire earring. It had been Lleyn’s, and before that it had been Andrade’s.
But what use would Sioned have for one of Andrade’s jewels?
Rubies, diamonds, sapphire, moonstone—
It was only then that he realized that he had not seen what he had been seeing ever since he got to Feruche: an amethyst and a topaz and a moonstone on Pol’s hands.
The amethyst of Princemarch, the topaz of the Desert.
Pol’s two princedoms. And a moonstone that had belonged to Andrade.
Andry stood as if rooted to the stone floor. Had Sioned been here, he was positive he wouldn’t see her emerald, either.
Jewels. Powerful ones, if the traditions were true and gemstones possessed the qualities ascribed to them. Amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, moonstone—lacking only ruby and garnet to make up the spectrum of clear jewels. Moonstone could have no place in it, being opaque like jade and onyx and carnelian.
So. Start again. Amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, garnet, ruby. A rainbow of gems, doubtless stunning to look at, but why?
And why Andrade’s sapphire?
Unless—
He stared at his own rings and wrist cuffs again. Perhaps jewels absorbed the power of the person who wore them. Perhaps gifts spilled over or concentrated or were drunk in by pure crystals as Earth soaked up Water during a rainstorm.
If so, Andrade’s sapphire would fairly pulsate with power. Her.rings had been worn by successive Lords and Ladies of Goddess Keep since Lady Merisel’s time.
Until him.
Fool! he raged suddenly. I should have kept them, I should have had them resized as they’ve been for hundreds of years!
But he’d had to be different. He’d had to put everyone on notice that he was breaking with tradition. He’d had to have new rings made, all his, to signal the new beginning he intended to make.
Sioned’s emerald—now, there was another potent shard of stone. He’d heard the story a thousand times, how she’d saved Maarken and Jahni from being roasted by a hatchling dragon, and Rohan had presented her with the ring that night in thanks and in private, teasing promise. It had been in the family for Goddess knew how long. And Goddess knew that contact with Sioned for nearly forty years would set the thing blazing.
If his assumptions were true, II”jewels absorbed some of the power of the person who wore them.
Rohan’s topaz had also been in the family for generations, on the finger of every prince since the very first of their line. The amethyst, however—that one’s history he didn’t know, other than that it had been Roelstra’s.
And that scared all Hells out of him.
Amethyst, sapphire, emerald, topaz, garnet, ruby. He’d accounted for four of them. What about the other two?
Who else had been given Andrade’s jewels by Urival, after Andry had so thoughtlessly given them up?
The garnet had gone to Andry himself and was back at Goddess Keep. And he knew very well who had received the ruby.
His mother.
He looked at the pile of books on the table, remembering suddenly why he’d come here. He’d take care of that errand—he owed it to himself—and then find some way of finding out why Pol wanted Chadric’s sapphire earring.
Isriam had done an incredibly foolish thing the previous morning on his return journey to Feruche. He’d overslept.
He was still kicking himself about it more than a day later. They were waiting for him at Feruche and would be frantic when he didn’t show up on schedule. He didn’t dare push his weary horse to make up the time. But he was only at Skybowl, visible in the west about thirty measures away, when he should have been well past it.
He reined in, giving the horse a breather while he stared at the mountain. They should all be gone from the castle by now. From the highboras to the servants to the soldiers to even the most precariously healing wounded, Skybowl would be empty. The Vellant’im would ride in to an echoing silence.
Isriam frowned. That shouldn’t be. Someone ought to be there as Lord Riyan’s representative, to give reassurances that he would be there soon.
The High Warlord knew him now as a traitor to Pol and an adherent of the putative peace plan. There wasn’t the slightest shred of trust on either side, but that would turn to active suspicion if nobody was at Skybowl to meet the Vellant’im.
Isriam patted his horse’s sweating neck. “What would you say to a good, long drink and some decent fodder? Yes, I thought so. Me, too.”
It occurred to him that Pol might not appreciate his disobedience. But they didn’t need him at Feruche to tell them the ploy had worked. There were Sunrunners aplenty to see the Vellanti march for themselves. And if he could assist in furthering the deception of Riyan’s treachery, certain persons might look on him as a man instead of a boy.
He was adult enough to recognize a childish wish to prove himself. Still, he felt justified in turning his horse’s head to the west, toward Skybowl.
A whole keep all to himself. In a way, Isriam thought with a little smile, it would be a delightful relief after living elbow-to-elbow for so long.
Relief? Not for an instant. Skybowl wasn’t just empty. It was spine-prickling, bump-skinned eerie.
Isriam rode in through the wide open gates, flinching at every hoof-clop on courtyard stones. It was so quiet he could hear the blood flowing in his own veins. Empty windows shone down on him in the mid-afternoon sunshine like a thousand glaring eyes. There wasn’t a hint of movement anywhere. Even the shadows seemed frozen. Had these been normal times, the keep would have been alive with noise and light, patterns shifting constantly as people went about their duties and horses were taken out or brought in from exercise and cats stalked mice.
He walked his horse to cool him down, then stabled him with ample food and water. His own stomach was in knots, but hunger had little to do with it. As he opened the door of the tack room to put away the bridle, a streak of brindled fur shot past his leg with a bloodcurdling yowl.
Isriam jumped half out of his skin.
Hairs rising on his nape, he crossed the courtyard again and entered the keep.
He turned just inside the main door, removing his gloves to wash hands and face in the bowl of water always provided. After a splash or two he felt better and began to think about a nice, long soak in a tub. He raked his hands back through his hair, looking up to the mirror above the basin.
Gone.
A moment later he chided himself for silliness. Of course they would take a valuable object like that down from the walls. Saumer and Andrev had described the mess made of
Radzyn, and Princess Audrite was no fool. Probably all the best furnishings and decorations had been stored in the cellars as well. Isriam just hoped they’d left sheets on at least one of the beds.
First, though, the kitchen. He’d make himself something to eat and take it upstairs, find a bathtub and some clean clothes, and rest for a little while—leaving a candle branch lit. In his present state of nerves, no matter what his brain told him, he was positive that waking to a dark and silent keep would give him a seizure.
He’d never seen a cooking hearth in his life that didn’t have at least a small banked fire in it. To find this one cold and swept clean was more disturbing than he would have thought. It was like seeing the Flametower at Stronghold without fire—it was always there, you never thought about it or even really looked at it, but not seeing k was a shock of the weirdest kind.
And somehow he couldn’t kindle a fire here. He made do with part of a loaf from the hundreds left in a rack taller than he was, dried fruit, some cheese, and a half-bottle of exceedingly ordinary Giladan red wine.
He took a second bottle upstairs, silently toasting his friend Daniv and the bottles of fine Syrene gold promised for happier times. After finding fresh clothing in a servants’ storeroom on the second floor, he chose a bedroom on the third that had an attached bathroom. Briefly he wished he was a Sunrunner who could light every candle in the chamber at once—even though it was still only mid-afternoon— and every torch at Skybowl besides. He settled for a branch in the bedroom and a smaller one to keep him company while he bathed.
Water splashed clean and warm into the tub. Laboriously pumped up from the lake into insulated cisterns baked by a Desert sun relentless even in winter, there was enough stored for a thousand baths. To have a really hot soak, he would have had to boil a few buckets over the kitchen hearth and lug them upstairs. But considering the usual reason for a bath in this princedom—to cool off—pleasantly warm water was all that was ever needed or wanted.
Isriam upended the wine bottle into his glass and leaned back in the tub, half-closing his eyes. He estimated that the Vellant’im would arrive by late afternoon tomorrow. There was nothing to do, really—his survey of the kitchen had told him there was food to feed several hundred for a couple of days, and he’d been right about the better tapestries, rugs, and furniture: vanished. All he need do was wait.
Very tired and a little drunk, he listened to the absolute silence and refused to let it get on his nerves. A whole keep all to himself ... if he’d been a few years younger, he would have had wonderful fun. Fought imaginary battles through the hallways. Sat himself down at the center of the high table to pretend he was lord and master here. Raided wardrobes and jewel boxes to deck himself out as grandly as a prince at the Rialla. Done all sorts of things boys dream of when they imagine themselves in the great and glorious future.
Isriam had fought real battles against a ruthless enemy. He had been the master of Chaldona—only over a fractious bunch of merchants, true, but with all the authority of an athri nonetheless. He wore in his right earlobe the only jewel he valued, a small tawny topaz given by the High Prince he had worshiped.
His dreams as he lay in the cooling water were a man’s dreams. Not of high position, although it was possible this would be his; not of wealth, for which he cared nothing; not even of ruling a castle or a princedom. He dreamed of home and wife and children, and visits from his friends, and peace.
He could almost see Rohan smiling, nodding, as if satisfied with work well done. Am I what you wanted me to be? Isriam thought. Did I learn what you tried to teach me?
For whoever had sired him, whether the blood in his veins was Camanto of Fessenden’s or Sabriam of Einar’s, Isriam had known within a few days of arriving at Stronghold that Rohan would always be his real father.
Andry knew Chayla would not welcome him. He sought her out in the infirmary anyway. It wasn’t unusual for the Lord of Goddess Keep to visit there; in fact, he’d done so nearly every day since coming to Feruche. He went for the same reason Pol went, and sometimes in Pol’s company. Useless at healing broken bodies, yet they could offer words and their presences that conveyed silent assurances of their power, their determination, their confidence. Evarin had told him that Chayla was different with the wounded now, even over the last few days. “She talks to them more. They’re people to her now, instead of medical problems to solve. Of course, it’s worse for her, thinking of them as men and women and not just a head wound or a wrenched shoulder or whatever. But she’ll be a better physician because of it.”
Andry watched her from the corner of his eye as he moved among the cots and pallets distributing books from the pile in his arms, As he collected those already read to be passed along to someone else, he paused to chat and share what news he felt they should know. Nothing upsetting; only good things like Rislyn’s rapport with her dragon or Maarken’s recovery or Gemma’s arrival at Radzyn with more troops. Whenever he had time, he went Sunrunning before these visits so he could say what the weather was like around their homes, if the vegetables had been planted, if sheep had been moved from one pasture to another. For all their proficiency at arms, most of these people were farmers and herders. It was nearly Spring, the time of year when they felt most keenly their absence from home.
Andry plotted his rounds so he would be near Chayla as she finished hers. She knew he was there. He hadn’t caught her glancing at him, but she knew. Now, as he approached directly, hand extended to take the heavy coffer of medicines from her, she met his gaze with a complexity of emotions in her blue eyes—none of them, as he’d anticipated, tender of him. Oddly, there was little of the defiance he might have expected from someone so young who had done something forbidden. It was an adult resistance he saw in her face: one self-aware, self-defining human daring another to condemn her actions.
Taking the case from her, he began, “How are you feeling?”
Low-voiced as they left the infirmary for the courtyard, she said, “The Goddess hasn’t struck me down yet, if that’s what you mean.”
“It wasn’t.” He searched her face. Tired; but they were all tired. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“I am. Thank you for asking, my Lord.”
He wasn’t troubled by the stiff formality. “I don’t agree with what you and Sioned did,” he replied softly. “But I never meant to cause you pain or unhappiness, Chayla.”
“My standards of both have considerably altered recently, my Lord.”
Meaning that nothing he said or did could cause either.
“I understand,” Andry said.
“Is there anything else?” she asked, impatient to be rid of him.
“Only a reminder to take at least as much care of yourself as you do of the wounded. They depend on you, Chayla. I’m glad Feylin is here to take some of the burden from you.”
She hesitated, casting a swift glance from beneath silvery-blonde lashes. “It’s not, you know. A burden. Or even a duty. It’s the only service I can do them—but it’s also my own selfishness.”
“You may not believe this, but I understand that, too.” He held up his left hand. “These rings are just symbols, but in many ways, they’re what I am. Just as this—“ He hefted the medicine coffer. “—is what you are. We can no more stop being what we were meant to be than we can—“ He smiled. “I was going to say ‘fly,’ but ‘swim’ is probably the better choice for a Sunrunner.”
Chayla didn’t smile back, but the tension eased in her face. “It’s a strange feeling when people thank you for doing things for them. As if it was a favor.”
“Or admire you for shouldering responsibility or duty, when you’re only being what you are. You’re right, it’s selfish when you get down to it.”
“And embarrassing,” she added. “And sometimes it’s terrible, when someone’s grateful to you for saving his life— after you’ve had to amputate his leg. It’s better when they hate me for it. Sometimes I hate myself.”
“For not knowing more,” Andry agreed as they walked slowly across the courtyard. “For not doing more.”
“You do understand.” Chayla looked up at him thoughtfully.
“Being me isn’t as difficult as being you. But this war has put demands on us both that are unthinkable in peaceful times. And I’ll be just as glad to go back to teaching young Sunrunners as you will to brewing snakebite salves.”
“Speaking of which, I need another batch of febrifuges,” she said, taking back her coffer and angling across the courtyard to the kitchen door. Then she stopped and looked up at him. “If this was your way of making peace between us, Uncle Andry, you didn’t have to. You were trying to convince me of what you thought was right. I happen to think you’re wrong. But it was my decision to make, only mine—and I’m glad you agree with that if nothing else.”
As it happened, he didn’t. But he smiled and said, “I’m glad I’m back to being Uncle Andry again. All those ‘my Lords’ got rather chilly. By the way, do you know where I might find Pol?”
“Try the Attic. He’s been spending a lot of time up there lately.”
“Probably something to do with the jewels, and whatever Thassalante’s been telling him about sorcery.”
“I don’t know anything about that.” She paused. “You don’t approve of Sunrunners working sorcery, either.”
Andry laughed. “Chayla, I’m the one who translated the Star Scroll!”
Because he had, and because this war had given him as intensive a schooling in his particular arts as it had given Chayla in hers, he paused for a time before climbing the one hundred and six stairs to the Attic.
“Who is it?” called a familiar voice from behind the locked door.
“Maarken,” said Andry.
It was nothing so gentle as his time-sense or as luxurious as the feel of sufficient sleep that woke Isriam. When the dragon roared, he fell out of bed.
Fighting sheets and quilt, he only tangled himself more securely. He swore and struggled, and flinched as the howl sounded again.
Another, infinitely softer, voice commented, “I hope you had a nice nap.”
Isriam blinked up at Ruala, blushed, and hastily unscrambled himself. “I’m sorry, my lady—I—“
“That’s all right,” she said, her tired eyes dancing with amusement. “There’s never been a prince in my bed before.”
He became aware of his nakedness, blushed more deeply, and tugged the sheet around him as he climbed to his feet. “I didn’t know it was your—I mean, I never would have—“
“Isriam, do stop fussing. It really is all right. Why don’t you get dressed and meet us downstairs in the kitchen?”
“Us?”
She was already on her way out the door. “We’ll expect you in a little while. Even a prince doesn’t keep the High Princess waiting.”
He hauled on clothes and caught up with her on the last flight of stairs. “My lady, I’m—“
“Sorry. Yes, I know. The only apology you need to make is for scaring us half out of our wits with that lighted candle branch.” Ruala laughed. “Beth turned white as a dragon’s tooth.”
“Beth—? She’s here?”
“And Alasen and Sionell, too. Go on. They’re making dinner and you look starved. And speaking of dragons, Sioned and I have some work to do outside, so you go on to the kitchen without me.”
The three ladies who labored over hearth and chopping board were unrecognizable. All wore plain, rough clothing: aprons, skirts below their knees, shirts buttoned to the neck. Battered leather shoes replaced the more usual riding boots or fine doeskin slippers. Beth’s stockings even had holes in them. Alasen caught him staring and chuckled.
“Yes, we’re all proper slatterns, aren’t we? Wait till you see Sioned!”
Isriam tried to smile back. The spectacle of three highborn ladies—one of them born a Princess of Kierst—slicing meat and stirring soup was about all he could handle for the moment.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Sionell told him on her way to the bread rack. “Ruala had planned to deal with the Vellant’im all alone, but now she’ll have you to back her up.”
“The enemy,” Alasen put in, “does not take kindly to women in authority.”
“Uh ... no, I guess not.” Isriam jumped to take a heavy cauldron for Betheyn. “I know why you’re here—at least, I think I do. To keep everyone at Feruche informed. But what about the dragon?”
“Dragons,” Sionell corrected. She sliced into a loaf as if it was a Vellanti arm. “Elisel and Azhly followed us down from Feruche. Quite a bother. Now Sioned and Ruala have to convince them to fly elsewhere before the High Warlord gets here.”
“Did Ruala startle you very much?” Beth asked as they filled the cauldron from the sink spigot.
“It was the dragon call that woke me,” he replied.
“What happened with the pearls?” Alasen contributed an apronful of taze herbs to the pot. “You obviously succeeded, but how?”
The tale took him through the brewing, and by the time he was describing his reasons for coming to Skybowl instead of returning to Feruche, Sioned and Ruala came in.
Like the others, the High Princess wore servants’ clothes. Unlike them, her head was covered by wrapped gray cloth in the manner of the Isulk’im. The color was unkind to her face, turning her complexion sallow and her eyes dull. But with her hair scraped back and hidden beneath the cloth, the bones of her face stood out pure and strong.
“Isriam!” She gave him a quick embrace. “I wasn’t sure whether to be more angry that you disobeyed or relieved that you’re here. Now that I see you, it’s definitely the latter. You’re all wrung out, my lad. Is dinner ready? Good, let’s eat.”
They stood around the chopping table, sharing the sketchy meal from the pots and pans it had been cooked in. Both Sioned and Ruala looked the worse for their conversations with their dragons—Ruala perhaps more so, Azhly being a male who sometimes forgot his own strength. The dragons had been stubborn, but eventually were persuaded that all was well, their human possessions were safe, and they ought to return to Feruche.
“I don’t like to think what could happen if they’re caught here,” Ruala said, rubbing her temples against the inevitable headache.
“My lady,” Isriam said, “It’s stupid of me not to figure it out for myself, but how will you explain that there are only four servants left here?”
“Hardly stupid, Isriam.” Sioned speared a chunk of meat with her fork. “In fact, we hadn’t discussed it. Ruala?”
“Everyone was too frightened to stay.”
Sionell shook her head. “More. That’s too simplistic.”
“All right, then, when I kicked out yoar parents and Chadric and Audrite, they took their people with them and most of mine as well.”
“Better,” Sioned remarked. “But add that many are more terrified of the Azhrei’s power than of the punishment for deserting their legal lord and lady.”
“You’re incorrigible,” her Namesake observed.
The High Princess smiled sweetly. “I try.”
Later, when everyone but Ruala and Isriam curled into blankets by the kitchen hearth—she went to her own bed, he to a guest chamber—Sioned rose silently from her own pallet. Barefoot, she padded softly from the kitchen to the great hall.
Stronghold had been like this, long ago. She and Tobin and Ostvel and a few servants, waiting out the seasons of lanthe’s pregnancy; Meath’s occasional presence like a warm cloak she dared not use for comfort; Rohan far away, fighting Roelstra. Even the emerald ring was once more gone from her hand. All was once more silence, emptiness, just like that helpless wait through an endless Autumn and Winter.
She had thought that time the worst of her life. She had been wrong. At waiting’s end had been Pol—what would I she find when all this was over? Nothing. Her heart was as f empty and silent as this keep.
This time she was not helpless. This time she had willingly parted with the ring. This time would be different.
Yes. Very. Rohan would never come home.
Her steps made no sound on the tiled floor. She wandered j from the high table to the windows, searching for ghosts. There were none. Only her, alone with a tiny fingerflame following her through the dark.
She tried to remember other times at Skybowl—feasts, dancing, music, hawking, watching dragons...
No ghosts gathered to share her memories. Not even the ones from Stronghold during the desperate year that had ended with Pol cradled in her arms.
Silently, she returned to the kitchen and huddled in a blanket, staring at the Fire until dawn.
“So that’s why you wanted the jewels,” he said, gazing awestruck at the mirror. The stones were in place, glinting by the light of candles and the hearth. He could scarcely believe they could form the white rainbow Pol had described. Still, when he thought of who had worn the jewels...
“Meath was right.” Pol rubbed his eyes. “I wish I could tell him.”
“He was a Sunrunner, like me. He never would have seen it in the mirror to believe it.”
“You think that would’ve mattered to him?” Blue-green eyes narrowed. “Does it matter that much to you?”
“I take your meaning. And I have to take your word for it that it is what you’re really saying. I just wish...”
“You could never talk to Rosseyn, even if you could see him.”
“Yes, I know. You explained that.”
“If what I have in mind doesn’t work, we’ll go with the rest of the plan.” Pol drained the last swallow of wine from his cup and set it down. “Tonight my new friends and probable kinfolk the diarmadh’im will go south. Ruala’s crockery will be sown through the sands below Skybowl just before sunset on the eighty-eighth.”
“Can they ride that far? Not one of them looks a day under a hundred.”
“When Thassalante offered to go, I pointed that out as politely as I could. He pointed out that they’re the only ones among us who can protect themselves against anything the Vellant’im might try.”
“Including iron. I see. It took courage to offer, though.”
“Maybe they have something to prove.” Pol smiled. “Most of us do.”
Gesturing to the mirror, he asked, “Even you?”
Pol sat down at the table, hooking a leg over the chair arm. “I already told you. If it works, you won’t have to worry about it. If it doesn’t, I may need your expertise after all ... Andry.”
He let Maarken’s face and form fade. “How long have you known?”
“Not at first,” Pol admitted. “It was only when you kept gesturing with both arms—even the one that wasn’t there. Maarken’s careful about that.”
“Of course. I should have realized,”
“What I don’t understand is why you thought you had to trick me into telling you. All you had to do was ask.”
Andry lowered himself into an overstuffed chair—using both hands. “Can you blame me?”
“I suppose not.” Pol studied his fingers, picked at a hangnail. “I loathe what you countenanced at Goddess Keep— both when Tilal was there and what happened to that wretched woman. You don’t trust me or any diarmadhi as far as you can spit. In fact, I don’t like most of what you’ve done, or your attitude while you’ve done it. Which is a sentiment you return, I’m sure.”
“But?” He arched a brow.
Pol nodded. “But you found Chayla for us. You’re here, offering your help. You’re the son of your ancestors.”
“And so are you.”
“I am that.” Pol rose, pacing slowly to the mirror. “Andry ... if this doesn’t work—by which I mean if something happens to me—“
“You said Lord Rosseyn promised it wouldn’t.”
“The faradhi part of me is safe. But I’m more sorcerer than Sunrunner. All I can possibly be is a halfling, like my father. Enough to get seasick.” He shrugged. “Andry—if the diarmadhi part gets caught in the mirror, you’ll have to build a ros’salath. Don’t hear this wrong, but you may be crippled in the working. My mother isn’t here to draw on. And you know what she’s like.”
“I don’t deny,” he said quietly, “that she’d make it easier. But I’ve got my brother and Hollis and Evarin. That’s a lot of power in just three people.”
“If you must—“ Pol bit his lip, then shook his head. “If you must, use the children. And your mother. It’ll be damned difficult. Raw power like that—and no practice in using it, let alone like this. But you can’t let that stop you. Mother says she told you how she sorted everyone out at Stronghold. You may have to do that on your own.”
Andry said nothing for a long time. Then, finally: “I thought we’d end up fighting each other over who fights the Vellant’im. Everyone did.”
“Maarken,” Pol murmured.
“It’s not just for his sake, you know. We’re neither of us stupid. Not with two thousand Vellant’im ready to sheathe their swords in our guts.” Andry smiled wryly. “Besides, if we want anything left to fight over in the future—“
“—we’d better work together now.” Pol returned the grin.
“Precisely, cousin.”
Pol ran his ringless fingers over the mirror frame. “One more thing. Shadow-caught is worse than being shadow-lost. Much worse. Rosseyn isn’t really alive—but he’s not really dead, either.” He glanced up. “If—I want you to kill me, Andry. Or whatever’? left of me.”
He spasmed half out of the chair. “Pol—!”
“Tomorrow night I’ll lock myself in here. You’ll have the only key. Wait until midnight. If I’m not out by then—well, make sure the knife is sharp.”
“No! You’re Rosseyn’s blood, he’d never let anything happen to you—“
“He may not have a say in the matter. But I do. I want you to perform that service for me, cousin. I couldn’t trust Maarken or Chay to do it.”
“They love you too much, is that it? And your death is my most cherished ambition?” Andry sprang to his feet. “Not a chance, cousin! You’re just going to have to make sure you don’t get shadow-caught!”
He stalked out of the room. Behind him, Pol smiled. Just a little.