In mid-afternoon of the eighty-sixth day of Winter, the Vellant’im were sighted twenty measures from Skybowl. For a few moments five women and one young man stared in bleak dread at the huge dark blot staining the Desert. Then Sionell broke the silence with a single curse, and hurried them all down from the balcony to their stations.
On Sioned’s advice and with her help, Ruala dressed in the richest fabrics and gaudiest colors she could find.
“Karanaya did this at Lowland, and it seemed to impress them. They probably don’t take much notice of servants, anyway, but I’d like to keep their eyes strictly on you. Hold still while I braid this chain into your hair.”
Ruala met the Vellant’im in a bright green brocade skirt and a blazing yellow shirt under a blue velvet tunic to which dozens of earrings had been affixed. Audrite had thoughtfully removed all of Ruala’s remaining jewels from Skybowl, but Sioned had brought along a collection of rings, bracelets, and necklets. Ruala was thus arrayed in more gold, silver, and gemstones than she usually wore in the course of a year. As she stood just outside the main gates, she hoped her nerves would hold steady. Every tremor would make her a human wind chime.
“They won’t suspect you of spying on them,” Sioned told her. “Anybody who makes as much noise as you do just breathing can’t sneak around. They’ll be paying so much attention to you they won’t notice the rest of us at all.”
Skybowl seemed to have donned garments of sunlight and shadow for the occasion. The gray stone glowed golden here, purple-brown there, limned with rose-pink as if delicate veils were draped across the towers, floating on the breeze.
Composed and resolute, Isriam waited with Ruala, who joined Sioned in gratitude that he hadn’t gone back to Feruche as planned. If she’d had to face the High Warlord and his army alone—well, she would have shimmered in the late afternoon sun with the violence of her trembling.
Mindful of Sioned’s comments, when the High Warlord rode within sight Ruala stepped into the light. He lifted one hand, sleeve falling back from a heavy gold wrist cuff that reached nearly to his elbow. All the hundreds of riders behind him stopped. He came forward alone.
“Lady of Skybowl,” he said, his voice deep, and oddly accented. “You have sense, for a woman.”
“High Warlord of the Vellant’im,” she replied, relieved that her own voice was steady and cold, “you are near to insulting a woman who can save your whole army from destruction.”
He grinned at her. “You of the Desert breed women like horses—for fire. Have you brothers, Lady?”
“No.”
“Pity.” He looked beyond her to Isriam. “Ah. Prince of Fessenden. My not-friend, not-enemy. What else is there?”
“Allies in good sense, perhaps,” Isriam said. “It remains to be seen.”
One hand lifting again, he signaled his men to advance. “They will eat, then sleep. You and I will talk, Lady of Skybowl.”
“One moment.” She took another step forward, tilting her head back to stare up into his eyes. “Where is the High Princess?”
His chin jerked over his shoulder, indicating some spot far back in the march. “With priests.”
“I will speak to her first.” When his brows knotted over his hawk’s beak of a nose, she insisted, “I must know that she is safe and well.”
He shrugged. “Speak to priests. She is theirs until two dawnings.”
“You speak to the priests,” she countered. “I speak with men, not geldings.” Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and marched back into the courtyard.
Evidently the High Warlord had given orders that
Skybowl was to be treated with respect. The bulk of the army camped outside around the lake; only the clanmasters and their important warriors were allowed into the castle. And, of course, Meiglan and the priests. Standing in the great hall doorway, Ruala caught a glimpse of her being hurried up the stairs.
“Later,” said the High Warlord. “Show me your treaty parchment now.”
“There isn’t one yet. We haven’t discussed terms.”
He cast a suspicious glance at Isriam. “You did not say to her no terms?”
The young man gave him a look that said clearly, Now that you’ve met her—would you have told her that?
Glaring down at Ruala, he intoned, “No terms. Skybowl is mine for ritual, fight, feast. Then we go.”
“Skybowl is my husband’s. There will be no barbaric ritual, no battle, and no celebration. You will take as much dragon gold as you can carry and go home at once.”
He snorted. “Do you think me fool, to believe legends?”
“Would you like to see a sample?” She dug into her skirt pocket and came up with a leather pouch. “Open your hand.” When he did so, she upended the pouch. Out poured a rivulet of glittering sand.
He stared down at his palm, Ruala caught Isriam’s astonishment and sent him a small warning frown. He didn’t see it, but his exclamation served her very well just the same.
“Dragon gold!”
A few clanmasters milled about in the entry hall, marveling at its luxury—even denuded as it was of the really valuable items. A few priests were trying not to do the same. They all heard Isriam’s words and turned as one man.
The High Warlord closed his fingers around the evidence. “Lies,” he said.
“Not at all,” Ruala informed him blandly. “I never thought you’d leave us in peace without something to show for your trouble. Here it is. Will you take it in its raw form, like this, or would you rather have ingots?”
“Lies!” He flung the handful away from him; the other men in the hall took an involuntary step toward it, like thirsty cats ready to lap the floor.
“You may inspect the dragon caves at your leisure,” she said with a shrug. “And the smelter, if you like.”
“If this is true,” he said carefully, “why do you offer your wealth?”
“Because gold is worth less than lives. There’s plenty more where this comes from, after all. The dragons produce it regularly. Besides, it’s not my wealth, or my husband’s. It’s High Prince Pol’s. Why shouldn’t I use it?”
He snarled and strode into the great hall. Ruala followed, looking back over her shoulder just once. Sure enough, the clanmasters and the priests were on the floor, scraping up the scattered golden sand. She hid a smile of satisfaction. The High Warlord might be here for vengeance’s sake alone, but his people were not averse to profit.
Now, if only the “teeth” and “blood” of dragons worked as well...
“Wine, great lord?”
Ruala nearly gasped aloud. Sioned was humbly bending head and knees to the enemy commander, a silver cup in her hands. He took it, drank, shoved it back at her, and kept walking toward the high table. He didn’t look at her once. As Ruala passed, Sioned raised her head slightly and winked.
“Don’t take such chances!” Ruala hissed.
“Why not? He doesn’t have any idea who I am. Hurry, he’s looking for you.”
Ruala rattled a bit as she went to join him, and not just with the rhythm of her strides.
He heard her coming and swung around. “Ritual, battle, feast. Then we go.”
“Dragon gold to fill your coffers,” she countered.
“You are not lord here.”
“I am sovereign lady.” When she saw that he didn’t understand, she said, “I rule here—just as High Princess Meiglan ruled at Dragon’s Rest while her husband was away.”
This made sense to him, but not on his own culture’s terms. “Women are different here,” he remarked. And sat down in Riyan’s chair.
Ridiculous to feel anger spark at something so unimportant. But she suddenly thanked the Goddess that Sioned had destroyed Stronghold before this murdering savage could sit at Rohan’s place.
“Well?” she snapped. “Do you accept the terms?”
He smiled. “Lady,” he said with consummate politeness, “it is my army outside your walls.”
She judged it time for the second part of her task. Putting up a brave show of a proud woman trying to maintain her dignity, she said, “Will you kill me, then, and prove that you have no honor?”
All at once his black eyes sharpened. “Have you sons?”
“N-no,” She cursed herself as her right hand went instinctively to her waist. He noted the movemenLand she realized she might as well admit it. “But I hope to, next year.”
“You carry?”
“Yes.”
His reaction astounded her. He rose from Riyan’s chair and came around the table, taking her arm to escort her to her accustomed seat. “Why did you not say? I would not have frighted you. Rest,” he told her, half-scolding and half-solicitous. “Your life belongs to son, to husband.”
Given this tally of a Vellanti female’s worth, Ruala mentally knelt before the Goddess in gratitude.
“I want to talk to the High Princess.”
He looked down at her curiously. “You betray the Azhrei, her lord—do you not fear her?”
Meiglan? “Just because I think he’s wrong doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.” She twisted her fingers together, her many rings clicking and shining. “Take the gold and go. There’s more than enough for everyone in your army. You won’t be attacked on your way to the sea. Leave us in peace.”
He shook his head. “Ritual and battle. Then we go.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “No feast. And Skybowl left standing.”
“You were going to destroy—?” Ruala let her voice quiver. “Please, I beg of you! No more killing! No more death, no more destruction—please!”
“I’m taking Lady Ruala upstairs,” Isriam said. “You’re upsetting her.” He shepherded her from the table. The High Warlord actually bowed. They left him back in Riyan’s chair, picking the last of the gold-grained sand from his palm.
Between the last of the sun and the first dim glow of the moons through the clouds, one of Edrel’s sentries galloped into Goddess Keep. He ignored no fewer than sixteen Sunranners on his way upstairs. They demanded that he inform them of any problems so they could inform Lord Torien in the proper manner; his response was to snarl.
Lord Torien was seated at dinner in a private chamber, in the company of his wife, two of the devr ‘im, and Lord Edrel and Princess Norian. The guard ignored these Sunranners, too, heading directly for Edrel.
“My lord—the Vellant’im are coming ashore.”
Man rose at once. “Then we can fight them—at last!”
“We?” Norian asked sweetly. “I’m so glad you’ve come to see things our way.” She paused a delicate instant before adding, “At last.”
Gray eyes below night-black hair ignited. Slightly desperate tact on Edrel’s and Torien’s parts had recently extricated their wives from this very subject. And now here it was staring them in the face again.
Nialdan cleared his throat with a great ramble. “So whatever they’ve waited for, this is it.”
“You’ll notice there’s no light for us to use,” said Antoun.
Edrel had expected something of the sort from him; after all, he was supposed to be a devri, and on Torien’s side. Addressing the guard, he said, “Have the sentries pull back. Alert the rest of our people, but don’t alarm anyone outside the walls.”
“At once, my lord.” He saluted and left.
“What?” Man exclaimed. “You must attack! They’ll be vulnerable coming up the cliffs—“
“As we would be if we were so foolish as to fight in the dark on those same cliffs,” he replied. “Unless you’d care to set a few fires in the woods for everyone to see by. No? I didn’t think so.”
“At least we ought to bring everyone into the keep,” Torien said.
Edrel leaned back in his chair with a casualness he didn’t feel. “They won’t attack until tomorrow, rather late in the morning.”
“How do you know?” the Chief Steward asked, frowning.
“Because it’ll take that long to get everyone off-loaded and into position. You may sound that horn of yours at dawn.” He stood, stretched, and held out a hand to Norian. “And now, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go get some sleep. Goddess knows, the enemy won’t get any.” i
On their way to Elsen’s room, Norian squeezed his fingers tightly. “Are you really sure about this?”
“Keeping in mind the count of men, longboats, how many can fit into the longboats, and the time it’ll take to row back and forth—pretty sure. And if any of these Sunranners were using the brains they were born with, they’d be sure, too. They’re beginning to get on my nerves.”
“It’s taken this long? Did I tell you what Man wanted to do to Jayachin’s little boy? Keep him here as if he was apprenticed, with his mother’s wealth to pay the fee!”
Edrel smiled down at her. “What did you do about it?”
“I told her that as the city of Waes is under the High Prince’s direct protection, so is everyone who calls it home.”
“And because I’m Pol’s vassal—“
“Exactly. The boy is our responsibility.” She hesitated. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not. I feel sorry for the child. And he’ll get fairer treatment from us than he would from them.” He paused with his fingers on the handle of Elsen’s door. “Goddess, what have the Sunranners come to, that they can think to use a child that way?”
“It’s not really all of them,” Norian said, trying to be fair. “It’s mainly Man.”
“They’re frightened,” Edrel mused. “I wonder what of?”
At that moment, Antoun was reminding his fellow devr’im why. “You know we can’t rely on the ws’salath. I don’t mean that you can’t lead us just as well as Andry, Torien,” he added hastily. “It’s just that the new ones among us—me included—are still shaky.”
“As it happens, I agree with you,” Torien said. “And I mean no insult to you, either, when I say that if we still had Oclel and Rusina, it would be all right. But four of us are barely trained and, except for Jayachin, we’ve never worked together in earnest.”
“Edrel will simply have to lead his troops and Elsen’s in the attack,” Man stated. “Tomorrow morning, before the Vellant’im can organize themselves for battle.”
“How do we persuade him to do it?” Deniker asked. “You know he’ll do nothing more than defend Goddess Keep—he won’t take the battle outside the walls. He doesn’t want to risk any of his people.”
“Forgive me for saying it,” Man said, “but better them than Sunranners.” She grimaced as her husband began a pro- test. “I know, I know. It’s a terrible thing to say. But who has more value in this world, a common soldier or a faradhi? And if we attempt the ros’salath with half of us inexperienced and their weakness unknown, we’d be more at risk than any soldier with a sword in hand. Given a choice we don’t really have, our lives are more important.”
Antoun turned a knife over and over in his fingers. “That’s a cold assessment, Man.”
“It’s the truth,” she shot back. “I’ve seen that more and more clearly over the course of this war. Why do the Vellant’im linger here instead of going to their High Warlord? Why did he order them to stay at Goddess Keep? Because they hate us. They fear us. Whatever Andry told me about their reasons for wanting Pol dead, we are the ones they truly fear. If Pol dies, he dies. There’ll be another High Prince or High Princess—Maarken as regent for Jihan, perhaps. It hardly matters. We are the ones who must survive. Imagine a world without Goddess Keep. Sunrunners would live and die untrained, the diarmadh’im would run wild—“ She turned to Torien. “Yes, I know you’re of their blood. But you’re not one of them. You’re a Sunrunner.”
“What does Andry say?” Nialdan asked.
Man leaned her fists on the table and pulled in a deep breath. “Andry ... says nothing except ‘take care of things.’ He’s abandoned us. Oh, don’t look so shocked, it’s only what we’ve all been thinking ever since he left!”
“Doubtless you accused him of it when you spoke the other day.” Antoun put down the knife.
“And why not? It’s true, isn’t it? When he left us behind, he made his choice. It was his dream from childhood to become Lord of Goddess Keep—yet when Goddess Keep needs him most, where is he? Back in his Desert homeland! Don’t you see how little we count with him?”
“Perhaps,” Antoun offered, “he has more faith in us than we have in ourselves.”
“And perhaps,” Nialdan said, rising to his full height and towering over Jolan, “we’d better stop this right now. Torien, I’ll do whatever you want me to do—be it the ros’salath or anything else. As long as nothing you ask of me betrays Andry.”
“None of us ever could,” Torien replied, not looking at his wife.
Antoun judged it was time for a discreet departure. He made his excuses and shut the door behind him, hoping he’d said all the right things. If so, then perhaps no one would have to fight in any way, shape, or form. This was why he’d warned of the difficulties of the ros’salath. His aim was to get everyone within the walls’ protection; then neither bodies nor minds would be at risk.
This afternoon Pol had spoken to him on sunlight. Antoun spared only a wistful sigh for the loss of his secret as Sioned’s eyes and ears within Goddess Keep; if Pol needed him, it was time for the secret to be shared. But the others here must not know yet—which meant he could not tell them that Pol was certain the culmination of the war would come on the eighty-ninth day of Winter.
Why and how, Antoun did not know. Neither had he asked. It was enough that there was a time limit now, a day beyond which there was a future that did not include war. He supposed long association with Sioned had infected him with Rohan’s ideals of peace and tolerance. But better Ro-han’s dream than Andry’s—of faradhi dominance and diarmadhi deaths.
Pol handed Kierun the key to the Attic and told him to take it to Lord Andry a little before midnight. The boy’s face, scars fading where he’d been cut on the forehead and cheeks, wrinkled up in worry. But he was a dutiful squire, excellently trained. He asked no questions, only nodded and obeyed.
Pol waited until he heard the lock snick into place, then went to close the curtains against all exterior light.
You won’t have to kill me, cousin—or so I hope and trust. But I had to make you realize that you don’t really want me out of the way. Rather brutally, yes, and the reverse of Father’s policy of getting people to do what they would have done anyhow. At least, I think it was the reverse...
He chided himself for being unjust. Andry might want to carve off some of Pol’s power, but he could never carve a knife into Pol’s heart.
He stood before the mirror. It had been propped at only a slight angle on the floor against a chair, the jewels on a level with Pol’s eyes. There was much he might have done with it. Lord Rosseyn had given him spell after spell.
He could spin a killing storm of Air and Water.
He could conjure lightning made of Fire and blast the enemy to nothingness.
He could weave a ros’salath so terrifying that they would run screaming into the Desert to die hoplessly insane.
He could fashion a dome of light, the way Sioned had done long ago, enclose them, and then crush them into the sand.
He could project horror into the mirror, from gigantic dragons to monsters from legend to an image of himself a measure high and wreathed in flames.
He could do almost anything he wanted. He had power enough and to spare.
The power belonged to the mirror, and Rosseyn, and the generations of sorcerers who had discovered and sometimes dared to use it.
His to use now. His decision to make. His soul at risk, as Rohan and Sioned would have warned him—as Rosseyn had. If he killed with this gift that augmented his own gifts, he would sin. Not the kind of sin that Andry spoke of and punished, but a wrong done against himself. The irony of course was that he had refused to swear the vow that Andry and other Sunrunners had, and had broken.
It didn’t make him feel virtuous or superior. He was in a Hell of his own making, inhabited only by him. And only he could get himself out of it.
Pol stared at his own reflection in the mirror, tracing each feature. Except to shave, he hadn’t really looked at that face in a long time. He saw a High Prince and a Sunrunner and a sorcerer. He saw a husband frantic for the safety of his wife, a father haunted by the wounds dealt to his children. He saw a son grieving for one parent’s death and the other’s descent into madness. He saw all that he was, from redoubtable warrior to Azhdeen’s personal possession to farmer to horseman to Sionell’s lover.
So many of him. Everybody saw him differently, everybody needed him differently. So many of him, crammed into one body, looking out from one face. He was all those things and more, the sum of himself and those who had taught him, and more. The only difference came in the nuances of power.
And power was here before him. Hell was here before him.
I
Rohan would have understood perfectly.
A thought extinguished the Fire in the hearth. Another thought lit the fresh candles on either side of the mirror. And the selej glowed above Rosseyn’s living face.
Rosseyn, who had been dead for fifteen and more generations.
“You are determined to do this, my son?”
“I am.”
“But afraid?”
“I am,” he said again, apologetically.
“Good.”
Pol couldn’t help a smile. “You sound just like my father.”
“Then your father was a very wise man. By the way, don’t be alarmed when I seem to vanish. I’ll still be here, believe me.”
“I’d change that if I could.”
“A generous offer. But futile, as I’ve told you.” Rosseyn bent his head and closed his eyes. “When you’re ready, then.”
Pol laced his fingers together just below his chin, using the pressure to focus concentration. It was easy, really—not unlike a simple conjuring—but he paid attention to every detail. This was no time to grow careless. So instead of damping both candles at once without even looking, he attended to them individually. Instead of a single thought, he ran through the whole sequence as he called new Fire to the already blazing diamond.
Rosseyn faded into a white mist of no more substance than breath on a cold mirror. In his place Pol conjured the great hall at Skybowl. He built the image carefully: windows to his left, the high table in front of him, banners floating from the rafters, fine Kierstian tiles underfoot.
He felt his hands part without his conscious volition, and with the movement something inside him separated, too.
Rosseyn had told him that his mixed heritage would manifest itself in some fashion. The Sunrunner in him could not use the mirror and thus could not be shadow-caught. It would anchor him to this place no matter what happened.
At least, that was the theory.
From the moonlight through Skybowl’s windows he twisted a shining plait leading back here, to Feruche. But not across the measures of sand between: through the mirror to where he stood. He seemed to see himself holding it in his left hand where the amethyst of Princemarch had been, invisible in the white crown. His right hand was ringless, too, the Desert topaz set into the frame, Andrade’s moonstone discarded when it sparked dangerously in the presence of sorcery. He understood now his mother’s words about her long-missing rings still on her fingers like scars.
The twined skeins of moonlight tugged at him. He resisted, using it instead to fill in the details of the great hall as it existed at that moment. When he had seen all there was to see, he consciously transferred the shimmering silver rope to his right hand. Anchored; secure; safe, in the Sunrunner’s hand.
He left the Sunrunner in him behind, and entered Skybowl on moonlight.
“I thank you for good food,” the High Warlord said to Lady Ruala. “You strengthen the warriors.”
“Hardly my intention,” she said coldly.
He stifled a sigh. He was trying to be polite, for the Kir’reia had taught him that these women valued conversation. It wasn’t too great an effort, for he had always enjoyed talking with his favorite Wife. He mourned her for more than the additional sons she might have borne him.
How magnificent she would have looked in what Lady Ruala wore: brilliant colors, luxurious fabrics, an entire clanwealth decorating her from hair to fingertips. Especially fine were the matching gold bracelets dotted with dense white stones like dollops of cream. They would set off the scars he’d incised into his wife’s hands, emphasizing the proud pallor of his marks as perfectly as they did Lady Ru-ala’s dark skin and the white crescents of her nails.
“Now that you mention it,” she said, “I’ve been wondering how you manage to feed your troops. You haven’t taken anything from the keeps and manors you’ve destroyed. What do you eat?”
He was surprised that so great a lady should interest herself in such matters. Vellanti women did, of course, no matter who their husbands or fathers or brothers were; it was their duty. He Would have thought the highborn women of these lands would leave such things to their servants. But a moment’s glance at the three who scurried around the tables, pouring water and spooning soup, showed them to be so colorless and cringing that their intelligence was in serious doubt. They sidled and whispered and never looked up at all.
He chose to answer her question with another. “Do you ride the Desert with no water?”
She blinked. Her eyes were very dark green, her hair was very black with a few streaks of silver, and her skin was nearly the color of a Vellanti woman’s. “You mean you brought food enough for all these men?”
He nodded, not telling her that Faolain Riverport, Catha Heights, Graypearl, and Sandeia had provided substantial stores before they were burned. And the priests had grown fat enough on the bounty of Radzyn.
His gaze strayed to them now, seated at their own table off to the side. The senior among them were upstairs guarding the Kir’reia. They would eat the white food—as if the color of a soup indicated its purity—that was also the Kir’reia’s lot. He was aware that ever since they had taken her from him, he had less and less patience with their nonsense. He even termed it nonsense now in his mind—though not aloud. He still needed them. They were still useful.
He cast a brief sidelong glance at Lady Ruala. Very beautiful, obviously flawless, highborn even though not a princess, without sons. But she carried a child. If not, he might have ... no. It must be the Azhrei’s wife.
But why did the Azhrefs wife have to be her?
Perhaps Lady Ruala would tell him something of the events that had led to the marriage. He put his winecup down and turned to ask.
Her fists were clenched against her chest, her eyes wide as she stared at the bonfire. Down beyond it, all the raucous jests had ceased. A sword was drawn, and another. A platter of meat crashed to the floor as one of the servingwomen clapped both hands to her mouth.
Through the bonfire unscathed walked a man: tall, fair-haired, plainly dressed but a prince to his fingertips. He paused, half-in and half-out of the flames. His blue-green eyes sought and found the High Warlord’s gaze.
“Azhrei!” cried the priest who was the only one among them who had ever spoken to him. “It’s him, it’s the Azhrei!”
A warrior rushed forward, sword flailing. It went right through the Azhrei. Right through him. He took no more notice than if an insect had buzzed past on its way to a dung heap.
The warrior, however, lost his balance and tumbled into the fire. He rolled away from it, the sleeve of his shirt blazing. One of the women, the old and slow one with a gray cloth wrapped around her head, splashed a pitcher of water on him. Some of his clan dragged him back to his place.
“You are the Vellanti High Warlord,” said the Azhrei.
Rising, he replied, “Yes.”
“I have seen you before, on sunlight.” He took another few steps forward, and now stood halfway between the high table and the fire. Everything the priest had said about his face was true: pride, strength, power. Twin demons in his eyes.
“I know why you have come here,” the Azhrei went on. “Why you kill and burn. Why my lady wife was stolen from me. Why you and all your people hate me and mine.”
“Then you know why you will die, and she with you.”
Beside him, Lady Ruala cried out.
“You know who I am,” came the soft answer, eyes calm and fierce. “And because you do, you also know how easily I could slay you where you stand.”
“Then do.” He made a careless gesture of one hand. The vast majority of his men could not understand a single word spoken here—only the priests knew the Azhrei’s language, and they not half as well as he—so they must hear the exchange in his tone and his movements. “Your wife will still die. You will still die. It would change nothing.”
“I disagree. Who would lead your warriors? The priests?” He tilted his head toward the trembling white-clad ranks, and smiled. “I offer you the chance to live. Lead your warriors back to Radzyn Keep. Board your ships. Leave in peace—or I promise you that you will all die in battle as your ancestors did.”
He burst out laughing because they could not be allowed to see that he was almost tempted.
It shocked him, that impulse. He knew how his forefathers had died: horribly. Horribly. They had won in the end, yes; the accursed diarmadh ‘im had been killed, yes. But not before thousands upon thousands died.
To leave in peace. To sail the wide seas where he and his kind belonged. To walk his own fields and shores. To lie be- side each wife and cosset each daughter and teach each son to be strong and proud and free.
To let her live.
He laughed because he was startled by the bitter revelations of his own heart. Better to laugh than to cry out in pain.
“May the Father of All Storms witness the impudence of this fool!” he called out in his own language. “We sit in his most important keep, we have his wife, and in two dawnings we will destroy all his power—and do you know what he says? He invites us to leave!”
The protest came, but neither as loudly or as quickly as he’d expected. And why should it? There stood the Azhrei, clothed in power. The High Warlord knew that if he did not say or do something at once, he would lose them. Oh, not to such fear that they would refuse to fight. The battle would be joined as planned. No, he would lose them to the priests. They would obey the priests. They would die in service of the priests’ nonsense.
Just as she would.
He could not help her. He was shamed to know he wished to. His duty was to his warriors, to all the clans who had followed him here, who believed in his purpose. His vengeance.
He made his voice a dragon’s roar. “Shall we whine and slink away like whipped wolf cubs afraid of our own shadows? Shall we betray our fathers, and their fathers before them back a hundred thousands of days? Shall we be defeated without lifting a single sword?”
The response was much more satisfying this time. He let it wash over him, not daring to cast a look of triumph at the priests. For he had not yet won. He almost had his warriors back in his hands. A few more words, and they would be entirely his once more. But the Azhrei was another matter: silent, invulnerable, pitying.
He flung an arm out, finger pointed at the conjuring. “Has he the courage to come before us? He sends his shadow! Has he the courage to come with his whole army at his back? He sends his shadow! Has he summoned the dragons to his aid?” Sweeping his arm around to indicate Lady Ruala, he finished, “Even his own sworn servants betray him! Shall we fear a shadow, obey a shadow?”
Oh, he had them now. They yelled and battered the tiles with their boots and pounded fists on the tables, ready to tear their enemies apart with bare hands. He basked in their fervor, letting it salve his pride, and then leaned toward the Azhrei and spoke in his language.
“Hear their answer, and mine.”
“You fool!” the shadow exclaimed. “Don’t you understand? I’m offering you your lives! What would your deaths gain me? What would mine gain you? One way or another, you’ll leave these lands. You can do it alive and see home again, or you can do it dead with your ships burning to ashes on the sea!”
The High Warlord straightened. “Go, Azhrei. Wear the cloak of her making. In it you will die!”
The image wavered, almost as if it trembled in response to the powerful emotions blazing in the blue-green eyes. “How can you condemn your own people to death, when you can so easily—“
The angry bellow of a dragon drowned the rest of his words. Warriors outside shouted in response, warriors within the great hall turning as one man to the High Warlord. Would he kill the Azhrei’s dragon, or allow it to live and fly free of the Azhrei’s sinful taint?
The Azhrei himself swung around and for a moment looked as if he’d run to the windows. Arresting the movement made him stumble slightly. “Azhdeen!” he cried. “No!”
The dragon howled with all the strength in his lungs. A piercing shriek from the elderly servingwoman echoed him—but instead of fainting or collapsing into a terrified huddle on the floor, she picked up her skirts and raced out the main doors.
Young Prince Isriam leapt over the high table and hurried to another of the women, who had let out a terrible scream and swayed on her feet as if she would be the one to topple. He carried her from the hall. Lady Ruala half-rose, then staggered against the High Warlord, desperate hands grasping for support.
“He’ll kill me!” she wailed. “He’s sent his dragon to kill me!”
Picking her off him—carefully, for his instincts around a pregnant woman were blood deep—he placed her in her chair and turned away from her frantic sobs.
The bonfire suddenly spat and flared to the vaulted ceiling, igniting banners, blackening the rafters, blinding him. When he could see again, the Azhrei was gone.
... so bright!
(Too bright for such young eyes, infant eyes scarcely open to the world.)
... so many colors!
(Red-yellow-green-blue-purple-black-white—)
... so many kinds!
(Tobin-Ostvel-Pandsala-Urival-Andrade-Sioned.)
... more! Fill empty hurt MORE!
(A child’s hunger, but not of the body. A hungry Sunrunner-sorcerer mind. He sees it now, understands it: this, his second memory. The first? Fire.)
Light!
(Starfire woven to enclose Father and Grandfather as they battle to the death—for his life. That night: the night of his Naming, the night he has remembered in glimpses of dreams. The hands clasp light between them, like the gem-stones in the mirror frame. Other hands are color only—his own hands, Sunrunner and sorcerer—not yet understanding the light.)
SOUND—
(Steel knife striking the dome, ringing—deadly if not for the sorcerers. Pandsala. Urival. Himself, barely Named.)
So that was how it happened.
He watches colors swirl, catches at some with his right hand, some with his left. But he cannot make the two hands join.
Two hands. He stares at himself from within and without the mirror, right hands—left?—reaching for his own diamond-pearl-emerald-topaz, twinned with him in the mirror. Two men, two reflections, the mirror separating what he is from what he is.
Colors are strewn through the mirror, his own and a million more in shades no human eye has ever seen. He knows he is not really seeing them now, not with his eyes. But he hears them louder than his own trembling heartbeat, smells them stronger than his scorched blood on the jewels, tastes them sharper than his fear.
He cannot touch them. They are trapped in the glass, between his matching hands pressed flat against each other, all four—the mirror that keeps him separate from himself.
There is no feature that does not appear in its exact symmetrical opposite. He stands on both sides of the mirror at once, staring at face and body and shaking hands that claw the glass and leave no scar—
Scar—
Small white crescent on his cheek. The pain of receiving it, like the slash of. a Fire dagger across his skin.
No worse than the pain of knowing what he is, who had borne him.
“You are a Sunrunner, Pol. But you are also diarmadhi... Are you anything less than you were before you knew?”
“I’m more.”
Said bitterly then, he denies it with serene pride now. The complexity of colors, the shining maze of curves, angles, shadows, depths, bright burning power—he is what he has always been. No more, no less. Himself.
The Sunrunner is the husband is the warrior is the son is the prince is the father is the sorcerer is the Sunrunner. They are. not shards pieced together to form an imperfect whole. He is complete; he is all he has ever been. No less, no more.
He presses his fingertips to the glass. Within is all the warmth of light and color gifted to Sunrunner and sorcerer alike. He hungers for it as he hungered that night when Sioned used his raw power and wrapped her own around him, fierce protection and encompassing love as deep and enduring as she’d given Rohan.
For me, he thinks in wonderment. For me, because of me—and this is what I am. All the light and shadow and color is me.
From both sides of the mirror, he reaches through it. Hands clasp light, trailing color that sings all around him. Hands clasped tight, he is whole.
Alasen paced the kitchen floor in a fever of nervous energy. Sionell stood at the big sink, scrubbing the glaze off Ruala’s soup tureens. She’d missed Pol’s performance, having chosen to stay in the kitchens and ready the meal for the others to serve, but Alasen had told her the whole tale. After listening in frowning silence, she’d attacked the dirty pots and pans.
Betheyn moved silently from drying rack to cupboards, putting away utensils that Isriam had finished washing. They neither spoke nor looked at each other; Alasen decided Beth was still irked at the boy for removing her from the great hall.
Ruala had slipped in by a secret staircase a short time ago, and was now stacking logs and kindling for tomorrow morning’s breakfast fire. She didn’t speak much, either, beyond saying that she still hadn’t been allowed to see Meiglan.
Alasen paced, chewed her thumbnail to the quick, and fretted about Sioned.
At last the back door opened, and Sioned trudged in. She looked at no one and nothing, merely sat on a stool by the hearth. Beth went to her instantly with a cup of hot taze. The others stopped whatever they were doing to stare at her. But only Alasen spoke.
“Did Azhdeen leave?”
Sioned nodded, burying her nose in the fragrant steam. She hunched her shoulders, shivering a little.
“You spoke to him?”
“From the gatehouse wall.” She drank deeply, eyes closed, then sighed to the bottom of her lungs. “Goddess, that tastes good. Thank you, Beth.”
Ruala abandoned the kindling and crouched near Sioned. “Nobody talks to another person’s dragon.”
Without looking up, Sioned replied, “The dragon didn’t much appreciate it, either. My head is splitting, Ruala, please.”
“I’m sorry. But are you sure he knows to stay away or they’ll kill him?”
She glanced over at last. “Azhdeen—or Pol?”
“Both,” Sionell said. Coming into the half-circle of firelight, she went on, “What did he think he was doing? There’s nothing he could possibly have said to persuade—“
“He tried,” Alasen put in. “At least he had the courage to try.”
“So did you,” Ruala said. When Sioned looked a question at her, she added. “Somebody sent that bonfire all the way to the ceiling—and since you were gone and it wasn’t me, it had to have been Alasen.”
Alasen shragged. “I had to keep them from following you. Beth and Ruala were busy screaming, but that only distracted a few of them.”
“So the Sunrunner is no longer afraid of being a Sunrunner.” Sioned touched her kinswoman’s arm lightly. “Knowing Pol, he chose that moment to make his exit.” When Ruala nodded, she continued, “Just as I thought. Ro-han always did say that one of the tricks to true style is knowing when to leave.”
“He would’ve been proud of Pol tonight,” Alasen mused. “He would’ve said exactly what Pol did.”
Sionell’s brow vanished into the untidy tumble of hair over her forehead. “Do you really think so? More likely Ro-han would never have said any such thing. From what you told me, what Pol said was mad, idealistic, and total nonsense. Rohan was much too practical.”
“No,” Sioned murmured. “He simply understood the barbarian mind.”
Alasen opened her mouth to argue in Pol’s favor, but ended by saying nothing. There were tears in Sioned’s green eyes—but whether of sorrow or pride, Alasen neither knew nor dared ask.
Pol opened his eyes.
“About time, too,” said Andry.
He levered himself up on one elbow. He was stretched out on a couch—most of him, anyway; his legs were too long. One dangled over the side, the other was propped on the arm of the couch. He glanced around, surprised to find Chay, Walvis, and Maarken also in the room.
“Midnight?” he asked Andry, his tongue thick and fuzzy as if he’d guzzled a whole cask of wine. No headache, though; thank the Goddess for small favors.
“Midnight,” Andry confirmed. “Here, have some water.”
He sipped, tasted the tingle of some kind of restorative herb, and gulped the whole gobletful. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he returned the cup to Andry and raked both hands back through his hair—glad there were only two hands again—and paused to rub a fingertip against the scar. He was whole. And he had failed.
“I used the mirror,” he said to his hands, clasping them to- gether on his knees. “I was at Skybowl—a conjuring, don’t ask the details, I’m not sure I understand it myself. I told the High Warlord he couldn’t possibly win.”
“And he laughed in your face,” Chay said. “What did you expect?”
Pol shrugged. “I don’t know. Intelligence. Self-preservation. Practicality. They lost against sorcery time and again—“
“But eventually won,” Maarken pointed out.
“Did you really think he’d listen to reason?” Walvis asked quietly.
Frustrated and humiliated, Pol shook his head. “It’s just— it’s so clear to me, why couldn’t he see it? For just a moment there I thought I had him. He was really listening to me. The look in his eyes—“
“Stop kicking yourself,” Maarken said. “That’s supposed to be my job. And it’s not as if you deserve it.”
Pol leaned back against pillows and searched his cousin’s gray eyes. “We’re six hundred against at least two thousand. That’s madness. I don’t care how clever you and Chay are— it’s madness.”
Chay folded his arms across his chest. “If your father was here, he’d slap you across the room for that.”
“You forget yourself, Pol,” Andry said. “And us. We are six hundred warriors, Isulk’im, Sunrunners, and sorcerers. They are two thousand ignorant barbarians—who just saw the Azhrei walk right into their midst.”
“Hells,” Walvis added, “you probably scared the piss out of them.”
Pol knew what they were doing, and resented it. He wasn’t a fool, to be coaxed—or bludgeoned—into believing that midnight was noon. But by voicing his despair he’d forced them to this. And it was his job to put a proud face on defeat.
So he sat up a little straighter and said, “Azhdeen certainly did. And me as well. Is he back yet?”
“A little while ago.” Walvis gestured to the open windows. “We let him have a good look at you, and he settled down.”
Andry scowled. “But how did he know—“
“He’s a dragon.” Maarken shrugged. “Who knows what dragons know? Bet he was confused, though.”
“So am I,” Walvis said bluntly. “Andry talks about mirrors, you say you were at Skybowl—“
Pol massaged the back of his neck. “I’ll tell you everything as we ride.”
“Riyan’s getting everyone ready now.” Chay went to the table and poured wine for all of them. “Mounted troops only, for speed. With the horses Walvis brought, we can field almost seven hundred.”
“Tilal will be at Stronghold tomorrow,” Andry said. “I’ve told Andrev to have him send his own cavalry up as fast as they can ride.”
So everything was arranged. Pol supposed it was stupid to think he could stop a war with words. Rohan used to say that sometimes you could bury a problem under words until it collapsed from their sheer weight. But not this time.
“To the victory of our seven hundred,” Chay said, presenting the five goblets on a silver tray. “Secured through tactical brilliance—“ He proffered the tray to Maarken, who selected a cup and bowed. “—sheer bullheadedness—“ This for Walvis, with a grin.
“I prefer to think of it as prowess coupled with determination.”
“Bullheaded I said, and bullheaded you are,” Chay answered serenely. “Where was I? Ah, yes—Sunrunner magic.” Andry next; a look of solemn understanding passed between them.
“And sorcery,” said the Lord of Goddess Keep to the High Prince.
The toast was drunk. Pol swallowed the wine around the lump in his throat.
Walvis ran a fastidious fingertip along his mustache and put down his cup. “I’m off to organize my students—and to make sure Sethric stays here.”
“Good luck,” Maarken offered skeptically.
“Would a word or two from a former Battle Commander help?” Chay asked.
“A tear or two from a certain young lady from Castle Crag might be better, but I’ll take what I can get.”
When they were gone, Maarken cleared his throat. “Pol, I need to apologize. No, don’t interrupt. I have to say this. I thought for a time that you might be trying to set yourself up as—I don’t know, authority over all Sunrunners. When you had me bring Andrade’s sapphire—“
Pol stared. “You must be joking! I don’t want Andry’s job any more than he wants mine!”
“Want it?” Andry snorted. “I wouldn’t take it if the Goddess herself handed it to me.”
Maarken nodded, palpably relieved. “Then let’s get moving, my lords. It’s a long, hard ride to Skybowl—and hard work at the end of it.”