Sne was not what he had thought. She was more.
That it was she, he had no doubt. He watched her, standing there with humble shoulders, rough clothes concealing the lines of her body, a gray cloth concealing her hair. It had been wrapped to suggest that the bulk of it was knotted at her nape, but he knew better. He had a strand of it. He had smoothed its silken length between his fingers.
He wondered if she knew that despite the clothing and the posture she gave herself away. He wondered how he had not seen it before, while she was serving his men. Memory envisioned the betraying grace; no common servant would have moved so, every gesture music, every bone and muscle contributing to a harmony that could never be muted, even by graceless clothes.
Ah, but who would have suspected that the Azhreia would be here among her enemies? Not just pride in these women, courage.
Such a waste.
She was still beautiful. He had expected that, but not the manner of it. Hers was not the mature beauty of a lovely woman growing older. He could still see her youth in her face, a time when her skin had been perfect and her hair untouched by gray. She was not an older woman who had retained her looks in subtly altered form; she was a young woman on whose face age had imposed itself with reluctance, drawing a line here, changing a contour there, as if the commands of time had been only minimally obeyed.
But he did not notice those things until he recovered from the shock of her eyes: deep and sharp as a faceted emerald, pure green with no hint of gray or brown. There were lines, and the lids were parchment-thin, but the eyes were young and vivid like the eyes of a hunting cat. Knowledge that he was her intended prey brought a slight smile to his lips and a secret excitement to his heart—and he was honest enough with himself to admit that the latter contained an element of fear.
How he envied her husband. Forty years of this woman—by all the dead and living gods, the Azhrei must have been a remarkable man, to have kept such a woman for forty years.
But the old Azhrei was dead, and she was living.
Only until tomorrow.
He pierced their palms with needles himself—all but the Kir’reia. She must not be flawed. Besides, if she had any sorcery in her, she would have used it long since. The green eyes of the one who had tried to free the Kir’reia shone with tears—again, not due to pain. When it came the turn of the harmless-looking little dark one, the boy struggled furiously against his bonds, but didn’t even wince when the needle went through his hand.
Lady Ruala, amusingly enough, spit in the High Warlord’s face. He slapped her for it. The elanniasters expected it. But he strongly suspected that one could beat these women bloody and not break them.
The great Azhreia Sioned had been first, of course. As he held gently to her wire-bound hands and slid the steel needle ‘carefully between finger-joints, he almost asked why she did not ignite him where he stood, or set all his men aflame, or otherwise use her legendary powers.
He already knew why. She had destroyed the necessary walls between herself and her servants. She cared for them. They mattered to her. She could do many things, but any of them would put her servants in danger.
They stood before him now, helpless, shining steel in their flesh. There wasn’t much blood. He was as exquisitely careful with their veins as when marking his wives as his property.
A clanmaster came forward, a scrap of parchment fluttering from his fingertips as if he dared not touch more of it or be tainted. “In the search, this was found on her.” He indicated the green-eyed almost-blonde.
SKY BOWL
599
The High Warlord took it and read it. Right—right—two floors—left—right—top floor—spring below shelf.
“Great lord ... is it ... sorcery?”
Lady Ruala’s fine mouth curled in scorn.
“Yes,” he told the clanmaster, sparing a wry crinkle of his eyes for the lady. “These words allowed their entry to the Kir’reia’s chamber.” He tore the parchment into tiny pieces and threw them on the hearthfire. The clanmasters breathed a collective sigh.
Returning to the captives, the High Warlord said pleasantly, “You will tell me where is the other.” He knew the command to be futile—but, again he must give it in the presence of his warriors. Equally absurd was the threat he made next. “You will tell me, or die with the Kir’reia.”
Silence. Then the small, dark-haired one spoke.
“You’ll kill us anyway for what we did to the priests.”
He nodded. “But there is killing ... and killing.”
“Tell me,” the green-eyed Azhreia said calmly, “what sort of killing can you do with all the priests dead? Your actions here in the Desert show that you at least aren’t a gelding. But your priests were. Shall you make the sacrifice?” She smiled, knowing he knew which sacrifice she meant.
“I am High Warlord,” he said through his teeth. “The Kir’reia’s killing is now mine. It is my right.”
“Will your warriors think so?”
He no longer envied the old Azhrei as much as he once had.
Sionell had never in her life regretted so deeply that she had not been born a Sunrunner.
In girlhood, she had cursed her lack of the gift as the only thing standing between her and marriage to Pol. She had long known how ridiculous that notion was. When Pol Chose Meiglan, utterly lacking in Sunrunner blood, she had only shrugged; after she’d gotten over the shock of Antalya’s having turned outfaradhi, the irony had amused her.
But now—now she would have bargained her soul (the parts of it that didn’t belong to her children) for one instant’s ability to call Fire.
Alasen had lighted their way up the western tower stairs.
Sionell hadn’t thought to bring a candle, much less the means to ignite it. Anger at her stupidity was a good thing, however; it kept her from being too scared.
Betheyn had committed the whole maze of stairs and passages to memory at Myrdal’s order, with the logic of architecture to aid her. Alasen had consulted the list of turns Beth gave her by the glow of her fingerflame. Sionell had neither memorization nor paternal teachings nor written list to guide her.
In brief, she was lost.
But not hopelessly. She refused, flatly and completely, to admit that she might not find her way out.
She dared not try to get through the garderobe in Meiglan’s room again. Goddess only knew what had transpired there. If Alasen had been taken, then probably Sioned, Beth, Ruala, and Isriam would be, as well. One of them must remain free— to do what? Attempt a rescue? One woman, not even a Sunrunner, against two thousand Vellanti warriors?
And this was always assuming she could discover where the High Warlord had put them, find a way in, and get them out—when she wasn’t even sure how to get anywhere from where she was now.
After a second stumbled flight of pitch-black stairs below Meiglan’s room, Sionell sagged against the wall to consider her options. She could try to locate Sioned and the others. Or she could try to find a way out of this maze, somehow get to Pol, and tell him what had happened.
She didn’t think much of her chances of success at either. But the first would almost surely see her dead to no purpose at all. The second would at least let Pol know the increased danger—and dump the whole problem on him, she freely admitted. It would put even more responsibility on already overburdened shoulders. But he had an army. She was alone. He was a Sunrunner and a sorcerer. She was only herself, plain and unadorned.
All right, then, she decided. He has to know what happened here, and I’m the only one who can tell him. If I don’t break my neck in the dark first.
Sparing a few choice imprecations for whoever had last been in these cold stone hallways and not left candles, torches, and the means to light them, she started down. First she had to keep walking—and keep from falling—until she couldn’t smell the priests’ deaths anymore. When this was accomplished—and surely it must be near dawn by the time the air ceased to reek—she paused to take her bearings. A laughable ambition at best; again she envied faradh ‘im their Fire and their uncanny resistance to getting lost.
I am not lost, she repeated firmly—and jumped back against the stone wall as something scurried across her feet.
She very nearly screamed aloud. Inside her, instinct screamed for light as surely as if she had been a Sunrunner. Her mind replied coldly that if wishes were dragons, then people would fly.
Feeling her way along the wall, she almost yelped again when her fingers found an opening in the stone. Narrow, more of an access hole than a passage—Sionell put one hand on either side of it and leaned slightly in, breathing the strong scent of taze steeped much too long. She knew where she was now. This was where she and Alasen had started out Through this slender perforation was a wooden door, guarded by a cupboard, that opened into the kitchen.
In the kitchen were candles.
And the hearth to light them by.
And probably a dozen Vellant’im just waiting for her to poke her head in.
She slid through to the wooden door and held her breath, listening. Sure enough: voices, harsh and angry, and perhaps tinged with a little fear. That was good. That was very good. Their terror of the Azhrei’s power would increase with this proof of his long and fatal reach. And with the priests dead, Meiglan could not be the centerpiece of their barbaric ritual.
But she and Sioned and the others would,die all the same, unless Pol could work a miracle.
Meiglan quite simply expected it. She believed with unquestioning and uncritical trust that Pol could do anything. He couldn’t, and Sionell knew it. But if ever she needed to be proven wrong, this was the time.
Well, he has to know about it before he can start scheming. And I can’t exactly stroll through the kitchen with a cheery wave, cross the courtyard, steal a horse—reclaim one for Chay, I mean—and ride through the main gates.
Reluctantly, her whole soul begging for the light that was just the other side of that wooden cupboard, she edged back the way she’d come.
They’d used Skybowl’s secret entrance in case the High
Warlord had sent someone ahead on a fast horse to investigate before the whole army moved in. This was the location from which the other passages branched. She remembered wondering how Skybowl managed to stay standing with so much of its architecture nothing but air. Beth had answered, “If you think this is impossible, tour Feruche from inside its insides sometime.”
One passage led north, back to where they’d entered the keep. But she had no idea how to work the various doors that guarded against unwelcome two- and four-footed guests. After the grueling ride, she’d been too tired to watch. Stupid! she accused herself again, and turned to her right.
Although she couldn’t see them, she knew stairs to the east spiraled up to the next floor. But she had no intention of threading her way through the whole castle. She really would get lost.
The west passage gave immediately onto steps down into the secret repository of dragon gold. When they came through on the way in, Sioned remarked that Rohan had taken her down to see it a long time ago. Perhaps, Sionell thought, perhaps someone had left a candle there—
But if she went looking, she might never find her way back up again.
The happy thought occurred to her that once, years ago, when the secrets of Stronghold were being used by Mireva, Rohan had said something about the workers who built the passages and the architects who designed them. “They became part of the architecture themselves when the place was finished. A ruthless but practical crowd, our ancestors.” Just what she needed: tripping over old bones—or adding her own to them.
As determined as she was not to get lost, she was equally determined not to be afraid. I’m ambitious these days, she told herself sourly, and to prove it strode the three steps to the south passage. Beth had pointed out its ending—a cave screened by scrub and a few trees—as they rode to the northern branch. From where Sionell was now, a short walk south to the boundary of the castle would end in a sharp west turn that eventually curved to the north. But beyond the keep’s foundations, the passage had been designed by the volcano, not by humans. A river of lava, cooling on top while its molten undercurrent flowed on, had created a natural tunnel. Rough going, Myrdal had warned Beth, a hard climb over boulders fallen from the ceiling, and unused so far as she knew for at least a century.
Sionell gritted her teeth and started walking.
Norian woke with a violent start as steel clanged on stone.
“Sorry,” Edrel murmured. He stood near the night-black window, the light of a single candle sheathing his sword like running water. “I didn’t mean to wake you, love.”
“Edrel, why are you—“
“The Vellant’im are on the move.”
As he turned to face her, his scabbard scraped against the wall again. But for helm and gauntlets, he was fully armed. Stiff leather breastplate with brass fittings at the more vulnerable places; thick boots to the knees, reinforced with steel ribs down the sides; greaves from wrist to elbow; the violet belt and golden buckle Pol had given as tokens of his knighthood around his waist. He looked like a highborn warrior out of the ballads, hero of a hundred songs.
Around his neck he tied a length of thin wool, striped in brown and red for his holding of River Ussh. It would protect his nape from being chafed by his steel helm. Adjusting it, he muttered, “I have no choice now. I have to fight.”
“So do the Sunrunners,” she pointed out. Slipping out of bed, she hauled on a robe, shivering a little in the chill. After a few moments’ rummaging in her traveling bag, she found what she wanted.
“I had my sentry—pardon, your brother’s sentry—alert Torien. But I have to leave at once. I can’t stand around arguing with him.”
“I’ll take care of him—and his wife,” Norian asserted. She unwound the wool from his neck and replaced it with a plain scarf of bright red silk. “This is softer. Wear your own over it and let the ends show. You’ll be leading Gribain troops, you should wear Grib’s color. And no nonsense from you, either. As my husband and Elsen’s brother-by-marriage, you have the right.”
“Yes, your grace,” he murmured meekly, smiling down at her.
She made sure the cushioning was adequate, then adjusted the folds at his throat to make sure all the colors were clearly visible. She left the short trailing ends free. “There.
That’s got it. But that’s the only red I want to see on you. I hope you take my meaning?”
“Yes, your grace,” Edrel repeated.
Before she could succumb to need and fear and throw her arms around him, he turned to pick up gauntlets and helm from the table.
“Tell Elsen what’s going on—but don’t let him any farther than the window. And make certain Torien knows what’s expected of him. I’ll have the summoning horn blown before I leave. I think that’s all—“
“Not quite. But then, we’ve not been married two full seasons yet.” Norian took him by the ears and tugged his head down to give him a kiss on the lips. His helm clattered to the floor as he freed that arm to put around her. The hardest thing she’d ever done was draw away. “Don’t exhaust yourself killing Vellant’im. I plan on giving you the rest of that as soon as you’re bathed clean of their stink.”
He grinned and retrieved his helm, making the movement the sweep of an elegant bow. “Yes, your grace!”
When he was gone, she blinked back tears. Her brother mustn’t see them, either. Then she dressed, knotted her hair back with a red lace veil, and went to do battle with Jolan.
The promised rough going didn’t bother Sionell, now that she had light. Someone, blessings of the Goddess upon him or her, had left candles and a flintbox on a recessed shelf where the dressed stone passage yielded to natural tunnel. She’d discovered them through the simple expedient of sticking her hand in as she felt her way along the wall. The wax was very old, very dry, and of inferior quality; she’d gone through two candles so far with no end to the journey in sight. She hoped the four left in her skirt pocket would suffice.
But she still wished she was a Sunrunner, able to conjure a little Fire—this time for warmth. Betheyn, or perhaps Myrdal, had forgotten to mention that the lava tunnel was faced not with rock but ice.
It beggared imagination to envision how a river of burning rock twice as high as her head had been transformed into this frozen tube of crystal. As she struggled on, slipping, sometimes falling on her rear, water seeping occasionally onto her head, she worked out how it must have happened. They didn’t get much rain this side of the Veresch, but over the centuries since Skybowl had been formed and this tunnel with it, enough had found its way in to form this passage of solid ice. With solid rock overhead keeping out the sun’s heat, perpetual winter reigned.
Knowing what had caused it didn’t make it any the less remarkable. In other circumstances, she might have found it enchantingly beautiful. Not now. Not with the chill entering her bones so her fingers seemed frozen around the candle; not with the flame casting sickly green-black shadows through ice that seemed to suck in its light and hoard the glow.
And not in this echoing, scentless quiet. The only noises were her own quick breaths and the occasional muffled plop of water, resounding weirdly off clear, shining teeth that hung raggedly from the ceiling. The only scents were those of candle wax and her own sweat and the clean, sharp smell of water. Sionell appreciated water as only someone Desert-bred for generations could. But she associated it with the odor of green and growing things, even something as simple as lichen clinging to stone beside a tiny spring. Here, she couldn’t even smell the rocks.
“Think of it this way,” she muttered, shivering as she picked herself up from yet another clumsy slide on slick footing. “I could be hearing and smelling mountain cats. It’s dead certain they’d hear and smell me. They might come by for a drink now and again, but even with a fur coat this is no place to snuggle down for a nap.” She paused. “And if I don’t stop talking to myself, I’m going to start doubting my sanity.”
She was an unknown distance from Skybowl and at the end of the third candle when the flame bent to the left. She stopped, watching it Air drawn out or in? And would (he opening be large enough for her to get through? Granted, she’d lost a silkweight since this war began, but she was long-legged and broad-boned—and, as her mother had tactfully observed once, her hips had been built for having babies.
She thought despairingly of her children then, even though she knew them safe at Feruche. Why in all Hells was she here? Not because of anything so primal and pure as a mother’s defense of her children. Her reasons were much more complex, much darker.
She didn’t much care to delve into them again.
Except—except she’d had no right to risk herself at Skybowl. It was different for the others. Cleaner. They had power or knowledge to contribute. What did she have but a sharp tongue and a reputation for being clever?
That would do her children a lot of good once they were motherless as well as fatherless.
Sionell stared into the candleflame until her eyes stung, as if she could conjure the faces of her children. She should never have come here. She should never have risked her life as if her pain and guilt were all that mattered. Her daughter and sons needed her. Antalya, applying herself to Sunrunner studies that nonetheless frightened her a little; Jahnev, trying so hard to be grown-up about his new responsibilities as Lord of Tiglath, trying to hide how scared he was without Tallain to guide him; and Meig—a wisp of a smile curled her mouth. Nothing could ever upset Meig.
Goddess, how she wished she was pregnant right now. Another little girl, a last child for Tallain— or a first son for Pol?
No!
The flame swam before her eyes for a moment. Then her brain reminded her that there was no hope for the former— and no danger of the latter. She’d bled five days ago. But in her sudden tempest of confusion, she didn’t know if she was more grateful or disappointed.
And standing around being stupefied by her own emotions was no part of her plans—not for the present or anytime in the future.
Shaking herself, she held her free hand to the right side of the flame. Her skin was so numb with cold that she couldn’t feel anything but more cold, let alone any stray tease of an air current. But the flame lost its tilt; the breeze was pulling, not pushing.
The ice wall looked impossibly thick. The rock beyond it undoubtedly was. She sought into half a dozen shadows before she finally found the opening in the ice.
It was exactly as wide as her fist.
A Sunrunner could use Fire to melt it—and probably bring the whole cavern crashing in when the supporting ice vanished. But a Sunrunner could also have used the moonlight draining through the hole. She could just make out a glimmer of white, winking in mockery. Rising or setting? What time was it? She had no way of knowing.
There was a way out. Sionell had seen it. She would just have to keep going until she found it.
Or until her candles ran out.
Or until dawn came, and it would all be for nothing.
Chay had advised getting some sleep, or at least pretending for the troops’ sake. Pol hoped they would understand that sleep was impossible. He doubted they expected it of him, anyway—not when his wife was due to die with the sunrise.
He sat before a small Fire of his own conjuring, his back resolutely turned on the eastern Desert. He could sense the sun’s progress in his guts; no need to keep strained watch for the first pale glimmerings of dawn.
Thassalante had reported personally to Pol about the “dragon teeth.” The diarmadhi looked older than the Storm God and too weary to stand, but his voice was rich with satisfaction and acidic with contempt for the credulous barbarian Vellant’im.
Pol wasn’t so sure. Superstition had driven the enemy to appalling successes thus far. It was a rule of war that people fought five times as hard for their own lands as they would for somebody else’s, but it appeared that religious fervor was at least as powerful a motivation.
Against it, he had two weapons in his armory: magic and steel. Andry held a grip on half the former, the Sunrunner arsenal. Maarken was in firm charge of the latter—augmented five or six days ago by a shipment from Cunaxa. Miyon’s court functionaries and merchants, currying favor with their new prince, had sent enough swords, armor, arrows, and accoutrements to resupply everyone at Feruche twice over. Pol had eagerly inspected the trove, the finest ever made by smith-crafters acknowledged the best in the princedoms. Eagerly, that is, until he realized it was a peace offering that would enable him to make very efficient war.
You’re troubled, my dear.
He gave a violent start as someone’s colors touched him on moonlight.
It’s only me, Tobin said, her Sunrunner voice as clear as her speaking voice had once been. Is there anything I can do to help?
Can you figure a way for me to get Meiglan back safely without having to fight this battle?
Rohan hoped you’d never have to know anything about war. It’s an ugly business.
I know more than I want to—and never enough. How do Maarken and Chay stand it?
It’s their function. Battle Commanders are supposed to know such things so their prince doesn’t have to. I know it’s hard to be strong for yourself when you have to be everyone else’s strength as well.
It’s not as if they need me—not them or Andry. But that’s not what’s really bothering me. What I’ve asked them to do, what I need them for—it goes against everything I know to be right. And I can’t say anything to them about it—I shouldn’t even be saying this to you.
Yes, you should. Go on.
He hugged his drawn-up knees and rested his chin on them. This is the last battle we’ve got in us. We have to win it. But too many people are going to die, Tobin. And the perfect stupid irony of it all is that I’m the one who kept demanding that my father stand and fight.
Which is what you’re about to do, with everything you’ve got. I see.
He nodded to the Fire. It’s the only thing I can do. And that’s right, that’s acceptable to me. But there have to be alternatives to what Maarken and Andry want to do. And I’m the only one who can choose.
You’ll know. When the time comes, you’ll know.
What if I don’t? And what if my choice forces Maarken to choose between me and his brother?
What if it does? she challenged. Sorin would never forgive you, because of the promise you made him? Sorin is dead, Pol. He was just your excuse for tolerating each other, anyway. For avoiding the issue. Maarken’s known all his life that one day he might have to choose between his duty as a Sunrunner and his duty to his prince. His decision isn’t your problem. Neither he nor Andry nor anybody else can make your decisions—and if you let them influence you, you’re a fool.
You can say that? Both of them are— my son& Yes. And I’ve understood every thought in their i heads since I first swaddled them. What I don’t understand is why you feel guilty. It’s not your fault. It’s Andrade’s. She was the one who married Sioned to Rohan and began this whole conflict of loyalties. And don’t quote your father to me about being High Prince making it your fault. I knew my brother, too, better than you ever could.
Chastened, he hesitated a moment before replying, All right. I see your point. But that doesn’t make it much easier for Maarken.
Pol, I doubt that anything you did short of threatening Hollis or the children would ever change Maarken’s love and loyalty—and even then, he’d assume you had a very good reason. Now, stop all this nonsense and tell me what’s going on down there.
He repeated Thassalante’s report nearly word-for-word, and was rewarded with the glint of her colors as she laughed. But then he had to tell her that none of the Sunrunners or sorcerers had seen anything of Sioned.
She’ll find you when she’s good and ready, Tobin answered, not particularly disturbed. And if she does what she said she ‘d do, all your emotional wrangling will vanish.
You’re still not going to tell me what they’re doing in there, are you?
As you said about the mirror, if it works, then there ‘II be time enough for explanations.
But the mirror didn’t work.
No? Imagine if the Vellanti High Warlord had appeared out of nothingness in the middle of our dinner. It may not have worked the way you intended, but what does in life?
That’s about what Maarken and Andry said.
All right, then. I’ll keep watch for you on Skybowl—don’t any of the rest of you worry about finding Sioned and the others. If I do, I’ll let you know.
Don’t tire yourself out.
He had the impression of a mental snort of disdain, and then she withdrew. A moment later he almost followed her, for he’d forgotten to tell her about the horses, but then Andry appeared out of the night and crouched down beside Pol’s little Fire. The ten rings and two armbands shone almost as brightly as the selej over Lord Rosseyn’s head. He wore white, already dressed for the battle tomorrow except for his armor. Pol remembered seeing him sort through the Cunaxan goods, settling on a gorgeous but impractical outfit of silver. It was more suitable for a prince presiding over a victory feast than a warrior riding to battle, but Andry wouldn’t be among the combatants.
Not physically, anyway.
“I hear your kinfolk had quite an audience for their ceremony. It must’ve been something to see.”
Pol nodded.
“They’re like the stars—invisible during the day, working only by night.”
“But always there.”
Andry shrugged. “Which of us will be the focus of the conjuring?”
“Hollis says it should be you, and I agree.”
Andry’s brows arched.
“You’ve got the flair for it.” Pol smiled slightly. “And that silver armor of yours will shine like a beacon. They’ll be so busy staring at you—and then shielding their eyes from the glare—that they won’t notice what’s happening with the horses at all.”
“I promise I’ll give it my best.” He grinned wryly. “If it’s dazzlement you want, then have somebody call Fire on either side of me while I work. I assume you want this to happen just before sunup. I don’t deny I could use Sioned in this, but I can manage with Evarin. You’ll be free to conjure up any other appropriate horrors.”
“I’ll just watch, I think. If you need me, let me know.”
“Save your strength for the barrier around Meiglan.”
Pol rubbed at a scuff on his boot. “Had you thought how to arrange the conjuring?”
“I won’t be able to conjure up a whole army,” Andry warned. “I heard the diarmadh’im ended with dragon’s teeth in some staggering multiple of nine.”
“A few dozen ought to do it.”
“Good,” Andry said with unabashed relief. “There won’t be many fine details—just shapes of Fire, waving swords around. You know, I think I’ll use Vellanti distance,” he mused. “That might get to them on an instinctive level. They tend to stand farther apart from each other than we do, both in battle and out of it.”
“Do they?” Pol glanced up curiously.
“Evarin and I noticed it. They even ride more spread-out than we do. Presumably so no one can get close enough on a casual basis to knife them, and so they’ll always have room to draw their swords.”
Pol shook his head. “I couldn’t live like that.”
“If this works—and it will—we won’t have to. After there are enough Fire shadows to suit, then what?”
“Our people—the real ones!—move up into position, yelling ‘Azhrei’ as loud as they can.”
Andry grinned again. “At which point the horses stampede.”
“That’s the theory.”
“Some of the most fun I ever had as a child was watching the yearlings gallop madly across a field, thinking they were being summoned to their mamas.”
“Only to find Chay, who is not equipped to provide dinner! The same thing happens at Dragon’s Rest. They nearly trampled Rialt the first time he—“ Pol broke off, then resumed with a viciousness that surprised even him, “I can’t wait for Ostvel to bring Chiana into arm’s reach.”
“You may have to settle for Rinhoel. Didn’t you say Naydra all but issued a summary edict claiming her darling little sister for her own attentions?” He twisted one of his rings, set with a ruby for his birthplace of Radzyn. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that the Vellant’im will stampede, too, right into Tilal’s waiting arms.”
“It’d be nice, but we can’t count on it.”
Andry was quiet for a time. “I mean no offense, but the diarmadh’im should hold back from the conjuring.”
“I mean none either,” Pol said, stretching his legs, “but do you honestly think they’d consent to be under the command of the Lord of Goddess Keep?”
“I’m willing to work with them.”
“Not without me. Thassalante made that very clear. When it comes time for it, they won’t go anywhere near you unless I’m the one in control.”
“You don’t know how to work the ros’salath.”
“What you mean is that I failed at Stronghold.” He said it without shame or bitterness. “I know better now, Andry. Iron can’t touch us—if we have enough sorcerers in the weave to bear the brunt of it.”
At length, Andry said, “Torien.”
“Yes. In a small working, one or two suffice. But something this large and this powerful—without me, you’d have
Riyan, maybe Ruala if she’s in reach of the sunlight. With me—ninety-nine full-blooded diarmadh’im.”
“So.” Andry drew the sibilant out into a hiss. “You’ve won.”
“It’s not a competition,” Pol said wearily. “Unless with the Vellant’im, to win our lives. That’s why you came here, Andry. To beat them—not me.”
They regarded each other in silence for a long moment— broken by a bellow of outrage. “Goddess in glory, what did I ever do to earn such women?”
Both men jumped to their feet. Pol intensified the Fire to throw a wider circle of light. Into it came Walvis, eyes blazing like twin blue suns, and—
“Sionell?” Pol gaped at her. She was here, when he’d thought her within Skybowl, and that was enough to stagger him. But the question in his voice was for the apparition she embodied.
Her darkfire hair was knotted at her nape, both to keep it from her eyes and to provide cushion for the bronze helm cradled between one elbow and hip. Bronze as well were the guardplates on stiff leather armor that covered her back and chest. Her shirt was of Tiglathi yellow-and-blue; her tunic, the richer blue of the Desert. Brown trousers thinly piped in orange down each leg—Tuath’s colors, her dead brother’s holding—ended in matching brown boots to the knees.
She saluted him in the manner of the Isulk’im: brow, lips, heart, signifying that her mind, her breath, and her life were his to use as he would in battle. And fight she was determined to do; her eyes as she looked at him had the sheen of blue-gray steel as deadly as the sheathed sword at her belt.
There was, Pol thought absently, a certain refuge in formality. It kept one from saying other things that would make one out a total fool.
“My Lady of Tiglath,” he said, his lips almost numb.
Walvis snarled. “Lady of Rampaging Imbecility, more like it! Would you look at her?”
“We are,” Andry said. “How convenient that one of your own Tiglathis had armor that fit you so well.”
“Isn’t it,” Sionell replied flatly. “If you and my father will excuse us, I must talk with the High Prince.”
Andry bowed slightly and departed. Walvis took an aggressive step toward his daughter.
“If you think,” he warned, “you’re going to put that sword to its intended use—“
“But I do know how to use it, Papa. You taught me, remember?”
“I’ll use the flat of my own across your backside!”
She put a placating hand on his arm. He shook it off. “You can yell at me later. I have to talk to Pol. Alone, Papa. Please.”
Pol nodded, assuring Walvis with his eyes that he’d talk Sionell out of whatever she planned to do with that sword. Not that he had any confidence he could do so, of course. After one last fulminating glance for Sionell, Walvis left them, growling under his breath.
Sionell touched Pol’s hand briefly. “Make a light for us, and walk with me. I don’t want anyone else to hear this.”
When they had paced off enough sand to satisfy her, she halted him with another fleeting touch. His fingerflame made fiery sapphires of her eyes.
“The priests are dead. All of them. The ritual can’t go forth without them.”
Wild hope flashed through his heart. “Then Meggie won’t—“
“No. But the High Warlord has taken Sioned and the others.”
She told him all of it, as neatly and succinctly as a report from a master of hawks or horses. Her voice was controlled, almost expressionless, as she described what had happened inside Skybowl from the moment of their arrival to Ruala’s discovery of Isriam, from Pol’s conjuring to their fear for Meiglan’s life, from Alasen’s Fire to her own flight through a tunnel of ice. Calmly she spoke, yet her eyes revealed emotions—especially her horror at Sioned’s deadly alteration of a plan Sionell had helped devise, a scheme meant only to cripple. But moments later fierce pleasure showed that in killing the priests, the ritual was impossible. There was admiration for Meiglan’s courage, and for Alasen’s; momentary amusement at the Vellanti awe of dragon teeth and the sudden appearance of the Azhrei; and, finally, fear.
“I didn’t think I’d get to you in time,” she confessed, her voice a bit hoarse now, beginning to tremble around the edges. “I only put all this on because the first of our people I found were my own. They insisted I stop and rest, and from somewhere—“ She gestured to the armor and the sword. “I had time enough—our horses were outside Skybowl where we left them, so I didn’t have to walk the whole way. And I knew I’d never be able to get it all out in any kind of order if I didn’t rest a little while.”
Pol nodded mutely.
“I couldn’t see a way to help them from inside the castle,” she went on quickly, guiltily. “There are thousands of them—and I’m not a Sunrunner, either to distract them somehow or be able to tell you on moonlight. I had to decide.”
“Rightly,” he managed.
“Somebody else might’ve found a way to—“
He shook his head. “No. Not alone. Not even my mother, alone.” He let the flame dwindle out and turned toward Skybowl, a towering blackness against the black hills and star-swept sky. The keep was invisible from here. He could look on the last moonlight, but he knew he’d see nothing. The High Warlord knew about Sunrunners.
“I’m sorry, Pol,” Sionell whispered. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You were right to come to me. I had to know this.” He faced her again. “I only wish I knew what to do with it.”
He could barely see her in the darkness. Only the stray glints of bronze armor and steel sword, and the pale triangle of her face. He could feel her shaking, fine tremors coursing through her muscles. When he put his arms around her, it was as her friend, her prince. She sensed it—thank the Goddess, she wasn’t too weary to sense it He needed her comforting nearness now much more than she needed his. If she’d pulled away from him, he didn’t think he could stand it.
But it was so strange to feel the unyielding stiffness of armor, the chill of the breastplate through his shirt. He couldn’t even stroke her hair, all scraped back and bound as it was, all the soft warmth of it confined.
“It’s all right,” she murmured against his shoulder. “It’s going to be all right. I know how foolish that sounds. But I’m fool enough to believe it. And I’ve known you long enough to know that you are, too.”