And so it begins, Sioned thought. This thing that was their goal from the first, for which they killed from Graypearl to New Raetia so we would be helpless when this day finally came. One woman, all alone, and a gold knife ready to kill her. They think it’s done for the honor—or is it the blood-thirst?—of their God. They think he watches. Does Andry think the Goddess looks on, too? Does Pol? Do any of them understand that it’s people doing this, and deities have nothing to do with it at all?
Ruala began her translations in a whisper, but when no command to silence was forthcoming, she spoke in a normal tone. Sioned would rather she’d continued softly. These were things Meiglan didn’t need to hear.
Perhaps she can’t. Up on that rock with him, he’s shouting practically in her ear—Goddess, please don’t let her be listening to Ruala as well. How alone she must feel...
“... don’t matter,” Ruala was saying. “Not the horses or the deaths of the priests or any of the Azhrefs evil magic. It’s what they came here to destroy. The Father of Winds showed them the way, told them how—“ She broke off, breath catching in her throat.
How alone she’s always been ... and what did I ever do to help her, love her, make her feel part of us?
“What?” Alasen demanded. “What’s he telling them?”
“That the White Sacrifice is set forth in their own—I mean, our own—sacred book of dragons.”
Left for them by me. Sioned stared straight ahead, stony-faced. Clever High Princess.
“Now he’s saying that the priests were the Azhrei’s attempt at a similar sacrifice, to the Goddess—something about sin, for which the Azhrei and all who follow him will have to die.”
Her last few words were nearly inaudible; the Vellant’im had let out a roar in response to their High Warlord.
“Killing a priest is a sin,” Sioned murmured. “And I killed a hundred.”
Ruala shifted in her bonds, trying to ease the strain on her shoulder. “He attributes it to Pol.”
“Of course. We’re only women.” Interesting, this concept of sin. Killing a priest, killing a Sunrunner ... but you’d never get Andry to understand that.
The High Warlord waited for the tumult to die down. Reminded of their purpose, the Vellant’im seemed to have forgotten the army waiting down below—or were deliberately ignoring the Azhrefs troops to show their contempt.
Ruala continued, a sentence or two behind the powerful bellowing voice above. “Now that the priests are dead, the White Sacrifice cannot take place. That’s what the Azhrei believes. But he’s—“ She gasped, all the color draining from her cheeks and the sunlight harsh on the silver in her hair. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “No—“
Sioned turned her head as far as the ropes would allow. “Ruala.”
“Yes, I-I’m sorry-he says the Azhrei is wrong. It’s more important now than ever—and he will do it. He says they all remember how the High Warlord, with the priests’— permission? Blessing? I don’t know—“
A flicker of warm breeze stroked Sioned’s skin. The noise of the warriors’ approval assaulted her ears. The High Warlord stood with both arms raised, gold knife glinting in one fist.
She moved close to Ruala. “Tell me.”
“He killed his own eldest son—oh, Sioned, he used the boy’s blood to p-purify the ships, so the Father of Storms would give them fair winds—“ She moaned, and if not for the ropes would have doubled over. “I think I’m going to be sick!”
Sioned left it to Alasen and Betheyn to calm and support her as they could. The High Warlord stuck the knife back in his belt and gestured. A young man all in white sprang forward with a rattling necklet of leather thongs and talons and j. teeth. This, too, was held aloft, to great cheering, before the High Warlord draped it around Meiglan’s shoulders.
Morwenna’s Elidi, Sioned thought. Trophies of his kill. As if he’d heard her, he turned half around and stared directly into her eyes. A tiny smile curved his lips—neither sneering nor triumphant, nor even ferocious as she might have expected. Rather, he seemed to include her in some private joke that only she would appreciate.
He doesn’t believe a word of this, she realized suddenly. Not a single word or action. He knows what I know: that the God doesn’t care what’s done here any more than the dragons do. Whoever wins will claim holy favor. But people do what they do for their own reasons, and use Goddess or God or Nameless One to justify it. Nothing he’s saying is more than sounds on the wind. He’s playing them as skillfully as Meiglan at her fenath, every note perfectly chosen—and for him, utterly silent.
He inclined his head in sardonic acknowledgment of her shocked comprehension, black light dancing in his black eyes.
Yes, I understand, she thought. You can use their superstitions more effectively than Pol. You’ve been doing it for years—even to butchering your own son. And all of it because you hate us with the kind of passion most people never understand. Nothing else matters—not even a son. I am impressed by your ruthlessness, my lord. It appalls me, but I’m honest enough to admire it for what it is.
Actually, we seem to be two of a kind.
No, beloved, said a soft voice, its very gentleness vanquishing her despair. You and he are nothing alike. How can you think so? What he does is in the service of hate. The prize for him is death.
Her eyes shifted wildly, searching rocks and sky. Rohan? Only memory—but his voice lived within her more surely than her own heartbeat.
The High Warlord turned back to his warriors. A second youth clad in white climbed up to give him a velvet pouch. From this he extracted a glowing black rainbow split into six tear-shaped shards. Sioned wasn’t even looking at them with faradhi eyes, and still she could see power shimmering around the pearls, their aleva like a Sunrunner’s or sorcerer’s.
And it hurt. With the needle stabbing through her palm, the sight of them hurt. She looked away, and the pain faded.
A glance at Alasen told her she couldn’t feel it. Ruala didn’t, either. An indication of power, perhaps—Johlarian had to concentrate to sense the pearls, but Saumer had no trouble. Neither did Pol and Andry. Merisel had worn them—once. With gifts as strong as hers, their contact with her flesh must have been like black lightning.
The two young men came forward once more, carrying heavy silver poles twice their height surmounted by golden dragons with outstretched wings. Around the poles was wrapped thick white cloth; unrolled, it formed a taut curtain behind Meiglan and the High Warlord, sealing them from Sioned’s view. To the left stood yet another youth, supporting a tall staff from which the crowned lightning-bolt banner flared.
More sons? Sioned wondered, noting the set of their bones, their height, the touch of additional arrogance common to offspring of the truly powerful. Then her eyes were drawn to the shadow play on the white cloth. The sun was fully risen now. Meiglan and the High Warlord were outlined against the white cloth like thread-sketchings of a tapestry.
“Sioned—he’s going to kill her,” Ruala hissed. “What are we going to do?”
“Wait,” she said.
“For what?” cried Alasen.
One sketch lifted the long, sharp shadow of a knife. Sioned tensed for the splatter of red blood on white cloth. The Vellant’im bellowed for Meiglan’s death— and then blurted in surprise and terror.
A subtle, familiar tingle at the edges of her mind announced a Sunrunner’s presence nearby. As it strengthened, so did the burning ache in her hand.
Alasen stumbled against her, choking. Sioned almost lost her balance. “Ruala—help us!”
Hard hands held her upright, digging into her arms. The last thing she thought before the pain and the colors swept over her was, Well, Andry, my lad, you certainly have a sense of timing.
He knew the instant he gathered Evarin, Hollis, Chayla, and Jeni into the conjuring that not even with the dranath would he be able to manage it. Not in the spectacular fashion demanded, with dozens of fiery warriors springing from the sand. He disciplined two very practiced and two very raw powers with casual skill, sending Fire across the Desert in a distracting whirlwind. He broke it into separate pieces and began the first few images simultaneously. A few would not be enough. He could establish them and let the others maintain them as he conjured more, but the most he could hope for was ten or twenty. He needed dozens, and to do it, he needed power.
So he reached for the most powerful Sunrunner he knew.
He saw her there, just below the rocks and the white banner stretched behind the High Warlord, sunlight shafting through a break in the crags to strike sparks from her green eyes. Alasen beside her, Ruala, Betheyn and Isriam nearby; each brutally bound. Behind each was a warrior of many, many kills.
Damn them! But he shoved his fury and outrage aside and wove a net of light to fling around Sioned.
Shock ripped through him. No! It shouldn’t hurt!
Andry—the needles—find Riyan, quick!
He hadn’t known he’d sent the words until Sioned answered—a feeble mockery of her usually crisp mental voice. He didn’t understand what she meant, but he could feel her colors bleed at the edges, stinking of cruel iron.
Andry, please! Ruala can’t shield us alone!
He sought, and found, and wrapped the startled colors through the sunlight. Instinct and familiarity made Riyan weave himself with Ruala, and together they spun protection for the vulnerable faradh ‘im. The pain eased, not entirely gone but bearable.
It was the best Andry could do for them. He began to work.
A dozen columns of flame burst from the sand, growing arms and legs and swords. Dozens more formed behind them, around them. An army sown of dragon teeth rose from the Desert at the Lord of Goddess Keep’s bidding, and he laughed within himself as horrified Vellant’im scrambled up Skybowl’s hillside, dropping their swords in their frantic haste.
We’ll win without even a fight! he exulted. Sunrunners and sorcerers together—under my direction. Not Pol’s. Mine.
And Sioned made not a murmur of protest, or any attempt to work on her own that would siphon power away from him.
Well, it was time she got into it. With both of them conjuring, they could send the enemy screaming into the Desert for Tilal to pick off at leisure.
Take the west, he told her. When she gave no answer, he called on dranath to increase the force of his words. Sioned! To the west! Another fifty or so, and we ‘II have them!
... can’t... Her colors shivered. Use me, Andry ... but I c—can’t ... work...
He sensed it then: Riyan and Ruala had put their energies into guarding him. The Sunrunners would not die, for the conjuring was his alone. But by weaving them into its structure he was causing them unbelievable agony. Sioned, Evarin, Hollis, Chayla, Jeni—Alasen—he cursed himself for a careless, thoughtless, overconfident fool.
... that’s d-dranath for you... Sioned’s voice was a mere whisper now. Finish it, please ... can’t stand ... much more...
He released them one by one, as quickly as he dared. And heard their moans at the surcease of pain.
The Fire conjurings vanished. Andry barely noticed. He threaded the sunlight and looked at the captive faradh’im again. This time, as they sagged into their guards’ rough grasp, he saw their right hands trembling in spasms, and the needles through their palms, dark now with the renewed flow of blood.
When Andry strode to the front of the army, newborn sunlight dazzling off white clothes and silver breastplate, Pol exchanged a wry glance with Maarken.
“Nice entrance,” he remarked.
“Family talent,” Chay growled. “Your family—not mine.”
When Fire swept across the Desert and warriors were conjured of two parts flame and two parts Andry’s imagination, Pol nodded sincere admiration of his cousin’s control.
“That’s it, keep ‘em coming...”
“They’ll have to build a separate tower at Goddess Keep to house his conceit,” Chay muttered.
Maarken winked at Pol, each hearing the pride through the gruffness.
When dozens became a hundred, then close to two hundred, Pol’s jaw dropped. “How in all Hells is he doing that?”
“Does it matter?” Maarken asked, awe in his voice for his brother’s power.
But when Daniv galloped up, leaped from his horse, and whispered urgently to Pol, “My lord, stop him! He’s killing them!”—Pol had time only to glance at the young prince before the fiery warriors vanished.
“What the—? What happened?” Chay didn’t wait for an answer he knew they couldn’t give. Swinging up into the saddle as if he had forty winters instead of seventy, he cantered out to his son. Andry mounted behind him and a few moments later they had returned to Pol, Maarken, and Daniv.
“Damn them!” Andry slid down from behind his father’s saddle, shaking with rage. “The whoresons used steel needles—right through their hands! I needed their colors, but the iron—“
“Are they all right?” Maarken asked. “What about Hollis and Chayla?”
“The pain ended with the working.” He raked both hands through his sun-gilt brown hair, rings and wristbands bright. “Damn them!”
Pol sent Daniv back to the other Sunrunners. Then he walked a few paces away, his movements stiff with fury and helplessness.
Once Andry had conjured the warriors and maintained them for a little while, Pol had planned to set a dome around Meiglan the way Sioned had around Rohan and Roelstra. Once the High Warlord discovered he couldn ‘t kill Meiglan, he’d turn his attention to battle. If he convinced his men to fight—doubtful after the priests’ deaths, dragons’ teeth, and Meiglan’s immunity—Pol would use the ros’salath to push the Vellant’im into the Desert. Surrounding them with his own cavalry, he would order them to surrender their swords and give them safe passage to their ships at Radzyn. No one would have to die.
He would not—would not—use the ros’salath to kill.
Andry wouldn’t see it that way, of course. Andry, who had entreated the Goddess to help them kill.
Earlier, once what Sionell told him about the priests had sunk in, Pol had blessed his mother even though he was horrified by her actions. He understood why she’d told him nothing: in case it didn’t work, he wouldn’t be counting on it. There would be no frantic revision of tactics, no scramble to work out an alternative.
But with the priests dead, he’d thought Meiglan safe. Now his thoughts skittered like a thousand frantic, frightened mice. Sight of the High Warlord brandishing a gold knife had stopped Pol’s heart. Priests or no priests, Meiglan was going to die.
Pol turned on his boot heel. “Maarken.”
“My prince,” said his Battle Commander, coming to his side.
“Whatever happens, I forbid you the sunlight. Do you understand? I don’t want you even to think about Sunranning.”
“Pol—“
“I don’t need you,” Pol said bluntly. “Not as afaradhi. I need you to win this battle for me if I fail.” He paced back to where the others stood, singling out Andry with his eyes. “My Lord, I thank you for trying. No one could have done more—or even half as much. I ask you now to yield control of the ros ‘salath to me.”
“ Andry’s eyes were startlingly blue, pupils contracted to pinpoints in reaction to brightening sunlight—and dranath. “You don’t have the experience. Bring Thassalante and his people in, and I’ll do whatever you like. But it must be mine, Pol.”
“A generous offer that I must refuse. You can’t do it without the diarmadh’im, and they won’t participate unless
I’m—“
“You’ve never done it successfully. I have. Look it in the face, Pol. I can do it. You can’t.”
“Andry,” Pol said quietly. “I beg of you, don’t fight me.”
Chay grabbed Andry’s silver-armored shoulder and Pol’s brass-greaved arm. “You think Meiglan has time for this? Look at the sky!”
The first moon was rising, white and full in the pale blue sky.
Maarken had mounted his horse, and was now at the head of the army. His voice rang out in the clear morning air.
“Sorry my father and I couldn’t whistle up a victory for you!” he shouted. “But now they’ll keep half an eye on their stolen Radzyn and Whitecliff horses—just in case! I’m even sorrier my brother couldn’t conjure up two armies instead of only one—these bearded bastards just don’t know when they’re defeated before they begin! They seem determined to pretend they’re brave!”
“Aye,” a woman called out derisively. “Brave enough against a whistle and a Fire, m’lord!”
“Exactly,” Maarken agreed. “They haven’t met up with you yet, Hestiba!”
Laughter rippled through the ranks. Pol’s gaze still locked with Andry’s in a battle of wills that would determine whether these people would fight a battle in blood.
“As for the other eye—after the show my brother put on, you know where that’s going to be! On every grain of sand in the Desert—just in case! Which by my reckoning leaves them half an eye each. And unless each of them has a third eye hidden under his beard, they’ll be fighting damned near blind!”
Giving no quarter, receiving none, Pol and Andry called a silent truce and turned to watch Maarken. The Battle Commander resumed speaking, his voice quieter yet still carrying to the four massed groups of cavalry. Walvis led his former students and his own guard from Remagev, with Laroshin as captain. The much-diminished knot of Isulk’im was led by Visian. Daniv was temporarily absent from sharing command with Draza of Rohan’s Stronghold troops and the few who had survived Tuath; the last group, the largest, was Maarken’s own.
“But we are-going into this with a third eye—and a fourth, and a hundredth. Remember Stronghold? Remember i how they were penned like sheep and you picked them off neat as a dragon’s breakfast? We called it Sunrunners’ Rings. Well, we’ve got more Sunrunners here with more rings than sense—as is usual of the breed,” he added, and they chuckled again at the self-deprecating humor. “But we also have something else—someone else.”
His right hand, rings aglitter, pointed to where Thassalante and his ninety-eight sorcerers stood apart from the army.
“Yes, they’re diarmadh’im. And today it’ll be Sunrunners and sorcerers working together, with all the power and Fire
Ithey can weave among them.”
“Those whoreson Vellant’im don’t have a hope!” bellowed an Isulki.
“Hope?” Maarken seized on the word. “Let me tell you something. Going into a fight hoping for victory is as futile as if I hoped this would be restored to me!” He held up his maimed left arm. “I don’t hope we’ll win—I know it!”
“Well, cousin?” Pol murmured under the confirming roar, sensing along every prickle of his skin the Vellanti reorganization up the mountain. “He’s made the commitment for us both. He’s got us. And we’re stuck with each other.”
“Just like always? Not quite, Pol.”
Before Chay could stop him, he vaulted into the saddle with a born horseman’s ease and galloped to where Maarken sat his own horse. Cheers swelled anew as he made his appearance—just as when he’d ridden out to conjure warriors from pottery shards.
Pol watched with a weary bitterness. To him, anything that’s not winning is losing. He’ll fight me. With one moon rising and a knife at Meiglan’s throat, he’ll fight me.
“My brother the Battle Commander has told you the right of it,” he called out. “You don’t know me as well as you know Maarken, so I’ll tell you my part of it myself. Even if I didn’t wear these ten rings, I’d still be here to fight for you and alongside you. I was born here, bred here through all the generations back to the first prince to rule the Desert. I’ve come back to defend it—and I bring with me all the power of the Goddess’ Sunrunners. You’ve heard how the Vellant’im were beaten back at Goddess Keep. I’m ready to lead the faradh’im here in doing the same.”
He stopped, looking off to where the sorcerers stood. “You know as well as I what some sorcerers have done in the past, I have opposed them with all my strength. But that must be forgotten now. I am willing to do so—to forget even what some sorcerers are doing at this very moment in
Firon.”
Pol’s every muscle went rigid. You self-serving piece of—
“Yet I’m told they will not work with me because I’m Lord of Goddess Keep. They’ve put a condition on helping with this task. That condition is him.”
He pointed at Pol, of course.
“They call him Diarmadh’rei—their prince. Why is that? you ask. Why should High Prince Rohan’s son, afaradhi by gifts if not by formal training, hold authority over sorcerers?”
Maarken’s face was carved of stone. His lifelong night- mare was here and real, and it paralyzed him. Pol saw it, and damned both himself and Andry.
But exclusively Andry for something else. Rohan ‘s son— but not Sioned’s. That’s what he wants me to admit. What it would do to her—I should’ve beaten him senseless when I had the chance.
Daniv, who had returned with Sethric to whisper that the Sunrunners were all right, stiffened as if he’d swallowed a sword. “What is he talking about?”
“How should I know?” Sethric looked down from his saddle at Chay. “My lord, he’s your son—silence him!”
The old man shook his head gently. “Pol is High Prince now or never at all. For everyone. It’s time they knew it.”
Hearing him, Pol forced his body to suppleness and walked forward. Some might think it a disadvantage not to be on horseback, but Rohan’s instincts ran through Pol strong and sure. He’d never mastered the knack of collecting all attention with a single glance, but this was an acceptable substitute.
As he approached, Maarken dismounted. It forced Andry to do the same or lose the army to resentment of his disrespect for their High Prince.
“They call me Diarmadh’rei” Pol said, “because of what lam.”
Andry stood quite still, his eyes the eyes of a hunting cat quivering with the scent of a kill. Maarken, just as immobile outwardly, trembled just as hard inside—but as if he was the prey.
“It’s true,” Pol said, making sure his words carried, “that the diarmadh’im will weave sunlight only if I am present within it.” He faced the mounted soldiers, rows on rows of them, straining to see him. “It’s also true that you follow Lord Maarken because he long since earned your trust. Trust,” he repeated. “That’s what matters.”
And the sorcerers don’t trust Andry, for the reasons Andry himself said. Everybody knows it. Tactical error, cousin.
He paused, trying to find the words, then shrugged mentally. This was one of those times his father had spoken of, when only one course was possible, and you did or said the only thing you could.
“Their name for me is Diarmadh’rei. I suppose I could also be called Faradh’rei.” Andry’s eyes ignited; Pol enjoyed it only for a split instant. The first moon was rising low and fast, just as Audrite had predicted. “Your name for me is High Prince. Whatever words you use, what I am in the end is yours.”
They agreed, and left no doubt that they agreed. Pol had heard this roar for his father many times. It was a sound different than what he’d heard for himself since Rohan’s death. You do belong to us, their shouts told him now, and we to you.
He held up a hand for quiet. When he had it, he said, “I will say now what I had thought to wait for until this was finished. I swear to you that I will be High Prince for everyone. Now, with the help of the diarmadh ‘im and the Lord of Goddess Keep, it will be finished.”
Andry stepped smoothly to his side. “Well done,” he murmured for only Pol to hear. “My compliments.”
Pol gestured Maarken back up onto his horse, and with Andry beside him paced across the sand toward Skybowl.
“You avoided the issue quite cleverly,” Andry continued. “When will you admit to them what and who you truly are?”
“Never.” He half-expected the sand to suck at his feet, dragging his steps. He should have known better. Each individual grain was firm under his boots, supporting his every step in dawn-pale gold. He was High Prince. This was his Desert. He belonged to this land.
“How will you explain Jinan and Rislyn? You’ll have to someday, you know.”
Pol shrugged. “Miyon believed what you told him.”
“Good Goddess—poor little Meiglan?” Andry forced a laugh. “Another lie for the list. You’re that afraid they’d reject you?”
“I’m that concerned for my mother’s peace.” And it won’t hurt if people believe that Meiglan—but she won’t use it, like Alasen—that’ll explain—let’s see Andry come after the High Princess for being—oh, Goddess, Meggie, Meggie, she must be terrified up there—
He headed for a tall dune, knowing how exposed and isolated the two of them would be. Out of arrow-shot, but a short ride down Skybowl would remedy that for the Vellant’im.
With an effort, Pol resumed, “While we were talking, so was the High Warlord. Probably about why the warriors vanished, or that the Azhrei’s power is waning and they have nothing to fear. But Meiglan is the key. They won’t attack until she’s—“ He paused to clear his throat. “It must be the signal.”
“Then you plan to shield just her?” Andry shook his head. “They’ll hack their way through—and even with all those sorcerers, eventually it’s going to hurt. Besides, what happened to me could happn to you, and you’d catch Sioned and Alasen and Ruala in it. That would redouble the pain. Believe me, I know.”
“That’s why I’m going to weave the sorcerers into it first, and make a shield. Besides, the knife is gold. If you’ll take a quick look, you’ll see that none of the Vellant’im up on the rocks carries steel of any kind.”
“I’ll take your word for it. But that leaves the rest of them to deal with. Which means you don’t need the sorcerers, not really. Sunrunners can’t be hurt by a gold knife.”
“Do you honestly think I’d chance that the High Warlord doesn’t have steel somewhere on him?”
Andry grunted. “All right. But give me the weaving, Pol. Give it to me, and I promise they’ll all be dead before the second moon rises.”
Pol ignored the suggestion. “I’ll only need a little while, just until it’s seen that the High Warlord can’t kill her.”
“Oh, fine. Then they’ll go for your mother and Alasen. Pol, you can’t limit this weaving just to Meiglan’s protection. You have to let me construct a dome out of the ros’salath and tighten it around the enemy.”
“To kill them all.”
“Yes.”
Pol resisted a snarl. “While the High Warlord kills Meiglan!”
“Is one life worth more than the hundreds—“
“If it was Alasen’s throat, would you say the same thing?”
Their strides had slowed as they climbed the dune. Halfway up, Andry said, “Why am I here, Pol? You don’t need me or the Sunrunners.”
“You’re right—I don’t.” Pol gained the top of the rise and swung around sharply. “But think what they’ll see—our people and the Vellant’im. You and I, working with each other and with sorcerers. You wanted me to admit what I am—and this is it.”
“High Prince for everyone?” Andry’s lip curled. “How noble. Tell me, do you include in this ‘everyone’ the kin of those who butchered my brother Sorin?”
I even include you, cousin. Pol glanced southeast, where the first moon was three-quarters risen above the sand. Turning, he squinted up the hillside that seethed with Vellant’im, to the white cloth and the two figures before it.
“Andry, if you meant any of what you said about being born and bred here, about fighting for them and beside them—don’t fight me.”
Silently, the Lord of Goddess Keep climbed up to stand with the High Prince.
Jahnev had dragged over a chair for Rislyn. She sat in the sunlight, blind eyes closed beneath frowning pale brows.
“When can she tell us—?” he whispered.
“Shh.” Jihan shook her head. The others—except Meig— gathered anxiously nearby, waiting for word of their parents. If I knew enough about Sunrunning, Jihan thought resentfully, I’d do it myself and we wouldn’t have to rely on Lir’reia. I don’t know what we’ll do if she doesn’t understand she’s to fly over Skybovsl and then come back and show Linnie what she sees. And even if she does, she also has. to know she can’t get too close or they’ll kill her.
Helplessness was a fluttery feeling near her heart and a sickness in her stomach and she hated it. She should be doing this—and not just because she always took the lead no matter the risk. It was her duty as her father’s daughter and as a Sunrunner. Duty wasn’t a new concept, though this was the first time she’d ever thought it in so many words. I’m a princess and a Sunrunner, and that means responsibilities. Why didn’t anybody ever teach me how to do them?
Rislyn’s fingers pressed her own, and she watched her sister’s eyes open. “Lir’reia doesn’t understand. I’m sorry, Jihan.”
Alleyn pushed in a little closer. “You mean we won’t know what’s happening at Skybowl until somebody tells us?”
Jihan swung around fiercely, ready with the sharp side of her tongue. The deep rumble of another dragon voice turned her back to the window. Lir’reia crouched on the sand now, wings wrapped submissively along her back. But her neck xvas extended, her head high with defiance. Azhdeen paced before her like an angry father before a naughty child—
Jihan knew that scene well enough. But Azhdeen’s sudden roar outdid any scold her father had ever given her.
Rislyn gave a start and caught her breath. Jihan held her hand tighter. “It’s all right, Linnie. It’s just Azhdeen and he’s mad at her.”
“He sure is,” Audran whispered, and in his eyes was certainty that he never, ever wanted a dragon of his own.
“Shh!” Rislyn commanded. “I’m trying to hear!”
Azhdeen bellowed again as Lir’reia straightened up, her tail lashing up a small, furious sandstorm.
Rislyn was nodding. “He’s not mad at Lir’reia. Don’t you hear it?”
“No,” Jihan admitted reluctantly.
Azhdeen reared and screamed again, and this time other dragons responded. Maarken’s Pavisel darted by in a black streak, silver flashing under her wings. Azhly landed near Lir’reia in a froth of sand swept up by red-gold wings, howling a demand that made Azhdeen snarl. Soon all eight dragons had gathered, plus the one who had not yet selected a human for his own.
“What are they doing?” Maara whispered as all the dragons fell silent.
“Sunrunning,” Jahnev said. “Talking to each other. Not like people do it, but my Granda says they can. And she knows more about dragons than anybody.”
“But why? What are they saying?” Talya asked.
Lir’reia bounded a few steps away from the others, and looked straight up at the window where Rislyn sat. Jihan felt her twin go rigid and tremble in the bright sunshine. The dragon’s silvery wings spread wide and the blue shadows of her underwings spread across the sand.
Soldiers on horseback stretched the length of Goddess Keep, with Edrel in the middle—the same keystone position Torien had chosen with the devr’im. If he’d looked back over his shoulder, he would have seen them at the gate house balcony, already at work in the thin dawn sunlight. Antoun had mentioned that light wasn’t necessary for the ros’salath, just made it easier. Edrel couldn’t help thinking it was comparable to being a bard: the really good ones could move an audience to tears with nothing but their voices. The lesser kind required a supporting lute.
The gates were shut tight. Between them and the mounted troops were rows of foot soldiers—with a goodly number of castle folk and Jayachin’s people mixed in. The Sunrunners, of course, were all safely locked into the keep. Torien—or, more to the point, Man—had long since commanded that not one of them risk their precious persons in a fight.
Edrel calmed his restive horse. The Vellent’im marched toward him across the muddy field in total silence but for the squelch of their boots and the occasional clang of armor or sword. Soon enough they’d walk right into that horror of an invisible wall. And even while he prayed it would hold, he was of two minds about it. He’d heard what it had done before; no one should die that way, shrieking in madness. And if it did hold, and there was nothing for him to do but gather up the bodies for burning, Torien—or, more to the point, Jolan—could make an effective push for real power at Goddess Keep.
There was a sudden sinister hiss as hundreds of Vellant’im simultaneously drew their swords without breaking stride. Edrel swallowed hard. Even knowing what rose in the morning-mist to protect him, he’d never even been close to a battle before. He’d never seen massed ranks of armed men march on him with every intention of gutting him and leaving his corpse for the carrion crows.
If this was what war was, then if he survived it he’d spend the rest of his life gladly tucked away at River Ussh.
A thing he knew to be impossible. He was Pol’s man, even more than his dead brother Kerluthan had been. Edrel had been Pol’s squire; the belt he wore had been bestowed by Pol’s own hands. More immediately, all these people around him knew it, and looked to him for leadership. He’d been trained to it. But no part of him wanted to prove how well he’d learned those lessons. He’d been hoping to experience the fever of battle so often described by those who’d fought. Hoping, fearing ... but all he felt was a terrible bone-deep chill.
Perhaps it would come to him later. If the ros’salath broke, and he had to fight, perhaps it would come to him then.
He begged the Goddess even more fervently that the
SKY BOWL
651 devr’im would hold firm, no heart in him to care about the enemy’s agony or Man’s plots for power.
The gold knife was warm in his hand. It shone steady in the growing brightness, token of victory to come as soon as it was slicked dark with her blood. He surveyed his restive warriors, judging the effect of his most recent words. The part of their tension due to the Azhrei’s tricks had abated. He had condemned the Azhrei’s sin of killing the priests, he had scorned the Azhrei’s attempt to summon the horses, he had laughed at the Azhrei’s feebleness in creating warriors from sand and Fire who instantly vanished. He had them back, when he had almost lost them. But he knew that only with her death would all the clans believe only in him again.
When the fires died, he mounted the highest rocks to shout his derision. The first moon was fully in the sky now. The second would appear soon. The White Sacrifice would die, and the third moon would begin to slip out from behind the first, and the Azhrei and all his minions would be slaughtered.
He saw the man appear on a tall dune, armor shining golden and hair even brighter above it, sword sheathed. The other, the faradhi lord, stood beside him all in white, silver breastplate like a mirror. A fine pair they were, magnificently arrayed, knowing as well as he the value of posturing.
The green-eyed Azhreia understood, too. He was glad she did; it had been a very long time since anyone had truly understood him. But she had, without a word being spoken. Yes, the old Azhrei had been a fortunate man.
More fortunate still in not living long enough to watch his son die.
He felt the presence of his own sons, separated for the first time from the clans to which he had given them at journey’s beginning. He had not thought of them or spoken their names even in his own mind since the dragon ships sailed. It pleased him that their beards were as full and rich as his own had been, and that many golden kills were woven there. There would be another wife for each of them when they returned home, and more grandsons for him.
He glanced down at his frail white victim, framed by the taut white banner. How I should like to take you home with me, and make you my wife, and watch every man who is a man devour his own liver with envy.
Such a waste...
The second moon slid into view, small and white and curving as a virgin’s breast. His warriors greeted it with a thunder of voices and swords on shields that made their horses cry out in alarm.
He inhaled deeply, savoring the moment. Warm air drifted up from the Desert, bearing scents of horse and leather and sweat and fading fears. The sun was clean on his face, sharp on the graceful arc of the knife. He turned, adjusting his grip. He would be swift. He would be merciful. He owed her that.
He gazed down at her for a long moment. Her beauty was unmatched, her cleverness greater than her beauty—and her courage outshone both as the sun outshone the pale moons.
Such a waste.