CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

It took Andry five days to die.

The afternoon of the eighty-ninth, late sunlight crawled across the floor toward the bed. The warm golden touch woke him. It was Feylin who saw his eyes open; it was Evarin who began screaming. All Chay’s strength was needed to drag the Sunrunner physician’s convulsing body through the antechamber to the hall.

Sioned pierced Evarin back together. Feylin sealed the room to sunlight and forbade faradh’im and diarmadh’im to enter.

That night Meiglan was Burned on the crags at Skybowl where she had died. Sioned called Fire to her shroud: the silken cloak she had sewn for Pol.

Midmorning on the ninetieth, Andry woke again. Chay heard the rustle of movement and roused from a listless doze. He had barely spoken his son’s name when Fire lunged wildly through the room—candles to curtains, rugs to quilt. Chay cried out and tore the burning coverlet from his son’s body. Feylin ran in from the next room moments later, yanking the drapes down, stamping them onto the rug to -smother the flames. Walvis, just behind her, slammed his fist into Andry’s jaw. With loss of consciousness, the Fire vanished.

Shaking, Feylin forbade all light in Andry’s room.

That night Tilal and Gemma poured sweet oils onto another pyre. Maarken lit the Fire, and at dawn Hollis summoned wind to carry Andrev’s ashes into the Desert of his ancestors.

That same dawn, the ninety-first of Winter, Sioned slipped cautiously through an antechamber door, squinting in the gloom. Feylin was alone with Andry. Chay had spent the night watching Fire take his grandson. A sleeping draught ensured Andry would not wake. Sioned conjured the tiniest of fingerflames—all she dared—and tried to touch his dreaming mind.

Afterward, Feylin held her while she wept.

At noon on the ninety-second, thirty people arrived from Feruehe. Tobin was forbidden to see her son. When Chay took her into a private chamber to tell her why, she broke as she had not broken in all the long years of her life.

“Nobody gifted can be in the room with him,” he said, kneeling before her chair, gray head bowed. “Even I can feel ... something. I don’t know what it is—just at the edges of my mind, as if it can’t quite get hold of me.”

“Sioned will help him. She can weave his pattern again, the way she did for me the night Father was Burned.”

“She tried. Yesterday, this morning—there’s been some success. When he wakes now, he doesn’t call Fire he can’t control. He spoke to Feylin last night. A few words. This morning he woke and he understood when I talked to him.” And asked if he’d dreamed it, or if there really had been a dragon...

“So it’s only a matter of t-time and effort, and—“

He cradled her frail hands in his own. “Tobin ... too much of him is gone. Not even Sioned can bring back what he’s lost.”

“No! I don’t believe it!”

“Listen to me, my love. At first it was as if he’d been stunned and his brain had just—I don’t know, shut down. Sioned says it’s something much worse. His mind grabs at light—Tobin, there can’t even be a lit candle in the room.”

Tobin whimpered. Her child, denied the light that was a Sunrunner’s life.

Chay struggled to continue. “I thought Pol could help—but he hasn’t opened his eyes since he killed the High Warlord. It’s only sleep. But Sioned says that even though he’s powerful, he isn’t much good at what needs doing. Unthreading Andry from light—I don’t understand it, but Sioned says—“

“ ‘Sioned says’—damn Sioned! Her son isn’t shut away in the dark!”

He didn’t tell her that even with the sandstorm shutters closed and all the chinks filled, even with the curtains drawn, even with no candles in the room — even then Sioned was in danger. She must fight Andry constantly for control of the fmgerflame she used to reach him, to glimpse the mad jumble of color and try to force it back into the orderly elegance that was Andry.

“It’s not darkness, Tobin. It’s the light. He’s not lost in shadows, but in too much light.”

“And it’s killing him,” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Take me to him. I want to see my son.”

“You can’t.” He clung to her hands. “There’s nothing you can do for him — and what he’d do to you without even knowing it — “

“I don’t care! I want to see him! Andry — !”

She pushed herself to her feet. He caught her in his arms — so slight and delicate, and he so old now, so weak. He sat with her in his lap and rocked her as she cried. He had never seen her cry like this. Never with such hopeless grief, as if her heart had shattered. She had wept for parents and brother and two sons, but never for someone not yet dead.

That afternoon, Tobren sneaked into her father’s darkened room while Betheyn was washing her face at the bathroom sink. The child conjured a fragile fingerflame to see by, gasping with joy as Andry’s eyelids flickered open.

The gasp became a sob of agony. Beth snatched her up and fled into the hallway, calling for Sioned.

That night, Sioned sat by her chamber hearth, recovering from her work with Tobren’s bruised mind and another fruitless attempt to restore Andry’s splintering colors. She glanced up as the door opened. Tobin limped into the room and said a simple and terrible thing.

“You helped Meath. Now help Andry. Help my son to die.”

Beth counted Andry’s breaths — soft and regular with sleep. The chamber around them was blacker than a starless sky. But even in the dark he knew who she was, called her by her name.

“Beth...”

She took his hands. Warm, firm, supple — his body was strong, unharmed. It didn’t seem possible that his mind was dying.

“Beth,” he said again, calm and quiet. “Let me die.”

“Andry—“ Grief choked the rest.

“I want to. Tell Sioned I want to.” He sighed. “It’s all shining, Beth ... so bright ... always thought death was supposed to be dark...”

“Andry? Andry!”

He was unconscious again, and dangerous to no one. He could conceivably live like this for quite some time. Years, perhaps. If no light reached him, no further harm could come to him or anyone else. But he would never be a Sunrunner again. He would never weave light and power again, never know the colors of another’s mind. He was as profoundly blind as Rislyn.

At dawn when Feylin returned to take the watch, Beth heard a dragon call out plaintively, just outside Andry’s closed windows. Shivering, she hurried her steps to Sioned’s room. Tobin and Alasen sat with her at the empty hearth, keeping each other wordless, sleepless company. Welts circled Sioned’s and Alasen’s wrists, matching Beth’s own; high-collared shirts hid the rope burns at their necks. The marks on their hands were nearly healed. Evarin said there would be no permanent damage, not even scars. The High Warlord had been as precise with the needles as he’d been with the single killing thrust to Meiglan’s heart.

Beth could not imagine anyone strong enough to give Andry similar mercy. He needed it desperately—but who would do it?

“Andry says...” She cleared her throat. “He says he doesn’t want you to try anymore. He wants it to be over.”

Alasen slowly bent her face into her hands. Tobin met Sioned’s gaze.

The High Princess nodded. “At sunset, then. If we let the light in, I think it will take him. I’ve felt it hovering, almost as if it’s searching for a way in. If we let it inside ... when it leaves, he’ll go with it.”

Tobin made a small, strangled sound. Alasen reached both hands to her, covering the thin fingers with her own.

“All he ever wanted was the sunlight. There are worse ways to die than to be claimed by what you love best.” Alasen looked up, green eyes liquid with sorrow. “Help him to die, Sioned.”

On the ninety-third evening of Winter in the Dragon Year 737, Andry died.

Only his father was with him. When Chay opened the shutters wide, Andry seized the last sunlight—or it seized him. No one would ever know.

For a few moments it seemed the light had healed him. He looked into Chay’s eyes and smiled. “I’ve been remembering,” he murmured. “All the colors ... so bright... so good ... it’s all right, you know. I’m not afraid. Tell Mother that.”

“I will,” Light danced around him, glimmering even into Chay’s mind.

“And how much I love you ... and my children ... is Tobren—was she here?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of all of them.” As shining eyes sought the sun, Chay said, “Maarken and Hollis want them to live at Whitecliff.”

“Yes,” Andry said slowly, as if from a vast distance. “But let Andrev ... stay with Tilal...”

Chay replied, “Of course,” for Andry didn’t know that his firstborn was dead. He groped desperately for something else to say, something that would keep Andry with him just a small, selfish while longer. Stilling the need, he stroked the smooth brow, watching the smile strengthen and the light glow in blue eyes.

“Sleep now. I love you, my son,” he whispered as the light and Andry died.

That night there was another Burning. Tobren and Chayla poured out the fragrant oils; Maarken and Hollis called Fire. Tobin stood beside Chay until dawn, refusing to leave before Sibned summoned a gentle wind to carry the ashes into the Desert.

At midnight, high above a whisper of breeze and the snap and hiss of flames, one keening cry pealed. It was answered by the other dragons at Skybowl, and then was gone.

At dawn, Sunrunners wove the first light to spread word throughout the princedoms that the Lord of Goddess Keep was dead. No diarmadh’im joined them, not even Riyan.

Everyone returned to the castle then. Chay tried to coax Tobin to follow. She shook her head, staring at the empty, blackened stones that had been Meiglan’s and then Andrev’s and now Andry’s pyre.

“He’s gone, Tobin. Come inside, love.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You’ve been here all night, you’re not strong enough—“

“Strength?” She glared at him. “I carried four sons hi my body. I gave them life from my life. And now three of them are d-dead. Leave me alone!”

She limped a few paces away. He glanced helplessly at Sioned, who nodded to indicate she would stay and keep watch over Tobin. Chay walked slowly around the lake, back to the castle, wishing it had been him on that pyre. No man should outlive three of his sons.

All that night, Sionell watched over Pol. Exhaustion and shock made his sleep seem more like a coma, but there was no danger. Sionell’s mother came in regularly to reassure herself that it was only sleep. Pol’s mother looked in once, identified someone named Camigina as Pol’s benefactor, and explained that a conversation on sunlight had revealed this sodden sleep to be a normal result of using so much power. Then Sioned had returned to Andry, as Feylin had done.

Sionell was watching at the windows when Andry’s pyre was lit. With the first flare of Sunrunner’s Fire, she flinched, fingers bunched around a tunic she was sewing for her elder son. Tiglath’s colors, blue velvet faced in yellow silk, for Jahnev to wear when the princes assembled to confirm Pol as the new High Prince. It was necessary work, this tunic, for more than reasons of pride. Sewing kept her hands occupied, and sometimes even her mind.

Until tonight, Chayla had shared the task of tending Pol. She was forbidden her uncle’s room, and there were no wounded—none that she would treat, for there were plenty of captive Vellant’im still below Skybowl—so she exercised her physician’s skills on Pol. Not that she was needed. He only slept. But he must be washed, and food and water must be eased down his throat. Simple, routine, mindless tasks, done in silence.

But not in darkness. Not as it had been with Andry...

And what if we’d had to shut Pol away from the light, too?

Sionell lit a candle on the bedside table, telling herself it was to sew by. The light was shielded from Pol’s face by the drape of tapestry hangings. She didn’t so much see as sense his eyes open. She let her needlework fall to her lap and folded her hands atop it, waiting for him to speak.

“I already have a cloak to Burn in,” he said, his voice thick and raspy.

“What makes you think you’ll need one?” Besides, they’d already used Meiglan’s work for Meiglan herself. At I Sionell’s suggestion.            I

He shifted in bed as if every bone had been bruised. “Why are you here?”

Charming as ever, she thought. “Everyone else is outside and will be until dawn. Andry died today.”

“How long?”

“Five days.”

“Goddess.” He paused. “I couldn’t find him. After. I killed him. I took the power and I used it and it killed him.”

“No. That’s not how it happened. He drew in all the power at Goddess Keep for his own use and died of the strain.”

“When did you become a Sunrunner?”

Sionell fisted her hands in velvet and silk. “Yoar mother and Evarin agree about what happened to him.”

He was quiet for a long while. She thought he’d gone back to sleep. Then, very softly: “Poor Tobin...”

She allowed more time to pass before saying, “I spoke with Chadric. He and Daniv and Tilal think the princes must meet here as soon as possible. Arlis will sail from Snowcoves. Laric is staying in Firon—Lisiel will come from Dragon’s Rest to speak for him. They don’t know what you want to do about Cabar and Velden. They assume Isriam will represent Pirro, to force his hand in accepting the boy as his heir.”

Listlessly: “Whatever you like.”

“What I’d like—“ she began incautiously, then swallowed the rest. She must control her temper. He had been through enough; she supposed she ought to pity him. She didn’t have the option of storming out. There was nobody else in the castle. Everyone was gathered at Andry’s pyre, either from love or respect or memories of him as a child or communal need, or simply because it was a singular event in the history of Skybowl. Sionell had no such feelings. She was beginning to wonder if she had any feelings left at all.

“What do you want, Ell?” Pol murmured, and his voice had changed entirely.

I want Tallain back. I want the world the way it was.

The simpler one’s desire, the more impossible to obtain. Tilal, for instance, had wanted only one thing: vengeance. When Daniv told him Pol had forbidden any more killing, Tilal had blistered his nephew’s ears with his rage before galloping alone to Skybowl, demanding the right to slay every captive Vellanti by his own hand. Sionell had been there when Maarken asked him if killing two thousand would bring back even one.

What I want, you can never give me. No one can.

She shrugged. “It’s more a question of what I’ll have to settle for, isn’t it?” Putting her needlework aside, she rose. “You ought to eat something. There’s a tray. Just bread and cheese, but I can brew taze on the hearthfire—“

“I’ve never had to ‘settle’ for anything in my life,” Pol said suddenly. “I don’t know what it feels like. I suppose I’m going to find out.”

She heard the shift of silken bedclothes, and a long sigh, and after a moment twitched the bedcurtain aside. Candlelight gilded the tears on his sleeping face. Tenderness hollowed her bones as she smoothed drops from his cheeks and fair hair from his forehead.

He turned his head into the caresses and murmured, “Meggie...”

The day Andry died, three dragon ships sailed from Goddess Keep. Locked in their holds were seven hundred and twelve Vellanti survivors of the assault on the castle. At the helm was Kolya of Kadar Water; in the riggings were fifty of his most experienced sailors. But mastery of the huge vessels did not come easily. Progress along the Ossetian coast was erratic and dangerous.

Next morning a brisk wind blew up from the southwest, and all they needed to do was catch it and skim across the waves. Antoun, ashen and miserable, cursed himself for insisting on joining this voyage. Elsen thrived on it. Edrel, groggy from the fever that accompanied his several battle wounds, kept asking why everything moved. Norian wiped his brow with cool cloths, fed him more medicine, and bade him not to worry about it.

On the ninety-fourth day of Winter, Ostvel arrived with a large group from Dragon’s Rest. Lisiel introduced her new son all around, exclaimed on how Alleyn and Audran had grown, and after a tearful private reunion with her sister Iliena went with her to Pol’s chamber. They apologized for being related to their despicable brother and urged that Yarin be punished to the fullest extent of the law.

“That’s for Laric to decide,” he told them.

“But he’ll deal more gently with Yarin than he ought,” Iliena said.

“Because of us,” added Lisiel.

“Why not let him know how you feel about it?” Pol suggested.

They traded glances. Iliena spoke for both. “We ... don’t like to bother the Sunrunners...”... because of what we are, hung in the air, unsaid.

“After a few lessons, you’ll be able to do it yourselves. Until then, I’m sure someone will oblige you. And I think it’s time you got to know the rest of your kin.”

He judged it better not to tell them that their brother, though lacking experience with his gifts, had not lacked for panicked stubbornness in fighting Pol. Yarin’s mind was more or less still his own. Whether he was sane enough to be tried for his treason was still questionable.

Ostvel came by later, after his own mostly silent reunion with Alasen. Camigina was with him, so Pol finally got to meet the sorcerer who had sent him into merciful sleep. Nothing was said about it, however. They gave a detailed account of Chiana and Rinhoel, who at present occupied a chamber in the western tower—which had been scrubbed from top to bottom. The solvents used were normally kept to clean stables after outbreaks of various equine diseases. It seemed Chiana had a sensitive nose as well as an exalted opinion of where she ought to be lodged; she demanded another room. This one, she said, smelled like a middens.

In Ostvel’s opinion, a middens was where she belonged.

“You know,” Pol said when Ostvel and Camigina finished, “if life were tidy, we’d be able to prove some treasonable of-fense and legally execute them. We know they ordered Rialt and Mevita killed. But not only did Naydra not see it done,

, she killed the guard who did it. We also know that Rinhoel murdered Kalian and almost certainly Aurar as well. Palila saw it. But Naydra tells me the child has hardly spoke a word since. Even if she could bear witness, how can I force her to condemn her own mother and brother to death?”

“But their alliance with the sorcerers,” Ostvel protested.

“I’m coming to that.” He sipped wine—a carefully watered cup, for at full strength it sent him right back to sleep. “We know they collaborated with the Vellant’im. But Saumer mentioned that the flag on the shipment from Swalekeep was put there by Kostas’ order. Oh, the barge was welcomed right enough, which means the colors were familiar. But that’s not proof.”

“My lord,” said Camigina, “we saw them with traitors.”

“Yes, you did. And who among those traitors still lives? I’m not complaining, my lady. Your action saved many lives. I’m just sorry it cost so many of your own.”

“Our own,” she corrected softly.

“Yes, of course. That’s something we can discuss later. The point is there’s no great big thundering crime with a bloodied sword and a hundred witnesses. We suspect, we know—but the law requires proof.”

Ostvel met Camigina’s gaze. “His father’s son,” he said.

“I hope so,” Pol replied seriously. “But it’s not just the law. I’d like to kill them. Goddess knows they deserve it. But I’m tired of killing. I wish I could prove any of it—but life doesn’t pack itself neatly into a box and tie its own ribbon.”

“What will you do with them, if I may ask?” Camigina said.

He shrugged. “Damned if I know.”

The next afternoon a strange enclave was established on the sands below Skybowl. Unlike the well-guarded circle that held the Vellant’im, this was a small city of tents. The Isulk’im had arrived.

Visian rode down from the keep at the first sight of them on the horizon, and came back with their request to share water with their kinsman, the High Prince. Pol had talked often enough with Kazander to know that this did not mean they wished to drink from Skybowl’s lake. They wanted him to partake of their hospitality.

Regrettably, he was in no condition to visit them. Five days of sleep had restored mental alertness, but his body was still exhausted and he could do no more than walk the length of his chamber without growing dizzy.

Visian returned to his people to explain, and extend Pol’s invitation—seconded by Riyan and Ruala—to camp wherever they would for as long as they liked. Thus all afternoon tents rose across the sand. By evening, wind chimes of glass and jade and silver were tinkling gently on the breeze.

The next Isulk’im Pol saw were three breathtakingly beautiful young women. They were escorted into his chamber at dusk by Visian—whose strong resemblance to one of them told Pol who these ladies must be.

He saluted them in the Isulki manner, apologized for not being able to rise from his bed, and asked if they would do him the honor of sharing some wine. The eldest—no older than twenty-six, tall, lithe, and approximately halfway through a pregnancy—crossed both slim, dark hands over her heart.

“The Azhrei is kind. It is not permitted me, but my sisters thank you.”

“Perhaps taze, then, my lady,” Pol said.

“The Azhrei is very kind.”

Chairs were brought by Visian, who also served the wine and taze. In contrast to their husband, who had talked at great and flowery length, these three women seemed content with silence.

Finally, the youngest of them met his gaze directly. She had the blackest eyes and the longest lashes he’d ever seen. “Azhrei,” she said, “we have come to see the woman who was worth the harms’ life.”

Pol froze.

The middle one had a hawk’s golden eyes, proclaiming ancestry not wholly Isulki, and the look she shot the younger woman was equivalent to the slice of talons. “You have the grace of a lame and spavined mare!” she hissed.

“But—“

“What she means to say,” the eldest said, with a quelling glance in their direction, “is that if the korrus thought her worth the dying, she is a woman to be respected and cherished. We would wish to meet her, and speak, and show our people that we agree with him.” She paused. “Azhrei, will the lady see us?”

“Uh ... yes, of course,” Pol said blankly. There was no bitterness in these women, no rancor, no blame. They had come here because of simple curiosity, and to confirm Chayla’s worth to all Isulk’im.

But he was very glad he wouldn’t be included in the interview.

They proposed a meeting on the morrow—Pol reminded himself to have someone tell Chayla beforehand exactly why Kazander’s wives were here—and then progressed to other business. Namely, that the Isulk’im would guard the Vellant’im on the march south to Radzyn Keep.

Pol smiled. “My lady, that would be perfect. My troops are war-weary, and Isulki sharp-sightedness is precisely what the work requires. Would you consider another task, as a favor?”

“You are kin, Azhrei. Ask what you will, and if we can, we will do it.”

“First, I will say that I intend to make Lady Sionell of Tiglath my Regent in Cunaxa. I believe you know something of her.”

“We do. A woman worthy of respect.”

“Yes. Very much so. She and her husband had dealings with the Merida for years. But no one knows them better than you Isulk’im. Would you consider advising Lady Sionell regarding them? While it’s true that they won’t be much threat after Zagroy’s Pillar, their children will eventually grow up and—“

The woman set aside her cup and rose. So did the others. Pol wondered dismally what he’d said wrong.

“Azhrei,” she murmured, “you are wise beyond wisdom. They are only children. They do not deserve death for the treachery of their parents. If they become Merida, they will die. If they do not become Merida, they will live.”

An interesting way of looking at it, and one he hadn’t considered. All he’d wanted was to give Sionell some help in the matter.

“If the Lady Sionell wishes our advice, it is hers.”

“I know she’ll welcome it,” Pol said.

All three folded their hands on their hearts and bowed. Visian came forward from the shadows to guide them out, and Pol saw his eyes go round as taze cups when the eldest spoke once more.

“Azhrei,” she said, “my Name is Elizian.”

Pol was almost as shocked as Visian. No Isulki wife ever gave her name to anyone but immediate relatives. She had a public name, and a name used by her husband in private, but her real name was for blood-kin. It was doubtful that even Visian, Kazander’s brother-by-marriage, had heard it before now.

“You do me great honor, my lady. My Name,” he replied in kind, “is Pol.”

Elizian’s smile was poetry. “The Star that flew into the Sky Dragon.”

“I heard about that,” he admitted. “And the other prophecies.”

“All were true.” This from the long-lashed youngest, very eagerly. “The hundred tents felled by the wind, these were castles and manors. The eight of our dead, thus did eight princes die—“

“And the Azhrei Rohan?” asked the one with golden eye.s.

“High Prince,” was the tart answer.

Elizian silenced them again with a look. “She is skilled in such things, like all her mother-line. We will leave now, for it is clear you are tired.”

“Not at all. I—“

Despite the difference in coloring and age, the look Elizian gave him was so reminiscent of his mother that he couldn’t help but smile. She acknowledged it with a brief twinkle of dark eyes, and the three ladies departed.

Pol thought over the conversation, shaking his head in be-musement. He had no doubt that when the list of ruined properties was compiled, the number of castles and manors would total exactly one hundred. Gilad and Syr would be hardest hit, with Ossetia and Grib not far behind. Thanks to Ostvel, Meadowlord could feed almost everyone until spring crops matured. But there was much more work ahead. He would need cooperative princes and athr’im in order to do it.

He considered the eight dead princes. He had not a moment’s regret for Miyon of Cunaxa, and only scant pity for Halian of Meadowlord and Edirne and Camanto of Fessenden. He would miss, personally as well as at Riall’im, Volog of Kierst and his son Latham, and gruff Kostas of Syr.

But his deepest sorrow was for Rihani of Ossetia. Of them all, his was the most tragic death.

Except Andrev. Pol leaned his head back and shut his eyes, grateful that Andry had never known.

And Meiglan...

So many lives wasted. So much lost. Rohan. Andry. Princes, athr’im, common folk and their families. Rislyn’s sight and Maarken’s hand. Meath. Tallain. Jahnavi and Rabisa, Rialt and Mevita. Children dead by sword or fire, dead of disease. Rihani and Andrev and hundreds more like them—young, full of life and promise. Each name was a knife in his guts. The loss of them. The sheer, pointless waste of it.

And Meiglan...

Those who remained would look to him, wanting him to put the world back the way it had been. A dangerous folly. The world that had been was as dead as the man who had created it of his will and his strength and his intelligence and his Sunrunner princess.

Because Pol had wanted to believe that life could resume its former patterns, he’d sent Meiglan back to Dragon’s Rest.

It was his task to shape what remained into new patterns. And because of the manner in which Rohan had established the world everyone wanted back, Pol would be able to change things pretty much as he pleased. Though the High Prince’s Writ was not all-encompassing, it pervaded the princedoms powerfully enough to be used more extensively than ever.

That structure, enforced by the Medr’ini, was there to be used, as he had used his gifts, his armies, the Sunrunners, and the sorcerers. With such power, he could do anything. What had taken Rohan forty years of subtlety to accomplish, Pol could do in forty days. And that was if he dawdled over it.

It was his to do, his to fashion as he willed. And he would have to do it alone.

Meggie...

But no one would see the empty place at his side. No one would think to look. He was strong enough to do it all alone, wasn’t he? That’s what they all thought. High Prince. Sunrunner. Diarmadh’rei.

I am what my parents made me, he thought. All three of them.

The next dawn, the Vellant’im began their long march through the sand to Radzyn. Two hundred of Chay’s own cavalry and three hundred Isulk’im prodded them briskly along. Pol was genuinely amused for the first time in a long time when Maarken observed that the whole scene resembled nothing so much as a cattle drive, with the Isulk’im rounding up strays—though they’d be mortally insulted to hear him say so.

Pol was up and about, having decided over Feylin’s objections that seven days in bed were enough. The sky was clear over the Veresch and all the way south to the Catha Hills, where the dragons had spent the Winter, but he left the sunlight strictly alone. There was too much else to be done, he told himself, perfectly aware that this was merely a convenient excuse.

So it was Maarken who told him that Arlis’ ships were about a day out of Zaldivar, and Idalian and Tirel had stayed behind with Laric at Balarat.

“Aldiara told me Laric sent her along to represent her branch of the diarmadh’im. How many branches are there, anyhow?”

“Besides hers, Mireva’s, Thassalante’s, and Camigina’s— who knows?” Pol shrugged, the subject of sorcerers still raw. This morning he’d been told that Thassalante, realizing that abandoning Meiglan had meant her death, had suicided through the diarmadhi equivalent of becoming shadow-lost. He left a message for Pol stating that because his was the guilt, his must be the atonement, and he hoped Pol would deal gently with the others.

Pol didn’t want to talk about them. Knowing that, Maarken changed subjects.

“Tobren has acquired a dragon.”

“What?”

“The one who first chose Andry. Yesterday he made one Hell of a racket and didn’t shut up until Tobren looked out a window to see what the fuss was.”

Pol nodded. “What has she Named him?”

“Tirita—‘my friend.’ And she needs one, after—“ Maarken broke off. “She stays pretty much to herself. She didn’t react at all when Hollis told her that her brother and sisters will be coming to live at Whitecliff, too. But Tirita seems to comfort her.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Appropriate, that the dragon had chosen Andry’s daughter. “Now, about this gathering of princes Chadric seems to feel is necessary. How long before Arlis gets here?”

“Depends on how long he stops at Zaldivar, and the winds down south ... hmm. Landfall at Radzyn maybe the third or fourth of the New Year Holiday.”

“All right. Let’s plan on the last day of the New Year, then. Banqueting, musicians, the whole silly spectacle.”

Maarken smiled. “I’ll warn Ruala.”

Ruala, dully warned, arrived in Pol’s chamber that afternoon bearing a single plate of Kierstian ceramic, glazed in Skybowl’s blue and brown. “This is what you’d have me use to serve princes?” she demanded. “Or shall I dig up all the ‘dragon teeth’ and glue them back together to set the tables with?”

Orders were immediately sent to Dragon’s Rest and Zaldivar. Pol’s Rialla service would be dispatched from the former at once; from the latter, unbeknownst to Ruala, would come a complete new service for one hundred to replace what had been shattered in a good cause. Alasen prevailed upon Camigina to ask a diarmadhi still at Swalekeep to send Chiana’s silver. By dusk, Ruala was satisfied that Skybowl would not be disgraced.

Pol’s own cook from Dragon’s Rest had insisted on accompanying Ostvel to the Desert. Taking it for granted that there would be a grand gathering of princes, equally convinced that the feast must be prepared by no one but himself, it was said that his battle with the master of Skybowl’s kitchen was audible all the way to the stables. Pol was profoundly glad he’d slept through it. Audrite established an uneasy truce, but war was glumly predicted as the great night neared.

Pol resolved to ignore the whole mess. He had decisions to make more vital than which cook would have the honor of seasoning the roasts. This was what he told the two aproned worthies when they accosted him—appropriately enough—in the family dining chamber at Skybowl.

This room was not as large as the Attic at Feruche, and usually not as cluttered. But when Pol took it over as his temporary office, parchments were quickly strewn across a polished wood table that easily sat ten. At Pol’s right elbow was the box containing his seal, brought by Ostvel from Dragon’s Rest. A smaller box held Miyon’s, from Castle Pine iff Cunaxa. Rohan’s had been lost at Stronghold. All three were unnecessary now, for one of Riyan’s crafters had presented him with a new seal.

The handle was tipped with three small stones—topaz, amethyst, white jade. Otherwise undecorated, comfortable to hold, the seal was as well-balanced as a fine sword. This was a feat in itself, for it was larger and heavier than any ever made, almost as wide as his palm and cast in solid gold.

The impression it left in half a stick of melted wax impressed him. “Lord Maarken’s design,” the crafter said, adding that he hoped it suited. Pol nodded absently and murmured something about being very pleased.

The Desert’s dragon stood within the wreath of Princemarch, wings spread wide, crowned head in profile. A Sunrunner ring was clutched in his right talons, Cunaxa’s knife in his left. Written along the wreath’s three ribbons knotted at the bottom were three words: Azhrei, Faradh’rei, Diarmadh ‘rei.

Pol’s signature, above great irregular circles of wax bearing that seal, was now on five large pieces of parchment. Dorval, Firon, Kierst-Isel, Syr, and Ossetia were taken care of, their princes and heirs confirmed in writing. Cunaxa, the Desert, and Princemarch were his own. Those were the easy ones. As for Fessenden, Grib, Gilad, and Meadowlord...

Pol put an elbow on the table and sank his chin into his palm. Grib and Gilad presented some interesting alternatives. He was actually looking forward to writing out the parchment for Meadowlord. But Fessenden was a problem.

A soft knock at the door brought his head up. “Come in,” he said. In walked his own choice for Heir to Fessenden. “Ah. Isriam.” He’d forgotten that he’d sent for the boy. Well, now was as good a time as any. “Sit down, won’t you.”

Isriam remained standing. Tense, haggard with sleeplessness, his face had lost all the not-quite-fmished quality of adolescence. War had aged him beyond youth; guilt had made him an old man.

Beth said that Isriam barely spoke to her. He couldn’t even look at Pol. Stiff-shouldered, blank eyes fixed on empty air and generous mouth a hard, tight slash, Isriam obviously expected accusations and punishment for failure.

“Tell me what happened,” Pol murmured. “I want to know all you saw.”

Stony-faced, Isriam began. “Yes, your grace. High Princess Sioned freed me from the ropes. I untied Lady Betheyn so she could help the others. I climbed up the rocks. He was looking at her, but I don’t think she even saw him. She looked down the mountain—at you, your grace, I’m sure of it. She was smiling a little. He put his hand out, as if feeling the air, and—“ He stopped and swallowed hard. “Go on.”

“She—she didn’t suffer. I know this because I saw her face, after. She was still smiling. It was as if she never felt it, didn’t even know...”

Pol forbade himself to react. His feelings didn’t matter. “And then?”

“I—I was too late. I knocked him down and fell with him. I hit my head on a rock. I couldn’t see very well. But I could see him get up, and I tried to get to him, to push him over the side—“

“And then I called Fire, and burned your arm. I’m sorry for that, Isriam.”

“It’s nothing, your grace. It’s not important.”

“Shall we speak of what is?” Pol asked quietly. “Let me tell you why it happened, Isriam. You’ve heard by now that there was a battle for control over the magic being worked.” Magic—Andry’s word. He schooled his face and thoughts once more. “To fight it, I left Thassalante and many diarmadh’im behind, trusting them to protect her. But when they felt the other thing begin, they chose to join. I didn’t know that until my mother was freed. She saw their colors where they shouldn’t have been, and warned me. Too late.” He paused, wishing Isriam would look at him. Words were fine tools, but anyone could use them; what he wanted Isriam to understand was better said with his eyes.

“I know what you’ve been telling yourself. If you’d been a little faster it wouldn’t have happened.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“If my mother had freed you just a few moments earlier. If you hadn’t taken the time to free Beth.”

He flinched, the lean muscles of his jaw tensing.

Pol made his voice even softer. “And ... if I hadn’t abandoned my wife?”

“No! If Lord Andry hadn’t fought you—“ He stopped, stricken with shame that he could accuse a man who had paid so dearly for his actions.

“Listen to me, Isriam. I’ve talked with others about this, and reviewed my own memory of it. Andry drew on the Sunrunners working at Goddess Keep. Through him, I saw how the ros’salath could be built. But I couldn’t control it. So I pulled in Sunrunners and sorcerers from everywhere. I needed their power—and with the devr’im showing me how, I could do what I did to the Vellant’im.”

“But he—“

“If Andry had not fought me,” Pol went on, “the diarmadh’im with Thassalante would not have felt my call. Meiglan would have been safe—but I would not have had the knowledge or the power. And if I’d been just a little quicker in using it...” He shrugged. “So you see, I’ve been thinking just the same as you.”

“No! It’s not the same! You’re the High Prince!”

As if that explained.and justified everything.

“Your grace—“ The stone walls cracked. All the pent-up emotions were escaping. “I see what you’re trying to tell me—but do you? You trusted the sorcerers to protect her. It wasn’t your fault they disobeyed—and it probably wasn’t their fault they answered to you,” he added.

It was something Pol hadn’t yet considered. But Isriam wasn’t finished.

“Lord Andry was wrong—he shouldn’t have killed with his gifts, or forced the other Sunrunners to do it, either! You had to fight him. And all the power you pulled in—I don’t understand that, I’m not a Sunrunner, but I do know that not one drop of blood was spilled at Balarat! And that was because of you.”

It had not been the same at Goddess Keep. Dead and wounded had littered the fields, blood soaking the ground. Was it because Torien had been too afraid of power, or Andry too hungry for it? Or perhaps Pol was much to blame for that, too, for long years of rivalry that had helped shove Andry toward a precipice. He could still hear the echo of his cousin’s voice: “Get out of my way!” Andry’s fall had lasted five hideous days.

“Your mother was part of the working, wasn’t she, my lord? So she couldn’t have freed me any earlier. And I—“

Pol nodded, for Isriam was now where Pol wanted him to be. The switch from your grace to my lord confirmed it.

“And because you freed Beth,” Pol said, “she pulled the steel from my mother’s hand, allowing her a Sunrunner’s freedom to warn me.”

“Too late!” Isriam cried from amid the rubble of his defenses. “It all happened too late! Oh, my lord, I’m sorry!”

“I know,” Pol replied.

It didn’t surprise him in the least when the door opened and Beth came in. She gave a fairly natural start on seeing that Pol was not alone, and offered to leave them to their discussion—to which she’d been listening just outside.

“No, my lady, I’ll—I have to help Dannar and Kierun with—excuse me,” Isriam finished, and strode out.

Beth shut the door behind him and leaned back on it. “All that logic,” she murmured, “all that reason.”

“And all of it his, with a little help. I think he begins to believe it.”

“I wish you did.” Without asking permission—rare in her, he realized with sudden wariness—she sat at the table. In Ruala’s chair, that would have been her own had Sorin lived.

“He’ll be all right, once he understands that it wasn’t his fault,” he said before she could speak again. “He gave Daniv an earful the other night, you know. About how unworthy he is, and how Pirro would be right to reject him—“

She regarded him thoughtfully. “Do you always babble when you’re trying to avoid an issue?”

“No. Usually I walk out.” He settled more deeply in his chair. “Well, say what you came to say.”

“Thank you for speaking to Isriam as you did.”

He couldn’t help a smile. “I only followed your suggestions, Beth. Now who’s avoiding the issue?”

“Not I, my lord. I was about to repeat his question. Did you listen to what you said here today?”

Before now, he would have taken a substantial bet that it was impossible to be annoyed by this woman.

Beth folded her hands atop a sheaf of clean parchments. “ ‘Being High Prince makes it my fault’—isn’t that what your father used to say? Tell me, Pol, is it truly your place to shoulder blame you know doesn’t belong to you? Don’t you have enough to carry without adding that as well?”

“Shall I surprise you and say I agree with you? I keep asking myself what could have been different, what I could have done—and nothing occurs to me. But it remains that I failed her. She believed I could do anyth—“

“I saw her face,” Beth interrupted. “Isriam was right. She never knew. She was smiling, Pol. There was no pain, no fear—“

“What you mean is that she died trusting me. Believing I would save her.”

“She died with you in her eyes.” He sat back in shock. “And that’s supposed to make me feel—“

Beth spoke much as Isriam had done, to the empty air. “Sorin died in pain. You were there. You saw his face. You were the last to hear his voice—and he spoke of you and Andry, not me. It hurt me deeply, that he loved you and his brother so much that the trouble between you was more important than speaking of me. But gradually I understood. He loved me so much he didn’t have to say anything.” She looked up, dark eyes serene. “It’s nonsense, the idea of a last, moment together. Final words. If all the time and all the words that went before haven’t proved love...” She shrugged. “What I’m trying to say is that even if she had known, even if she’d seen and felt the knife—you may have seen Sorin’s face, Pol, but I saw Meiglan’s. Yes, she died trusting you, believing in you. She could never have believed otherwise.”

Even if I’d held the knife that killed her. “That doesn’t disguise that I—“

She rose, shoving her chair back so hard it toppled. “Failure, blame—is that all anyone thinks about? Isriam, you— Sioned and Alasen for not killing the High Warlord with Fire that night—what about Laroshin and Sethric and Kazander? Why not blame them? They failed to prevent Meiglan’s capture and they failed to free her. And Lady Merisel—after all, she failed to keep the diarmadh’im too busy to invade Vellanti lands in the first place!”

“I know what you’re trying to do and you can stop right now!” he snarled.

“It happened, Pol! There’s nothing you can do about it. What you don’t seem to understand is that there’s nothing you or anyone could have done about it.”

“If everyone’s guilty, then no one is? The coward’s excuse!”

“Oh, and the High Prince is so brave and strong and powerful he can take all of it onto himself! Who in all Hells do you think you are? A god?”

For a moment he was so angry he couldn’t speak. What came out of his mouth next astonished him.

“This is all wrong, you know. Usually it’s Sionell who does this for me—or to me, I can never decide which.”

A wisp of a smile touched her lips. “Who do you think tutored me?”

He snorted, sprawling back in his chair. “All right, all right. Go on, Beth. Isriam should be ready for reason now. Your work is finished here.”

“No, not finished. But I hope I’ve made a start.”

When she was gone, he poured wine and drank it slowly, musing on all the things he’d ever done that merited so many women yelling at him so often.

But not her. Not Sionell. She had gone back to Tiglath yesterday. Hollis said she’d promised to return before the princes were assembled. Even with all the people milling around Skybowl, with more to come, he felt the lack of her.

And of Meiglan.

According to the standards of his people, by now he should either be adequately recovered from his wife’s death or at least able to consign his sorrow to decent privacy and get on with life. He wondered why. Was it simple practicality, or simply fear? Was it that life was so great a joy, or that death was so profound a horror? Why was it judged enough to spend a single long night in mourning and then immediately resume normality?

He wasn’t up to sorting out societal implications.

Perhaps he could not let go because he had not witnessed the Burning. He had not kept the night-long vigil or called Fire to her body or Air to carry her ashes on the morning wind. He had not watched his grief flare, slowly replaced by the softer, comforting glow of memories. That was how Tobin described it to him once, what she had experienced for her parents and two of her sons: an intensity of grief that somehow healed.

The ritual might have soothed his spirit. The mountains of work should have dragged his mind back to the living. He did the work easily enough, even derived honest pleasure from it. But nothing had healed.

Had Meiglan’s loss been to him as Rohan’s was to Sioned, he would understand the pain better. Half her heart had been torn away; he only bled from a raw wound. That was part of his guilt, of course.

Most of it, perhaps. He could tell himself he could have foreseen none of it—not Miyon’s betrayal that led to Meiglan’s abduction, not the barbaric ceremony they wanted her for, not the sorcerers’ abandonment of her to join in destroying the Vellant’im. How could he have known?

He could tell himself many things. He could even tell himself he believed them.

She had believed in him with a child’s unquestioning faith, and he had failed her. That she never knew—that she died with a smile on her lips and him in her eyes—was the Goddess’ mercy. He had none for himself.

She had died with her faith intact and perfect. And that was supposed to comfort him.

He locked the chamber door, closed all the curtains, shut out the daylight, the sounds, the view of the place where she died alone.

She never felt it. She never knew. One moment alive, and the next...

I can’t remember the last words I ever said to her. Beth says it doesn’t matter. But I wish I could remember.

Maybe it was “I love you.” I hope it was. She knew that. She knew how much I loved her...

She never knew about Sionell. a grace I don’t deserve.

“I’m quite all right, Chayla,” Tobin said to her frowning granddaughter. “I don’t need a physician. I need some peace and quiet, away from all this noise!”

Sioned grinned. Nary a murmur of complaint from Remagev to Feruche, but now that Skybowl teemed with highborns and their retinues, Tobin was crotchety.

Chayla, feet firmly planted on the bedchamber rug, stuck her fists on her hips and retorted, “A noise to which you contribute every evening. Granda, you can’t regain your strength if you keep using it up. This isn’t a Rialla. Pol doesn’t need you to sound people out for him. He can do it himself.”

“I’ve been serving my princes all my life, and I’ll go on doing it until my last breath—or at least until the banquet, day after tomorrow.” She waved Chayla away. “Let me be. Go find a fever to cure or a broken b-bone to set.”

Sioned put in, “Walvis is holding cross-country races to give everyone something to do, and I’m sure half of them have fallen off their horses.”

Chayla divided a disgusted look between them. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re impossible?”

Tobin laughed. “And so are you, my darling! You come by it honestly!”

The girl’s lips curved in a smile swiftly compressed, blue eyes sparkling. “All right, Granda. I’ll come back later. Sioned, make sure she rests, please?”

When Chayla was gone, Sioned observed, “I don’t think she sits down except for meals. I wish I had half her energy.”

“Is that what you think it is?” Tobin got to her feet and moved to the window—obvious indication that she wished the freedom and privacy of sunlit conversation.

Sioned joined her. Down below, a score of riders crested the crater’s rim, thundering toward the finish line Walvis had set up near the castle. Sioned saw the colors of four princedoms and five different holdings—plus the Isulk’im, on mounts descended from “borrowed” Radzyn studs. Spectators cheered and whistled as a young man trailing a battered turquoise pennant won the race: Daniv, earning the honors for Syr.

Chayla’s like Pol, Tobin said on sunlight. Working so hard she doesn ‘t have time to think or feel. But I think she heals herself a little more with everyone she helps heal.

The hurt ofKazander’s death, and what happened with the Vellant’im—

Not so much that. She’s a physician who wanted to kill. It’ll take time ... for all of them. The children, the adults ... especially for Pol.

I don’t know how to help him, Tobin. Or even if I ought to try.

You can’t. Any more than you could help Andry.

A small silence followed. Tobin unthreaded the sunlight and looked up over her shoulder at Sioned.

“We all say everything except what really n-needs saying. Do you think I blame you? Or Pol?” Tobin shook her head. “I knew my son. And I know Pol. Each d-did as his nature bade him.”

An inevitability, beloved, murmured another voice, one Sioned alone could hear. That they fought so hard and so long against it was the act of noble and generous hearts. Hopeless, of course. We are what we are, and do what we must.

But they used each other, Rohan. Each believed so strongly in himself that no one else mattered.

“Nothing they did was for themselves,” Tobin went on. “For Goddess Keep, for the princedoms, for Sunrunners and sorcerers, for families and children—for total strangers.”

Another race had started down below. Young squires and Isulki boys and girls clung to the necks of powerful horses. Jihan was readily identifiable by the banner of golden hair mingling with her horse’s thick black mane.

“I feel so useless,” Sioned heard herself say, unsure whether she spoke to Tobin or to that remembered voice. “Useless and tired.”

Tobin shrugged. “A condition of advancing years. It’s not something you get accustomed to, believe me.”

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Sioned stood back from the mirror, shaking her head in wry disbelief.

“What’s wrong, Granda?” Jihan asked. “Don’t you like it?”

“Oh, very much. It’s just that I’d forgotten I could look like a princess!”

It was the tenth and last day of the New Year Holiday, and the banquet would soon begin. Sioned’s gown was a gift from Pol, delivered that noon for minor adjustments. She knew he’d plotted something of the kind; none of the maids were seen for days except at meals, and Tibalia vanished completely. But as perfectly as the gown fit, as thoroughly as Sioned understood its purpose, she couldn’t quite equate herself with the elegant, glittering woman in the mirror.

Silly woman. There’s that look on your face again. You’d think after forty years you’d be used to this sort of thing. Remember that first Rialla in 698?

Joy of my heart, people who weren ‘t even there remember it.

A gorgeous gown, the work of clever and loving hands. Silk woven forest-green in one direction and dark gold in the other glinted with her every breath. Dozens of tiny topazes decorated the cuffs of long sleeves that hid the rope burns. A high collar, stiffly embroidered, provided the same concealment at her neck. The skirt flowed down to gold velvet slippers and green silk stockings. Her hair had been polished with silk—a ridiculous practice Tibalia insisted on—and arranged in curls from which the emeralds and topazes of her new coronet shimmered. The same stones were repeated in her earrings: green dangled from tawny gold on the left, gold from green on the right.

The whole extravagant display was just a blink shy of outrageous. She knew she was a symbol tonight, not a person; still... 7 ought to strangle him.

Oh, hush. You look magnificent. I couldn’t have chosen better myself.

Pol had also given his daughters new clothes. Their dresses mimicked Sioned’s in design, but the jewels were missing and the silk shifted from violet to blue. Their circlets were of silver set with a small amethyst, topaz, and piece of white jade each. Like Sioned, each wore a ring given by Rohan.

“But you always look like a princess, Granda,” Rislyn murmured.

“You’re beautiful,” Jihan seconded.

Sioned placed a kiss on each crowned golden head. “So are you, darlings. Come, let’s go collect Tobin and Chay.”

“While there’s still sunlight enough for me to see them,” Rislyn added.

“When can we learn how to use the moons?” Jihan asked.

“Oh, one of these days,” Sioned replied.

“Granda, don’t you mean nights?” Rislyn laughed up at her, and Sioned growled affectionately.

The Lord of Radzyn and his Lady were a matched set, as usual at great occasions: all red and white, with diamonds and rubies scattered in her hair and down the embroidery of his tunic. They sparkled in the last of the sunlight. Chay gave the twins a low bow—then pretended he couldn’t straighten up. While they helped, laughing, Tobin eyed Sioned.

“Pol certainly has been busy spending money, hasn’t he?”

“And he does it so well, too.” She glanced around. “Where’s Hollis?”

“Helping Chayla help Aldiara. I promise you, Sioned, that child has n-never worn anything but riding leathers and wool shirts her entire life. You should’ve seen her face when the maids came in with her dress.”

The two of them proceeded along the hallway to Hollis’ chambers, where Aldiara was in pale yellow silk, a white lace shawl, and tears.

“Her hair,” Hollis whispered to Sioned.

I    “Ah.” She crossed the room to the dressing table, where i Chayla was attempting to twine white ribbons through the 1 girl’s lank black hair. “It seems you and I have the same difficulty,” she said with a rueful smile, touching a finger to her own hair. “But I’ll bet yours wouldn’t hold a curl if you used a shape-changing spell on it.”

“I’d considered it, your grace,” Aldiara sniffled. “It’s so stupid—I mean, who cares what my hair looks like?”

You do, little one, Sioned thought with a smile. She glanced at Chayla—lovely in pale coral embroidered in ivory and blue. Trailing down her back were matching ribbons that tied off golden braids coiled around her head. Hollis was effortlessly beautiful in a flame-colored gown that showed off tawny hair, perfect shoulders, and half Whitecliff’s worth in diamonds.

I suppose we forget sometimes what we look like, what it does to strangers to see us all in silks and jewels like this. ‘    Light of my life, that was always the point.

“Chayla, hand me that clip, please—no, the silver one. And a brush.” The former she held between her teeth; the latter she dipped in the pitcher of clean water on the dressing table. She pulled Aldiara’s thick, fine, utterly limp hair back from her face, hoping it was long enough to secure at her nape.

“It’ll stay put with a little of this,” Chayla said, holding out a jar of clear pinkish stuff. Sioned recognized the faint sweet-spicy fragrance and arched a brow. “There’s more to pemric cactus than seeds for taze,” Chayla explained. “Lady Elizian says Isulki women distill this from the juice. And Feylin says there’s a whole new fortune to be made!”

“She and Walvis are going to need one, what with cleaning up Remagev and rebuilding Tuath for Jeren.” Sioned applied it sparingly. The sleek result pleased her. “They ought to give you a share of the profits, Aldiara. You’ll be its first and best example. Just let me clip this and brush the ends— there!”

The severe style suited her. Her face was all strong bones and tilting black eyes and wide mouth—forceful features that couldn’t be disguised by an absurd froth of curls, and shouldn’t be.

Hollis approached, smiling. “Perfect! If you’ll permit me, I have one more thing to add.” She held out a delicate silver chain, from which hung a cluster of three tiny pale gems: pearl, moonstone, diamond.

Aldiara gasped. “My lady!”

“I thought I asked you to call me by my name.” She fastened the clasp at the girl’s nape, then gently drew her up by the shoulders, turning her around. “Pol told me you look like this on sunlight. I hope you like it, my dear.”

“Y-you shouldn’t—it’s much too—“

“Expensive?” Hollis murmured. “Compared to what? My son’s life? Let me and my husband gift you with this, Aldiara. Please.”

“Aren’t you women ready yet?” Chay roared from the antechamber. “If we’re not there in two shakes of a dragon’s claw, we’ll miss Pol’s entrance and he’ll throw us all in the lake! I can swim, but you Sunrunners—!” In the doorway he stopped, stared at Aldiara, and gave a low • whistle. “Oh, to be sixty again!”

The girl blushed helplessly. Tobin limped over to him, stood on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear. He gave a shout of laughter that made Aldiara start like a nervous cat.

Hollis made shooing motions and everyone started for the stairs. Sioned slipped to Tobin’s side. “What did you tell him?”

“Only that it’ll take her a while to get used to his sense of humor—just like it did Hollis.”

Sioned began to reply, then stared. “You can’t mean—no! At fifteen?”

“She’ll have to get over her fear of horses, though...” Tobin mused.

“You can’t be serious!” Sioned laughed.

“You just watch t-tonight.”

“There’ll be plenty to see all around, if I know Pol.”

“I’m betting he walks in stark naked. There can’t be two coins left to rub together for his own clothes, after what he spent treating us to new finery.”

Indeed, no one in Pol’s immediate orbit had been neglected. Betheyn was charming in green velvet so delicate it floated; Pol had slyly ordered Isriam a tunic of the same fabric. They, too, wore high collars and long sleeves. Kierun and Dannar wore the violet of Princemarch, which suited black-haired, gray-eyed Kierun admirably but was rather a shock against Dannar’s flaming red hair.

Sethric—tall, handsome, and looking miserable—wore a red shirt beneath a vivid blue tunic. The colors of Catha Heights, Sioned noted with surprise and approval, wonder- ing what similar trifles Pol hadn’t seen fit to mention during their conference yesterday. He hadn’t gone so far as to gift Jeni with the same colors, but the flowers winding all over her silver-gray gown held enough of each shade to complement Sethric’s clothes—if they ever got within speaking distance of each other.

Dancing is good for that sort of thing, Sioned mused. I’II have him partner me, then “grow tired” somewhere near Jeni, and...

Meddling again.

Well, they’re being so silly. They’re obviously in love—

As obvious as you and I?

The great hall was awhirl in color from floor to ceiling. The plain blue tiles had been scrubbed until not even a speck of soot remained from the Vellanti bonfire. Princely banners were hung from the rafters, those of the athr’im on the walls between windows open to the soft evening breeze. At the main door were the flags of Riyan and Ruala’s three holdings: blue and green for Elktrap, blue and black for Feruche, blue and brown for Skybowl. In back of the high table was the dragon tapestry from Stronghold. Between tiles below and banners above, between Riyan’s colors at the door and Rohan’s at the high table, a living bejeweled rainbow laughed, sipped wine, and tried to keep track of the children.

Nine long tables were set with sparkling crystal from Firon and blindingly bright silver from Swalekeep. Every five places, silk napkins from Dorval sprouted from vases of Kierstian ceramic—flowers being in short supply so early in the year. With the napkins in use there would still be color, for from each vase also bloomed glass roses in shades no spring garden had ever seen.

Jihan scampered off to pluck four from different vases. She kept the blue and gave her sister the violet. The gold on its long green stem went to Sioned. Holding up an orange one, she asked, “Where’s Sionell? Do you see her, Granda?”

Sionell’s return from Tiglath two days ago had gone almost unnoticed in the tumult of Arlis’ arrival. Sioned craned her neck, but she was hampered by not knowing what Sionell wore; in this crush of color, one dark-red head was impossible to find. “Not yet. Maybe we’d better take our places. You can give it to her later.”

“It’s orange, for her being our Regent in Cunaxa,” Jihan explained to her sister as she took Rislyn’s hand—by now an automatic gesture. Jihan’s care of her twin brought a tightness to Sioned’s throat. Pol had decided, rightly so, that soon a servant must be found to attend them—a Sunrunner or sorcerer who could help Rislyn when she needed it. As the girls grew older, duties and lessons as Pol’s heir would take Jihan more and more away from her sister.

Sioned saw the children settled, then went to find Alasen. She had an intuition about what her kinswoman might be wearing. She was right.

Alasen was resplendent in a slim, low-cut gown of light green silk slashed in front to reveal a pale yellow underskirt. Lace edged in thin blue and violet ribbons cascaded from wrists to knuckles; looped around her neck from ears to collarbones were six strands of fat white pearls. Sioned awarded her first prize for imaginative concealment—not to mention for working into her gown the colors of no less than four princedoms.

“Did Pol give you that, or just tell you what to wear?” she asked, amused.

Her green eyes guileless as a child’s, Alasen said, “He gave me a hint, but this is all mine. Though I had help from Chiana’s rather extensive wardrobe.”

“Ah. The caravan from Swalekeep,” Sioned murmured, the mystery solved.

“I had to have the original dress picked apart, of course,” Alasen went on blithely. “She had truly horrid taste in design, but the fabric is quite nice, don’t you think?”

“And the color is so ... appropriate,” Sioned murmured.

“Mmm. Yes, wasn’t that fortunate?”

Determined to undo such gleeful composure, she asked, “Has Ostvel seen it?”

The reply was a purr. “Not yet. Do you think he’ll notice?”

Sioned gave up and laughed. Ostvel always complimented his wife with his eyes while grumbling about the fortune she cost him. But would his deafness of the last nine days over anything to do with Meadowlord extend to color-blindness as well?

Arlis strolled over, his princess at his side, her hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. A brief stop at Zaldivar had allowed poor Rohannon to put food in his stomach that would stay there—while Arlis raided wardrobes for appropriate finery. He had learned more from Rohan than politics and governance. His trousers, shirt, tunic, and a long sleeveless surcoat layered Kierstian yellow with Iseli scarlet. The diamond dangling from one ear was the size of his infant son’s fist. They knew this because Arlis said so.

“Brenoc is going to be even bigger than Roric—and even at five winters old, Roric is wrestling boys of ten! And winning!”

His wife sighed the sigh of all women enduring a husband’s paternal raptures. Demalia was small, dark, plump, and neat as a clean kitchen. Knowing she would look ridiculous swathed in styles that suited taller, slimmer women, she had wisely chosen not to emulate the other highborn ladies. The resulting simplicity of plain blue-gray silk and a single diamond on a silver chain was a relief. Sioned told her as much.

Arlis laughed as Demalia blushed all over her round, pretty face. “Yes, we’re all as gaudy as those silly sheep of Feylin’s, dyed different shades to see if dragons could tell colors.” He gazed complacently at his lady. “Thank the Goddess I had the sense to marry my Mouse!”

“You had the sense,” Alasen pointed out, “to listen to your wise and discerning aunt.”

He blinked his bewilderment. “But—you told me Demalia would never make me happy in a thousand years!”

“Exactly. You were always a dreadful child—never paid attention to a word of advice except to do the exact opposite.” She smiled serenely. “You may now express your gratitude.”

“He certainly should,” Sioned observed. “But will she?”

Demalia did a good imitation of outrage. “So you’re the one to blame!”

“I confess it,” said Alasen.

Struggling gamely against giggles, Demalia exclaimed, “I—I am speechless with fury!”

Arlis rolled his eyes. “Let it last, merciful Goddess, let it last!”

Rohannon joined them, saying that Riyan’s steward was frantic to get people seated. He wore the formal livery of a squire to the Prince of Kierst-Isel—more yellow and scarlet—but Arlis had thoughtfully added Whitecliff’s orange and red in the plackets of his shirt.

“You look very handsome tonight, Rohannon,” Sioned commented, tempted to ruffle his hair. She restrained her- self. He was nearly sixteen; not a little boy. Excited by his first grown-up celebration as anyone his age should be, his smile was bright and his cheeks glowed with healthy color. It was difficult to remember the horror he’d been through. But something haunted lingered deep in his eyes, just as it did in his sister’s.

Maarken and Hollis had hardly taken their eyes off him from the moment of his arrival two days ago. Chayla had simply burst into tears at the sight of him, and the twins had been as inseparable as their duties would allow ever since. Sioned wondered what it might be like, having a second self.

You weren’t, you know. We were never each other’s mirror, Rohan, nor even the other’s missing half. What exactly were we?

Sides of the same coin? No, too trite. Seal and matrix, perhaps...

Eventually everyone was seated. The high table boasted more forks, spoons, and knives than Sioned had ever seen in her life. Taking her place between Naydra and Rislyn, she whispered, “What are we supposed to do with all these?”

Naydra chuckled and let the black lace shawl drop from her violet-clad shoulders. “I think you start at the outside and work in. Neither of the grand masters in the kitchen wants his creations sullied by contact with a fork that touched his rival’s inferior slop.”

Glancing left, she saw Rislyn’s fingers dance lightly over the silver, pausing at the top of the setting. Sioned smiled. “Oh, bless Ludhil’s heart! He sent for lobsters from Dorval! That’s to crack the shell with, love. Will you need some help?”

“I ... I don’t know. Maybe.”

Naydra beckoned to Kierun and murmured something. The boy looked at Rislyn, comprehension in his gray eyes— but no pity, Sioned noted. She relaxed, sure now that what was served to the girl would be easy for her to eat.

Jinan was on Rislyn’s other side. The central chair was vacant, awaiting Pol’s entrance. Ruala, Riyan, Maara, Tobin, and Chay completed the high table. Captains, prominent soldiery, and senior physicians were seated near the doors. The other guests, troops, and castle folk would be served outside j in the courtyard, ablaze with torches and awash in laughter, ‘ flirtation, and wine.

Sioned rather wistfully envied them the informality.

Ruala sank into her chair with a sigh of relief—not at a task successfully completed, but because the whole mess was now out of her hands. She and Riyan were wearing the same shade of blue. He had added a tunic with wide brown and black stripes for Skybowl and Feruche. Her gown proclaimed their holding of Elktrap with two thin green sashes that crossed her chest, gathered at each hip, and draped to her knees. Maara’s dress mimicked her mother’s, without the collar of opals Ruala wore to hide the marks at her neck.

Sioned decided that by the end of the feast her eyes and Sunrunner senses both would ache with the array of colors and jewels. Whatever Pol wore, how could he compete with such splendor? As delicious aromas announced the opening of kitchen doors and the readiness of the masters to begin the contest, satisfying her hunger became more important than satisfying her curiosity.

If you ‘11 recall, I used to keep everyone waiting, too. A privilege of being High Prince. And part of the game. Remember what I did to Roelstra?

I remember the look on his face when you didn ‘t kneel! Admit, oh light of my eyes, that your action then was a bit in advance of the actual fact.

One ought to begin as one means to go on.

You’d already decided to become High Prince then?

Why not? Better me than him. And with you beside me—

A hand rested lightly on her shoulder and lips brushed her cheek. She gave a violent flinch.

“Sorry, Mother,” said Pol. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She caught her breath, trying to still the racing of her heart, and turned to look up at him. He was smiling, all burnished gold hair and dazzling white clothes and shining blue-green eyes.

“You look magnificent,” he said, then turned to his daughters. “And you—I Last I knew, I was father to a couple of sand rats! But I must say you do wash up very prettily!”

As he took his seat, Chay observed, “That’s a new one— making an entrance by not making an entrance.”

“I try,” Pol replied breezily.

The feast began with a mild culinary skirmish. Riyan’s cook opened with cactus soup made from an Isulki recipe. Pol’s cook countered with small fish broiled in wine, presented on waves of puff pastry as if they leaped through the ocean. Then came the lobsters, steamed to succulence in silk wrappings, one claw clutching a tiny pearl to be kept as a remembrance of the occasion. These dishes were accompanied by Syrene goldwine in crystal goblets.

As musicians appeared before the next courses, Naydra swirled the last of the wine in her glass. “They even fought about this,” she told Sioned. “Pol’s cook has the roasts and wanted the red wine in crystal. Riyan’s cook won—the glasses belong to Ruala!”

The real battle began. Chunks of elk and lamb glazed in mossberry and onion sauce were accompanied by dark Gribain red wine in goblets that were part of Chiana’s silver service. Riyan’s cook, disdaining the obvious accompaniments, concocted a salad of an astonishing variety of green-sry, dressed with vinegar-and-something that set Sioned’s tongue deliciously atingle.

“Prince Arlis brought the vegetables,” Naydra answered in response to Sioned’s question. “I think he raided every garden at Zaldivar.”

Plates scraped clean by appreciative diners were taken away. A lone singer stepped forward, silencing the chatter in the hall. A few sad notes from a lute drifted up from near the doors. The young man clasped his hands at his breast in poignant mourning. Sioned held her breath, hoping some ambitious bard had not chosen the occasion to unveil his war epic. The tune was almost a dirge.

When there’s treachery loose up in Firon, And fighting around Brochwell Bay, When the enemy threatens the princedoms, Who’ll shield us all from the fray?

The singer paused. Lute strings rippled. Suddenly wild chords blared from a dozen instruments, making everybody jump in their seats.

Rohannon, Rohannon, the Sunrunner lad! Just let him get wind of a fight! He ‘II weave up the sun in the blink of an eye And stitch up the stars in the night!

A rollicking instrumental break followed, during which Rohannon was pushed forward to take his bow, his cheeks as

1 scarlet as his tunic. Sioned gave a resigned sigh. “Ostvel. It has to be Ostvel.”

“Do you like it?” Naydra inquired.

“It’s absolutely dreadful. But it works!”

When rain makes a lake of the Faolain, And all of the sunshine is hidden, Who will slog through the mud to the castle And snatch a black pearl from the middens?

Arlis joined in the chorus, roaring out his brother’s name in an off-key voice that moved everyone else to sing along, too, if only to drown him out. Saumer was practically passed hand-to-hand to take his place beside Rohannon. He swept a laughing bow to the audience, rolling his eyes.

Then it was Jeni’s turn, and Sioned nearly choked on laughter when Ostvel indulged in a bit of fatherly chiding.

When a dragon is forlorn and lonely, And his broken heart sighs in his ribs Who can there be found to console him, Whom he’d follow from Sky bowl to Grib?

“Papa!” Jeni exclaimed, crimson to her earlobes. Ostvel gave her a Who, me? look that radiated injured innocence as everyone sang, “Jeni, Jeni, the Sunrunner lass!” at the top of their lungs. Everyone but Sethric.

Chayla was next, and a more startled subject for a song never existed. The verse extolled her delicate, tender, sympathetic healing touch; those who had endured her forthright ministrations groaned good-naturedly.

Finally, to her stark incredulity, came a verse for Aldiara. Draza of Grand Veresch—who, as it happened, was her kin through a great-uncle—urged her from her seat near Maarken and Hollis. She nearly tripped on her hem as she went to stand with the others while the singers concluded:

Where is there a lady courageous Who can turn diarmadh’im into stone?

The chorus changed from “Sunrunner” to “sorcerer,” but everyone followed it because everyone knew what she was.

The singer took his bows to thunderous applause. The five young people, wreathed in blushes, returned to their seats, and dessert was brought out.

Until now, the war had been pretty much a draw. But both cooks knew Pol’s weakness. The final weapons were pine-aut pie oozing honey, and a more subtle fruit pastry, count-sred by small mountains of taze ice festooned with candied flowers. Pol attacked the desserts two-fisted and asked for seconds. Another stalemate.

At last came fruit from Syr and cheese from Gilad. Pol sailed the cooks out to receive their due tribute. Kierun handed him two identical crystal goblets footed in gold, which Pol himself filled with mossberry wine. Thus did the warring parties end up sharing the honors and a drink. That drink became dozens, and around dawn they staggered arm-in-arm out of the kitchen to greet the sunrise, roaring drunk and the best of friends.

The same wine was distributed at all tables, along with steaming cups of taze. Replete with food and a good, long laugh, at any other occasion everyone would settle back for a time before the dancing began. But there was business to be conducted first.

Sioned sipped taze and prepared to enjoy the show. Great banquets were supposed to feel slightly unreal. Sometimes this came from heightened tension—and the strain of best manners and tight clothing. But the good ones, like this one, always felt a bit like being a child again. Playing dress-up in Mother’s best gowns; acting the grand lady with laughter just below the surface for the silliness of it; dancing until breathless; cheerfully disregarding anything beyond the enchantment of crystal and candlelight...

At first, anyway. In Sioned’s experience, something rather nasty usually happened to spoil the mood.

But not tonight. Everyone seemed determined to make this night the reality and the war nothing but the memory of a bad dream. And if their laughter was a trifle giddy, it was only because they were so very glad to be awake.

Pol rose, and the hall quieted again. Servants brought out a narrow table, placing it just about where the Vellanti bonfire had been. Kierun and Dannar set a stack of parchment on top, plus pen and inkpot.

Those at the high table left their seats for chairs grouped near Maarken’s table. Sioned had insisted on this change of location; she didn’t want to miss anything, and had no intention of staring at princely backs.

She had also suggested that each princedom be dealt with in the order of its prince’s years of rule—to get the awkward ones out of the way first. Cabar of Gilad and Velden of Grib had inherited when their fathers died of Plague in 701. They had been sent announcements of the gathering, of course— worded so each understood that the invitation to come was really an order to stay home.

So Pol began with, “For Grib, his grace Prince Elsen.”

Elsen limped only a little as he walked to the high table to sign his charter. Sioned smiled, thinking how pleased Ro-han would be to find his shy, crippled little friend of the long letters turned into this proud young prince—who, moreover, was hailed for his courage. If any good had come out of the mess at Goddess Keep, it was the confidence of Elsen’s strides. His sister Norian looked ready to burst with pride, and their cousin Sethric forgot his own troubles and grinned from one side of his face to the other.

Pol didn’t mention Velden’s name once. Instead, he confirmed Elsen as the next Prince of Grib, and Vellanur as Heir—a distinction lost on no one. He did the same for Amiel of Gilad, adding, “As for your heir, cousin, I hear that your delightful princess is even now obliging you!”

Amiel blushed the dusky Giladan pink of his tunic, hiding it by bending to scribble his name. The charters were simply affirmations of each prince’s rule. The High Prince’s Writ did not strictly extend this far, but Pol had gone Rohan one better.

“If I do this,” he’d said yesterday, “and they accept it, then by tacit agreement it is law. Implication being that their authority is an extension of the High Prince’s, given by him—“

“Or taken away?” Sioned inquired.

He nodded. “Or taken away. This bunch will never stand for that. But eventually, in a generation or two...”

“Very farsighted of you.”

“And very unexpected?” He smiled and held up a closely written sheet of parchment in each hand. “This is what I asked for, and this is what they gave me. Don’t worry—the first wasn’t outrageous, and the second didn’t cripple me with compromises. Until the next Rialla I have to make sure everything works as well as I can manage, so that I go into it from a position of strength. The Medr’imwe an unspoken part of the bargain for now, but I’m hoping that will be a very short ‘eventually.’ The idea is too damned good to waste.”

Fessenden was next, Pirro having ruled for nearly twenty-two years. He had not waited to be discouraged from attending; his court Sunrunner termed him the victim of an unspecified indisposition. Dynastic indigestion, Sioned mused, and a familiar chuckle teased her mind.

Isriam spoke for his grandfather—looking as if he wanted to sink through the blue tiled floor. Pirro had not yet sent an affirmative answer to Pol’s proposed “solution to your inheritance problem,” and Isriam keenly felt the lack. Pol had coaxed, cajoled, and at last commanded him to represent Fessenden.

Over Sabriam’s wails of outrage, Pirro had already parted with Einar as a fine for inaction and for denying Laric passage through Fessenden. Pol added the port city to Princemarch not only as punishment but because Isriam would feel awkward being the overlord of the man he’d always thought was his father.

Of course, your noble-minded son hasn ‘t the slightest intererst in Einar’s highly profitable trade.

My, we are caustic tonight! A prince with dragon gold behind him doesn’t need more money. The boy is the real issue and everyone knows it.

Well, if Pirro doesn’t see Isriam Pol’s way soon, he might find himself deprived not just of a city but a job.

Lisiel represented Firon. Greatly disappointed that her husband and elder son were not here, she perfectly understood why. Aldiara’s kin would sort out the diarmadh’im, but Laric was on his own when it came to his contrite nobility—who swore they’d been ensorcelled. He’d decided to keep them guessing about whether or not he believed it.

It’s a long time since Laric ended up with Firon, Sioned mused. And Maarken ended up with Hollis, Ostvel with Alasen, poor stupid Halian with Chiana—

And Andry with Goddess Keep.

Yes. But whose will it be now? Torien died, and Jolan with him, and Antoun says the rest are devastated at losing Andry.

Rather naughty of Pol, wearing white.

Startled, she studied her son’s clothes for a moment—a

SKY BOWL

729 wide-sleeved silk shirt caught tight at the wrists with thick embroidery that matched the wreath pattern on his velvet tunic. White from neck to heels...

She knew he hadn’t intended it to be seen that way. He must mean it to honor Andry. And Meiglan.

She’s the only one who could have done it, you know. And she did what none of you others could have done. You’re all too tough. You’d break, not bend.

I suppose so ... and the Sunrunners among us could’ve become deliberately shadow-lost, depriving them of their sacrifice. Meiglan was condemned to live out the whole senseless horror of it.

Does Pol still feel that way? Condemned to live?

It’ll take time. Sionell—

Keep out of it, Sioned.

Oh, everyone’s doing just fine without me.

Sionell had returned from Tiglath rested and serene. Chayla had found understanding, with her brother, and forgiveness with Kazander’s wives. Her crushing guilt over his death and her own ravening need to kill was easing—for who in her circumstances would not want her enemies slaughtered?

As for Sethic and Jeni ... well, Sioned would take care of that tonight, and be damned to any scolds for meddling. She could do nothing for Tobren. Too much resentment stood between them, along with Tobren’s unspoken accusation that Sioned could have helped Andry if only she’d tried harder. Jihan and Rislyn had each other, and Rislyn’s dragon. Perhaps Tobren’s would help her, too.

Pol didn’t need her, either. He was arranging the princedoms according to his own lights. He’d even taken care of the Merida. They would not pose a threat for at least a generation—if at all. Perhaps the same would be true of the Vellant’im. Sioned didn’t bother her mind about it. Whatever happened, she’d be long dead and wouldn’t know a thing.

Chadric came forward, proudly flanked by the next two generations of Dorvali princes. A few days ago Sioned had spent a quiet afternoon with him, listening to tales of Stronghold long ago. As Zehava’s squire during the first six years of Rohan’s life, Chadric had been tormented by a child at once scholarly and rambunctious. Tobin’s stories were always tinged with older-sister irritation—their childhood relationship had been rather like Pol’s with Sionell—but

Chadric had known Rohan from a different perspective. He understood, as few did, that Sioned wanted to talk about him now. Tilal and Ostvel could still barely look at her without grieving for the empty place at her side.

The rulers of Ossetia approached the high table together, for Tilal had become its prince by marrying Gemma. His voice was steady as he named as Heir his younger son, Sorin, but everyone remembered the elder son all the same. Saumer, who had been Rihani’s friend, bent his head. “For Kierst-Isel,” Pol called out, “his grace Prince Arlis.” Sioned was glad of the chance to smile again. She was as proud of Arlis as if he’d been born hers. In the person of Volog’s grandson were finally united the island’s two princedoms, just as Rohan had planned. In some ways, Arlis was their finest work. At least something came out right...

More than one “something,” but I agree. This turned out just as we planned.

Arlis gave Pol a bow both casual and respectful. “My lord, I am commanded by your cousin his grace the Prince Roric of Kierst-Isel—and belive me, that’s exactly how he told me to word it—to confess publicly that I am a rotten father and an even worse prince for not allowing him to come with me and present him to you as my heir.”

“He’s absolutely right,” Pol said, grinning. “And I’ll tell him so myself, if he’ll consent to come to Dragon’s Rest in a few years.”

Arlis grimaced. “Damn it, Pol, do you have to guess everything in advance?”

“Go on with your speech. I’m sure I’m going to enjoy it.”

“I just bet you will! I am further commanded by your cousin his grace and so on to plead his cause in becoming your squire as soon as you think he’s ready for the honor.” He paused. “Speaking for myself, and from experience of my son, you’d be crazy to take him. Waking or sleeping, he’s a terror.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pol replied. “My father seems to have civilized you.”

Daniv, splendid in turquoise and black, was called forward then. Sioned saw his gentle mother Danladi in his face—but she saw his father Kostas, too. And there were hints of his grandfather as well—her brother Davvi, not Roelstra. She wondered if Pol would ever tell him the real connection of their kinship.

He had promised to tell his daughters the truth—someday. The conspiracy to explain Jihan and Rislyn was to Sioned both expedient and humiliating. Meiglan. diarmadhi. Unaware of it, of course, which accounted for her helplessness in the clutches of the Vellant’ im. Whether or not Miyon had known was the subject of intense speculation; everyone knew he’d thrown the girl in Pol’s path hoping for a marriage, but his complicity in a presumed diarmadhi plot was hotly debated. The sorcerers’ allegiance to Pol was because of his marriage to Meiglan, and would be transferred to Jihan when she came of age. They had all sworn that Meiglan had been one of them—and were concocting imaginary bloodlines to prove it.

So I am spared, Meiglan is seen in a new light—never mind what color—and the lie is perpetuated.

It was the only thing he could do. Even after all these years, do you think they’re ready for the truth?

She ignored the murmuring voice.

Daniv, of course, had no heir. He produced the first astonishment of the proceedings when he asked Tilal’s permission to make Sorin his heir as well.

“It’s only until I have a wife and children and all that,” he said with a shrug that indicated a total lack of personal interest in such things. “But Cousin Pol—the High Prince, I mean—says it’s best to get these things settled, so I was wondering if I could dump it on Sorin.”

“Uh—yes, of course,” his uncle Tilal said blankly.

With an unsubtle wink, Gemma added, “Just so long as you undump it as soon as possible!”

Accurately foreseeing the shape of the next years from family gatherings to Riall’im, Daniv protested, “I’m only sixteen! I don’t want to get married yet!”

Pol circled a fist high in the air like a merchant attracting customers to his booth at the Rialla Fair. “Wagering on year and Chosen begins tomorrow noon! Who’ll hold the stakes?”

“Cousin Pol—!” Daniv wailed.

Sioned leaned forward. “Pol! Behave yourself!”

Unrepentant, he laughed. “Well, I suppose we can work that out later. For now, Sorin of Ossetia is Heir to Daniv of Syr—on a purely temporary basis, of course.”

“Not that temporary,” Daniv shot back.

Pol had kept his own princedoms for last. Well, next to last. The Desert and Princemarch were his directly, with

Jihan his heir. She was somber as she joined the other princes and heirs. Rislyn, holding Sioned’s hand now, said wistfully, “I wish I could see her.”

“I know, love.”

It had been one thing when Rohan held the Desert and Pol ruled Princemarch. But the two combined were a substantial swath of the continent. Pol was entirely capable of governing both, and everyone had always known this day would come. The addition of Cunaxa, however, put him in possession of even more land. “I don’t mind the work, but all those square measures make everybody very nervous. So I’m going to do what Father did, and give people a few years to get used to the idea.”

Cunaxa would be administered by Sionell as Regent. She rose from where she sat with her parents and two oldest children, bronze silk skirts whispering beneath panels of black lace, candlelight glowing from the jewels at her throat. They had been removed from the Merida armor and made into a necklet. The armor itself she had ordered melted down for use however the crafters saw fit. No one would ever wear it again.

She accepted her parchment charter with Pol’s new seal appended, and took her place beside Daniv without saying a word.

Pol calmly treated her silence as natural. The next moment his eyes began to dance. Sioned sat forward in anticipation. Now came the fun part.

“For Meadowlord—“

Alasen stood.

Ostvel’s jaw dropped in horrified comprehension. Then he snapped, “No! Absolutely not!”

“For Meadowlord...” Pol said again.

Alasen hauled her husband up by an elbow.

“I won’t do it!”

“Oh, yes, you will.”

“I don’t want to run a princedom!”

Riyan cleared his throat and in a reasonably controlled voice reminded his father, “You’ve done it before.”

“And I didn’t want to then, either!”

Pol, barely repressing laughter—few others were as self-possessed—called out, “You’ll take it and there’s an end to it!”

“But I like Castle Crag!” Ostvel cried plaintively “I don’t want Swalekeep, let alone all Meadowlord’”

“You’ll get over it,” Alasen said firmly.

Dannar took a few hesitant steps forward. “Mama? Wha.t’s Papa so mad about?”

Sioned quivered with laughter as Ostvel latched onto his son’s presence the way he’d grabbed the guide-rope on the Faolain forty years ago. “Dannar—Pol wants to give us Meadowlord. Do you want that? To be a ruling prince someday?”

The boy scrubbed his red hair with one hand as if polishing the thoughts inside his brain. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

Ostvel groaned. Alasen turned in triumph to Pol. “There you have it. We accept—on one condition.”

He managed a suspicious scowl, direly demanding, “And that might be—?”

“Before I set foot in Swalekeep again, that damned bathroom of Chiana’s has got to go!”

Arlis raised his voice above the shouts of laughter. “That’s it, Aunt Alasen! Make him pay for the privilege of having you ran the place!”

Ostvel signed, of course. He glowered at Pol, flung a look of furious accusation at Sioned, and didn’t speak to his wife until well past midnight.

He did, however, break into a wide and startled smile when Pol gave Jeni Castle Crag.

The timing’s not the best. Sethric looks positively ill.

To quote Alasen—he’ll get over it.

Pol then made public what he’d already told Johlarian on sunlight: that Lowland and Riverport would be combined and known as Faolain Hold, with Mirsath as its lord.

“But—what about Lady Karanaya?” Rislyn asked, and Sioned answered, “Wait.”

There were no changes at Radzyn, Whitecliff, or Skybowl; each athri merely stood to acknowledge possession. For all three men, however, there were loud cheers. Walvis received a double tribute, for he rose when Tuath Castle was called and again for Remagev, naming his grandson Jeren as ruler of one and heir to the other. His other grandson, Jahnev, spoke for Tiglath. Sionell looked torn between tears of sorrow and tears of pride.

On to Princemarch—where Karanaya was announced as

Lady of Rezeld Manor in her own right. When Johlarian had told her that afternoon, she nearly fainted. She never said a single word about the pearls again.

Pol also provided for Idalian. When Laric could part with him, he would come home to the Faolain—but only for a little while. Idalian was to be the new Lord of Waes.

Sabriam was smoothly and briefly confirmed in Einar— Pol’s city now Sabriam’s nephew Anheld was the new heir. Then Pol turned to Arlis, who had an announcement of his own.

“Your grace, if you’ll forgive me,” Sionell said, stepping forward unexpectedly. “As Regent of Cunaxa, I have decided to grant the manor of Catchwater to Lord Visian and the Isulk’im.”

Sioned’s brows shot up. Catchwater had been Birioc’s home, right in the middle of lands Miyon had given the Me-rida, very near the Desert border. That was odd enough—but since when had the Isulk’im ever wanted stone walls?

“Agreed,” Pol said, after recovering from this surprise.

“Further,” she went on, “I ask your grace’s permission to similarly grant Castle Pine to my younger son, Meig.”

“Also agreed—with pleasure.”

Chay moved to Sioned’s side. “What’s she up to?”

“Besides using her new position to give her second son land of his own?” She smiled. “Consider how Rohan sneaked Pol into Princemarch’s affections.”

He scratched absently at his embroidered collar, nodding. “Give them someone to watch grow up. Smart girl, our Sionell.”

“Very. But do you understand why she gave Catchwater—“ As he shook his head, she finished, “Damn. Neither do I.”

It was the responsibility of each prince to affirm athr ‘im in their holdings. Most were as expected. Pol stood back, smiling, his eyes occasionally aglint with amusement at surprises only he had been privy to.

Arlis declared that Port Adni and Adni River were now a single very large holding to be known by the area’s ancient name of Reiza—“prince’s gold,” for the nuggets that sometimes washed downstream. Then he gave it to his brother Prince Saumer.

Prince Saumer almost fell out of his chair.

Naydra, whose childlessness meant Port Adni would re- vert to Kierst-Isel at her death, smiled as Sioked glance at her. “I gave it back yesterday I have ao lateral IB it, with my husband Narat dead. And Ostvel has my badly asked me to administer Castle Crag until Jeni comes of age. So I will again live in the place 1 was bom—much more happily this time.”

“I’m glad,” Sioned told her, and clasped her hand.

Lisiel named her new son Larien as heir to Snowcoves. Amiel declared Gilad Seahold a crown property to be rebuilt and presented to the physicians as the new home of their school. Daniv, trying to maintain proper dignity and failing utterly, announced with a broad grin that Catha Heights was too vital a holding to be left in the hands of a steward, so would Lord Sethric of Grib do him the immense favor of becoming its athri?

Lord Sethic emulated Prince Saumer.

“So much for the landless dependent living off his wife’s riches,” Tobin said with satisfaction.

“It does make things a bit easier,” Sioned observed. “Chay, when you see me partner Sethric, ask Jeni to dance. Leave the rest to me.”

He snorted. “You’re incorrigible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

There was one last castle to be dealt with. Everyone looked to Pol, expecting him to take it for himself and put one of his own people in charge.

Instead, he nodded to someone far down the tables. Sioned’s mouth fell open as Antoun—friend of her youth, companion on her journey to the Desert so long ago, and secret source of information for eighteen years—walked slowly up to Pol and bowed before facing the rest of the hall.

“Your graces, lords, ladies,” Antoun said, “never in the history of Goddess Keep has the Lord or Lady died without naming a successor. We have been at a loss to choose from among us one who will rule us. The senior faradh’im have asked the High Prince to select someone for us. This he has refused to do.”

There was a murmuring through the hall. Sioned held her breath.

“Rightly so,” Antoun went on. “The stones and lands of Goddess Keep are held of the High Prince, but the Sunrunners belong to no one.”

If anyone felt a skeptical brow begin to rise, it was forced back down.

“As you know, Lady Feylin and Lady Betheyn attended the Lord of Goddess Keep in his final days. During times when he was awake and aware of what had happened to him, he spoke to them of several things. And one of them was his choice for his successor.”

Feylin’s head snapped around and stared at Beth; surprise was scrawled over both faces. Sioned came very close to demanding of each why they hadn’t informed her—but instantly understood their reticence when Antoun spoke again.

“After conferring with my fellow Sunrunners at Goddess Keep, I had long consultation with Lord Andry’s choice. It pleases me to say that Lady Chayla has consented to—“

The rest of it was drowned out in exclamations—some of shock, many of approval, some of dismay. These last came from her family. Chay marched down the tables to where Maarken gaped at his daughter and Hollis looked ready to weep. Tobin limped along behind him. Sioned caught up to her and put a hand beneath her elbow to steady her.

Rohannon, seated next to his sister, did not look at all surprised. Beth avoided Hollis’ anguished look and stared down at her hands. Feylin had come over from her own table, braced for the argument.

Before anyone could say anything, Chayla murmured, “I want to do this. Andry must have had his reasons. I—“

“I’m damned if I know what they are!” Chay snapped. “You’re not even sixteen!”

With perfect calm she asked, “How old was my mother when she went to Goddess Keep? Or Father, or Sioned, or any other Sunrunner?”

“You’re not just another Sunrunner,” Tobin said softly.

The golden head tilted. “Why?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Hollis was as white as her diamonds. “My dearest,” she began, her voice trembling, “your grandfather is right. Sixteen is very young to be in a position of such—“

“How old was Andry?”

“Too young!” Chay shook off Tobin’s cautioning hand on his arm. “Damn it, Maarken, say something!”

The only son left to him glanced up. “What would you have me say?”

“That it’s impossible!”

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“Is it?” Maarken met and held his daughter’s gaze. “Chayla, answer one question for me, please. Do you truly want this?”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well.”

Hollis bit her lip and swallowed hard. Chay was less restrained. “What in all Hells do you mean, ‘very well’?”

Maarken started to his feet, saying, “Just exactly what you think it means. I remind you that she’s my daughter.”

“That’s enough,” Sioned ordered. “Feylin, Beth, I want to know what you know about this.”

Few things ever ruffled Feylin, but at the moment she was twisting the lace sash of her copper-colored gown in nervous fingers. “I didn’t know Beth knew, that’s for certain. He was conscious, asking if the Sunrunners were all right. Especially Chayla. And then he said—“ Her slate-gray eyes closed briefly. “ ‘A Lady of Goddess Keep must be able to survive storms.’”

Sioned was careful not to look at Chayla. “What did he tell you, Beth?”

Still studying her hands, she said, “It was the third night. He seemed to be asleep, but then he asked if I thought Sorin would approve of treating Goddess Keep as if it belonged to the family. I—I assumed he meant Andrev. But then he said very clearly, ‘Chayla’s first of all a physician. She’ll have to find a very good Chief Steward.’ “

She paused, lifting her head at last to search Chayla’s eyes. “And then he asked if I thought you’d want to be Lady of Goddess Keep. Before I could answer, he slipped away again.”

Pol spoke from behind them, having pointedly kept himself at a distance from the discussion. “My lady, will you indeed accept, as Antoun has said?”

Chayla rose. Tobin, Sioned, and Feylin stepped aside; after a few moments, Chay finally did, too. His eyes were quicksilver shot with lightning as his granddaughter said, “I will.”

For just a moment various emotions chased each other across Pol’s face: compassion and respect, loss and tenderness, speculation and approval. Then he gestured, and Chayla went to take her place with the princes.

Sioned sent her son a single speaking look: Did you know? He shook his head slightly to indicate that he had not.

She did not resume her seat. Instead, she, too, joined the princes. Pol stood alone. Kierun brought him a large golden cup, which Pol did not touch. The boy looked up at him in confusion, then followed his gaze to Chayla. She came forward and cradled the wide, plain goblet in her palms.

Pol spoke into an absolute silence.

“I will keep faith with the law, and with all people in all princedoms.”

They believed it of him as they had believed it of Rohan—and had not believed it of Roelstra.

“I will defend all persons, no matter their rank, station, craft, or heritage, as promised under the High Prince’s Writ.”

This was new. So were his next words.

“I will never again use my gifts to kill. Nor shall I use them against those who keep faith with the law, and with me.”

At last, the Sunrunner oath Sioned and Rohan had demanded of him last Autumn—with a distinction reiterated by what followed.

“But to those who would destroy peace, flout the law, persecute the innocent, or threaten any law-abiding person living in the princedoms, I remind them that I am High Prince, Faradh’rei, and Diarmadh’rei, and they shall not escape justice.”

She wasn’t sure it was the wisest thing to say, but she knew why he felt he had to say it. He would be what no High Prince had been before him, and they all knew it.

“Will you have him as your High Prince?” Chayla called out, and they roared their assent.

Well, what else can they do? But beneath the cynicism was hope, and trust in him, and pride—and, at last, peace.

Kierun poured the wine, and Pol drank. Chayla presented the cup in turn to Chadric, Edrel, Arlis, Lisiel, Tilal and Gemma, Ostvel, Isriam, Atniel, and finally Sionell. It came to Sioned empty but for a few pale golden drops.

We did our work, beloved. Not elegantly, perhaps, and not quite the way we planned, but we did it. And it is our work— not Andrade’s, not Roelstra’s, not lanthe’s.

His to do now, Rohan. His own work in his own way. It’s hurt him, getting here. Nearly killed him. But to be born, every dragon must break its shell.

Speaking of dragons—

Ah, yes. Of course.

SKY BOWL

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She drained the last drops down her throat, then stood near Pol. Turning, she faced the high table and behind it the Stronghold Tapestry. Oh, it had been a very long time since she’d first done this—more than thirty years. But her gifts were more supplely controlled than ever, and a mere thought conjured a dragon made of Fire.

It rose from the cup, expanding in every direction as it reached for the rafters. Sioned’s skill gave the dragon wings that trailed the colors of every princedom; whimsy gave the creature vivid blue eyes. With one powerful downsweep of wings, the dragon leaped for the tapestry, and vanished.

Sioned gave a long sigh. That is absolutely my last dragon conjuring.

You outdid yourself. My congratulations to the Sunrunner Witch.