S were pushed against the walls, musicians assembled near the tapestry—giving it one or two apprehensive looks, as if the dragon just might come back—and the dancing began.
“You really ought to have begun with Ruala, you know,” Sioned told Pol as they led the first set.
“She’ll understand. The conjuring was perfect, by the way. Thank you.”
“Glad you liked it. Next time, do your own.” They separated, and when the figures brought them face-to-face again, she flicked a finger against the topaz hanging from his ear. “Your hair’s gotten so long I didn’t see it earlier. I’m surprised it’s still in one piece.”
“The gold was a trifle scorched,” he said. “Alasen retrieved it for me and the crafters here polished it up. But I don’t know why you’re surprised. No jewel worn by Rohan could be harmed by Fire.”
The pattern parted them again. When her hand rested once again on his shoulder, he asked, “Do you mind? About the earring, I mean.”
Sioned blinked up at him. “Whyever should I? He always meant you to have it—along with everything else. Take me over to Maarken when this dance is finished, please. He’s being silly about his arm.”
A curative Ossetian country dance later, Maarken bowed to Sioned and relinquished her to Saumer before claiming Hollis for a wild reel.
“I’m too old for this,” Sioned protested as the new Lord of Reiza spun her around.
“You make everyone else look like hobbled horses, cousin.”
“You’ve been taking lessons from Chay in how to sweet-talk ladies,” she accused, laughing.
“It’s only the natural charm that runs in the Kierstian family line. You should know,” Saumer replied with a grin. “How about using a little of it on Sethric?”
“Steer the old plow-elk over there, then, and let’s see how well I can do.”
The exchange was made. After a decent interval, Sioned suddenly exclaimed, “Oh! There’s Chay. I need to talk with him, Sethric.” A moment later, and very sternly: “Forgive me for stealing your partner, Jeni, but I have matters to discuss with his lordship of Radzyn Keep.”
“Later, Sioned.” Chay made as if to whirl Jeni away.
“Now,” she commanded, taking his elbow and turning for a window.
Behind them came a glacial, “My lord of Catha Heights,” and an actually frosty, “Your grace of Meadowlord.”
“You idiot!” Sioned hissed as she marched Chay along. “Don’t look over your shoulder! You’ll give the whole thing away!” Safely out of range, she spun around, took a half-step to her right, and poked a finger into his chest as if furious with him.
“No fair!” Chay growled. “You get to watch and I don’t!”
“Oh, hush.” She squinted around the other dancers. “That’s it, Jeni, sneak a look at him—excellent! Feylin just bumped into Sethric on purpose!” She chortled, ruining the picture of reprimand. “Good boy! There’s more than one way to get your arms around a pretty girl!”
“Are you quite finished?” Chay inquired.
“Kiss my hand and look contrite,” she grinned.
He did so, then slid an arm around her waist and tickled her ribs. “That’s for making me look the fool.”
“All in a good cause.”
“It’s impossible. I’m too young for you.”
Beth laughed softly as she tugged on his hand—as the dance very conveniently demanded. “You’ll get older. That’s the way life works. Besides, most people are saying that I’m too old for you.”
Isriam missed a step. “Tell me who and they won’t say anything else until midsummer!” Realizing his vehemence had attracted stares from the couples around them, he blushed. The music ended, and he escorted Beth over to a handy comer. “I know how much you cared for Lord Sorin. I’m not asking you to feel about me the way you—“
“Good,” she said forthrightly, “because I don’t. How can anyone feel exactly the same way about two different people? I love Tobin and Sioned equally, but for different reasons. I loved Sorin—but not the way I love you.”
He bit his lip. “Even if that’s true ... I don’t have anything to offer. If my grandfather doesn’t acknowledge me, I’ll have nothing. Nothing!”
Beth’s fingers dug into his arm, her eyes suddenly fierce. “I don’t care if Sabriam took away what could have been yours and Pirro never gives you what ought to be! It’s you I want, and be damned to what anyone thinks!”
Caught speechless between the uncertainty of his public future and the joy Betheyn promised for his private one, Isriam could only stare down at her.
Another voice, softly feminine, murmured at his shoulder, “It’s customary at this point for the man to ask the woman a certain question, you know.”
And a male voice added, “Marriage, and all that. Go on, Isriam. Don’t make her do all the work!”
His head snapped around, but Hollis had already glided by on Tilal’s arm to the dance floor.
After regretfully surrendering the lovely and laughing Princess Norian to Lord Draza, Chay ambled over to the refreshments table. Pouring wine, he said, “Ah. Just the boys I want to see.”
Arlis and Elsen exchanged glances. “Why don’t I like the sound of that?”
“Well? How much will it cost me for wood and so forth to repair my fleet?” He wagged a finger at them. “Bear in mind that if my ships don’t sail, Dorval’s silk stays put, Kierst-IsePs produce doesn’t leave the island, and Grib loses a lucrative market in the Desert.”
“Actually,” Arlis said with a thoughtful frown that couldn’t hide the wicked gleam of green eyes. “After seeing the dragon ships up close, I’m inclined to build a few. With their bigger holds to carry more cargo and our triangular sails for speed, there won’t be anything to touch them.”
“Now, you just stop right there, boy—“ Chay began.
Elsen coughed politely—an equally inadequate cover for glee at Chay’s expense. “Actually ... we kept four. They’re still at Goddess Keep. If you’d care to examine them, cousin—take them apart, see how they work, that sort of thing...”
Arlis gave a sigh. “How much will it cost me?”
“You make the outsides in Kierst-Isel, we’ll make the in-sides in Grib. One for you, one for me, one for you, one for me, and so on. I’m going to buy into Waes as a home port for my new fleet.”
“New fleet?” Chay scowled. “We’ll see about that. Pol!”
“So then he looked the pair of them right in the eyes and said, ‘If I could, I’d send you to a corner of the world so remote that the sun hasn’t found it yet.’ “ Sioned paused for a sip of cool wine; telling Sionell all that had transpired during her absence at Tiglath was thirsty work.
“And then?”
“He told them where he was going to send them. Chiana fainted, of course.”
“You wanted to rule? Very well. I give you your heart’s desire. There’s a whole princedom waiting for you—if you survive the trip.”
Rinhoel’s green eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” Sioned answered. “Once you arrive, declare yourself High Prince if it amuses you. None of us will mind.”
Pol smiled thinly. “Enjoy yourself, cousin. Be sure to build your darling Mama a replica of Castle Crag.”
“I don’t underst—“ Air left his lungs in a sudden gasp, as if his heart had stopped.
Chiana’s gaze shifted from Pol to Sioned to Rinhoel, then fixed on Naydra. “What is he talking about?”
“Mercy,” was the icy reply. “Despite my protests. Take what you can get, Chiana. Your life is more than you would have received from me.”
“My life? You dare imply you’d—“
“Be quiet, Mother!”
“No I will not be quiet! 1 demand to know where he thinks he’s sending us!”
“Hell!” Rinhoel snarled.
“If you make it that far,” Naydra added.
“After all,” Sioned murmured with every evidence of sincerity—which fooled her Namesake not at all, “he had to send someone to the Vellanti Islands to tell them what really happened.”
Sionell winced. “Yes, but it really is a rotten thing to do— even to a conquered enemy.”
“They all deserve each other.” She paused a moment. “Roelstra Named her Treason. She spent her whole life deserving the name. I’ll admit that Rinhoel conducted himself with a certain dignity, though. It’s too bad we won’t get any reports on how he fares.” After another swallow of wine, she went on, “By the way, clear something up for me. I understand why you gave Castle Pine to Meig. An excellent move. But I don’t have a clue about what’s behind Catchwater.”
“Last night I had a long talk with Visian and Lady Elizian.” With one finger she traced the pattern of black lace over her knees. “It’s a Merida place, of course, very near Tuath and Tiglath. With my new duties, I can’t keep more than half an eye on them. So I persuaded the Isulk’im to do it for me.”
“But how did you get them to agree to live within stone walls?”
“You’ve never seen Catchwater,” Sionell smiled. “The only wall in the whole place is a fence around the kitchen garden to keep out the sand rats. It’s just a wooden manor house, and some outbuildings and stables. Nearby, a few small villages. Mostly open space—and you know how they feel about open space!”
Kierun approached with a chilled pitcher of wine, and Sioned held out her cup. “Thank you, my lord. But, Sionell, I just can’t see them making it a permanent camp.”
“Well, no. Various of them will take turns administering the place. I left it to them to work out.” She laughed. “You know, they rather like the idea of owning their own water. But not too much of it! Elizian says the lake here makes them nervous—so much water is positively unnatural!”
Arlis bowed his thanks to Ruala for the dance just concluded, and looked around for his wife. He found her talking with Rohannon.
“Well, ‘Sunrunner lad,’ “ he smiled, “didn’t I tell you you’d be in all the ballads?”
Rohannon sighed. “Rumor is it was Lord Ostvel’s doing—I mean, Prince Ostvel. If I were a few years younger, I’d stuff his pillow full of pudding.”
“But of course you’re too old for that sort of trick,” Demalia added.
“Chayla suggested whitespice,” he replied with a straight face.
Arlis felt a sneeze coming on at the very idea. “Don’t worry. With so much happening to so many people in so many places, there are stories enough to embarrass everyone equally—and keep the bards fully employed for the next five years! Now, if you don’t mind, my lady and I are about to show everybody how the Iseli three-step ought to be done.”
Rohannon meandered around the edge of the dancing, looking for his sister. He caught sight of her slipping through a side door with a man in black and gold. Wanting to know what she and Visian had to talk about—hoping it wasn’t Kazander, a wound only beginning to heal—he started after them.
Someone blundered into him. He instinctively caught at an elbow. A sleek, dark head turned and an apology stammered from a wide mouth. “It’s the skirt,” Aldiara finished morosely. “I hate it.”
“But it looks nice.” Knowing this inadequate response was unworthy of the grandson of a man famous for appreciating pretty ladies, Rohannon smiled and added, “In fact, you look beautiful. Would you like to dance?”
Tobin—over whose cane Aldiara had stumbled—chuckled complacently.
Amiel and Tilal stood on the main steps of the keep, waiting for a couple to be detached from the happy chaos of dancing in the courtyard. At last Audran returned with the pair in tow, awestruck that their young prince had come to fetch them personally.
“Many thanks, your grace,” Tilal said to Audran. “Neither of us would ever have made it through that riot!”
Amiel cleared his throat and addressed the young couple. “You gave up something very precious to you in order to aid us against the Vellant’im—“
From Tilal’s fingers suddenly trailed two thin rivulets of gold and tiny emeralds. The physician gasped; her Chosen, a soldier who’d fought on Dorval and at Radzyn, opened his eyes even wider than at his first sight of the enemy.
“—and I hope these are adequate replacement for the bracelets you lost at the Faolain,” Amiel concluded.
“Your g-grace!”
“It’s too much—we can’t—“
“Oh, of course you can,” Audran scolded.
“Hear that?” Tilal smiled. “Your prince has spoken. So when’s the wedding?”
A bit later, as they returned to the great hall, Amiel said to Audran, “And that, cousin, is some of the best fun a prince can have.”
“Expensive fun,” Tilal added, “but worth it.”
In the small back garden, Chayla sat down rather abruptly on a stone bench. “Are you asking me,” she said carefully, “for permission?”
“I would be happier,” Visian admitted. “But it is a charge placed upon me by the korrus. I will obey it with or without your consent,”
“My lord—I’m very grateful, and it’s very kind of you, but have you thought what it would be like? Goddess Keep is absolutely nothing like the Desert. You’d be terribly homesick.”
He smiled. “Will you not be, as well? But there will be me to remind you of the Long Sand and the wide sky. It is not so very far a distance my Lady—only a few rivers away.”
A few rivers? Good Goddess, it was twelve days’ hard riding in fine weather, through half the Desert and all of Syr and Ossetia. She opened her mouth to tell him so when a rustle of skirts announced a new arrival.
Three new arrivals, one of them carrying a sleeping infant. Chayla gestured without thinking to a torch that was going out, and the stronger light of her Fire showed her Kazander’s wives approaching through the garden. Their feet made no more noise on the loose gravel than if it was sand.
“My friends!” Chayla rose. “I’m glad to see you—for yourselves, and because I need you to help persuade Visian not to—“
“Why, when we approve?” Elizian asked, genuinely puzzled.
Suddenly Chayla was holding the small bundle. She and Feylin had spent much time at the Isulki camp, restocking medical supplies and treating cases that troubled the clan physician. This baby was one of them. Kazander’s three sons—aged six, three, and just over two—and twin four-year-old daughters Named for Feylin, were robustly healthy. But this new little girl, expected after the first of Spring, had arrived thirty days early.
Chayla’s experience was of battle wounds. Until that first afternoon in the Isulki tent, she’d forgotten there was any other use for a physician. But to help a sick baby, and in time to teach others how to do the same plus a thousand more things that had nothing to do with swords or knives— that was what she wanted for her life’s work. And at Goddess Keep, where her other gifts would not be neglected.
She had no idea why Andry had fixed on her as his successor—especially after the matter of the abortion. But while she was unsure of her uncle’s reasons for the choosing, she was positive of her own for accepting. It was right that she do it: right for the Sunrunners, for the princedoms, for herself. Goddess Keep would welcome someone of Andrade’s and Andry’s blood. The princedoms would breathe easier knowing that Sunrunners and High Prince would not conflict as they had for so long. (The princes would also appreciate her youth, believing that until she was older and more knowledgeable, she would be relatively powerless. Thinking how little they knew her, Chayla smiled— and wondered abruptly if her stubborn convictions had decided Andry in her favor.) That her family was unhappy grieved her—but she knew she must do this if for no other reason than herself.
She wanted, quite simply, to leave the Desert and its memories. Kazander; rape; abortion; the war, the deaths, the pain and blood. And especially the memory of her demand of Pol’s ros’salath—deaths that would have betrayed both the physician and the Sunrunner in her. A lifetime of healing the sick and of teaching others the dangers as well as the joys offaradhi powers might make the remembering a little easier. But she would never forget. She would not—could not—wall the memories away as Sioned had done.
Chayla smiled down at the baby. Feylin had decided that the trouble was nothing more serious than a delicate stomach. Special herbs were brought from Skybowl. Proof of the cure rested now in Chayla’s arms, eyes wide open beneath extravagantly arched black brows. A fist freed itself from the blanket, reaching for the glinting jewels around Chayla’s neck.
“Ah, now, little lady,” she chuckled. “Wait till you’re older!”
Zenaya—the child’s mother, youngest of Kazander’s wives—said, “When she is of an age, we will send her to you.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
Visian spoke up. “My sister and all Isulk’im claim kin with Zehava’s line, my Lady. This fostering, it is better when it is family, not strangers.”
“It is common among our people,” Zenaya went on, “to share children and provide blood-bond. Do not children of highborns go to other castles? I wish the bond with you and your Sunrunners. It is my choice, and we are agreed.”
“She will be your daughter, your sister, your friend,” Elizian told her.
“But—I can’t just—“
“You do not want her.” Zenaya bit her lip, eyes downcast in shame. “She is small, I know this, but the Lady Feylin says she will grow strong and—“
“No, no, that’s not it. It’s just—“ Chayla gazed helplessly into smoke-blue eyes she knew would turn as dark as Kazander’s in time. “Why?”
“Why not?” asked Zenaya. “If you do not want her with you, then at least please Name her. It would do her great honor.”
“A Name you would give your own daughter,” said the middle wife, Karalain.
Chayla finally understood. Softly, she said, “When she’s old enough, I would be very proud to have her with me. And—and I think a good Name for her, an honorable Name, would be Andra.”
Sioned went looking for Pol around midnight. Questioning three different people in three different parts of the hall, she got exactly the same response. When she heard it a fourth time from Dannar, the conspiracy was confirmed.
“I think I saw him on the other side of the room, your grace.”
So had Walvis, Chadric, and Hollis. “That’s what he told you to say, isn’t it?”
“Well...”
“It’s all right, Dannar. He probably just wanted some time alone. This is quite a crush, after all.”
Another circuitous search pattern told her that Sionell was missing, too.
Perhaps ... ah, who can say?
You promised to keep your meddling fingers out of it, Sioned.
She let Tilal lure her back to the dancing, and forgot all about Pol and Sionell when she saw a group of children—up much too late, but no matter—form their own set. Alleyn and Jahnev, Maara and Audran, Dannar and Antalya—Jihan snagged Daniv to partner her (naturally; he was a ruling prince). Isriam, abandoning the dignity of his seventeen years and another dance with Beth, coaxed shy Tobren to join in. Jeni and Sethric presided over dancing class amid much giggling confusion.
Best of all, Sioned saw with delight, Kierun led Rislyn into the circle. Soon she was twirling across the floor, laughing.
He wedged the single candle against the rocks and stood watching the flame for a time. Remembering. Saying her name to the night, just once.
He closed his fingers around the pearls in his pocket. He’d thought to leave them here, but two days ago his daughters had dissuaded him. Indirectly, of course.
Glancing up from his work, he smiled when he saw that the interruptions were his favorites in all the world. His hand quickly covered the pearls—but Jihan had seen them with her eyes and Rislyn with her senses.
“You’re not going to give them back to Lady Karanaya, are you, Papa?” Jihan asked.
“You can’t, you know,” Rislyn said softly. “They’re too important.”
“Important? Why is that?”
“Because even when they’re hidden, you can still see them as a Sunrunner.”
Jihan nodded emphasis. “We can always know where they are.”
“And so ...?”
“Somebody can always find them,” Rislyn explained. “And that means that whoever carries one can’t be lost.”
An interesting notion, and one he might make use of one day. So he would keep them.
Perhaps he ought to give one to Sionell.
He descended the slope toward the lakeshore, where the dragons were curled in sleep. One or two lifted their heads at his approach. A soft growl from Azhdeen sent them back to dozing—or at least they closed their eyes and lowered their chins to tucked-up forelegs. Pol had the uncanny sensation that they were listening.
“So you’ve forgiven me for being so rough with you?” he asked his dragon, who blinked at him in the moonlight. “Andry was wrong, you know. He shouldn’t have used anyone like that, least of all you.” Reaching to stroke Azhdeen’s neck, he drew back at the rumbled warning. “Oh. So I’m not forgiven. Well, I suppose you don’t exactly see it my way.”
The dragon glanced from side to side, as if to judge the others’ attention. Then he did a remarkable thing. Rolling to one side, he stretched his neck out and presented the length of his throat to Pol—just as a young male dragon did when yielding, in play or in earnest, to an older and more powerful sire.
Pol stepped back, astonished, dismayed—and thinking that this was more or less what everyone else had done tonight. Submission. Acknowledgment of him as their master. Well, that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Even Andry had been unable to oppose him.
“I understand what you mean by it, old son, but it’s not necessary,” Pol said. He used both hands to scratch Azhdeen’s jaws, careful of gleaming white teeth and wickedly sharp spines. The dragon opened an eye. “What I did— well, it won’t happen again. And don’t you ever do this again, either.” He ran the flats of both palms over and over the silky hide between the dragon’s eyes, smiling when Azhdeen hummed in pleasure. “That’s better, isn’t it? And probably prophetic as well. Just like you, they yielded, and now I’ll be a good High Prince and make them all happy.”
“Yes, they are like Azhdeen. They never would have yielded if they didn’t trust you.”
Sionell’s words almost made him leap out of his skin. Usually Azhdeen growled at everyone else. But the dragon settled peacefully back onto his belly in the sand, still humming. Pol turned. Sionell’s gown and jewels shimmered by moonlight. A warm breeze that teased music from the castle and from Isulki wind chimes down below ruffled tendrils of loosened hair at her cheeks and nape.
Leaving Azhdeen and the other dragons, they started back toward the castle. Light blazed from Skybowl, music and laughter drifting across the water.
“What will you do with the mirror?” Sionell asked.
Thinking himself prepared for anything, this question took him by surprise. “Give it back to Riyan, of course. It’s useless without the jewels.”
“And those? Returned to their owners?”
“Yes.” He’d debated it with himself, wondering if he shouldn’t lock them away someplace safe—or do with them what he’d asked Visian to do with the selej. But it wasn’t these particular stones that keyed the mirror; any gem of sufficient power would do. So hiding them wouldn’t do much good.
As if hearing his thought, Sionell said, “But not the selej.”
“I told Visian to bury it somewhere very very deep—and forget where he put the shovel.”
She was quiet for a time, her thin slippers almost soundless against the pebbles underfoot. At length she said, “You spoke with Lord Rosseyn before you gave back the jewels. You couldn’t not speak with him.”
Pol shrugged. “I asked if he could be set free. But there’s nothing to be done. Not even smashing the mirror—he’d only shatter with it, a piece of him in each fragment. Goddess, what Lallante did to him—“ He stared out at the water. “I can’t imagine hating anybody that much.”
Sionell replied, “She had the integrity of her passion.”
He stopped walking. “What?”
“I don’t mean ‘integrity’ as in ‘honor,’ but—a sort of purity of purpose. Like Chiana. She wanted Castle Crag. She’d do anything for it.”
“I ... see what you mean,” he said slowly. “Absolute single-mindedness. Anything to fulfill that passion. Like Andry with Goddess Keep.”
“But never his own power. I think I finally understand that. I wish I could tell him so.” She sighed. “Maybe everyone has a world within, part dream and part reality. It doesn’t matter how unattainable the dream might be—it’s the power of the vision that counts.”
“Andrade,” he said.
“Yes. And your father. But he had the exterior power to make his interior world a reality.”
Pol thought that over, watching moonlight ripple across the water. At the start of the war, he’d feared that his passion would turn out to be for killing. Lately, he’d feared it was for power. No dream-and-reality had ever clarified within him, no single purpose, no vision of himself beyond the serenity of Dragon’s Rest.
But suddenly that world-in-small told him everything about his own passion. People came to him for approval or consultation or ideas and then went about the tasks their talents dictated, trusting him to maintain the peace that allowed them to live their lives.
Wasn’t that what he’d begun tonight throughout the princedoms? Sunrunners, sorcerers, common folk, princes, athr’im—why else had he termed himself Faradh’rei, Diarmadh’rei, and High Prince?
Rohan and Sioned had built Dragon’s Rest for him. He had ruled it, mainly by following his father’s philosophy of turning loose competent people to do what they did best. The princedoms in small...
Meiglan had been so much of his life at Dragon’s Rest. He knew suddenly that he would feel her absence there even more than at Skybowl. With him, she had ruled their perfect little world.
But it was to Sionell that he instinctively turned now. The integrity of passion.,.-‘. As much as he’d thought he needed her before, he’d been wrong. She was as essential to him as Air to breathe and Fire to light his path.
His expression must have changed in response to his thoughts, for she took a step closer—almost reluctantly, almost as if drawn against her will. “Pol—“
“We’ll never stop mourning them,” he said. “Meiglan, Tallain, your brother, my father—that’s as it should be, Ell. They should be remembered, even though it’s painful. Maybe because it’s painful, I don’t know.”
“Pol,” she said again.
He placed a finger lightly on her lips. “I can’t stand back from what I feel and stare at it, pick it apart to find out how it works. I can’t tell you why or how, I don’t have any reasons.” He brushed curling strands of hair from her neck. “Maybe if I’d looked in Fire and Water the way my mother did, maybe I would’ve seen you the way she saw my father. I like to think I would have. All I can tell you is that I love you, Sionell. I love you.”
Sioned gradually extricated herself from the crowd, pausing to speak with this prince and that athri, moving so subtly that no one noticed when she slipped out a side door. Making her way to the courtyard, she let herself be delayed in talk with some of the soldiers, physicians, and castle folk whose celebration showed no signs of waning. Like the highboms inside the hall, they’d drink until the wine was gone and dance until their shoes wore through, and tell their grandchildren that no night had ever been like this one.
At last she slipped away. There were no guards on duty at the gate. None were needed. Stars reigned unchallenged in the night sky, the third moon having just set. The light showed her a tall, fair-haired man in white and a young woman in a dark gown walking slowly back to the castle.
She stood in a shadow of Skybowl, waiting for them to enter through the gates, wishing she was close enough to see their faces. Not that it mattered all that much; the woman’s hand rested on the man’s arm, and their easy strides kept the same rhythm.
Well, look at that! And I didn’t even have to poke my nose in.
There was no reply, not even the wisp of a presence hovering near her. She’d stopped wondering if it was her imagination, her memories, or her conscience that answered her. She’d decided that it really was him.
But she could not sense him now.
When the couple vanished through the gates, Sioned started around the edge of the lake. She paused now and then to gaze at the ruffling silver water, the breeze dancing across its surface, the stars lacing its deeper darkness with shining light. She walked slowly, in no hurry as she climbed the crater’s rim and stood watching the Desert.
The wind smelled of water and Isulki campfires, Skybowl’s ancient stones and the clean, golden sand. Nearby a single candle burned in the place where Meiglan had died. But this place where Sioned stood, this was where she had Named Pol, used starfire for the first time, kept Rohan safe. Starlight spilled over the curves and hollows of the dunes below, pooling in the flat plain beyond Isulki tents. Silvery Fire, spreading like Water over the Earth, teased by Air that shifted the gleaming sea. Goddess, how beautiful it was.
“We won, Rohan,” she whispered to the night sky. “Not Roelstra, not Andrade. We did. He’s not the prince either of them wanted. He’s the man we taught him to be. You always said that people do what they’re meant to, because of who and what they are. But our work is finished. It’s his work now.”
The light beckoned her, and she spun it on a broad loom. Endless, blazing stars, such incredible light—and voices now, borne on the wind and the fire. They whispered to her: Daughter and Sister and Friend and Kindred and even Mother, shimmering bright tears in her eyes. Some voices she knew. Others were strangers to her ears, but not to her soul. Not to the Fire.
One voice whispered Beloved. She spread her colors on the starshine to embrace this land he had given her, and there were no shadows to darken the Fire soaring across the sand. Only light, only joy.
No one heard Elisel scream. Only the dragons saw her rise into the night sky like an arrow, mute after that one keening wail. It was two days before she returned to Skybowl. Long before that, they found Sioned.
EPILOGUE
So. This is what I won.
Did grass spring up beside the fountain? Did roses bud on the garden walls? Did he find here renewal, rebirth, the promise of life resumed?
Stronghold was charred rubble from gatehouse to Flametower.
Sunlight winked and sparkled off bits of glass clinging to the windows, mocking him with rainbow colors. He stood in the garden staring up at the blackened stones. His birthright.
His Feruche?
Sioned had insisted that Rohan raise a new castle on the ashes of their nightmare. Could Pol do less? Could he leave Stronghold to the Desert wind, silent testimony to the failure of a dream?
... for as long as the sands spawn Fire...
He trod the seared ground beside the stream, trying to remember Chay’s words about where they’d found him. Here, perhaps? Or there, where the water curved gracefully beneath the dead branches of the willow tree? That was as good a place as any. He bent, placing the heavy golden box onto the gravel, and unlatched the lid. Eventually the wind would empty the casket of her ashes in this place where Rohan and Stronghold itself had died.
“It must have been like Andry,” Feylin murmured, tears streaking her face in the dawn. “Lost, but not on shadows. On light.”
“Papa?”
He turned. Jihan and Rislyn walked hand-in-hand toward him. He went to meet them, not wishing them to see the golden casket as they had seen the pearls. “You should have stayed with the others,” he said gently.
“No, I wanted to see, and so did Linnie,” Jihan replied.
“It feels sad,” Rislyn added after a time. “I don’t like it so sad here.”
“It’ll be better when it’s clean again,” her sister said. “Papa, did Aunt Tobin tell you we started a tapestry?”
Pol blinked. “A tapestry?”
“Well, just the drawing. Maarken is going to sketch it for us and I’m going to do some of the stitching.”
He smiled. “I thought you hated to sew—and I’m positive Tobin does.”
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “But it’s something we have to do, isn’t it? I mean, it’ll take a long time to sew, but it’ll take a long time to make Stronghold the way it was again, too.”
“We’re only almost eight,” Rislyn reminded him.
“Ah, of course,” Pol said. “You have plenty of time, then.”
He watched them explore, trying not to remember that he’d said almost the same thing twenty days ago.
“Please don’t say that, Pol. Not now. “
“Not ever?”
“I care for you. Not the way I did when I was a little girl, but ... I’m not sure how I feel. I need time.”
“I’m not asking for a decision right this moment. We have time. I just—I want you to come with me. Just as far as Stronghold—“
“No.”
“Ell—“ • ‘
“Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Why are you making me say these things? My parents need my help with
, Remagev. And Jeren—he’s only two years old. He needs me even more. My children need me most of all.”
Pol watched the stars dance across the water. “Antalya’s afraid of me now, isn ‘t she ? “
“Yes.” She didn’t lie to him; when had she ever?
“I’ve seen it in her eyes. I wish you’d give me the chance to show her she doesn’t have to be.”
But they weren’t really talking about Antalya.
“I’m going home to Tiglath, Pol. I need time to think, and put our lives back together—“
“I understand.”
He hadn’t even felt it, that she was slipping away from him. He’d never held more than a portion of her heart. In their youth, he could have had everything. “I love you, Sionell. I need who I am when I’m with you.”
“You are what you are, Pol—with me or without me.” She paused, then murmured, “You are my lord and my prince—but more than anything else, I should like us to be friends. Perhaps there can be more ... but I have to ask you to wait.”
He nodded, and she put her hand on his arm, and they returned to Skybowl: the High Prince and the Regent of Cunaxa. Nothing more.
There was time. He would wait, in patience and however much silence she required. That was all he could do. There were no choices. The future would take shape, and order would return to their lives. In time they would know if what was between them was enough, or if what was between them was too much.
Maarken had said once, when Pol was twenty-two and halfheartedly thinking about finding a wife, that there was a sly paradox to love: in making you whole, it cut you in half. Pol hadn’t understood. Not then, not after he married Meiglan, not even after he lost her.
He understood now.
Friends. Something else he’d have to settle for. Friends— What a terrible, damning, hopeless word. Hope, along with his youth and his parents and his Meiglan—and Sionell— was gone.
He watched his daughters splash cool water on their faces. They took it for granted that Stronghold would be rebuilt. Well, what they wanted, he would give them. He had been the center of so much for so long; it was a surprising relief to realize he was of only temporary importance. Jihan and Rislyn would live the future he would shape for them.
“Papa?” Jihan called. “Is there enough water?”
He joined them at the fountain. “For what?” he smiled. “Were you thinking of taking a swim?”
“No,” Rislyn said seriously. “We have to wash the Flametower.”
“... Tobin and your grandmother scrubbed their hands raw—I’d only just met your mother, so she didn’t help them—it’s supposed to be women who are officially part of the family, although everybody knew why Sioned was there. When it comes your turn, tell Meggie not to worry about the inkstain on the floor. It was Chay’s fault and if anybody cleans it up, it should be him!”
He tilted his head back and stared at the pointed arches of the windows. After Rohan’s fire had burned there nearly forty years, and Sioned’s Fire had burned for three days, the stones would be—
What would they use for fuel, anyway? And who would he leave behind to make sure the flames didn’t go out?
There would be plenty of volunteers: people who understood the significance of the Flametower and why it must be lighted. But they all had other places they must be. Ostvel and Alasen were on their way to Castle Crag to pack. Hollis and Maarken would accompany Chayla to Goddess Keep, where Arlis would leave them and set sail for Kierst-Isel with Rohannon. Tobin and Chay were bound for Radzyn tomorrow morning, along with Chadric and the rest of the Dorvali, none of whom could wait to get home. Walvis and Feylin would stay at Radzyn a few days, then go to Remagev and cautiously spring what deadfalls the Vellant’im had missed. Daniv was needed at High Kirat; Draza at Grand Versch; Tilal and Gemma at Athmyr. The diarmadh’im had already returned to their homes.
Who could he ask to maintain the symbol of the past and the future?
Ah, of course. Who else but the Isulk’im, his kin, whose place Stronghold also was?
He held out his hands. Rislyn took one, Jihan the other. “Let’s find some buckets and brushes and get to work. We’ll have to be quick about it, you know, if it’s to be lighted at nightfall.”
“But—“ Rislyn frowned up at him. “Tradition says it’s the women who—“
He smiled, and though she couldn’t see it, he knew she sensed it. “I’m starting a new tradition.”
They all helped. All his kin, his friends, his people. They scrubbed the stones clean and gathered up pieces of Stronghold itself—blackened wooden doors and floorboards, sticks that had been furniture, the tattered remains of tapestries, anything that would burn. Tomorrow the Isulk’im would bring fresh fuel from the Vere Hills—but not much, for in the cellars, hidden near the cisterns, had been found a dozen mirrors that had escaped destruction. They would be used to amplify the fire.
Pol had called Sunrunner’s Fire to none of them. Perhaps one day ... but not now. He’d had enough of mirrors and Fire and power.
Everyone helped prepare the room. But at dusk, he climbed the stairs alone.
He supposed the Flametower was nothing more than superstition. No, the Vellant’im had shown him otherwise. Superstition did not permit the mind to question; the meaning of its rituals and symbols was deliberately obscured.
Faith, then? He thought of Tilal, and his easygoing relationship with the Goddess. A serene faith, separate from the intellect used to confront his problems. The Goddess was always there when he needed her, like a parent’s warm and comforting love. The great passages of life—Naming, Choosing, Burning— had their rituals, bringing faith into the rhythm of existence. But, unlike superstition, faith did not infuse every action.
Pol suddenly knew this fire must be a symbol of belief— which required the mind to explain the heart’s faith. He wanted people to see the flames, know they burned, and believe in his ideas and his dreams.
Andry had wanted the same thing for Goddess Keep. For the Sunrunners. He had tried to codify faith, to reconcile it with logic. Dangerous and difficult: reason and logic pulling in harness with ritual and faith.
But it was the only way Pol could reconcile himself to the symbol waiting to be reborn in this room. All people— sorcerer, Sunrunner, prince, athri, commoner—believing in Pol with their minds and trusting in him with their faith— trusting that he could create a world where their ideas md their dreams could burn as brightly as his own.
He looked out at the Desert for a time, waiting for night. Stronghold was empty again. They were all out at the camp, waiting for the fire. His fire. When the sky was dark and the stars glowed like the jewels of the White Crown, he set the last remains of Stronghold alight.
His fire. For all of them, for however long it would burn.