Chapter Twelve

JL he day of the Battle of Radzyn, Tilal of Ossetia, Lark of Firon, and Edrel of River Ussh met in Pol’s library at Dragon’s Rest to make some hard decisions. But it was nearly impossible to believe in battle plans when a glance out the window yielded only peaceful orchards and quiet gardens.

Tilal rolled up a map of the southern princedoms and slid it back into place on the shelf. The long room was lined with Rohan’s gifts to the palace: copies of all the volumes in his own extensive collection. Bound books and scrolls offered every conceivable subject—from medicine to metallurgy, history to animal husbandry, poetry to politics. For Tilal, who had been his squire for ten years, it was rather like walking into Rohan’s mind.

But not Pol’s, now that he thought of it. Rohan’s heir had dutifully read what his teachers thought was important, but he was no scholar. Tilal smiled in rueful sympathy, remembering how he’d hated days spent in the library at Stronghold. But on taking possession of River Run, he’d missed the physical presence of books—their scent, the feel of parchment pages and leather bindings, the stark black elegance of script, the delicately inked drawings. He’d found himself ordering more books from Volog’s scriptorium each year—and reading them. It would take him many years of collecting to bring Athmyr’s library up to the standards he envisioned. But he was keenly aware that war threatened not just crops and castles. The books were in danger, too.

Edrel finished making copies of strategy notes and put down his pen. “I think we’ve covered everything, my lords. But I have a confession to make. My instincts are screaming at me to gather what troops I can and start fighting. Trouble is, I don’t know which way to march.”

“West to your brother at River Ussh, or east to the Desert,” Lark supplied, nodding. “I’m torn in two directions also—protect the princedom I was given, or fight alongside my brother to win Graypearl back.”

Tilal fixed his gaze on the map of Ossetia still spread on the table. “I know. Gemma says she can feel enemy footsteps on our lands. My brother’s princedom lies between two rivers held by the enemy.” He glanced around at the library shelves again. “My mind tells me to take care of my own. But my guts demand that I defend my prince.”

“Personal loyalty is one thing,” Laric commented. “Duty is another. Perhaps it comes down to a choice of which course is most easily lived with. None of us can go in two directions at once. But who is more important—our own people, or the High Prince?”

“You know what Rohan would say to that, of course,” Tilal smiled.

The other prince shrugged. “And he might be wrong. For there’s a third presence, and a powerful one. Especially in the minds of the people. What do you think would happen if Goddess Keep fell?” A knock on the door turned their heads before any reply could be formed. Laric said, “Come,” and Pol’s court faradhi, Hildreth, entered hesitantly.

“Forgive me for interrupting, my lords,” she said. “I thought you might need me.”

Hildreth had left Goddess Keep ten years earlier with her husband and two sons, unable to countenance any more of Andry’s changes in tradition. He had made no protest; neither Ullan nor the boys were gifted, and thus no loss to him. After three years as an itinerant faradhi in the south, Hildreth had severely injured her leg in an accident. Sioned, hearing of it, had asked Pol to invite the family to Dragon’s Rest. Hildreth was an old friend, one of the group that escorted Sioned to the Desert in 698 to become Rohan’s wife; Pol was glad to welcome her, the more so because she had been trained by Lady Andrade and was no champion of Andry’s growing power.

Pol acted as his own Sunrunner, so there was little for Hildreth to do professionally. Her main duty was teaching —a task she enjoyed but which left the bulk of her gifts unused. In her eyes now was eagerness to function again as a Sunrunner was meant to. Tilal, recognizing this with some surprise, reflected that for all her sixty-four winters she was like a strong young hawk kept hooded in the mews. She needed to be flown at prey.

“Thank you, Hildreth—and forgive me for not asking you here sooner. It’s habit. I rarely conduct business with my Sunrunner in attendance.”

“I wouldn’t trust Fesariv, either,” she replied forthrightly. “He thinks the moons rise when Andry gives them permission.”

Edrel made an annoyed sound. “I’m a fool—I’d forgotten you rode Grib and Meadowlord, Hildreth. You’ll know exactly the best route for his grace to take back to Athmyr to avoid the enemy.”

“Avoid them?” Tilal forgot that his wife and daughter would be with him, and that he would command no more troops than his small personal guard and those that could be borrowed from Dragon’s Rest. “I don’t plan to avoid them. I plan to slaughter them.”

Hiidreth’s foray on sunlight yielded horror. Radzyn attacked, a battle being fought, no telling who would win and who would be slaughtered. The question of defending their own lands or going to their princes’ aid was thus solved for Tilal and Edrel: it was too late to help Radzyn,

Tilal had planned to speed his journey by swapping his own horses for ones kept at way stations along the road; Meiglan lent him enough spare mounts to make that unnecessary. He requested an escort of fifteen soldiers; she gave him thirty. When he thanked her, she expressed regret that she couldn’t send more—while wishing she could keep all of them here, especially Tilal. He had fought in the war against Roelstra. That was many years ago, and he had only been a squire, but at least he had experience. She wanted him to stay and take care of everything while she hid in a safe dark place until Pol came home.

“I’ll send your people and horses back when I meet up with my own,” Tilal said. “Probably somewhere in Grib. I’ve sent word for my northern levies to join me while the southern protect the Pyrme River.”

Jihan—irrepressible, willful—rode up on her new pony, demanding to be taken along. Meiglan saw the others smile. She felt like hauling the child down and slapping her.

Kierun deflated Jihan’s dreams. “You can’t go, my lady,” he said with the firmness of four winters’ seniority.

Very few people had ever forbidden Jihan anything—and none of them had been twelve-year-old squires. She sucked in an outraged breath, but never got the chance to tell him what to do with his orders.

“My lord charged me to protect you and Princess Rislyn and her grace. And I can’t do that unless you’re all in the same place.”

Meiglan nearly laughed. Protection from a child. The world had gone mad.

Tilal intervened hastily. “Lord Kierun is right. Your safety is his responsibility. You wouldn’t want him punished if anything happened to you.”

Her jaw jutted out, plain indication that she didn’t care if Kierun swung by his thumbs for it. But she climbed off her pony and waved a sulky farewell.

“Don’t worry too much,” Tilal said kindly to Meiglan, but his green eyes were shadowed. “Radzyn’s never been taken. Everyone there will be all right.”

Everyone at Radzyn could die for all she cared, as long as Pol came home where he belonged. She bid Tilal and Gemma and Sioneva farewell and sought her chambers. She knew she ought to sit with Lisiel, who had been confined to bed by the physicians. But Meiglan did not want to be with a woman who had given her lord one son and might produce another very soon now. It was a reminder of what she had not yet given Pol.

At the Rialla this year she had summoned the courage to beg Sioned to tell her if a Sunrunner physician could help her bear a son. The reply had been completely unexpected: “You’re worth much more to him than your ability to have children, rny dear. You’re not a brood mare! You are a princess.” Simple enough for Sioned to say; she had given her prince an heir.

But though Meiglan could not bring herself to sit with Lisiel, neither could she think of a place dark enough and secret enough to hide in.

Thanys entered the bedchamber with hot taze and cakes. She served Meiglan and then set about sorting a basket of clean laundry, talking on and on about the uproar in the kitchens as the servants prepared for a siege. Not that one was likely, but the chief cook had decreed that provisions were one battle Dragon’s Rest would never lose. His underlings were commanded like soldiers on a regular basis; since word had come of war, he was even worse—

“Be quiet!” Meiglan shouted. Thanys was so surprised she nearly dropped an armful of lace bedgowns. “Do what you came for, but do it in silence!”

Sioned would never have had to raise her voice. Meiglan huddled in on herself in despair. She had learned it all so well, all the things to say and do. And she knew how hollow the words were in her mouth, how meaningless the actions. Other women of her rank—Sioned, Sionell, Tobin, Gemma, even hateful Chiana—would be doing something right now, secure in their authority, preparing for war as efficiently as they governed their daily lives. Meiglan had no example for war. She didn’t know what needed ordering, organizing, overseeing. Her authority was empty without Pol.

When Thanys murmured that it was nearly time for the children’s lesson, Meiglan stared in amazement. Pol was fighting for his life, and Thanys could prattle of the children’s lessons? But as she glanced automatically at the water clock, her rnind turning just as instinctively to the day’s plan, she realized the older woman’s wisdom. There was soothing comfort in routine that fooled the mind and heart into believing that nothing had changed. For the children’s sake, life here must continue as regularly as possible.

For the children’s sake? For her own. If she clung to the usual order of things, said what she always said and did what she always did, then perhaps she could convince herself that Pol was only out for an afternoon ride, that she could tiptoe into his chambers tonight and lie in his arms.

But there was a greater reason than her own need to behave as if all was well. People would see and approve, and say of her, How calm our princess is, going about her everyday business as if the enemy didn’t even exist!

She prepared for the deception, knowing it depended on her ability to deceive herself. Stitchery, she repeated dully, she would be teaching the girls stitchery today. Monotonously, mindlessly plying her needle would present the very picture of serenity. She could even smile faintly at the irony of it, for the woman who had unknowingly taught her this placid skill was the least peaceful person in Pol’s whole family.

Tobin alone of the highborn ladies Meiglan knew was a notable needlewoman. She had faithfully studied every stitch of the embroidered blanket Tobin sent when Jihan and Rislyn were born, and by now was adept. Fingers that plucked the fenath with effortless ease had no trouble with the needle. She intended her daughters to master the elegant craft from childhood—it was the only one she could teach them of all the things they must learn, things that would make them powerful, self-assured women like Tobin and Sioned. Jihan and Rislyn would always be certain of their accomplishments and worth.

Meiglan left her own chambers with steps that sounded cheeringly confident to her own ears—and faltered before Pol’s door. She glanced up and down the hall to see if anyone was watching, loathing her instinctive hesitation. This was her home, these were her husband’s rooms; she could go in if she liked.

Once inside, she cursed her foolishness. Had she hoped to feel closer to him for standing by his bed, fingering his pillow? Or was this the hiding place she sought? She turned to leave, only to bump into Kierun on his way in.

“I’m sorry, your grace. May I help you find something?” the boy asked considerately.

Insane to be blushing and stammering in her own home. “No. Nothing, thank you, Kierun. I—I’m late for the children’s lessons.”

He bit his lip, then said in a rush, “Your grace, I hope I didn’t presume too much with Princess Jihan this morning. It’s just that—my lord said—“

“No, you were quite right, Kierun. It was just the right thing to tell her. She’s so stubborn.”

“I’ll say,” Kierun muttered, then turned fiery red. “Forgive me, your grace—“

“It’s all right, Kierun. Go about your duties now.” As she escaped down the corridor, she realized how fortunate she was that the only person who had seen her was also the only person at Dragon’s Rest even shyer than herself. But Kierun had been assertive enough with Jihan. It was galling to find example in a twelve-year-old child.

“I told you it was a stupid time of year to cross the Long Sand!” Chay yelled, barely able to see Rohan in the stinging haze of sand.

“Cheer up—the road to Stronghold’s probably even worse than this one!”

“What road?”

They hauled at their horses’ reins, slogging through shifting sand that sucked at their boots like mud. The first storm had spent its fury in a single night. They’d had a day of clear riding before another blew in. Not nearly as fierce, still it caught them between shelters and showed every sign of lasting until evening. They were all old enough hands at living in the Desert to wade through, but it was hard going, and the journey to Remagev that should have taken three days looked as if it would last five, perhaps six.

Chay’s main worry was Tobin. Incapable of walking, she was huddled against his stallion’s neck, wrapped so tightly in a voluminous cloak that he wondered sometimes how she breathed. Every so often he reached for her hand, felt a reassuring squeeze, and swore that one enemy soldier would die by his sword for every instant of this nightmare. Strength and courage she should have been using to get well were instead expended in simply staying alive.

And then there was poor little Tobren. Desert forebears she might have, back a score of generations, but she had been born and raised at Goddess Keep on the Ossetian coast—a land wild enough in its way, with deadly winter storms, but wholly unlike this wasteland gone mad in the wind. It had taken Hollis and Betheyn together to coax her out of the shelter that morning. She hadn’t spoken a word since. When the storm blew up today, she had begun to weep silently, too proud to draw attention to herself until Maarken lifted her from her saddle into his arms. A charming introduction to the land of her ancestors, Chay thought bitterly, wanting to rock her to sleep and ease the terror from her blue eyes. That was something else those whoresons would pay for in blood. They had made his granddaughter cry.

“I think it’s letting up!” Rohan shouted.

“You always were a dreamer!” He adjusted the cloth covering his face. “This damned stuff doesn’t enhance my warrior’s image any, you know!”

“Be grateful for wives with expensive tastes!”

Usually everyone traveling the Desert at any time of year—but especially in autumn—carried a length of fine-woven silk mesh for just this reason. But there hadn’t been enough to screen all the people and all the horses. So the delicate undertunics worn by the highborn ladies had been ripped to shreds, and they and their husbands were swathed in softly perfumed lace. Chay had to admit it worked nearly as well as the silk—but he felt ridiculous.

He fumbled for Tobin’s hand again, his heart catching when he felt her grip a little weaker than it had been. “Are you all right?” he yelled. The cloak nodded. “We can stop and rest if—“

“Chay!” Rohan yelled. “Somebody’s coming!”

His hand went for his sword. How Rohan could tell there was anyone out there was a mystery; he couldn’t see an arm’s length past his own horse. He squinted and eventually the swirling sand assumed a shape, then another, then a whole group of shapes nearly the same color as the storm. “Maarken!” he bellowed. “Pol!”

But Rohan was gesturing peace. The shapes drew nearer, leading horses whose faces were wrapped in silk. Chay realized belatedly that these people were coming from the north, the direction of Remagev. The enemy could not have outrun and outflanked them so soon. Where were his wits? he asked himself. He wasn’t just too old for this kind of thing, he was senile.

He drew even with Rohan and watched in surprise that quickly became amusement as one of the sand-colored shapes dropped to one knee.

“Great and noble High Prince!” a voice cried, and the other shapes descended likewise onto the sand. “The Mother of All Dragons has blessed your pathetic kinsman! He has finally found you in this likeness of the Sixth Hell! Have you or your beloved lady wife come to any hurt?”

“None!” Rohan shouted back. “I’m glad to see you—but, damn it, Kazander, I thought I told you to stay at Remagev!”

“Most honored prince, I could not!”

“Why?” Rohan demanded.

Kazander looked up. “Because, my prince, you are going the wrong way.”

Tilal fulfilled his promise of slaughter sooner than he intended. Lacking a Sunrunner to spy out the land ahead, he had to rely on teams of mounted scouts. When, on the morning he crossed the Faolain River at a little-used bridge, one pair failed to return, he knew he was in for trouble.

“It’s hellish, being out of touch this way,” he told Gemma. “I don’t know what happened at Radzyn, the news is days old—Goddess, I need a Sunrunner!” He fretted over this truth for a moment. “The last report that came to Dragon’s Rest put the enemy at least a hundred measures south of here. I’d planned to look in on Velden at Summer River, use his faradhi to take a look. But now it seems we’ll have to go around.”

“Not around whoever got our scouts!” she exclaimed.

“I never suspected such a lovely face hid a warrior’s heart.”

Gemma shrugged. “If a warrior is what’s needed, that’s what I’ll be. I’m no Meiglan, cowering in a corner, waiting for Pol to come home and make everything all right.”

“Did she seem that way to you? I thought her very cool and capable about it all,” He gestured to his squire and said, “Find Chaltyn for me, Malyander. We need to confer.” When the boy was off on his errand, he continued, “Now that you mention it, I’m glad Edrel and Laric are there to make decisions for her.”

“When we get to Athmyr, you needn’t worry about my finding a convenient corner to hide in,” she stated. “I’ll hold the castle. But I swear, Tilal, if I have to bind and gag Sorin to keep him from following you off to war, I will.”

“Just make sure nobody tells him about Jihan. Goddess, I really thought she was going to gallop after us. She had a look in her eyes like Po! used to get when he was her age. Impossible brat.”

“Talking about little brother again?” Sioneva guided her horse nearer her parents, smiling.

“Obliquely,” Tilal replied. “Don’t say anything to him about Jihan’s little performance—we’re hoping he won’t get any ideas.”

“Not a word. Why have we stopped?”

“Take a guess,” Gemma invited. “The scouts haven’t reported back.”

The girl’s eyes rounded. “You’re not going to lead a skirmish yourself, Father!”

“I’m forty-five, not ninety,” he said a bit testily, and reined around as Chaltyn, the commander of his guard, rode up. A brief conversation divided the soldiers into two groups: one to hunt the enemy, the other, from Dragon’s Rest, to remain behind. With a jaunty salute to his wife and daughter he rode off to the skirmish.

But, as he had unwittingly prophesied, it was no skirmish. It was a slaughter. They found the enemy in a copse where autumn foliage stained the forest yellow, rust, and brown. The two scouts were being systematically, almost ritually tortured. They did not scream because they could not; their own shirts had been stuffed so far down their throats that no sound could emerge. Tilal peered from cover at the sword cuts like bleeding ribbons across the man’s back and the woman’s breasts. He gave a signal, and his twenty fell on the twelve enemy—swiftly, brutally, and to the point.

The woman, one of his own guard, sobbed unashamedly when the gag was pulled from her mouth and cool water was poured over her wounds. “My lord—it was so quick, we had no warning—“

“You did all you could. I’m just glad you’re both alive.” Tilal hid sickness at the sight of her flayed skin. The war with Roelstra had been terrible—but prisoners had never been tortured. There were rules, and honor. What had been done to his scouts warned him that if, as Rohan sometimes said, war was the craft of barbarians, this enemy had made of it an art form.

“They spoke—we couldn’t understand them,” she went on, gasping as bandages were applied. “Panadi, he’s one of Prince Pol’s men, from near Rezeld, he thought he recognized a few words, like the old language, but—oh, Goddess—“

“That’s enough for now. Rest.” Turning to his guards commander, he said, “Search the corpses down to the toe-nails. We must learn all we can about these animals. I especially want those gold beads from their beards. And send someone back to her grace to tell her we’re all right.”

“At once, my lord.”

He watched as the bodies were unceremoniously stripped. Not animals; just men, uniformly dark-haired and dark-eyed, built like bull elk. Clothing was laid aside for his inspection. Tunics of some rough-woven, undyed cloth that was neither wool nor silk nor linen. Trousers the same, only dark. Shirts were of a thinner, softer version of the material, bleached white. Short boots of cowhide with surprisingly thin soles that, despite the long measures marched so far, showed little sign of wear. No rings, necklets, armbands, earrings, or other jewelry, except the gold beads. No underclothes, either. Just shirts, trousers, and plain tunics with a jagged design stitched in red on a black badge over the heart. Tilal cut one off with his knife, studied it, and decided at last that it was a stylized bolt of lightning.

Tilal got back on his horse and returned to his wife and daughter, thinking along the way about what those clothes might mean. All he came up with that he trusted was that the lightning might have some connection to the Storm God. Perhaps he and not the Goddess was the primary force in their lives.

But there was one other thing. Verbal exchanges had demonstrated to each side that the other’s language was incomprehensible. Without words in common, there could be no communication. Yet the scouts had been tortured. If it had not been for information, it must have been for pleasure.

Tilal gulped down the bitter taste in his throat. Barbarians, indeed.

Mirsath paced the under walls of his keep, swearing under his breath. How in the name of the Goddess was he supposed to deter enemy advances while he was trapped inside Faolain Lowland? Yet the High Prince had been very specific and it was Mirsath’s duty to obey as best he could.

The enemy had arrived three days ago. Since then Johlarian had spoken with Hollis several times. That Rohan and his family were safe at Remagev was welcome news; that he expected Mirsath to do something about the enemy was not.

They had set up a camp as riotous with color as the enclave of princely tents at a Rialla. Battle banners fluttered in the breeze; he supposed they signaled allegiances. They certainly were gaudy—bright orange striped with purple, livid green on pink, sapphire blue dappled in scarlet. Johlarian, sensitive to color like all Sunrunners, winced whenever he looked at them.

Mirsath winced, too, but not because he cared about the garish hues. He was more interested in the number of different flags and the total count of men fighting under them. Rohan had asked particularly about both. Bewildered and impatient—this had no bearing on how he was going to get out of this mess—he had nevertheless made his observations and reported back through Johlarian. Sixteen distinct banners and over seven hundred warriors. Sixteen opportunities for conflict between commanders, Rohan had replied with satisfaction; seven hundred chances for petty quarrels.

Mirsath had watched the camp, and, as usual, Rohan was correct. There were rivalries here as spiteful as any on the continent, expressed in taunts and jeers when the commanders weren’t looking. On several occasions, soldiers camped under red-and-emerald banners had to be physically restrained from fights with those of the orange-and-purple. It was Rohan’s opinion that despite the discipline they’d shown thus far, the enemy was too uncivilized to work together in a sustained effort for very long. Volatile and savage, evidently viewing war as glorious sport, their successes might make them sloppy or overconfident—preferably both—with a large dose of regional or tribal claims to superiority thrown in. Jealousy among the lower ranks often extended to those in command.

“His grace further says,” Johlarian reported, “that an insult or two called down from the walls might be helpful. Their language is not ours, but he’s sure we can think of ways to get the point across.”

“The point is, what does it gain us?” Mirsath fumed. “So they don’t like each other. So what?” When the Sunrunner’s eyes began to lose focus, he added hastily, “Express that to his grace in different terms.”

“Of course, my lord.” A few moments later Johlarian frowned and shook his head. “The mind of the High Prince is a subtle one, my lord.”

“I don’t need subtlety—I need an army!”

An army was precisely what he was not likely to get anytime in the foreseeable future. His keep was stuffed and garnished for a siege and surrounded by a moat that, after judicious flooding, was obviously making the enemy think twice about an attack. But what kept them out also kept him in.

And Rohan wanted him to hold the invading forces here, prevent them from further advance. How could he do that when he was locked up tighter than a silk merchant’s coffers?

“What does he think—that if we get them to fighting among themselves, they’ll kill each other off and we’ll be spared the trouble of a battle?”

“I don’t know, my lord. Lady Hoilis said that there are other matters to deal with now, and bade me farewell. Oh—“ He brightened. “She also said that your brother, Lord Idalian, is safe and well at Balarat.”

“At least somebody is.” But he was relieved that the little brother he hadn’t seen in seven years was far from the fighting. If anything happened to him and Karanaya, there would be one last member of the family—to rule over what? Riverport was a charred wreck, and if he didn’t think of some way out of this, Lowland would follow it into oblivion.

He glared down at the camp that stretched all the way to the main course of the Faolain River. Sixteen different banners, seven hundred men. What was he supposed to do, have his archers pick them off one at a time from the walls? What was even more infuriating was that they seemed to be taking their ease, in no hurry to demolish his castle as they had done to Gilad Seahold, If they were smart, they’d march around him into the Desert before the rains began. The river already swelled with runoff from the north, where autumn storms had struck Princemarch and blanketed the upper Veresch in snow. The moat rose higher daily. Soon the Faolain would be impassable and they would have to attack in the Desert with what soldiers were already there. Still, he supposed the force that had taken Radzyn was large enough to take Remagev, too, possibly even Stronghold itself. That last didn’t bear thinking about.

“My lord? I beg my lord’s pardon—“ One of the kitchen boys, promoted to page and very much on his new dignity, bowed with every other word.

“Yes, what is it now?” Mirsath asked wearily.

“My lord, five of the enemy are riding to the north wall, my lord.”

He gave a short laugh. “Perhaps they plan to surrender.”

The boy answered seriously, “I don’t think so, my lord,” and Mirsath gritted his teeth.

“Fetch Lady Karanaya at once.” He beckoned to the Sunrunner and three archers and strode to the wall.

“Athri of Faolain Lowland!”

Mirsath gave a violent start. The shout was in his own language, not that barbarian gabble the enemy shouted up every so often. Five men on horseback—Radzyn breed, he noted angrily—had reined in at the moat. One of them held a banner. He recognized the colors with a shock.

“Athri of Faolain Lowland!” the voice called again, and the speaker stood in his stirrups. “Are you ready to talk sense?”

“I’m listening!” He gestured, and arrows were nocked to bowstrings.

“Have you a name?”

One of the archers yelled down, “You have the privilege of addressing the Lord Mirsath, athri of Faolain Lowland, honored with the friendship and confidence of his grace the High Prince Rohan!”

Mirsath raised a brow at the young man, who grinned and whispered, “It can’t do any harm to remind them exactly who you are, my lord.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t give him my complete lineage. Nicely done. My thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

“Mirsath! So you survived Riverport! And is Lady Karanaya with you?”

“By Lord Andry’s ten rings,” Johlarian whispered at Mirsath’s side. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Mirsath, what’s going on?” Karanaya demanded, hurrying up to them. “Who is that, and why does he know our names?”

“It’s Patwin of Catha Heights,” he told her. “As for why he’s here...”

“Captive?” Johlarian guessed. “Under duress, with his daughters as hostages?”

“Let’s find out. Lord Patwin! You may approach my walls along the causeway! Alone!”

After a brief conference down below, Patwin rode forward on his Radzyn bay. Mirsath, Karanaya, Johlarian, and the archers moved to the narrow balcony above the gatehouse. A solid wall behind and waist-high crenellations in front, the balcony had been built for the family’s appearances during festivals and the New Year Holiday. The last time Mirsath had stood here, it had been hung with banners and garlanded with flowers in honor of this spring’s visit by the High Prince and High Princess. The people of Faolain Lowland had gathered outside to cheer them, then entered the gates for the solemnity of a law court followed by the happy chaos of a feast. A good day, a satisfying day. The kind of day Mirsath vowed Lowland would see again.

“My lord,” he began as Patwin came within easy hearing distance, “I hope Catha Heights still stands.”

“What? Oh, of course! Not a scratch on it. I’m pleased to see you alive and healthy, Mirsath—and the lovely Karanaya, too.”

Johlarian whispered, “He doesn’t sound worried. Have a care, my lord.”

“Hush.” To Patwin he called, “Your daughters are well?”

“Very, and prettier than ever. My eldest girl, Izaea, wishes particularly to be remembered to you.”

Mirsath began to feel a little dizzy. Surely this conversation was unreal, this polite chat that might have been exchanged at a Rialla but was instead taking place in the presence of an invading army. He muttered, “He sounds as if he’s having the marriage contract written up. This is insane.”

“I quite agree.” Karanaya leaned over the battlements. “Why are you here?”

Patwin began to laugh. And suddenly Mirsath understood.

“Haven’t you been listening?” he hissed at his cousin. “His castle is fine, his daughters are fine, everything’s fine. Duress? He’s here because he wants to be!”

Her cheeks crimsoned with rage. “Because they’ll give him something he wants?” Without waiting for an answer she already knew, she shouted down, “What did they promise you, craven? What’s the price of treachery?”

“The princedom of Syr, of course!”

Mirsath pushed her aside. “And they’ll do as much or more for me, is that it? If I surrender my keep without a scratch—the way you did!”

“Naturally there are rewards for cooperation. Why should I see the work of my ancestors in the hands of these barbarians? Catha is the jewel of the south, Mirsath. Could you see it destroyed? Speaking of the south—what would you say to that portion of the Desert—with Radzyn all your own?”

Now he really understood. “With Izaea as my princess?”

“Through my late wife, she’s Roelstra’s granddaughter. I’ve always pictured her as a princess.” He swept one arm out to the side. “Look around you. It may take most of the winter to starve you out—but starve you will, and die, and so unnecessary. Work with the Vellant’im instead of against them, and they will prove generous. Mirsath, don’t you want to be a prince?”

The royal title was the last word he ever spoke. An arrow sank into his chest, the fletching in Lowland’s colors sprouting from his heart. He toppled from the saddle, dead before he slid gently into the depths of the moat.

“Nice shot.”

Mirsath handed the bow back to the archer. “Thank you,” he said calmly. “I hope I didn’t hurt your arm when I appropriated your weapon.”

“Not at all, my lord. Once again, it was my pleasure.”

Word of Patwin’s death got to Remagev that night by the moons. Rohan shook his head and sighed.

“It was a stupid thing to do, when you think about it. Mirsath should have agreed.”

Sioned blinked at him across the taze that had been brought to their room. “So we’d have a spy in the enemy camp? Do you honestly think Mirsath capable of that much concentrated deceit?”

“Well, not Mirsath,” Chay put in. “Karariaya, maybe.”

“That’s not what I was talking about,” Rohan replied. “I meant that anyone looking at it rationally would consider Mirsath an utter fool. Keeping faith with his prince when his castle is hopelessly besieged? When accepting the offer could mean a princedom? A sensible man would have jumped at the chance.”

Chay sent Sioned a warning glance and drawled, “Rohan, Rohan—you’ve corrupted these youngsters. They put loyalty to you above their own gain. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

She took up the cause. “You’re right, Chay, it’s nauseating. He’s taught them all sorts of bad habits. It can’t be for his blue eyes or his pretty face. Why do you imagine they do it?”

“Rampant mental disability?” he guessed.

“All right, you two, enough,” Rohan said. “Point taken. Remind me that if—when—we’re handing out rewards to those who secured the victory, Mirsath has earned something special.”

“But that’s the point, you fool,” Chay told him, completely serious now. “Do you think he expects a reward?”

“Rohan, you’re thinking like a barbarian,” Sioned added. “You don’t have to pay them for their loyalty, my love. The coin you bought them with has nothing to do with gold at all.”

Chapter Thirteen i rince Volog, watching the course of a second battle for New Raetia laughed until his sides hurt. “Those idiots! What do they think women are—too delicate to be a threat or too stupid to give them a decent fight?”

His squire grinned back at him. “Whichever, my lord— our ‘delicate’ ladies are scything through them like spring wheat. What do you say—shall we pad all the armor so they face a whole host of women?”

The old man laughed so hard he had to sit down. “Oh, I can just see your grandsire! Chaynal of Radzyn Keep, with breasts beneath his breastplate! Rohannon, you have a wicked mind!”

They paced the upper walls of the keep, Volog leaning heavily on Rohannon’s strong arm, and observed the battle with growing glee. By midafternoon it was amply evident that though the enemy finally condescended to cross swords with women as well as men, they would riot be combing their beards in New Raetia’s mirrors this night. Volog laughed again as they were driven back onto the beaches and into their longboats. But when he turned to Rohannon, his eyes were cold and grim.

“Bring me an accounting of their dead as soon as it’s available,” he ordered. “I want to know that Latham and Hevatia are avenged.”

“Yes, my lord.” Rohannon lent his arm to his aged lord as they descended the winding stairs. He didn’t like the flush in the old man’s cheeks, or the tremor in his hands. But at least he had roused from the shock of his son’s death, and no longer sat staring dully at the fire. “They’ve tried twice to take us and failed twice. Do you think they’ll need another lesson?”

Volog eyed him. “What you’re saying is, if they do, can you help teach it? Don’t think I don’t know how it chafes you, escorting an old man around while others your age do the fighting. You’re more use to me at my side, Rohannon.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He suppressed a sigh, then smiled. “Besides, my father and grandfather would never let you hear the end of it if I so much as stubbed my toe!”

The old prince’s eyes twinkled. “What a value we place on ourselves, young lordling! Had you considered what they’d say to you if it was my toe?”

“Not a word. They’d flay me alive and leave me for dragon food!”

Grateful that he had made Volog laugh, he hoped the number of enemy dead would be sufficient to ease the old man’s grief. Somehow he doubted it. How horrible it must be to outlive one’s children. Only Alasen of Volog’s two sons and two daughters was still living. Birani had died of a wasting sickness years ago, Volnaya in a shipwreck a few years after that, and now Latham was gone. Surely no pile of enemy casualties, no matter how high, could make up for losing his last surviving son.

Volog’s page would keep watch over sleep the prince desperately needed, so Rohannon’s time was his own. He climbed up to the curtain wall in time to see the end of the battle. As the surviving enemy rowed hard for the ships anchored off New Raetia, he couldn’t help wishing that this had been a year for him to be Arlis’ squire instead of Volog’s. He was traded between New Raetia and Zaldivar the way Arlis himself had been, the way Riyan had divided his time between being Prince Chale’s squire and training in Sunrunner arts under Lady Andrade. Not that Rohannon would be going to Goddess Keep. It wasn’t that his father hated Andry; it was just that no one ever mentioned his name.

The theory behind Rohannon’s back-and-forth education was that what he didn’t learn at one place, he would learn at the other. The problem was that at Zaldivar he was the squire of a vigorous prince only twelve winters older than himself—but at New Raetia, of a man eight years his own grandfather’s senior. He admired Volog, but life was infinitely more exciting with Arlis. If the young prince had been here, Rohannon would have been in the thick of the fight.

That would horrify his whole family, of course. But he wasn’t a child anymore. At fifteen he was an expert archer and not bad with a sword, either. He hoped to get his chance to prove it when Arlis arrived with the Iseli levies— any time now, Volog’s court Sunrunner said. Pity they hadn’t made it in time for this battle. Rohannon wanted his share of blood for the horrible way Latham and Hevatia had died. But there would be more fighting. Rohannon knew enough tactics to understand that the enemy must control Brochwell Bay to keep the northwestern princedoms and Kierst-Isel from sending help by sea. But if Arlis carried the fight to the water after rigging his merchant ships for war, Rohannon —son of two formidable Sunrunners—would never see battle at all.

That would please everyone at home, he told himself with a sigh. He believed in Rohan’s ways of law and peace—but he also hungered to prove himself as brave and strong a warrior as his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandsire Zehava. Battle was in his blood. And at fifteen, compelled to watch instead of fight, that blood ran hot..

Rohannon descended to the main courtyard, where he could be of some use. He was unsaddling a feather-footed Kadar mare when Volog’s page tugged frantically at his sleeve.

“My lord! We can’t wake his grace!”

He outran the boy up the stairs. Servants crowded outside the prince’s chambers; Rohannon pushed through and saw Tessalar, Rialt’s fourteen-year-old daughter, kneeling beside the old man’s bed. She looked up as.he approached; tears streaked her pale little face.

“I brought taze, the way I always do this time of day, and he didn’t wake. Rohannon—I think he’s—“

“No!” But the coverlet did not move over Volog’s chest, and there was no pulse in the bony wrist he lifted from the bed.

“I sent for the physician,” Tessalar whispered, “But he and his helpers are tending the wounded.”

Rohannon placed the prince’s hand back on the quilt. “His grace won’t be needing...” He coughed around the lump in his throat and tried again. “You’re right, Tessa— he’s gone.” He gazed down at Volog’s smooth, peaceful face, untouched now by pain or grief or fierce laughter. All of life was simply and quietly gone.

“My lord?” It was the page, trembling in the presence of the dead.

“Not now,” Rohannon said thickly.

“My lord, the guards commander sent me to ask for orders—“

With a thundering in his ears he realized that he was now the ranking highborn here. Until Arlis arrived—and how to tell him that father, mother, and grandsire were all dead? —Rohannon was master of New Raetia.

Battle was in his blood through a score of generations. But so was rule. He had been born of a line of princes; he was heir after his father to Radzyn Keep. He repeated that to himself, remembering that he had traditions other than that of the warrior to uphold. Absolute authority tempered by wisdom; leadership; the ability to oversee everything without forgetting individual needs or losing himself in details.

Rohannon straightened and drew a long breath. Responsibility settled silently on him, and it was not the warrior who shouldered it. Like knowing how to call Fire—capably, without having to think much about it—he began giving orders.

Maarken settled in the shade of Remagev’s walls, wondering how a place that broiled by day could be so bone-chillingly cold by night. Autumn brought only small swings in temperature along the coast, blessed relief after the heat of summer, but here in the middle of the Long Sand there was no moisture in the air to hold the day’s warmth. Hollis had blinked in surprise at the fire in their bedchamber hearth the night they’d arrived; Feylin, smiling, had told them they’d be grateful for it by midnight. Even with the fire, it took two thick Cunaxan wool blankets and a feather-stuffed quilt to keep them warm.

Now he was sweating. The morning’s tour of barracks and stables had worn him out. Feylin hadn’t allowed him up yesterday, not bothering to argue that after the exertions of battle, sandstorms, and the trek across the Desert, he had to have rest. She had merely observed that to see one’s battle commander collapse on his face did not instill confidence in the troops.

Hollis’ comment had been pithier. “Stay in bed, you idiot. Do you think you’re Pol’s age?” It was some comfort to know that Pol, eleven winters his junior, was just as wrung out. But they’d spent one day resting. Now it was time to get back to work.

His task had been to inspect soldiers and horses to determine their readiness for another battle. Betheyn, daughter of an architect, was assigned to evaluate Remagev’s defenses. Hollis took inventory of food, Sioned of military supplies, Feylin of medical stores. Pol was Sunrunning to every court not hidden behind cloud cover, gathering information, spreading reassurance that the High Prince was safe. Rohan himself was^holed up with Chay and Walvis in the latter’s office, poring over maps and planning strategy. And that madman Kazander had taken his men out to survey the terrain.

Everyone would meet at dusk, when it cooled off. Maarken told himself to be patient and take heart from the positive report he could give. The five hundred and six who had escaped Radzyn were in cramped quarters, but alive and grateful to be so. The wounded were made comfortable and tended as their injuries demanded. And out of three hundred and seventy-four horses, they had lost only twenty.

Maarken forbade himself to think about the hundreds more now in enemy hands. A clever foe, no doubt of it. In only ten days they had gained control of the major waterways, including Brochwell Bay; destroyed the Dorvali fleet that might have been used to transport soldiers; and gained enough mounts to speed their progress. Their hold in the south was sufficient to last through the winter, when rains would make fighting impossible. He remembered the winter of 704 as one long, gray, soggy misery. No one with any sense would attempt battle in such conditions.

Except in the Desert, where it rained once in a hundred years.

Well, those sandstorms ought to make them think twice, anyway. With time, Tallain and Jahnavi would come from the north. This is our land, not theirs. We know and understand the Desert. And eventually, that will be our victory. But he worried how many lives would be lost before “eventually” became “now.”

He tried hard not to think about his people at Whitecliff. He had failed in his duty; he had not been there to protect them. He took scant comfort from the fact that his steward was a canny old man who would know how to take everyone to safety—perhaps to Stronghold, which had never fallen. But then, neither had Radzyn.

Radzyn still had not fallen. It had been abandoned. That rankled, though he knew it had been the only choice. Had there been more warning—more time to gather troops and prepare—then Rad/yn would still be theirs. But there had been no time, and now his patrimony was in enemy clutches—no sense regretting. He’d win it back. If it was damaged or even destroyed, he’d rebuild it. And Whitecliff, too, for when Rohannon Chose a wife. He owed his son what his father had given him. What fathers always owed their sons.

A few years ago, when the family had gathered at Stronghold for a New Year, he’d sat up very late with his father and Rohan over a cherished bottle of Syrene wine. Sioned’s brother Davvi had yearly sent the finest vintages with a deliberately flowery letter of thanks in payment for a princedom—a joke among them, for he had been the rightful male heir to Syr. But Goddess help him if he didn’t send his cellars’ best; his sister took her wines very seriously. Kostas continued the tradition, though without the teasingly overdone missive. But that night had seen the last of Dawi’s bottles, and by the time the final drops splashed into Fironese goblets, the three men were slightly drunk and very sentimental.

“Here’s to him,” Rohan had said, raising his glass. “Dawi started a minor lord and ended a prince, with sons ruling two lands.”

“And not just by accident of birth,” Chay put in. “I remember how he fought with us against Roelstra.”

“So do I,” Maarken said quietly. “And I remember how he gave me his new sword, given him by his son, to use against the pretender.”

They sipped, savoring the wine. “A good man, a good prince, a good friend,” Rohan murmured. “The kind we need more of. The kind who nurtured his princedom and gave it richer to his son. Not a bad life’s work.”

“The only life’s work worth doing,” Chay affirmed.

“Goddess knows both of you succeeded,” Maarken commented fondly. “I hope I do half as well.”

Memory faded into mists of wine, and Maarken shook his head. What he would give Rohannon and Chayla would have to be rebuilt. But he would do it. He must.

He had failed his people at Whitecliff; he would not fail his children. They were worthy of everything he could give them, and more.

His pride in his daughter was an almost unbearable ache. Chayla had worked with practically no sleep since their arrival, soothing fevers and cleaning wounds and sewing torn flesh so skillfully that there would be only faint scars. Soldiers he had worried about were sleeping peacefully, their injuries tended, their lives in no danger. She worked with calm efficiency, a physician born—and one day her art would outstrip that of Andry’s much-touted Master Evarin. Of course, he had to admit with a different kind of pride that just looking at Chayla was enough to make a sick man well.

As for Rohannon—when they all met that evening, Pol spoke with special pride of his own about what his young cousin had accomplished at New Raetia.

“He’s already organized scouting parties to clean up any lingering enemy patrols—like the one that killed Latham and Hevatia. The court Sunrunner says he’s running the castle as if he’d done it since birth. And not a single person has so much as lifted an eyebrow at taking orders from a fifteen-year-old squire.”

Chay cleared his throat. “The boy’s had good schooling on Kierst-Isel.”

“Nice try at humility,” Walvis remarked, smiling. “Are you going to evade the truth, too, Maarken, or admit where Rohannon gets his abilities?”

Sioned’s smile was tinged with sadness for the death of her kinsman. “Volog couldn’t have left his castle or his princedom in better hands. Rohannon has done us proud. We needn’t worry about Kierst-Isel—for now.”

Rohan nodded. “Between him and Arlis, the island and its surrounding waters are as safe as they can get—for now.”

“So are we,” Feylin put in. “Medical and military supplies are quite adequate. But I don’t relish the idea of having to feed all you lot for the whole winter.”

“Gracious and noble lady,” Kazander said with a bow in her direction, “do not trouble your mind. The Isulk’im can feed armies.”

Walvis grinned at him. “Yes, but on what? Cactus spines? I’ve dined in your tents, Kazander. Mares are for riding, not milking.”

“I don’t know,” Rohan said casually. “I rather liked that round of cheese you sent a few years ago, my lord korrus.”

“The High Prince’s grace is a man of rare discernment.”

“I’m glad somebody here recognizes that. Leaving aside the problem of food for a moment,” Rohan continued, “I’d like Pol to give us a summary of what he learned today. Feylin, will you make notes? Thank you.”

“Going west to east—“ Pol put a finger onto the map spread before his father. New Raetia was secure for the time being. Arlis was outfitting ships to attack the enemy by sea. Einar and Waes were untouched, the northwestern princedoms likewise. Ostvel was waiting for the last of the Veresch levies to arrive through early snow. Swalekeep was safe; Summer River was not yet directly threatened. Tilal had just reached Kadar Water, and the Sunrunner there had kept Pol busy for a long time with her report. He’d detail it later; for now, he passed on Tilal’s opinion that Goddess Keep would be the next on the list of enemy objectives.

“Especially considering the concentration of Sunrunners there,” he added. “The Pyrme is so far untaken, except for Allun’s place—“

“What?”

“Sorry, Father, I forgot about that in my first report.” Pol stared down at his hands. “Allun and his family have left Lower Pyrme with all their people. Abandoned it in advance of an attack—Cabar’s orders. I found them on the road to Athmyr. His court Sunrunner told me that they left some rather interesting surprises behind, though.”

“Such as?”

Pol wore his most innocent face. “Allun’s complained to Cabar for years now that he needs new flooring above the great hall. Cabar never negotiated enough new Fessenden oak to replace the old—so Allun sawed through a couple of the support beams before he left.”

Walvis choked with laughter. “And they’ll all come tumbling down!”

“When Allun gets his keep back, Cabar will be forced to buy him a gorgeous new floor. Goddess defend me from such clever athr’im,” Rohan drawled.

Pol grinned back. “Always assuming they get into the castle to encounter the deadfalls. The moat was drained. It’s now thigh-deep mud—with a layer of pitch over it that the

Sunrunner will Fire once enough of the enemy are trying to cross.”

“One faradhi can’t call Fire from that kind of distance,” Sioned objected.

“You did it to save Meatfc that time, all the way from Stronghold to Syr,” Pol reminded her. “With help, true. Allun’s and Tilal’s Sunrunners were trained by Andry. They’ll work together. Allun’s man is confident they can do it.”

“I see,” she said quietly. “Go on.”

“The rest of the news isn’t too comforting. The Catha River is lost to us up to the Faolain. The Faolain itself— that’s our major problem, but Kostas plans to take the Catha, follow it north, then come back down to Riverport —or where Riverport used to be,” he added grimly.

“That doesn’t do poor Mirsath any good at Lowland,” Chay said.

“No. But Mirsath isn’t Kostas’ vassal. Kostas reasons that once he’s got control of the Catha, Tilal can swing back around from Goddess Keep, meet him, then join Ostvel at the north divison of rivers. Then they march down the Faolain to the sea with a force that can’t help but win.”

Maarken frowned. “Superior numbers don’t always equal victory. Not against an enemy as tactically smart as this.”

“There’s more,” Pol said. “Rohannon told me that during both attacks on New Raetia, the enemy wouldn’t fight female warriors. But the group at Radzyn did. Father, what you said about Mirsath observing petty rivalries—that plus this strange refusal to fight women means they’re not one cohesive whole. My guess is they’ve banded together to fight, but it’s not their natural state. The ones at New Raetia won’t fight women. Sixteen different groups are at Lowland, some of whom don’t like each other. It maks me feel much better. I was afraid we were facing one huge single-minded enemy, solid as the spire at Rivenrock. But evidence says otherwise.”

“And yet they were efficient enough at Radzyn,” Chay mused. “Graypearl was brilliantly done.” He arched a brow at Rohan. “You always did attract the most amazing enemies.”

Rohan’s head tilted curiously. “Do you really think it’s me they’re after? I don’t think they have much notion that I exist. We’ve ample proof that they’re here to destroy, not conquer and hold—and they’re especially interested in

Sunrunners. Mirsath told Hollis what happened to the Riverport faradhi.” He turned to Pol. “If they know anything about us—or care to know it—you’ll be their primary target, not I.”

“Bring ‘em on,” Pol said, his smile turning wolfish.

Kazander cleared his throat. “The dread Lord of Radzyn and the most excellent High Prince and his worthy Heir know this, but I will bore them with it all the same. A man’s status is measured by the quality of his enemies. Is it not obvious that the best warriors, the finest commanders, the most efficient strategies have all been used against the Desert? Why waste the strongest shafts and sharpest arrowheads against easy targets?”

Sioned cast him a sidelong glance, amused and yet mildly irked. “I’d prefer it if they didn’t consider us so formidable. Maybe then we’d get the ones who scorn women fighters, or are too busy arguing with each other to be much nuisance to us.”

Kazander shrugged. “The High Princess’ wisdom is as vast as her beauty and her gifts—but it is desirable to understand the enemy one faces. They sent their best against the Desert. Therefore the Desert—and its High Prince—are their primary targets.”

“Not to disparage Rohan’s importance,” Chay said “but they took Radzyn for my horses. Horses were all they took from other places. Granted that the enemy we face is different, but—“

“Radzyn’s horses, Radzyn’s lord—they had to get through you to get to Rohan,” Walvis interrupted. “But what grudge could they have against the Desert that it’s so essential to put their best troops here?”

“They didn’t demolish Radzyn or Whitecliff the way they’ve done elsewhere,” Pol pointed out, contrite as Maarken exhaled in sudden relief. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before—I’m going to have to organize my reports better from now on. Whitecliff is still standing. Untouched, in fact.”

Maarken said quietly, “But not empty.”

“No,” Pol replied, hesitated, then added, “I think -it’s become the command headquarters.”

“Not Radzyn?” Chay frowned.

“The castle’s being used as a barracks,” Pol said even more reluctantly.

Maarken made a strangled sound. “Those ... those—in my mother’s rooms?”

“Don’t let her know,” his father said. “Ever.”

Kazander’s eyes narrowed. “I respectfully suggest that the mighty Lord of Radzyn consider that before he reoccupies his keep, he orders it purified.”

Chay snorted. “What / want to know is why Radzyn and Whitecliff aren’t rubble.”

Pol said, “They must want the Desert intact. This is the one place they haven’t destroyed everything they could get their hands on. But why?”

Feylin reached for another clean parchment page. “Some ancient blood-debt?”

Maarken shrugged. “More logically, they’re laying waste to the lands of their primary enemies. Radzyn and Whitecliff may still be standing for simple military convenience.”

“But the Desert is no prize,” Walvis reminded him. “We don’t have rich farmlands or rivers or anything else that makes for an easy life. There are two reasons for war: revenge and increased wealth. If Feylin’s wrong, and it’s not the former, then these people are insane. The Desert has nothing to offer. All we’ve got are dragons and sand. Yet they sent their best against us. What’s so special to them about the Desert?”

“I’m inclined toward the vengeance idea,” Pol commented. “Although they could be doing as Maarken says—going after their main enemies, leaving nothing behind, and using the Desert as their base of power. After all,, the High Prince does it. If the traditional centers in Syr and Gilad and so forth are gone, then other authority might be easier to set up. They could control everything from here.”

Sioned rapped her knuckles on the table. “Let’s deal with facts before speculations, if you please. We don’t know who these people are, but we do know they’re not one tribe or clan or princedom—however they’re organized. Some of them refuse to fight women. Others have rivalries among themselves.”

“Useful,” Rohan mused. “Not much help to us here, but certainly something Kostas and Tilal should be aware of. Inform them tomorrow. And make sure Arlis knows about the other, Pol.”

“He already does. Rohannon suggested all the battle harness be padded so every soldier the enemy faces has curves.”

Chay snorted with laughter. “That’s your mother in him,” he told Maarken. “No sense of anyone’s dignity but her own!”

“Clothes—“ Pol said suddenly. “That’s another thing Tilal mentioned. Two things,” he amended. “First, their clothes are different from ours—not so much in cut as in material. He’s never seen anything like that fabric. It’s not silk or linen, although some of the garments are almost as soft and thin. It’s not wool, either—although it can be rough-woven and thick. But he’s sure it’s all the same type, just like silk and wool have different weights. They have several kinds of leathers as well, some of it obviously cowhide, some of it unknown. And their boot soles are thin, but seem tough.”

“No dragonhide?” Rohan asked. Killing dragons had been forbidden for over thirty years, but when a corpse was found—usually in the Desert or the Catha Hills—the hide was stripped and fashioned into gloves, boots, and riding leathers. The scarcity of the material made for soaring prices.

“None. But perhaps it’s even more costly for them than it is for us, and these were only common soldiers, not even mounted. They also wear a kind of badge on their tunics—a jagged red slash embroidered on black. Tilal said it reminded him of a lightning bolt. He thinks it may have to do with the Storm God.” Pol shrugged. “I think that’s reaching a little.”

“So do I,” Sioned agreed. “If they’re allied with the diarmadh’im, their deity is this mysterious, so-called Nameless One.”

Chay asked, “What about weapons? Good manufacture on the steel?”

“Tilal didn’t mention it, so I assume he found nothing out of the ordinary by our standards.”

“He would’ve noticed. TilaPs a smart boy.”

With a sly glance at his father, Pol quoted him: “ ‘Observe everything; it saves you the embarrassment of having someone else point it out to you later.’ “

Rohan smiled. “Yes, he learned that lesson well, didn’t he? What was the second thing?”

The spark of amusement in Pol’s eyes turned to cold anger. “The two scouts had been tortured. We have no language in common. Whatever they said wouldn’t have been understood. Yet they were tortured. For pleasure.”

“Barbaric,” Maarken said, his lips curling with revulsion.

“Tilal’s exact word,” Pol agreed.

“We learn more and more about the enemy,” Rohan said after a moment. “I wonder what they’ve learned about us?’

“Not as much as they will learn in the near future,” Kazander remarked with a casually ruthless smile.

Until that instant, Pol had seen this strange young man with his flamboyant speech as a kind of Desert curiosity, like the living walls of athsina cactus, big as a dragon and just as deadly, that one encountered sometimes in the north. But now he recognized in Kazander an eagerness to fight that matched his own. He hadn’t felt this way at Radzyn; he had had no time to contemplate any reasons for the change. If he thought about it at all, he ascribed his feelings to anger and outrage and determination that not one more grain of Desert sand would be trod on by enemy feet.

But Rohan’s lifelong habit was to wait patiently for events to develop. Thus Pol didn’t even bother proposing the organization of a force that would take the battle to the enemy. Were this Princemarch, he could have ordered what he pleased. But the Desert belonged to the High Prince. He could contribute his ideas and skills—indeed, Rohan would be both disappointed and insulted if he did not—but he had no authority. Besides, what did he know of war? The other men here had all been in major wars. It was one of the Goddess’ better ironies that Pol could not argue in favor of a battle he knew was necessary because he had scant experience of war. He had acquitted himself well at Radzyn, but one blooding scarcely qualified him to lead .an army.

So he kept his own counsel, with a mental note to have a good long talk with Kazander—after making it clear that the korrus’ comments must be couched in less grandiloquent phrasing.

Feylin had drawn them back to the summary of positions, and was saying, “Graypearl is in ruins, and the port town with it. Did the populace get away?”

“I didn’t go looking for them,” Pol said. “But Chadric would never have left if he wasn’t sure that a goodly number of his people had made it to comparative safety.”

“Dorval is a rotten place to fight a war—mostly steep hills meant for sheep and goats, not soldiers.” Walvis pointed to the map. “The enemy has taken the only places they can take, Graypearl and Sandeia, along the coast where it’s relatively easy terrain.”

Sioned asked, “What about Chadric and Audrite? Where are they? Have they landed yet?”

Pol shook his head. “They couldn’t go south, so I warned the Sunrunner at Tiglath to be looking for them. I didn’t spot them today, but then I didn’t have much time for a search.”

“They’re probably hugging the coast,” Walvis said. “There are plenty of little coves to hide in. With Meath incapacitated, they can’t know that the enemy came from the south.”

“But from the northeast to Graypearl,” Maarken reminded him. “A nice piece of confusion, that. And another excellent strategem by this group’s leader.” His blue eyes narrowed and his voice softened dangerously. “I appreciate Lord Kazander’s idea that we are honored by the quality of our enemies, but I intend to impress some manners on this man—right into his brain on my swordpoint. He entered my house uninvited.”

“Be glad he didn’t burn it to the ground,” Sioned told him. “Now that we’ve accounted for where these people are at the moment, I have a question almost as important— perhaps more so.”

“Where they came from,” Rohan supplied. “Any thoughts?”

“Their clothing is made of material unknown to us,” Walvis began. “And they make a leather out of hide we can’t identify.”

“The beards seem to indicate full warrior status—particularly when the decoration is a Sunrunner’s ring instead of gold beads.” Feylin wrote as she talked, then glanced up. “Did you get accurate descriptions of those sixteen different banners, Pol?” When he shook his head, she told him, “Get them for me tomorrow, please. I’ll leave a space in my notes.”

“What else about them physically?” Rohan prompted. “They’re dark—hair, eyes, skin—but not the taze-brown of a full-blooded Fironese like Morwenna, for instance. There’s a reddish cast to their skin.”

“They’re big,” Maarken said succinctly.

“You should know,” Walvis commented. “You studied them at sword-length from dawn until well after noon.”

“Closer study than was comfortable,” Maarken answered, flexing his still bandaged wrist. “They shout ‘diarmadh’im’ as a battle cry, the way we use the name of our holding or our prince. Their forging skills are equal to ours.”

“They torture for amusement,” Pol added.

Maarken nodded, continuing, “They’re ruthless, merciless, barbaric—“

“And will probably receive help soon from their Merida brethren.”

Chay’s words stopped everyone’s breath for a moment. Rohan recovered first. “Say that again,” he ordered quietly.

“It was part of Andry’s vision.” He met Rohan’s gaze and no one else’s. “He didn’t elaborate on what exactly he saw. But he was positive these people are Merida, or their close kin. I judge them to be the latter, since they don’t fit the standard Merida physical type—they’re bigger, and there’s that reddish tint to their skins that you mentioned. Besides, who else is known to have been allied to sorcerers? The Merida were their assassins.”

“That’s why they use that battle cry,” Pol murmured.

“Ruthless, merciless, barbaric...” Rohan stroked the edge of the parchment map. It happened to be the section labeled Cunaxa. “Yes, that sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Kazander rose abruptly to his feet. “My prince, I beg you will allow me to slaughter them for you! Their heads, their hands, or their eyes, whichever your grace desires me to bring back as proof—“

“Sit down, Kazander,” Feylin snapped.

“The Merida are enemies of the Isulk’im even more than they are the enemies of the HigSi Prince,” the korms said through his teeth.

“I’m from the north,” she shot back. “I know what they are.”

“Then you of all people—“

“Lord Kazander.”

Pol watched his father capture and hold Kazander’s fiery gaze. The struggle of wills was brief—and ended in Rohan’s favor, as always. Pol had lost count of how many times he’d seen this done; it never failed to amaze him that this man could master anyone using only his eyes.

Kazander bowed low and resumed his chair. “It shall be as his grace commands,” he breathed. “I crave pardon.”

Sioned tactfully resumed the main discussion. “Even if these people are kin to the Merida, we still have no idea where they come from. We don’t even know what they call themselves.”

“Ah, but we do,” Pol said, leaning forward. “Mirsath heard Patwin give them a name. ‘Vellant’im.”

“It sounds like our old language,” Rohan said, frowning. “But is it? What are the possible meanings?”

Pol had seen ths countless times, too—his father presenting a problem, then sitting back to listen while others tried to solve it for him. “Never do yourself what you can get other people who know more about it to do for you.” The speculations and suggestions came from other people—but the decisions were always Rohan’s.

“Vellant’im,” Sioned echoed thoughtfully, drawing the word out into its probable components. “Vel is sword. The ‘im signals a plural.”

“They’ve got a lot of swords, all right,” Walvis sighed. “Kazander, you speak the old tongue rather well. What do you think?”

“I use it in songs to delight ladies—and in phrases designed to insult Merida. Vellant’im,” He repeated thoughtfully. “If the f is a corruption, then I make the name ‘sword-born.’ “

“But lante means mountain,” Pol put in. “ ‘Sword mountains’?”

“Perhaps a clue to their lands,” Rohan said. “Lord Kazander’s idea makes their name a self-description—and, as Walvis pointed out, it’s certainly apt. Pol’s translation could identify their home. Mountains that resemble a rack of swords—or mountains with deposits of iron from which to make swords?”

Chay cleared his throat. “I know of nothing in any tales or legends that corresponds to either. Any of you?” Heads were shaken. Chay went on, “My verdict is to accept both translations—and I have no doubt that one of them is correct. After all, they use the name of sorcerers readily enough.”

“Yes,” Rohan murmured. “They use the name of sorcerers.”

No one said anything for several moments. Pol shifted uneasily, as unwilling as the others to break the silence. Feylin did it for him.

“As a battle cry, you said. Then why have there been no spells? Why no word of sorcerers here rising in their support? And why haven’t the Merida vermin come down from Cunaxa to join them?”

“You ask the most awkward questions,” Walvis complained. “Someone’s got to, I suppose. I don’t know any- thing about magic, but it’s possible the diarmadh’im are massing in secret. The Sunrunners can’t keep an eye on every mountain and hollow in the Veresch. Besides, when they came to support Chiana years ago, they hid well enough. It was only by accident that Donate discovered them.”

“Perhaps they just don’t know yet,” Pol said, then felt foolish when his mother stared at him. “It’s possible,” he defended. “If they live isolated, then it could take some time to get word to them—even on starshine. And we’ve seen nothing to indicate that there are any sorcerers with the Vellant’im. Maybe there aren’t. Maybe they’re like the Mer-ida in that, too—doing diarmadhi bidding but powerless themselves.”

Rohan nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. It fits ... but there’s an itch in the back of my mind that says we’re missing something.”

“Sleep,” Chay stated firmly, “We’ll start this again tomorrow.”

Nothing had been solved, as Rohan pointed out to Sioned in their chambers, but at least matters had been clarified.

“But—that Kazander!” He stirred up the fire in the hearth and added another log. Not of fragrant pine or oak; there was none to be had here. Remagev burned the woody husks of the gigantic pemida cactus for warmth on cold nights. “His spirit pleases me, but I’d feel better if he didn’t remind me so much of a stallion who’s never known a bridle.”

Sioned climbed into bed and pulled up the quilt. “You’ve got the feel of it right, but the image wrong. He’s like a hatchling dragon all grown up, but nobody ever told him he shouldn’t still be able to breathe fire.”

“Hmm. I wonder what the dragons will make of all this. Pol’s Azhdeen was right about the ships, it seems. Did he see them coming, or do dragons have dreams of the future, too?”

“Andry knew, and told us nothing,” she said slowly. “How could he betray—“

“He told his father. Who didn’t believe him. That’s not betrayal, Sioned.”

“And does he now sit at Goddess Keep with a nasty smile on his face because he was right?”

“If you hold onto that attitude, you’ll never be able to speak with him tomorrow.”

She propped herself on her elbows, long hair streaming around her. “No! I won’t do it! Tell Maarken or Hollis—“

“Maarken and Hollis aren’t the High Princess. I’d do it myself if I knew how. You’re the one who’ll have to do the Sunrunning.”

“On bent knee, with head bowed, begging to kiss his rings?” she snarled.

“Think it over,” he advised. “I’m just going to look in on Tobin.”

“Rohan, I won’t!”

He gave her a small, knowing smile, despite the certainty that it would infuriate her, and left the room. Down the hall, Chay was about to get into bed beside Tobin, who was asleep.

“Shh—don’t wake her,” he whispered. “We can talk in the hall.”

Rohan retraced his steps and they stood in the chill corridor. Guards walked the watch nearby, constantly pacing to keep their blood warm.

“What is it?” Chay asked impatiently. “Did Sioned kick you out? I know a bath every day isn’t possible here, but surely you don’t stink that bad.”

“It’s my plans she doesn’t like, not my person.” He explained his recent conversation with her, and Chay gave a low whistle.

“She may come around by morning—and then again, she may not. You should’ve been more subtle, Rohan.”

“I’m afraid it’s past time for that with Andry. But it’s really your other son I wanted to talk about.”

“I know.”

“Know what?”

A stamping of cold bare feet, an irritated sigh. “That Maarken’s got to have the title as well as the duties. I knew it while we were watching from the tower at Radzyn. Give me another title or none at all, it doesn’t matter to me. But you have to name Maarken Battle Commander in his own right.”

Rohan repressed his own sigh, one of relief. “For three reasons. First, the one you mentioned. Everyone must look to him first, not you or me or even Pol. Second, because he merits it. Third, because a public ceremony is the best sort of gathering right now—and honoring Maarken will be a popular move as well as a smart one. We need something to draw us all together.”

“Two more reasons,” Chay said, a faint grin curving his mouth. “I’m too damned old to play these games anymore, and we all know it. And last but vitally important—Maarken needs the advantage with Andry that the rank will give him.”

“I should have known I couldn’t sneak that past you.”

“You’ve taught me some disgusting habits over the years, too, you know. I never used to think so much.”

“You always saw things for what they were. It was you who taught me to see reality instead of just my dreams.”

“Your dreams changed things. My reality never could have.” The grin widened. “Are we going to stand here complimenting each other all night while we freeze to death?”

Rohan laughed. “Situation desperate, feet turning to ice— why are these two idiots smiling?” he teased, and gave Chay a shove back toward his door. In his own chamber again, he saw that Sioned was pretending to be asleep. Just as well. He slid into bed beside her and lay on his back, watching the fire-thrown shadows on the ceiling.

Chapter Fourteen forced march had brought Tilal and his family to Kadar Water in excellent time. Lord Kolya, knowing his immediate need must be for a Sunrunner, sent his out to meet Tilal with the news that the entire holding was at his disposal. There was other news, too, after the faradhi spoke with Pol at Remagev and reported all that Tilal had heard and observed and done.

“Radzyn taken—I can’t believe it,” he murmured to Gemma as they rode into Kadar Water.

“Not for long, if I know Lord Chaynal,” she replied, and he didn’t have the heart to contradict her. There would be no quickness about any of this, no speedy resolution or retaking or routing of the enemy—and he wondered if he’d see his beloved Athmyr before spring.

He stayed one night at the holding and didn’t sleep much. The gentle lap of the lake three floors below his bedchamber windows had a maddeningly irregular rhythm. When a drizzling rain began before dawn, he vowed that in no home he ever owned would he endure a tin roof. It would have been rude to rise before his host and thereby hint that the accommodations were not to his pleasure. So he left Gemma to sleep on and spread out a map before the hearth, huddling into a heavy, loose-woven wool blanket and making notes.

“What are you doing?”

He turned and smiled at the sight of his usually immaculate wife, rumpled and blinking in the rainy dawn. She was all sleepy velvet-brown eyes and vivid dark-auburn hair. The streak of white that had grown in before she turned thirty nearly vanished in this light.

“And don’t tell me to go back to sleep, either,” she added before he could say anything. Rising, she dragged the quilt off the bed and came toward him. “Maps again? Where do you plan to do battle?”

“That’s just what I was trying to figure out. Torhald, south of Athmyr, would be all right, but I don’t want to lure them that far from the Pyrme. They don’t seem interested in Ossetia for now—thank the Goddess.”

“What about where the Catha and Pyrme meet?”

“We might get trapped between rivers. Besides, that’s marshy ground this time of year and will get worse. If this were summer, it would be perfect.”

“By summer, these whoresons will be dead to the last man.”

He hid a smile. Gemma was a stubbornly single-minded woman who seldom changed her opinions. Though he loved her devotedly, he’d had occasion to regret her obstinacy. Now it amused him. “When you talk like that, I don’t dare fail,” he replied lightly.

“How I talk doesn’t matter. How you fight does. You won’t fail. What about near Rosmer’s Ford? The drainage there is good—not much mud until midwinter.”

“Hmm.” He inspected the routes both armies could take to the site, calling to mind terrain the map did not indicate. “We’d have to draw them across the river to do it—but the river would be at their backs.”

“Take a Sunrunner along to Fire the bridge,” she suggested.

“Sunrunners are what I’m really worried about,” he admitted. “The enemy has failed twice to take New Raetia. They’re going to give up soon and take their war elsewhere. They don’t need Einar—all they have to do is leave a few ships patrolling the strait. But Waes is the entry to Meadowlord. If they march across and link up with their people on the Faolain...” He pointed out the probable strategy on the map. “If they decide against Waes, Goddess Keep is their next choice.”

“I thought you’d told Pol that’s where you definitely think they’re going.”

“I’ve reconsidered. I think I’m too influenced by the fact that Goddess Keep is in Ossetia. Waes is the more logical choice.”

“And yet they shout diarmadh’im in battle.” Gemma reached to stir up the fire, wielding an iron poker with savage intent. Tilal pulled the maps away from the sparks.

“Any member of our house worth his wine appreciates a gamble. Do you share the family instinct, Tilal?”

“Wife and cousin, I take Sioned’s view—she never wagers except on a sure thing. And there’s nothing certain about this. Waes or Goddess Keep? Which do they want more?”

“If you go to Waes, you’ll be backtracking.”

“If I go to Goddess Keep, it’ll be just that much longer before I can join Kostas.”

Gemma settled down beside him and sighed. “I admire Andry’s taste in poetry, if not his politics. Other than that, we owe him nothing—except that he’s on our land.”

“His land, our princedom,” he pointed out. She tended to see Goddess Keep as another Ossetian holding, and Andry knew it. “Besides, we owe him our protection. All the princes do.”

“Then let them come to help! Where’s Velden of Grib? Cabar can’t send anyone from Gilad, he’s too hard-pressed himself, but what about Chiana? If we made it here from Dragon’s Rest in so few days, she can march down from Swalekeep in even less.”

“Chiana? Defend the place where she spent six miserable winters as a child? Not likely, love. She’ll have to come to the aid of Waes, since that’s the gateway to her princedom.” He paused a moment. “And isn’t it amusing that we all automatically assume it’s Chiana who’ll be giving the orders, not Halian.”

“He’s not capable of ordering a new shirt.”

“We judge our princes harshly, my lady.”

“We judge our princes by the one we know best, my lord,” she retorted.

There was a soft scraping at the door, and when Tilal called permission to enter, Malyander brought in a pitcher of steaming taze. Tilal’s squire was heir to this keep, but being unexpectedly home did not excuse him from the usual duties. Tilal asked him to put the tray on the floor beside the fire, and then said, “Is your father awake yet?”

“Yes, my lord. He’s anxious to speak with you at your convenience.”

“I’ll be downstairs shortly. No bath today—Goddess, dirt is what I hate most about war!—but I’ve got to have a shave. We leave as soon as everyone’s ready.”

Tilal met Kolya at the stables. Half the Dragon’s Rest horses would be returned there by the troops Meiglan had lent; the other half, plus those Kolya owed his prince in war, would suffice to mount Tilal’s forces. The rest of the Ossetian levies were assembling at various points along the road. Gemma would take troops enough with her to Athmyr for its defense and, Tilal hoped, some effective raids to discourage an enemy attack on the castle.

“Are you sure you won’t take more?” Kolya asked as Tilal chose a fine gray for his own use.

“No, but I appreciate the generosity. My other athr’im are well-mounted, thanks to your breeding program. When I look at the numbers from your father’s time and compare them with yours, I can scarcely believe it.”

Kolya’s worried face cleared for a moment. “Getting the occasional jump on Radzyn is my chief pleasure in life.”

“More than occasional. Your horses took plenty of prizes at the races this year.” Tilal ran his hand over the stallion’s muscular shoulder and down one leg to the white feathering around the hoof. A huge russet eye regarded him with suspicion, but Tilal knew how to manage these horses. The trick was to familiarize them with the rider’s touch, scent, and voice—and then stare them down. “Rondeg here is a match for anything Chay has in his stables.”

“Except they’re not in his stables anymore.” Kolya’s smile was replaced by a grim frown. “And one reason I’d like you to take more of my beauties is that I don’t want those barbarians on their backs.”

“I understand. But don’t worry. We’ll get them “before they’re within reach of you. I’d like you to hold the rest of your horses in readiness if they’re needed.”

They left the stables after ordering two wary grooms to saddle the big stallion for their prince. The courtyard was controlled chaos. The group Gemma was taking with her to Athmyr was nearly one hundred strong. Tilal’s force was twice that, waiting outside the walls.

Kolya took Tilal aside. “My lord, I’ve hesitated to mention it, but—“

“Go on, Kolya,” he prompted, trying to be patient even though he itched to be on the road. Trouble was, he hadn’t yet decided which road.

The athri met Tilal’s gaze levelly. “My lord, your squire is my only son.”

That brought Tilal up short. One of Rohan’s most inconvenient rules of governance was that a prince must always try to see all sides of an issue. At question here was Tilal’s right to the services of his squire—and the right of a lord to the safety of his only heir.

As he looked into Kolya’s tense face, there was no need for imagination to recast himself as a father with a precious child at stake. Goddess be thanked that Sorin was only nine; he would stay at Athmyr with Gemma and Sioneva, safe. But Rihani was seventeen, and with Kostas. True, he was of an age and at a point in his training that he could acquit himself very well in a battle—and Kostas would be careful. But Malyander was only twelve, and an only son.

“I’ll miss him,” Tilal said quietly. “The difficulty is how to present it to him so he’s not shamed by being left behind. He’s very proud, but more than that, he’s got a powerful sense of honor and duty.”

Kolya’s face changed as he realized that his son would not be put at risk in war. He swallowed hard. “Thank you, my lord,” he murmured.

“Perhaps if I say I want him here to use what he’s learned thus far about defending a keep? You were never fostered, as I recall,” he finished unwisely.

Kolya looked anywhere but at him. “I was only five when my father died in the Plague. It was decided that I should stay here rather than spend years at someone else’s holding. I never learned the art of war.”

“That’s the way Rohan wanted us all to grow up,” Tiial mused.

“You’re gracious to overlook my inferiorities,” the athri replied bitterly.

Tilal knew he didn’t have time to restore Kolya’s sense of serf-worth; he made time anyway, because it was what Rohan would have done. He hoped he could do it in the same style. “Art? Sweet Goddess, what art is there in knowing twenty different ways to butcher an enemy army?” He gestured at the big gray and all the horses nearby. “That, my friend, is your art.”

“At least I’m some use to you, then.”

Tilal grinned as the stallion bared formidable white teeth. “If that beast doesn’t chomp my head off first!”

Kolya snorted with laughter. “Only meat-eating horse I ever met. I’ll protest about Malyander a bit, my lord, if you don’t mind. His pride will need it. I remember being that age.”

As Tilal gave the squire his orders and his reasons for them, he reflected that he seemed to be making a habit of convincing children to stay where they belonged. Malyander listened wide-eyed, brightened when Kolya objected that a squire’s place was with his fostering lord, but reached the conclusion they wanted him to. His mother nearly ruined all by casting a glance of appalled betrayal at her husband when he made his protests. But the boy, after a gulp of regret that he wouldn’t know the excitement of battle, shook his head.

“I want to help fight,” he admitted. “But if Prince Tilal needs me to be here, then I have to stay.”

Gemma’s subtle but firm physical restraint prevented Lady Matiya from clasping her darling child to her breast, but not even a stern look could keep her from bursting into tears of joy. Malyander sighed impatiently at his mother’s display and turned to his father.

“You understand, don’t you, Father?”

“Yes. I’d rather we could fulfill our obligation to our prince,” he said, and it was only partly a lie, “but if he orders it, we must in duty obey.”

“That was chancy enough,” Tilal murmured to his wife as they rode from the keep. “But Kolya was right—the boy’s too young.”

“You were no older.”

“I was a second son.”

“Did your father love you any less or worry about you any less because he had Kostas?”

“I know what you’re really saying,” he told her gently. “It’s Rihani, isn’t it? Why do you think I’m anxious to join Kostas? I trust him, but I have to be there, Gemma. I have to see Rihani safely out of each battle with my own eyes.”

They rode on in a misting rain for which Rondeg had no liking. The stallion signaled his displeasure with flattened ears and teeth bared at any horse foolish enough to get within reach. Tilal did not discipline him; experience had taught him that the reaction meant he was willing to defend his rider. Tilal had already demonstrated his authority with a solid whack to the stallion’s cheek when he reared as Tilal mounted. Radzyn horses were sweeter of temper, but a Kadar stallion was worth the trouble.

As they neared the main road, the clouds parted to give the sun a look at the land. Tilal squinted in the sudden brightness. That wooded rise up ahead, that was the crossroads where he must part with his family. He told himself they’d be safe, that Athmyr was a stout castle that could hold out at least as long as it would take him to arrive. And thus far the enemy had shown little interest in pushing west to Brochwell Bay, being content to control the central rivers. But his solace lay in Gemma’s adamant vow to hold the keep as long as there was breath in her body. One did not doubt a woman like that.

From down the column a voice Tilal recognized shouted his name. Not his title—his name. That surprised him less than the tone: frantic, almost terrified. He reined his horse around and rode to find the man, an aged retainer who always accompanied him to Riall’im.

“Chaltyn? What the—oh, Goddess,” he breathed, and jumped from his saddle. Chaltyn knelt on the ground beside Sioneva, who had tumbled off her horse. Her eyes were wide open and glazed—but not because she had hurt herself and was stunned. Tilal had known that look since childhood: since becoming squire to a prince with a Sunrunner princess.

“Tilal—my lord, she fell and there was nothing I could do to—“

“You others, get back!” He cradled his daughter’s head in his lap, stroking her dark hair that had come free of its pins. “Wine, quickly!”

Chaltyn gave him a full wineskin. But he didn’t open it, not yet. Not until Sioneva’s blue eyes blinked and focused. Tilting her head up, he poured a mouthful down her throat. She choked slightly, then grasped the skin herself and took a good long draught.

“Better?” Tilal asked.

She nodded. “Mother of All!” she breathed. “So that’s what it’s like!”

Gemma had joined them by now, on her knees in the mud. “What, heartling?” she asked gently.

“Sunrunning,” Tilal said succinctly. “Who was it, Sioneva?”

“L-Lord Andry,” she whispered, marveling at this strange, wonderful, astonishing thing that had happened to her. “It was like bathing in color—“

“Damn him!” Gemma hissed.

“No, you don’t understand!” Sioneva propped herself on her elbows, her eyes shining. “It was beautiful! Like being immersed in water that I could feel and taste and smell and even hear—only it wasn’t water, it was color!”

So he had a Sunrunner child after all. He’d wondered as his sons and daughter grew if the gift brought by a faradhi who married a prince of Kierst would touch his children as it had touched Sioned. Tilal’s father had not been a Sunrunner; neither were his two sons. Sioneva had never shown any signs of it; she was never ill while boating on the little lake at Athmyr, but then some Sunrunners were affected by nothing less than an ocean in a storm. But that she was indeed faradhi was in no doubt. He knew the gift was in his family; it was not unknown in Gemma’s branch of the Syrene royal line. Now they knew for certain, courtesy of the Lord of Goddess Keep himself.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Tilal said, thinking of Alasen, who had been terrified by the revelation of her gift. “But now that you seem to have become my Sunrunner, what did Lord Andry have to say?”

The wonder left her face. “Father—this morning he spotted ships sailing down from New Raetia to Goddess Keep!”

Neatly solving the problem of where to go and what to defend, he thought. The Goddess must be looking after her own. He hadn’t consciously waited, as Rohan would have done, for events to show him what action to take. But if he’d marched directly for Waes from Kadar Water instead of escorting his ladies to the main road, there would have been no Sunrunner for Andry to contact, no receipt of any message. He’d have to tell Rohan that a philosophy Tilal did not really believe in had worked.

But how had Andry known about Sioneva?

He smiled at her. “When I see Andry, I’ll thank him for his skill and care of you. Can you ride? You and your mother had best start for Athmyr.”

“But you can’t send me there now! You’ll need me!”

“I know what I need to know. Goddess Keep will soon be under attack. I can get there in time—but not if I’m worried about whether you’ll stay on the road home. Promise me, Sioneva.”

Her delicate brows slanted in a frown. Another princess with a will of her own—but this one had the maturity to recognize necessity. She sighed, pushed the hair from her face, and nodded. “Yes, Father.”

He helped her to her feet. She and Gemma tried to brush the mud off their clothes and succeeded only in getting their riding gauntlets filthy. Tilal nearly called for Malyander to fetch fresh trousers for all three of them before remembering he had no squire now.

Their horses were brought—Rondeg glaring, the others sidestepping out of his way. Tilal realized with a shock that this was farewell.

“Gemma—“ He couldn’t find the right words to tell her good-bye. “I’ll get news to you at Athmyr as soon as I can.” Suddenly he gathered wife and daughter to him. “I love you. Stay safe.”

Gemma kissed him in public for the first time since their marriage ceremony, startling him so much that he lost all capacity for speech. Just as well; she was on her horse an instant later, directing Chaltyn to keep the prince healthy or else. Tilal watched them ride away for a few heartbeats, then swung up onto the gray stallion’s back. This time Rondeg neither reared nor bucked. He bared his teeth at the nearest horses just to remind everyone of his status, then slid into an easy gallop as Tilal led his troops west and south to Goddess Keep.

“So Tilal’s coming. Let’s hope he makes it before the enemy.” Torien paused in his nervous pacing of Andry’s bedchamber. “How did you know about Sioneva?”

Andry sank more deeply into the cushions. He was not in the best of moods. He’d had a nasty little chat with Sioned on the morning sun that lingered in the knotted muscles of his neck. How dare she tell him she expected regular reports from every Sunrunner on the continent, as if she were Lady of Goddess Keep? Taking a long swallow of wine, he rubbed his aching forehead and winced at the splatter of rain beginning outside. He’d cut it fine this time. Another few instants and clouds would have blown over the sun.

“Endless genealogies—and the mirror,” he said.

“Gentle Goddess,” Torien breathed. “I’d forgotten.”

“So do I, most of the time. It’s more of an irritant than a help. I always suspected one of Tilal’s children might be faradhi. It’s in both families. Those genealogies that drove Andrade nearly insane practically guarantee it.”

“This rain is going to guarantee my insanity,” Torien grumbled, casting a bitter glance out the windows. “They knew the season to attack, didn’t they? How much sun do we average in autumn and winter—one day in ten? Twenty? At least they can’t march through knee-deep mud.”

“Rohan did. Oh, not far, and with my father taking care of strategy he only had to fight a couple of battles against Roelstra. But he did it. And how many more battles do you think necessary? They own the Faolain and the Catha. They’ll add the Pyrme before winter hits. All they need is Waes and Goddess Keep before spring. That’s when the war really starts.”

“You mean our war, not theirs.”

Andry considered. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Our war to take everything back will have to wait. It’s been all theirs up until now—with the exception of New Raetia.” He smiled. “Ah, Rohannon is a kinsman to be proud of! What a faradhi lord of Radzyn he’ll make one day!”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“Not yet. Sioneva was essential; Rohannon can wait. He knows what he’s doing and he’s doing it very well. Goddess Keep is what’s important right now.”

“The home farms are emptying. We can hold our people plus a hundred or so from the villages. But that’s all.”

“Our gates are open to all, Torien. No one will be turned away from Goddess Keep. They’re welcome as long as they don’t interfere with the devr’im.” His smile thinned. “Besides, I want as many witnesses as possible. But you wanted to know how I figured it out about Sioneva.”

Andry took the bulky genealogy scrolls from their case on a shelf and unrolled them onto the carpet. Real parentage and lists of illegitimate children were included here, unlike the official records downstairs in the library and at Castle Crag. But the essential lie, the one about Pol, was missing. Andry kept that one to himself.

Andrade had in her time kept charts as complete as she could make them of various bloodlines. Of course, the princes and athr’im knew their forebears back hundreds of years, but the common folk rarely bothered. Yet it was from these commoners that the overwhelming majority of Sunrunners came—becase marriage between trained faradh’im and high-borns had been, if not exactly forbidden, then strongly discouraged.

“It’s fact,” Andry told Torien as they settled onto the rug, “that those with diarmadhi gifts pass them on to all offspring without exception. With faradh’im, the skills are guaranteed only if both parents are Sunrunners. Sometimes parents who are ungifted themselves produced faradhi children—”

“

“—which invariably shocks them speechless,” Torien chuckled.

“It certainly did my father,” Andry agreed, “when he found out about Maarken and then about me.” For lack of a better term, Andry called people such as his father “halflings.” Their gift in combination with a full Sunrunner could make for faradhi children.

The puzzle of Alasen made sense only if Andry accepted this halfling idea. Neither of her parents were gifted, and none of her siblings—but Alasen was. Ostvel, too, must be a halfling; their eldest daughter, Jeni, was faradhi.

So was Sionell’s daughter Antalya. Sailing with her father off the Tiglathi coast one day five years ago, not a dragon-length from shore Antalya turned green and fainted. There had been a repeat scene on the lake at Skybowl later that summer. Speechless? Tallain, Sionell, and her grandparents had practically joined her in her faint.

“It’s something like eye color,” he mused. “Two blue-eyed people can’t have a brown-eyed child—“

“Unless the father isn’t really the father.”

“Yes—which is a dead certainty if the baby turns up with dark eyes. That was Barig of Gilad’s problem—his mother is definitely Cabar’s aunt, but the only thing certain about his father is that it wasn’t the man she married. But the analogy is fairly apt for Sunrunners. Two of us can’t have ungifted children. But people with brown eyes can have a blue-eyed child.”

“Halflings,” Torien said, tracing Tilal’s and Gemma’s lines with one finger across the complicated parchment.

Andry nodded. “And the mirror can tell me who’s what. It breaks down when we start talking about sorcery, of course.”

“Can I have a look at it?” Torien asked. “I’d like to see it at work again.”

Formerly the property of an old socerer woman who lived—and died—in the Veresch, the mirror reacted differently to the names of faradhi, halflings, sorcerers, and those with both gifts. The first appeared with their colors clearly defined around them; the second with a faint aura called an aleva, or “fire circle.” Full-blooded diarmadh’im were defined by blackness in the mirror—which Andry considered appropriate enough. Those such as Pol, both Sunrunner and sorcerer, appeared with their colors limned in eerie silver. Everyone thought that Riyan was both as well, but the mirror had told Andry long ago that the man was all diarmadhi. His queasiness when crossing water was not due to Sunrunner blood, but to a normal physical reaction.

He went to the closet where the mirror was kept, shrouded and seemingly unimportant, and carried it near the hearth. Whisking the blanket from the glass, Andry conjured a fingerflame.

“Sioneva,” he said, and the girl’s image appeared—with the glow of full Sunrunner gifts around her head. “You see?” he remarked to Torien. “Halfling parents, faradhi child.”

“What about the others?”

“Rihani,” Andry told the mirror. The boy’s face was very like his sister’s—they shared the same brown hair and blue eyes, the same resemblance to Tilal about the eyes and Gemma around the brow and jawline. But what was brilliant surrounding the girl was barely visible in the boy: halfling.

Andry identified the third sibling aloud, Named for his own dead twin. Goddess, how much it still hurt to think of his brother. The mirror showed him Tilal’s son; it stayed blank on hearing the names of the dead.

Young Sorin looked like neither parent, and where he’d gotten those gray eyes was problematical, but by the usual odd trick of kinship he was unmistakably the brother of Sioneva and Rihani. He was half a Sunrunner, and therefore useless to Andry.

“Well,” sighed Torien, “that’s two fewer faradhi princes we have to worry about. No problems with Ossetia in the future.”

“No? Your vision doesn’t extend far. What if Sioneva marries a halfling lord, and their children are Sunrunners? What if Rihani Chooses Antalya of Tiglath, say, or my niece Chayla, and his children turn out the same? It’s generations we’re speaking of, Torien. The trouble is, I don’t know whether to encourage it or stop it.”

The steward was barely listening. As each name was spoken, the face in the mirror changed. Torien blinked into his own eyes and Andry grinned at his discomfiture. It was a bizarre thing indeed to be standing at the wrong angle for a direct reflection, and yet to see one’s own face in this mirror.

Torien felt his sidelong amusement and shrugged irritably. “Perhaps just this once you could ask Brenlis to look into the future and—“

“No—oh, Goddess, no!”

Andry put both hands to the mirror’s cold surface. He called Brenlis’ name, frantic with fear, clawing the glass.

Empty; blank nothingness; the mirror’s response to the names of the dead.