A he day after Birioc met his distant kinsman, Tire! and Idalian made their pact, and Ostvel and Tilal rested their armies in Waes, Rohan entered Stronghold. The next dawn brought Sethric of Grib, bearing tokens of a Vellanti defeat out in the Long Sand. Clothing, swords, knives—even gold beads painstakingly unthreaded from thick black beards—he presented it all to the High Prince on the main steps.
“I know your grace is interested in such things,” he said with a low bow.
“Good work. Did your people take any hurts?”
“Minor scrapes. We didn’t lose anyone and recovered several of the horses stolen from Radzyn,” he added in Chay’s direction. “Your trick with our own horses worked perfectly, your grace. Some of the enemy kept following but lost us when we turned for Stronghold. There wasn’t anything to track us by.”
“Excellent. Then perhaps it will work for my son and Lord Maarken as well. After you’ve washed and eaten, come back and give us the details of the fight.”
“I can tell it all now.”
Rohan smiled slightly. “But you’ll tell it in more comfort later. There’s time, my lord.”
The young man hesitated. “Your grace—I just wanted you to know...”
“Yes?”
“You’re not at all what my uncle Prince Velden says you are.
Chay gave a complex snort. Rohan only nodded. When Sethric had been taken upstairs by a page, he slanted a look at his brother-by-marriage.
“Go ahead,” he invited. “Say it.”
390
I
“Say what, my prince?”
“Don’t make innocent eyes at me. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Then there’s no need for me to say it out loud, is there?”
“No, but you’ll enjoy it.”
Chay grinned. “So will you, for all your protests that you don’t do it on purpose. Very well, here it is—that boy’s ready to give over loyalty to his princedom, his own kin, and whatever inheritance Velden’s promised him for the sake of swearing himself yours. He doesn’t even want a holding—just the chance to follow you and be within sight of your princely face and dragon’s eyes.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s gone that far yet,” Rohan commented. “I’ll bet he’s still wondering why I didn’t order a massive battle on the Remagev plain.”
“At this point, do you think he cares? He’s young, he’s seen action and won, and he’s alive to be smug about it.”
“If that’s all that’s necessary, then Pol should come back singing my praises.” Repressing a sigh, he added more lightly, “I’ve never seen a dragon with blue eyes.”
“I have, azhrei.”
At first, after he knew Brenlis was dead, Andry had been unable even to look at their three-year-old daughter. Merisel had her mother’s blonde hair and delicate little face, and her mouth curved in Brenlis’ sad-sweet smile. It hurt to be near her. But as the days wore on, he found comfort in the resemblance and spent more time in the nursery playing with her, reading to her, or just watching her sleep. When Torien or another of the devr’im wanted to find him, that began to be the first place they looked.
His other children were old enough to mark the change in the frequency of their father’s visits. At ten, Chayly was Valeria’s to the quirk of her eyebrows; Joscev, not quite seven, had long been in his half-brother Andrev’s shadow. Indeed, the boy seemed made of shadows: of all Andry’s offspring, only he was black-haired and brown-eyed, like his mother, Ulwis. Had Andry looked, he would have seen his own jaw and cheekbones in Joscev’s face, and his own smile on Chayly’s mouth. But he did not look at them. Only at Merisel.
She enchanted him as thoroughly as her mother had done. He lavished on her all the love Brenlis had never allowed him to give her. But there was a difference between mother and daughter: Merisel adored him in return and cried when he was called away to his duties.
“You’re spoiling her,” Rusina observed as Andry kissed his daughter’s tear-streaked face and handed her over to the nurse.
“No, Merisel, you mustn’t cry! Papa will be back to tuck you into bed. There’s a good girl.”
“And hurting Chayly and Joscev,” Rusina added as they left the room.
He gave her a sidelong look. “When did you ever concern yourself with my children—even the one you bore me?”
She tossed unruly dark curls from her eyes. “Tobren turned out just fine without me. I don’t think the others much care about who tends or teaches them. You’re the one who’s important in their lives.”
“And they all know I love them.”
“Even Andrev?”
“I can deplore his actions without ceasing to love him.”
“As your father does with you.”
Andry grunted and led the way down the staircase. “Are the horses saddled?”
“Yes. I still think this is unwise.”
“If I spend one more day pent up in the keep, I’ll go mad.”
“Not even Merisel can distract you from boredom?”
“Stop it, Rusina,” he warned.
“Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord. As you wish, my Lord.”
He had never hit a woman in his life. The impulse to slap some respect—or at least a little fear—into Rusina disgusted him. He strode into the courtyard, hoping the chill autumn air would cool his anger. Oclel turned his head when Andry spoke his name, thick fingers testing the saddle girth he’d just tightened, moving to tighten it some more.
“I could do with a good gallop,” the younger man said. “Do you mind if I come along?”
“I’ll be glad of the company,” Andry lied. He’d wanted to spend some time alone in the fresh air, riding beyond fields still trampled down by two armies into unspoiled countryside. Especially did he want to escape the growing village of tents and lean-to shelters around the keep. What was he supposed to do with all these people? The Goddess had shown him nothing of this in either vision or dream.
Having given Oclel permission to accompany him, he could hardly send Rusina away. She climbed into a saddle as if she straddled a trestle bench. When Oclel rolled his eyes skyward at his wife’s ungraceful performance, Andry felt a smile tug his mouth. He had never known so oddly mated a couple as this: the brawny, plainspoken soldier’s son from the Veresch and the frail, acid-voiced athri’s daughter with a few drops of Fessenden’s royal blood in her veins.
Not that anyone would wish to own to a relationship to Prince Pirro, Andry reflected as they rode through the gates. Pirro huddled up there in his chilly stone keep, far removed from battle and with every obvious intention of remaining so. Andry had to admit privately to a grim amusement that the prince had used the fine points of Rohan’s own laws against him. “Defend only from attack by other princedoms,” indeed. Good Goddess, what was wrong with these people? Didn’t they understand that nothing less than retaking the entire continent would content these diarmadhi-inspired Vellant’im?
As for the refugees clustered around Goddess Keep—did they think Andry could wave a hand, say a few words, and remove the threat forever? His mouth quirked in a bitter smile. Hand-waving and speech aside, he could indeed have done something about the danger—if only Rohan and Pol would let him. Their foolish tactic of letting the Desert kill the enemy for them was hopeless. If only they would send for him and his devr’im.
“A glorious day, my Lord!” Oclel exclaimed happily. They had left behind the tents and the mangled fields, and were riding up the road that, within a few measures, would branch off to the coastline. Andry hesitated. His intended destination lay to the west, but it was indeed a beautiful day—perfect for a good run. Impulsively, he decided to give the stallion his head.
Rusina called out Andry’s name, then laughed and challenged her husband to a race. The thunder of hooves was a good sound, bright as drums beating time to a dance—not the heavy thuds that echoed the pounding of a fear-sick heart.
Andry finally halted atop a little rise. He stroked his horse’s sweaty neck, catching his breath after the wild gallop. “Ah, we’re both out of shape for this kind of thing, my lad! It’s been too long.” He walked the stallion in slow circles while the others, riding lesser animals and not raised in the saddle as he had been, caught up.
Oclel complained good-naturedly about Radzyn get—the two- and four-footed variety. Rusina had lost her cloak, and Andry offered her his own. “I never get cold, you know,” he told her. “It’s the Desert sun in my bones.”
“If you say so,” she said, clasping the white wool around her. “I’d like to go to the cliff forest, if that’s all right with you. Valeda needs some fresh wildflowers for the children’s lessons, and what with the battle and now all these tents, everything within two measures of the Keep has been trampled.”
“Still doing her favors to apologize for borrowing her face, I see,” Oclel teased. “Very well, my lady. Fringecup and autumn bower and blue-hoof it is. We may even find some wooly-buttons. It’s about time for them to bloom.”
They rode across the fields to the boundaries of the Goddess’ forest. Tethering their horses—one did not enter these precincts except on foot—they separated, keeping track of each other by the sound of twigs snapping underfoot in the dense undergrowth. Andry returned with an armful of color to find Rusina glaring in disgust down the road back to Goddess Keep.
“What happened?” He looked around for the missing horses.
“What does it look like?” She shook a broken branch.
“Well, it is their dinnertime. And it’s not too long a walk home.” Approaching her, he peered at the jumble of flowers in a fold of his cloak. “What a mess.”
“You may as well dump yours in, too. We can sort them later.”
Adding his collection to the tangle, he said casually, “I think I’ll look in at the tree circle.”
“Are you sure the Goddess will be at home?”
“There are ways of coaxing her when she’s feeling shy.” He reached in his pocket and brought out a scrap of parchment folded around dranath.
When Rusina spoke again, her voice had lost its sardonic edge. “Andry, be careful with that. The added strength isn’t worth the risk.”
“I’m touched that you care,” he replied in silken tones. But when she didn’t snap back at him, he shrugged an apology. “I have to know.”
“And if you see things even more terrible than what’s already happened?”
He made the effort to smile. “You mean it can get worse?”
“You don’t usually ask stupid questions.” Rusina scowled at the flowers. “Valeda had better appreciate this. Let’s go home, Andry. It’s late. Oclel!” When there was no answer, she sighed her annoyance. “Hundreds of Sunrunner men at the Keep, and I have to Choose one who loses himself not on sunlight, but in flowers. Oclel!”
They listened for him and heard nothing. She drew breath to call out again. Andry gripped her arm.
“No,” he whispered. “Hear the stillness?”
“As if there were wolves out hunting,” she breathed.
He pulled Rusina up and flowers tumbled from the cloak, scattering onto the dirt. “Get moving,” he ordered quietly.
“No!” she hissed.
“Shut up.” He froze as bootheels crunched dry leaves. Anyone meaning them harm would have been quieter. Catching a glimpse of blue wool, he exhaled in relief and called out, “Oclel, you idiot, you gave your wife a terrible start!”
The tall Sunrunner emerged from the trees. His blue tunic was spotted mid-chest with darkness. As he staggered forward and fell, a matching stain on his back showed where the sword had entered his body and gone all the way through him.
Rusina shrieked his name. Andry started for him, but Oclel waved him back.
“No! Get away Andry—close behind me—“
“Oclel—“
“Run!” The few extra moments of life lent by urgency and fear faded from his blue eyes, and he was dead.
Men crashed through the forest now, having given up hope of a surprise attack on hearing Rusina’s scream. Andry swung around, trying to detect their direction. His gaze flickered to the broken branches where reins had been tied. Stupid! he raged uselessly at himself; one horse might escape, but all three?
Escape—he grabbed Rusina’s arm as she stumbled past him, trying to reach Oclel’s body. The one thing he could not do was break into the open; they would be perfect targets. So he clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her sobs and hauled her with him deep into the trees.
Plunging into the frail shelter of a glade, he clasped her against him and stared hard into her tear-filled eyes. “Be silent!” he breathed. “Oclel died to protect us—will you make his death meaningless?”
She stopped fighting him, limp for an instant. Then she straightened, and hate was in her eyes. When he touched her cheek in compassion, she jerked her head away.
Andry listened. The enemy was quiet now, more cautious, having lost track of them. Twenty paces away, a brown furry shape skittered up a tree; an arrow’s whoosh and thud, and the animal was pinned to the bark. Then there was silence.
Rusina’s heartbeats hammered against Andry’s chest. “They’ll find us,” she whispered. “We have to move.”
He shook his head. “When they do. Noise.”
She nodded and glanced back to where Oclel lay. “Fire. Please, Andry.”
He could see a fragment of blue tunic through the foliage. He called Sunrunner’s Fire into a burning shroud for his Mend’s body. Rusina trembled beside him, as if battling new sobs.
Andry hadn’t thought about the enemy reaction to the sudden flames. But he used the startled uproar to cover the noise he and Rusina made as they ran. He made instinctively for the tree circle, cursing the enemy for invading this most sacred of faradhi places.
/ can weave something—Fire, a sorcerer’s spell, anything— just get to the circle, the Goddess will help me, she must—
Rusina tripped and fell, moaning. “Game on!” he cried, crouching to pull her up. “Almost there—“
“Can’t—my ankle—leave me here, Andry—“
“No, damn it! Get up!” He took her arms and she got both feet under her before collapsing facedown into the carpet of dead leaves.
“Faradh’im!”
Andry lifted his head. All around him were footsteps, invisible enemy plunging through the forest. They came from every direction—even that leading to the tree circle.
Rusina moved beside him, turned, propped herself on one elbow. “Andry.” He looked down at her face. At his own face.
Birioc came away from Swalekeep with more than his father had ever dreamed of getting. It was all settled—not just in private among himself, Varek, Rinhoel, and Chiana, but in secret between Birioc and his kinsman. Though he would not discuss the latter with anyone but his Merida uncles.
The Vellant’im would hold the south through the winter, taking Faolain Lowland as soon as it was convenient and beating back any attempts by Kostas to retake those portions of Syr now in Vellanti hands. Storms would close Brochwell Bay until spring, so they needn’t worry about Firon, Fessenden, or Kierst-Isel. Giiad lay bleeding. Grib would have to be brought into the fold, but Chiana was confident of her influence with Prince Velden. It had been Rinhoel’s suggestion that if Velden balked, Meadowlord’s armies could go to his “defense” and make sure that he died in the process after a light battle with the Vellant’im for show. This plan was held in abeyance until Velden could be sounded out. But it revealed to Birioc that Rinhoel was growing weary of sitting in his nice, safe home. It was a change from the summer he’d spent at Remagev, when he’d sulked and complained about too much work and not enough leisure. Birioc had despised the young prince then and had not altered his opinion, but Rinhoel’s usefulness outweighed personal feelings. Birioc had cultivated him two years ago, and would not risk the harvest for the paltry pleasure of telling Rinhoel what he thought of him.
Dorval was completely eliminated from the conflict, although reports spoke of a sizable group in the hills that conducted lightning raids. These were more irritant than danger, but valuable time was wasted chasing these people down—and the Vellant’im were frustrated when their foes melted away amid the crags and dales.
The armies of Princemarch and Ossetia were a major concern. The trap at Waes had been avoided, thanks to Cniana’s timely warning. Miserable weather would slow down the advance. Tilal and Ostvel must be kept busy, however, so that Meadowlord could seize Dragon’s Rest at the appropriate time and then march for Castle Crag. But under no circumstances must Tilal and Ostvel be allowed to join Kostas.
As for the Desert—the Merida would take Tuath, then Tiglath, then Feruche while the Vellant’im lunged up from Radzyn to Stronghold. When Lord Varek was asked why they had allowed themselves to be sidetracked to Remagev, he replied that Stronghold was not the objective. Rohan was. He would not explain why.
But Birioc could make a fair guess. In his years as High Prince, Rohan had managed to forge divisive princedoms into a workable whole. Not a seamless one, but what he melded together through law and his own personality had held secure for the length of his rule. With him gone, the beleaguered princedoms would splinter. Pol hadn’t his father’s strength. Even had he possessed Rohan’s combination of will and cunning and leadership, he was a Sunrunner, a breed no one with half a brain trusted. Miyon had always paced a pretty path between pursuit of his own aims and the appearance of loyalty to his daughter’s husband. Birioc knew that Pol trusted Miyon not at all—but he had to behave in public as if he did, and that would work to Merida advantage. It remained only to convince Miyon to play his part in the proceedings. Birioc didn’t think it would be difficult. Miyon had loathed Rohan all his life. The trouble was that no contempt went with it; his hate was prompted by fear.
This much of the plan was known to Chiana and Rinhoel. There was another part, the secret part, agreed to by Varek and Birioc alone. Once the princeling and his poisonous mother had completed their tasks, they would be dealt with as befitted traitors. Varek was willing to flatter them, work with them, and above all use them. But he despised them as deeply as Birioc did. They were betraying their own kind. They would die for it.
“But you and I, we are of the same blood,” Varek had said. “The High Warlord will rejoice in this reunion with our brothers of the Sacred Glass.”
As much as Birioc wanted to know the specifics of the relationship—which would tell him where his people had come from and why—he did not press the point. It was enough that there was an ally at last, a vast and ruthless army to crush Rohan and all his get. The Merida had been promised the Desert in ages past. Finally, finally, they’d have it.
He rode back to Castle Pine as quickly as terrain and weather would permit, too filled with triumph even to curse the passage of days. The Merida had waited hundreds of years for this. They would not mind waiting a little while longer, especially when victory was certain.
Born to a prosperous family of silk merchants on Dorval Riait had been trained from boyhood to equate efficiency with profit. What worked for a business worked just as well during his four years as chief steward at Dragon’s Rest, and even better when he ruled Waes as its regent. Though his efforts at Swalekeep were of much smaller scope, the same principle held true. Only this time the yield of his organizational skills was not coin but information.
If he was the commander of this endeavor, then his chief captains were his wife and Lady Cluthine. Mevita befriended a variety of servants within the castle, all of whom had some grievance or other against Chiana. She heard their grudges with sympathy, culled useful information, and reported back to Rialt. Cluthine, with access to the nobility, especially her uncle Prince Halian, did the same on a higher scale. By comparing the two versions of what went on at Swalekeep, Rialt got a fairly accurate view of things.
And was horrified.
He was compelled to admire Chiana’s stealth in getting the Vellanti lord in and out with no highborns the wiser. Her attitude toward servants—that they were nothing more than hands and feet for her to command—was her mistake. The man was seen. Less care had been taken with Miyon’s son; his identity was confirmed by Cluthine. But sure knowledge of what they were all up to came to Rialt from a unsuspected and astonishing source.
It happened while he was out riding in the parklands beyond the walls. Polev had begged to be allowed to exercise his new pony. The overcast sky yielded a fine intermittent mist but no real rain; properly bundled up against the chill, there was no danger to anyone’s health. The greater danger, indeed, was to stay cooped up indoors. Cluthine and Naydra, feeling the same restlessness, came along with the young Princess Palila.
Rialt did not share the automatic reaction of most older people to the girl’s very name. Roelstra’s treacherous mistress was a figure of legend to him, not a real memory as she was for Naydra. Still, being a fair-minded woman, she went out of her way to treat this second Palila with kindness. Rialt had seen several examples of this since coming to Swalekeep, and quickly realized that the attention paid her by her aunt and her cousin Cluthine was the first she had ever known. It was plain enough that her mother ignored her, her brother scorned her, and her father barely knew she was alive. Palila had been raised by Halian’s three bastard daughters, all much older than herself, whom it had pleased Chiana to make little more than servants. Resentful, they took it out on the child. Palila was almost pathetically grateful to escape Swalekeep for a morning ride.
“She’s a sweet little thing,” Naydra commented to Rialt as they watched the children race their ponies. “Astonishing, with so poisonous a mother.” She smiled. “But then, my father wasn’t exactly beloved of all who knew him.”
“You, however, are,” he replied. “That’s not flattery, my lady, it’s the truth. I know how fond Pol is of you.”
Naydra was sixty-four and looked it, but a sudden blush took thirty years from her face. “And I of him. Rohan and Sioned gave me a life I loved. I will miss it, and my dear lord. But I must say I’m glad he won’t have the grief of seeing his merchant fleet fitted out for war.”
“I had the honor of working with Lord Narat often. He will be missed. And I agree, I’m glad my parents didn’t live to see Graypearl destroyed.”
“Do you have relatives still on the island?”
“My sister and her family. I only hope they escaped with Prince Chadric.” He shrugged, uncomfortable with a worry he could do nothing about, and changed the subject. “Not to be subtle about it, but speaking of Chiana—“
“You need proof of her betrayal,” Naydra said calmly. “I have none. I wish I did. We all know it’s true and we’d all like to see her die for it. But we have neither arms nor authority to act if proof is found. We need Lord Ostvel as the High Prince’s representative. More importantly, we need his army.”
“Succinctly put, my lady. All I can do is watch and wait. It’s maddening to be so helpless.”
“It’s something I grew used to when I was young.” She smiled again in bitter memory. “I believe Chiana shares with our father a joy in seeing others flail about like beached fish. She’s certainly entertained by you, if you’ll forgive my saying so. Only last night she worried very sweetly about giving you something to do to occupy your time here.”
“Let me guess—Rinhoel suggested putting me in charge of the servants.”
“Shipping, actually.”
Rialt perked up. “Did he, now? That could be the best place for me.”
“If your lady wife will allow it.” Naydra chuckled softly. “I do like her. She can turn Chiana scarlet or white at will. It’s marvelous.”
Polev came thundering up on his pony, Palila right behind him, Cluthine following more sedately. “Did you see, Papa? I won! And I bet I could beat those horses down there, too, if Lady Thina would let me,” he added with a sidelong glance at her.
Rialt peered down the hillside to the main road. A knot of riders was escorting heavy baggage wains south. He could guess where they were going. Chiana would say, of. course, that supplies meant for Kostas had fallen to a convenient enemy “capture” or two, fulfilling her bargain with the Vellant’im while leaving her blameless.
Yes, a job overseeing the shipping down the Faolain would be excellent—and what fun it would be to salt the grain. He grinned to himself and started planning how to convince Chiana to give him the job. He was a lowly merchant at heart, bred to hard work and not the elegant ways of a highborn lord; he would willingly soil his hands to spare her own exalted person; he would be proud to contribute to Prince Kostas’ efforts as his station in life allowed, for actual physical battle was the duty of great lords and princes—no, best forget that one, as it might be construed as a veiled insult to Rinhoel.
His attention snagged on a word in the conversation that continued around him. That word was “Cunaxa,” and it was spoken by Princess Palila. “—me to call him a prince, even though his mother wasn’t married to Prince Miyon and bastards are always called ‘lord’ or ‘lady.’ Are Merida royal, Aunt Naydra?”
“They would have it so,” was the calm reply. “How did you meet him?”
Palila looked like a child caught in a misdeed. “I—I went to ask Rinhoel to take me riding with him. He was very angry when I came to his room.”
“It wasn’t your fault, dear,” Cluthine told her. “RinhoePs servants were to blame, not you. If he ordered privacy, they should not have let you in.”
“But I’m the one he yelled at,” she sighed. “Prince Birioc was very kind, though. He said I was pretty. But I think he was just being polite.”
Rialt wanted desperately to ask her what she might have overheard, but Naydra and Cluthine had more of the girl’s confidence than he. They would gently extract the information. So he smiled at Palila and said, “I don’t think so at all. You have your father’s blue eyes and your mother’s auburn hair, and that’s a very striking combination.”
True enough, but the timid little face was a closed one, cautious and quiet. His compliment made her recoil with embarrassment that verged on fear. He wondered if fourteen years of Chiana could ever be overcome, or if it was too late. His own daughter Tessalar was just Palila’s age, that lovely time in a girl’s life when she begins to discover who she is. But though Palila was physically mature, her spirit had been stunted. He saw little hope for her until he remembered another painfully shy, insecure girl. Freed from her father, Meiglan had bloomed. Perhaps Palila would too, given the chance.
He purposely took Polev and Naydra ahead with him on the ride back, to give Cluthine time to speak privately with Palila. By the time they reached the stables, she nodded success and asked him to escort her to the shops for ribbon to match her new gown. Polev was taken indoors by Naydra on the bribe of two stories and a game of blocks.
Cluthine waited until they had left the stables before saying, “Palila overheard Rinhoel say ‘your mother’s Merida blood’ in conversation with Birioc. Thus he’s Miyon’s son by a Merida woman.”
Rialt kicked at a loose cobblestone. “The least important aspect of it is military supplies—swords and shields. But in order to get them they’ll need Tiglath to ship from. And since Tuath is on the way, they’ll probably take that, too. Damn!” He glared up at the gray afternoon sky. “I’ve got to get word to Pol!”
“Your Sunrunner is helpless until this gloom lifts. Would it be better to send a rider?”
“I don’t know,” Rialt said slowly. “Apart from the time involved, Chiana’s people may be watching for a messenger. You know this area better than I. Do you think we’ll get some sun in the next few days?”
“If the Goddess is good to us. I’ll say a special prayer in the oratory tonight. And let’s hope that Lord Andry uses his influence.”
Rialt nodded, unwilling to discuss Quinine’s acceptance of the new aspect credited to Andry in his role as Lord of Goddess Keep. Intercessor with the Goddess? Absurd. But people believed it.
He left her to decide among various ribbons and made a brief detour to a nearby wineshop. The serving girl was married to one of Chiana’s footmen, a young man on Mevita’s list of friendlies. The girl agreed to get a message to his Sunrunner after dark. Rejoining Cluthine, he chose ribbons for his wife—and, on impulse, Palila—and they returned to the palace.
But that night he waited in vain at a little park near a broken section of Swalekeep’s outer wall. It was long past midnight and hard rain was falling by the time he gave up. The next day he went to the man’s lodgings. Thefaradhi lay in bed, eyes closed. The innkeeper herself had cleansed the blood from the head wound that had killed him.
“Cutpurses, my lord,” she said. “He was found in the gutter yesterday sunset. But, bless the Lord Andry’s grace, they didn’t dare take his rings.”
“Cutpurses, nothing!” Rialt fumed in private to Mevita. “Chiana had him murdered—our one link with Pol! Andry’s not going to have her punishment, by the Goddess. I’ll set her afire myself—while she’s still breathing!”
Rohan was also contemplating physical mayhem, though : “’thing quite so drastic, as he paced furiously up and down :he priceless carpets in Stronghold’s Summer Room.
“I’ll take him over my knee, prince or no prince. What does that fool think he’s doing?”
“Rohan,” his wife said reasonably, “there are times when I, too, would grab him by the ears and shake him—if I could reach up that far.”
“He had his orders. Three days at the most—and it’s been four! How dare he go out looking for a fight with the Vellant’im?” He whirled and stabbed an accusing finger at her. “You never made him swear, not you or Urival or Morwenna while you were training him! I should’ve let him go to Andry after all! He would have kicked some sense into him!”
The unfair indictment and the idiotic statement that followed lit Sioned’s own temper. She damped it and answered in an only slightly raised voice, “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. He’s going out of his way to find a fight, but it’s to use a sword, not sorcery.”
“He’s being willfully disobedient. He’s ignoring direct orders. He—“ Breaking off, he scowled at his sister, who was shaking with silent laughter. “What’s so damned funny?”
“You.” Tobin glanced at the windows, but the sparse sunlight was at an inconvenient angle. So, laboriously, she spoke aloud. “Chay said years ago ... nothing wrong with Pol ... polite, obedient ... knew he’d g-grow out of it!”
Rohan snorted. “Well, he has. And I do not find it amusing.”
All three of them jumped as the dragon horn sounded from the gatehouse. Sioned exchanged a glance with Tobin, both of them hoping Pol would understand his father’s anger as only a natural expression of worry.
Wrong.
Pol and Kazander rode in laughing, in perfect charity with each other and the world. Their tired horses were led away to be adequately fed and watered for the first time in days. The soldiers saluted their High Prince and at his nod were released to go take their own ease. But Pol and Kazander bounded up the steps, obviously expecting to be hailed and welcomed and made much of.
“Father, you should’ve been there! They fell flat on their faces when Azhdeen flew over—and before they could get off their knees, we had them! Sorry we’re late, but we chased a few stragglers halfway to Skybowl—they were so scared they went north instead of south!”
“Mighty azhrei, your humble servant bows to you in thanks for such excellent sport and in apology for not coming sooner with news of the victory gained in your noble grace’s name.”
Rohan surveyed them coolly for several moments, just long enough for their happy grins to fade. Sioned held her breath and silently begged her husband, Don’t say it!
He never got the chance. A deep, querulous voice rose from the crowded courtyard: “Where’s that foolish hatch-ling? Pol!”
Sioned exhaled in relief. Myrdal, ninety-two winters old and more autocratic with it than ever, stumped forward to the steps, her cane prodding people aside. Pol bent and enveloped her frail old bones in a careful embrace. Rohan’s shoulders shifted in an irritated shrug, but the moment for lecturing Pol was gone.
But Pol had not missed the look in his father’s eyes. Later, after the tale had been told—in Kazander’s inimitable style—and the young men had bathed and eaten, Pol sought out his mother. She was alone in the library-office she shared with Rohan.
“Mother, what in all Hells is the matter with him?”
“Here it comes,” she muttered to herself. She pushed aside the lists made by Feylin of stores and supplies—not a comforting total, considering the mouths to feed—leaned back in her seat, and gestured Pol to the chair opposite hers. Rohan’s chair. When he hesitated, she arched a brow at him. “Oh, sit down. It’ll be yours one day. You might as well get the feel of it.”
The sunburn acquired out on the Long Sand deepened, but he sat. “Why is he so angry?”
“You’re a smart boy. You figure it out.”
“Oh, Goddess! Not you, too!”
“No,” she admitted. “But I can see his point.”
“So I was late. Don’t the enemy dead count?” Then he made a face and answered his own question. “I know, I know—not when it was me out there leading the battle. What was I supposed to do, Mother? Let them get away?”
“Of course not. But you must understand how vital your safety is. If anything happened to you, your heirs are little girls barely eight winters old. That’s the political side of it. The other...” She sighed quietly. “I kept an eye on you out there, but—“
“—but why didn’t I keep you informed? Either I’m a prince or I’m not, Mother. Either I lead or I don’t.”
“Rohan let you go against his better judgment, against his deepest feelings—“
Pol frowned. “Let me go? Ah. I understand. Give the prize stud a good run every so often to make him think he’s still free, but keep an iron hand on the reins just the same.” He rose. “Thank you for making it clear, Mother. I’m in your debt.”
“Pol—“
“If the stallion doesn’t behave himself and ride where he’s reined, will you geld him?”
“Stop it!” she ordered. “If you equate manhood with using a sword, then you’ve spent thirty-three years not listening to a word any of us have said! You don’t need reining, you need a curb bit and spurs dug into your stubborn ribs!”
“Why is Maarken allowed to do what’s forbidden to me?” he challenged.
“Because he’s expendable,” she answered brutally. “You’re not.”
“And when the Vellanti army comes here, as we all know it will? Will everyone be sacrificed to my safety? All of Stronghold? All these people, expendable?”
She met his gaze steadily. “Down to your father and me.”
“I don’t accept!” He leaned over, bracing his fists on the parchment-strewn desk. “That’s not what being a prince is. I’ve been well-schooled, Mother. I’ve listened. There hasn’t been a major war since Roelstra died because Father doesn’t fight with swords—he uses himself as the battlefield. His mind, his feelings, his skills as a prince. He fights that way so his people don’t have to take up arms. That’s his sacrifice— don’t think I don’t know what it’s cost him. Well, now it has come to swords. There’s no way to avoid it. Are you saying that after all you’ve taught me. I must be less of a prince than he?”
Sioned knew she was too angry and frightened to find the correct reply. Pol was right. So was Rohan. And damn them both for it.
“I was never educated in the fine points of cowering in a corner,” Pol said quietly. “Don’t ask me to learn now.”
She drew in a deep, almost painful breath. “I must ask something of you. It won’t be easy but it’s the one chance to make peace with your father. If you—“
“I know what you want,” he interrupted. “I can’t give it to you. I won’t swear your oath, Mother. I need all I am to defend my people and my princedom.”
She bent her head. “Then there’s nothing more I can say.”
“I suppose not.” He started for the door, his bootheels emphatic. She glanced up as he hesitated, saw him turn, his blue-green eyes shadowy. “Mother ... you must have known what you did when you took me from lanthe. You must have known what I’d become. You made me, you and Father and Urival and Chay and all the others—all I’m asking is that you have faith in what you created.”
“Never think that I don’t.”
“Then let me be what I am.”
She had never asked that for herself. In childhood she hadn’t known what she was. After she found out at Goddess Keep, marriage had given her another identity, one that clashed with the faradhi, one that Andrade deplored even though she had been its cause. Princess or Sunrunner? was always the Lady’s question. Both, Sioned always replied— but princess first, the princess Rohan had taught her to be. But Pol was prince, Sunrunner, and sorcerer, all three.
“Mother,” he was saying, “do me and yourself the honor of believing I can use what I am with wisdom.”
“It’s not that. It’s—“ She stopped, helpless.
“What, then? Help me understand. Is Father angry because he thinks I was in danger—or because he perceives another disobedience? I never swore the oath and I never will. It’s not childishness or spite. I can’t give up anything that gives me a weapon to use against these people.”
“You can’t use it alone.”
“There must be other gifted people somewhere who understand necessity.”
She tried one last time. “Rohan knows how to make war. As you pointed out, he hasn’t for the length of your life. There must be another way for you, too. There has to be a way that doesn’t twist the faradhi part of you. Please, Pol—I won’t ask a formal swearing, just a promise to me and your father in private. Please.” Sioned was trembling with the effort at control. “I’m frightened for you, my dearest—I don’t want the joy of being a Sunranner to turn bitter for you, with the memory of deaths—“
“Andry doesn’t seem bothered.”
“Andry is not my son!”
Pol gave her a thin smile. “So. Somebody finally admits that Andry is expendable, too.”
“Pol!”
But he was out the door, heedless of her frantic cry. Sioned slammed both fists hard on the desktop, rattling inkwells and loose pens and the boxes containing their various seals.
“Damn,” she said wearily, all the strength gone out of her. “Oh, damn.”
Their speech was so thick Andry could barely understand them. None had more than a few gold tokens in his beard, though one of those beards was liberally streaked with gray. There had been eight of them originally; on the way through the forest, Andry saw the corpses of the three Oclel had killed.
The Sunrunners were herded along at swordpoint. None of their captors dared get closer than that—not after two Andrys faced them in the clearing.
Andry mimicked Rusina’s limp as they walked. Her changing was perfect, down to the color of the eyes. They both wore riding gauntlets, which effectively hid their rings and his wristbands. There had been some argument among the Vellant’im, difficult for Andry to follow, that Rusina must be the true and he the false image, for she had on the white cloak by which they had identified Andry from the trees. But nothing had come of it. Their prize, the Lord of Goddess Keep—whichever one was really he—was too valuable to make guesses. They would wait and see which lost the shape during sleep.
They were taken to the north edge of the woods, where seven horses were tethered. Three of them belonged to Goddess Keep. Andry glanced at his own blue eyes and saw his own head nod bitterly. No riderless mounts would gallop back home to alert Torien to danger.
It was hard, watching the eldest of the men climb into his own Tibaza’s saddle. As Rusina was prodded toward an- other horse, she stumbled on her bad ankle and cried out— but her voice was low and deeper than her own, not quite a man’s but not wholly a woman’s, either. Andry marveled at the liquid ice that must run through her veins.
They descended the cliffs and rode along the beach. The Vellant’im were smug and excited, despite the shock of two Andrys. That they had not fled in terror told him they were familiar with diarmadhi tricks. Yet no sorcery had been used in battle—thus far—and the puzzle of it would not form a logical pattern in his mind.
What he did know was that the Goddess had in a bizarre manner put him by way of some answers. As the enemy talked among themselves, he learned that they had been left behind after the battle at Goddess Keep, and had been surviving ever since by stealing. They must move more silently than the sunlight, he thought. Then again, with all the people crowding around the area these days, who would notice a few thefts?
They came to a narrow cave and dismounted. Within, cold and sea-damp, Andry and Rusina were gestured to sit on flat rocks circling a dead fire pit. The horses were urged back into the darkness, and ropes slung around stones to keep them penned. There was the smell of fish and salt, and, from the back of the high-ceilinged cavern, human and equine waste. Rusina nearly gagged as a gust of wind from an unseen chimney blew the stench over them.
The Vellant’im then left them, one man remaining by the cave mouth as guard. Andry looked himself in the face.
“Quick thinking,” he said with hardly any voice.
She shrugged beneath his white cloak.
“I’ll get us out of this.”
“Until you do, give me the dranath.”
He passed over the little scrap of parchment. She choked down half the drug and within moments he felt the impact of a strengthened illusion. She was delicately made and not a tall woman, but now there was not the slightest difference in their forms. Except that she was shivering.
He conjured Fire and warmed his hands at it. After a little while the convulsive tremors left her. She bent her head, but not before he saw the gleam of tears.
“I’m sorry. He was dear to me, too.”
She made no reply.
“Take off your gloves and rings.” He stripped off his own, and the wrist bands. She tore off a piece of her undertunic to tie them in along with her own. “We have to escape before either of us gets too tired.”
“With this much dranath in me, do you think I could sleep?”
“But we have to learn as much as we can,” he went on. “They’re left-overs from the battle, cut off from the main army’s retreat. They don’t think I can understand their language. They might let something slip.”
“By all means.”
“You know why I have to stay as long as I can, don’t you? I may learn something I can use, something about their plans, their origins—“
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”
He bit his lip. “Why did you do this?”
The eyes that stared at him were his, but the incredulity in them was her own.
“You didn’t want the daughter I gave you. You don’t have much use for me at all, in fact. Why save my skin?”
“Because you are what you are.”
Simple answer, implying more loyalty than he’d ever expected from this prickly woman. But not to him personally, as was the case with Torien and Nialdan and the others of his devr’im. He was Lord of Goddess Keep. Had he been Rohan or Pol, the loyalty would have been for him alone, out of love. But this would do. It would have to.
The Vellant’im had found the little spring, just as Maarken hoped. They would have been blind not to—he had practically led them by the beard. His own people had watered there the previous day, and according to the plan ought to have been far away by now, back across the Long Sand headed toward Stronghold. But during the rare moment of ease and coolness in the midday heat, Maarken had first toyed with and then presented the idea of an ambush. His two senior warriors, one from Radzyn and the other from Remagev, considered, glanced at each other, and nodded.
Chay’s man, Abigroy, said, “It’ll spare us having to look over our shoulders so much, my lord, if we’re rid of them now. I say we do it.”
“Yes,” drawled Catla, idly stroking the embroidered blue and white badge of rank on her sleeve. “Never much fancied bearded men, myself—saving my Lord Walvis, that is.”
As new Battle Commander of the Desert, Maarken could have ordered anything he pleased. But he knew the way his father had done things, and could not imagine any improvement on Chay’s style of asking how his people felt about a tactic rather than informing them of the course they would follow. Besides, he didn’t have an autocratic bone in his body; all Tobin’s taste for absolute command seemed to have gone to Andry.
So Maarken’s soldiers crouched behind the escarpment above the spring while the enemy drank so much water that they sloshed when they walked. Maarken had left his horses half a measure away, intending to collect them riding the recaptured Radzyn mounts of the enemy. His father would appreciate that. Sometimes he thought Chay was more upset by the loss of his treasured horses than of Radzyn itself.
Bellies full, the Vellant’im stretched out for a brief rest in what little shade was provided by overhanging rocks and exactly four dry, stunted trees. The spring barely merited the name—a feeble burble perhaps the size of a man’s circled arms—but to a traveler through the Long Sand, it was as wide as Lake Kadar. Rohan had said the Desert would do their work for them, that they knew this land and the enemy did not. Maarken nodded to himself and ran his thumb lightly along his sword blade. The Desert offered only this miniscule spring and handspan of shade, but it had also provided measure upon measure of barren sand that made them seductive out of all proportion. No shimmer-vision couid have done the work as well.
A heat-dazzle was exactly what the Vellanti warriors thought they saw when Maarken’s troops appeared suddenly on the opposite side of the spring.
Later, when the little spring and the sand around it was dyed red, Maarken gave Catla the lightning bolt badge taken off the Vellanti leader. It was enameled gold, fine work and very valuable. “Souvenir of how much fun you had—don’t try to deny it.”
They collected anything else that might be interesting or useful, gathered the horses, left the corpses in the sand for the Desert that had given them the victory, and started for home.
Neither Andry nor Rusina had any trouble staying awake that night. She had the dranath in her blood, keeping her restless and at times jumpy; he had his conjured Fire to maintain, keeping his mind occupied and his body warm.
Long after midnight, as near as Andry could judge, the Vellant’im came back in excellent spirits. Nervous eyes still glanced sideways at the doubled image seated by the fire pit, but not even this could dampen their enthusiasm.
Andry listened, keeping his expression neutral, as they talked among themselves about the journey to be undertaken at dawn. They would go north, find a suitably isolated spot in Grib where a signal fire would be lit, and their ships in Brochwell Bay alerted. The shame of having been left behind would be canceled by the glory of having captured the Lord of Goddess Keep. They intended to present him— the real one of him—to the High Warlord.
Andry mulled that over while the horses were saddled. Absolutely insane even to consider allowing himself to be taken that far—but it was tempting. To meet at last the sorcerer, for sorcerer he must be, responsible for this carnage. To execute him personally with his own people’s spells. The stuff of which legends were made.
His lips twisted wry acknowledgment of his own stupidity. What did he think, that he could battle this man as Pol had fought Ruval?
One of the men approached the fire pit. He hesitated, brows bunching above black eyes wary of the Sunrunners. Another strode up beside him and snarled, “Faradh’im!” and spat into the flames. Then he hauled Andry up—the first time either of them had been touched by these people— and held a sleek steel knife to Andry’s throat.
His pockets were emptied. Then the same was done to Rusina. The parchment of dranath was thrown into the fire, where it flared crimson. The rings were distributed among the Vellant’im but not tied into their beards. Instead, they were jammed onto thick fingers—Rusina’s not going past the first knuckle—silver and gold gleaming with reflected firelight. Andry’s armbands were claimed by the leader, who slipped them on and admired the rich glitter of their gems.
Then a very strange thing happened. A man began rubbing at the finger wearing one of Rusina’s rings. He frowned and chafed the gold. Andry glanced at his devri and caught his breath. These people were sorcerers—some of them, at least. And in the presence of Rusina’s spell, the Sunrunner ring burned.
The man grunted in pain and shook his hand free of the ring, throwing it onto the fire. His gaping companions cried out as flames spat white light the breadth of the cave. Horses squealed, jostling each other as chill Fire from Sunrunner’s gold lashed the darkness in the shape of a raging dragon.
“Hurry!” Rusina shouted.
Andry leaped for the horses behind him, yanking the ropes free and grabbing Tibaza’s reins. He was in the saddle instantly, his cheek pressed to the pale hide as he urged the stallion forward.
The Vellant’im were rooted to the damp sand by terror. All but one of them. A knife gouged through the flames into Rusina’s breast. She staggered, sobbing her agony in tortured gasps. Andry snagged her wrist, trying to drag her up into the saddle. He looked down at her and shuddered. It was not given to most men to see their own eyes in death.
All the light was suddenly gone and the other horses surged past, screaming for their freedom. Tibaza was pulled along with them despite Andry’s frantic efforts. Rocks dug into Andry’s left leg as it was crushed against the cave wall, tearing bone-deep.
Abruptly he was outside. He pushed himself upright, vaguely startled to find he sprawled on the sand. Tibaza was long gone With the other horses, racing down the beach under a cloud-pale night sky backlit by the moons.
Andry stumbled on his injured leg back toward the cave. Every thought brought an ache, centered in a throbbing at the back of his skull. Bracing himself against the rocks, he conjured a fingerflame with terrible difficulty and sent it into the darkness.
A moan of pain found echo deeper within the cave. Andry followed the little Fire cautiously, and called Rusina’s name.
Not that he expected any answer.
By moonsfall he had tied the wrists and ankles of the two -en left alive. Rusina lay frail and lifeless near the Fire he’d .jiled to work by. The knife wound that had killed her and the brutal evidence of hooves were hidden beneath his white doak. He stood gazing at her, swaying a little, telling him- self he ought to start back for Goddess Keep now, bring people here for the dead and the prisoners, and have someone do something about his leg and the horrendous pain in his head.
But it only got worse as he tried to tell his feet to move, and he supposed he’d better sit down ... rest for a little while...