The army of Syr paused below Catha Heights, just out of arrowshot. Vellanti warriors jeered insults but wasted no arrows, which Prince Kostas found interesting. He sat his horse and listened, a half-smile on his face.
“They seem to have picked up something of our language,” he commented to his captain. “And they’re creative with it, I’ll give them that.”
“It’s a new experience for me, my lord, being called the unnatural spawn of the diseased backside of a toad.”
“A castrated toad.”
“I was trying to be polite, my lord.”
Kostes grinned. “Havadi, we’ll make a courtier of you yet.” He glanced at the sky, where noon sun struggled against clouds. “Does a toad have balls?”
“I’ve never looked, my lord. But today we’ll find out if the Vellant’im do.”
The prince nodded, wondering how long it would take Saumer to sneak from the waterside of the castle to the main gates. He fanned his anticipation gently, keeping it controlled but glowing hot enough to burst into flame when he needed it. It was rather like making love: waiting, pacing himself, timing the moment. His wife’s delicate fairness and fragile skin came to mind, and another anticipation swelled in him. Perhaps after he’d taken Catha Heights and advanced up the river, he’d ride home and surprise Danladi. High Kirat was only two days from River Run; his troops would need rest by then, and if the roads held clear, he could—
“My lord! Look!”
Kostas did, and laughed. Predictably enough, when the gates swung open there was outcry both within and without the walls. The Vellant’im bellowed their rage: the an of Syr roared back. Kostas awarded the prize to his own people and gave the signal to attack.
Saumer had done his work perfectly. The chains, rope, and iron bars holding the gates had been neutralized and they did not close up again. The enemy swarmed out in no order whatsoever. Kostas almost regretted that his battle plan did not call for annihilating them all on the spot.
Sioned sat back, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Damn! I can’t get anything beyond a quiver. I’m doing just what the scroll says, and I can feel the dranath, but it’s not happening.”
“Maybe Karanaya never used it before she gave it to you,” Pol suggested, peering into the broad silver bowl of water. A gold thimble glinted at the bottom, intricately carved with flowers. “Or maybe you’ve used it too much.” When Tobin’s brow arched eloquently, Pol grinned. “Sorry, Mother. You’re as rotten at needlework as you are at cooking.”
“Thank you, your gracelessness,” she replied, smiling wryly. “You may be right, and this doesn’t have enough association with Karanaya to do us any good. But I could swear I feel something. More dranath might do it—“
“No,” Tobin stated. “Let Pol try.”
“What?” They spoke together, staring at her.
“Diarmadhi.” She used only the single word not because she could not form any others, but because that was the only one needed. Her gaze flickered back and forth from mother to son, compassionate and inflexible.
It was the first time Tobin had ever acknowledged what he was. Pol felt his breath catch. Most of the time he forgot that Sioned wasn’t his birth-mother, forgot that anyone knew about him. But Tobin had been at Feruche the night he was born, and at Skybowl the night he was Named. She had always been there, loving him in spite of what he truly was. No, that wasn’t right; what he was didn’t matter to her at ail.
“It might work,” he said at last, with a glance at his mother’s wary expression. “A Star Scroll spell ought to be worked by a sorcerer.”
Reluctantly, Sioned answered, “Rohan watched Urival do something like this once. And he was diarmadhi. I can do the kind of conjuring I used the night Andry became Lord of Goddess Keep, but evidently this is more complicated.” She picked up the drug-laced wine cup and set it out of his reach. “But no dranath. Urival didn’t use any. I don’t want you touching the stuff.”
“If I can’t get anything on first try, I may have to,” he warned.
“Let’s wait till that egg hatches, shall we? Here, read down to the bottom of the page. It continues on the overleaf.”
He read carefully, but part of his mind remembered when his father had shown him the Star Scroll in preparation for his battle by sorcery with Ruval. He knew how to construct the ros’salath as well as Andry did—but his cousin had added some twist to the working that made it lethal. Damping the anger always associated with Andry these days, he read through the spell again and handed the scroll back to his mother.
“It’s straightforward enough. Don’t worry,” he said to reassure them—and then recalled that it was not Meiglan he was dealing with. Neither of these women had a timid bone in her body.
Sioned pushed the silver bowl across the table to him. Framing it with his hands, he fixed his gaze on the thimble, concentrating. Urival had shown him several things from the Star Scroll, all minor workings, little more than tricks. For the first time since reading the guidelines for the ros’salath, Pol saw how various small sorceries could be woven together—just so—to produce a more powerful spell.
Some of it was familiar. Mental and physical preparation, for instance—so automatic by now that he had to force himself to think about it. Calm the heartbeat and clear the mind, breathe easily and softly, relax outward senses and focus on inward function.
But there were differences, too. Sunrunners lit Fire across Water—but not in it. The most disturbing was the recurrence of an image first conjured at Radzyn: his own two hands, palms pressed together but unable to touch. One wore a single moonstone faradhi ring that had been Andrade’s. The other bore the great amethyst of Princemarch. Two halves, two inheritances, not touching. Some barrier lay between them like a pane of crystal ground to invisible thinness. Pol tried to press through it, shatter it. cunc the fingers around each other. It seemed terribly important thai he do so, though he could not have said why. The fingers curled, nails scraping glass with a horrible rasp that made him flinch.
“Pol? What is it? What do you see?”
Sioned’s whisper drew him from the troubling image. He opened his eyes, wondering when he’d closed them. “Sorry. It’s nothing—just a slight distraction. I’m ready now.”
She examined his face narrowly. She didn’t believe him— not that he had expected her to. Her nod indicated only that they would discuss it later.
Pol no longer saw the hands, but as at Radzyn the Sunrunner part of him was only a shadow in the background, powerful but subordinate to sorcerer blood. Bending to his task, he called Fire to Water. Tiny misted flames swirled white-gold, staining the silver bowl. Slowly, with gathering intensity, the Fire centered on the thimble. The half of Pol’s mind that was diarmadhi controlled the light, spread it through the liquid, and a conjuring began to form.
Hazy, infuriatingly indistinct, he could see a woman with dark hair wearing a blue dress. The scroll advised concentration on each detail as it became clear, linking them together to steady the vision. He started with the sweep of hair back from her brow, its twining into a long braid coiled at her nape, the gleam of silver hairpins. Their subtle shine was repeated in the earrings that swung close to her jaw. He solidified those details and others filled in: the curve of her cheek, her lips, nose, eyes, brow. Gold glittered at her neck, drawing his attention, and as the chain took on definite form he could see the pulse beating at her throat, the set of her shoulders, the swell of her breasts where the chain vanished into her bodice.
All at once the vision pulsed with another light, as if stars hung in blackness had acquired iridescent color. Startled, Pol hung onto what he had thus far gained and shied away from that glow. Karanaya wore a thin silver bracelet on one wrist; he focused on that and as she brought a wine cup to her lips, he saw the details of her hand and arm. But when she put the goblet down, the clarity of her physical form was almost obliterated again by the throbbing of that strange light. This time he faced it, more astonished than ever. It was as if a Sunrunner’s colors had been captured in a mid- night sky laced with stars. The glow centered near her heart but did not come from Karanaya herself; its source nestled between her breasts.
Pol rested a moment, checking over the details. Yes, a precise picture of her now, seated at a table with pens, parchment, and inkwell before her, wine cup within reach next to a green ceramic vase of wilting flowers. He could see the graining of the wooden table and the words she had written and the chip in the goblet’s foot. Surrounding her was a maze of indistinct shadows, but the dimensions of the room were unimportant. He had completed the first part of the Star Scroll spell; it was time for the essence of the working.
Now his Sunrunner abilities came into play. They were the stronger when it came to communication; he had been trained thoroughly in this and instinct took over, pushing sorcery to one side. Not into the background, as the faradhi part of him had been, but as if the two stood separate but equal. Still not touching. He wondered briefly if they ever would, and the bleakness of the thought frightened him.
Karanaya.
No response; he tried again, and this time when he spoke/ thought her name, she glanced over her shoulder as if seeking the source of the voice. Alone in the room—as far as she knew—she shrugged and went back to her writing.
Karanaya! She gave a start, glancing around again. Don’t be afraid. It’s Pol—not on sunlight, because there isn’t any and you can’t feel such things. Listen, Karanaya, and don’t be afraid.
Her whole body went rigid. He regretted her terror and the necessity for it, but there was nothing he could do. Karanaya, listen to me carefully. Princess Tobin believes she knows how to rid you of the Vellant’im. It will take great courage and daring on your part, and Johlarian’s help. But I think it can be done.
Her lips moved—and he heard her voice. Stunned, he missed the sense of the first few words; this had never happened to him before. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Sunrunners could see on light and, if powerful enough, could use it to conjure at great distances—but not hear.
“... beg the Goddess in her mercy to take me, I’d rather die than go mad—“
Well, what had he expected, anyway? Of course she thought that. He would have, too. You’re not going mad. It really is Prince Pol. Look, I’ll prove it to you. He searched through accumulated years to find memory of her. She had never been to Dragon’s Rest; he had been to Lowland once and Riverport twice—but she had been to Radzyn. You and your family were at Radzyn when you were about fifteen or sixteen, and one morning we went down to the beach and built a sand castle with Chayla and Rohannon. “Gentle Goddess,” she whispered. “Your grace—?” He sighed his relief. Yes. Thank you for believing me, and I’m sorry I scared you. It was clumsy of me. Karanaya, before I tell you what Tobin’s got in mind, I need you to tell me something. What are you wearing around your neck that gives off so many colors?
Karanaya slid from her chair, as limp now as she had been stone-stiff an instant earlier. Mirsath, summoned by a page, gathered her up and carried her to her bed.
“There was no answer when I knocked, my lord,” the boy stammered. “I came in and—my lady was just staring at nothing!”
“Bring me that wine, quickly.”
Karanaya’s blank eyes focused slowly on him. She coughed as he poured wine down her throat and turned her face away.
“Stop that. I’m fine.” But she shuddered immediately and whispered, “Goddess be thanked for her kindness in not making me a Sunrunner!”
“A—?” Mirsath sat down hard on the bed. “Karanaya, what happened?”
“I need a moment to sort it out.” She breathed carefully, frowning, then met his gaze again. “It was Prince Pol. He—he was here, Mirsath, right beside me! Or at least his voice was here.” Shaking her head, she reached for the wine cup. “Did anybody hear anything? I spoke to him—did I say anything aloud?”
“How should I know? Tell me what his grace said.”
“First have somebody find Johlarian. I don’t want to repeat myself.”
“You’ll tell me the whole of it, and right now,” he commanded.
Her brows rushed together again. “Don’t dictate to me, my lord athril”
“Now,” he repeated.
She glared at him, then took a long swallow of wine. “He said Princess Tobin knows how to save us—using dragons.” As his jaw dropped, she smiled grimly. “Satisfied, Cousin?”
Rihani held his warhorse on a tight rein; the big gelding heard the sounds of approaching battle even more clearly than he. Soon the enemy would burst through what they believed to be the weak flank of the main Syrene army, and be lured up here. Prince Kostas would close off retreat as planned, and the slaughter would begin.
To distract himself from nervousness, Rihani set his mind to the problem of not just repairing the gates at Catha Heights but making them invulnerable to what Saumer had done today. Rihani was mechanically minded —which quality the High Prince encouraged with gifts such as the viewing lens—and since early childhood had been taking things apart to find out how they worked. Mostly he put them back together again. The gates offered a fascinating challenge that occupied his mind but failed to quiet his body. His hands still sweated in riding gauntlets, his guts still fluttered, and his heart alternately raced and thudded in his chest.
He knew he ought to have been thrilled to be out in the field, commanding a wing of the army in a vital battle. In a way, he was. But as the crash and clatter drew nearer and he saw the first flash of steel, he was ashamed to find himself absolutely terrified.
“Hold! Hold!” yelled the athri of Chalsan Manor. “Wait until they’re close enough to smell!”
All Rihani could smell was his own fear. He was a good enough rider, and the gelding was involved enough in a private war-lust, not to communicate the emotion to his horse. But within moments he would be called upon to be brave and steadfast and a veritable butcher. He could do it, he swore to himself he would do it and no one would guess. He’d managed in skirmishes on the way here. But, Goddess help him, he was so scared that the spit dried up in his mouth.
And then it was happening and he had no time to think or worry or even breathe with any certainty. The dark bearded men were all around him, and those not hacked to bits by his sword had their chests bashed in by his enraged horse.
Only when the battle was done did he realize he had not fought it as a whole person. It wasn’t that his mind detached from his body to watch while his arm swung bright steel and his heels signaled the gelding; he simply was incomplete. Some part of him extinguished like a fingerflame damped by a Sunrunner’s thoughts. He had no sense of time or place, being or becoming. Now, as those facets of life returned to him, he heard himself sob once with relief that they had returned.
“Rihani? That’s it, son, you can dismount now.”
He recognized his uncle’s voice and tried to obey. One of his legs wasn’t working right. He glanced down, bewildered by the red stain on his thigh.
“Didn’t even feel it, did you?” Kostas asked, amusement in his voice—and pride. “I’m not surprised, the way you fought. Twenty people have already come to me, telling how you led the charge.”
Had he? He didn’t remember. Parts of his memory had vanished. Easing down from the saddle, he accepted his uncle’s support to a camp stool. A physician approached, and as he worked, Rihani finally started breathing again.
“As soon as you’re bandaged, we’ll ride into Catha Heights,” Kostas was saying. “Saumer sent word that he’s found Patwin’s daughters and brother—but the one girl, Sangna, was locked up in the guardhouse. I suppose I’ll have to spare her—but I want a good look at her first. It could be a trick.”
Rihani’s shiver of cold coincided precisely with application of a stinging salve to his leg wound. The physician apologized. Rihani shook his head and struggled to keep his teeth from chattering.
“It’s not serious, my lord,” was the verdict. “The thrust missed the artery and didn’t cut too deep into the important muscles. Light exercise will keep it from stiffening into a permanent limp.”
Kostas signaled to have the gelding brought around. Rihani stood, tested the leg, and realized the salve had numbed the pain. As he rode at his uncle’s side past the scattered corpses, he wished there was something he could smooth across his mind for the same effect. What he had lost for the length of the battle had indeed returned.
Karanaya wore a deep blue gown that had belonged to her aunt Michinida. So had the piles of silver and gold chains around her neck, some set with a ruby or emerald or two; matching bracelets that reached nearly to her elbows; and the earrings—large hanging discs of beaten silver set with chips of diamond. She had ever deplored her aunt’s flamboyant taste, but had cause to bless it now. Subtlety would be wasted on the Vellant’im; she must shine and dazzle today.
The gown, cut for a mature figure, was huge at the waist and hips. She belted it with a dozen more gold chains. Luckily, she was almost as voluptuous in the bosom as Michinida had been; all she needed to do was pin the neckline down to reveal half her breasts. No, nothing subtle about this performance.
Mirsath gaped at the sight of her. “You look like a jeweler’s stall at the Rialla.”
“Which is precisely the idea,” Johlarian reminded him. “Excellent, my lady. I hope there’s enough sunlight for the High Princess and Prince Pol to watch.”
Karanaya looked them over. “You’re not exactly dressed for work in the fields, either,” she observed.
Mirsath wore green—velvet tunic, leather trousers, and shimmering silken shirt. Johlarian had chosen the white of Goddess Keep from neck to heels. The Vellant’im would not notice from across the moat that the shirt was too small for him and the tunic too large, and that the cloak had been reversed to show the white wool lining instead of the russet outer fabric.
“We all look ridiculous,” she finished. “Me most of all. If this wasn’t so desperate, I’d probably laugh in their faces.”
“Correctly timed, laughter might be very effective,” Johlarian mused.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Mirsath took her arm and started along the hallway.
“I think so.” She grimaced; with every step she rattled and clinked as if she wore full battle armor. “I hope nobody watches. I’m going to look such a fool up there.”
STRO\GHOLL> ¥)\
“Not half as foolish as they’re going to look with tb« faces in the mud,” Mirsath said fiercely.
The trio drew amazed stares as they crossed the courtyard headed for the gatehouse and presence balcony. Climbing the stairs left Karanaya flushed and out of breath. To calm herself, she trod slowly up and down the inner chamber, rehearsing the main phrases of her speech. Johlarian watched in sympathy; Mirsath, with concern. The whole plan was preposterous. Downright insane.
And it had to work. She reached into the pocket of her gown and clutched the little silk bag of pearls, remembering how she’d snatched the box off the floor where it had dropped from Michinida’s dead hands. One of the Dragon’s Tears should have hung from her wedding necklet this spring. Instead she was weighted down by all Michinida’s finery and all six pearls were clutched in her fist. She thought of her betrothed, and the splintered glass knife quivering in his chest with his faltering breaths. She couldn’t completely recall his face, but she could see that knife. And all the blood. The iridescent black teardrop sacrificed today would be the one rightly hers. For him.
“I’m ready,” she said to Johlarian.
He glanced out the narrow window and replied, “There’s as much sun as there’s going to be, my lady. Best you get it done now.”
The disc earrings chimed against the chains around her throat as she bent her head for a moment. Straightening, she made herself hear the clatter above her own thundering heartbeat, made it an announcement of her presence. She strode through the door Mirsath held open for her and into a thin shroud of afternoon haze—lit abruptly by twin torches of Sunrunner’s Fire in Johlarian’s hands.
She needn’t have worried about capturing their attention. The sudden apparition of blue, glittering silver, gold, and Fire brought shouts from those assigned to watch the castle; Vellanti warriors were soon leaving their tents to come view the strange scene. Karanaya waited until she had a good-sized crowd across the moat, and then lifted her hands. Bracelets rattled down her arms like the muffled beat of war drums.
“Azhlel!” she cried, one of the words Prince Pol had told her to use. She had memorized several more, working her mind around them, but until this moment not her tongue.
They were harsh words, guttural and sharp. “Azhlel!” she shouted again. Dragonwar. •
Tobin’s theory was that someone among the enemy had known how to communicate with Patwin. It took a fairly intense vocabulary to arrange the rewards for a betrayal, after all. Once Karanaya had their attention, she could speak in her own language and hope that someone would translate.
A tall, bearded man indistinguishable from the others of his breed pushed through the growing crowd. “You make easy target, my lady!” he called. “Ready to die?”
“You should prepare for it, barbarian!” Mirsath yelled, and Johlarian placed a restraining hand on his arm.
Karanaya relaxed slightly, now that she knew her speech would be understood. “Shut up, Mirsath,” she hissed, and stepped forward to the balcony rails. “Withdraw now, or be destroyed!”
The man repeated her words to the men around him, and everyone laughed. Though she had expected that, the foolishness of her words put hot blood in her cheeks. She persevered; no matter how outrageous, this had to sound convincing.
“I say again, whoreson—leave now or die!”
“Of what, my lady? Boredom?”
She drew one of the pearls from the silk pouch. “Of the spell cast by a Dragon’s Tear!” She panicked for an instant, having lost the other word, then had it. “Azhketh!” she called, holding the pearl so its darkness glowed in the sun. “Azhketh!”
Pol had told her that Tobin felt they might need some convincing. The princess was mistaken. The word brought a fearful muttering among the crowd. Karanaya blinked in surprise as they began to fall back—slowly, shuffling their feet as if ashamed of their reaction, but moving away from the moat just the same.
“You do have them! We searched everywhere—“ the tall man gasped out, then realized his error and added, “A lie! A trick!” ‘
He repeated the last part in his own language, but to little effect. Tobin had suggested she claim the pearls had been in her family for centuries, entrusted to them as a defense against those who dared make war on the Desert, and similar nonsense. That part of the plan was obviously use-
STROXGHOLD 493 less now, but she perceived that things were going better than anyone could have hoped.
“Azhketh that brings azhleft” she taunted. “Wffl yoe rak it, barbarian?”
“Give them back! They are not yours, but ours!”
Johlarian gave a violent start. “By Lord Andry’s rings,” he whispered, “I recognize him now! He was the merchant who sold Lady Michinida the pearls! Look at the way he limps on the left leg! Listen to his voice! It’s the same man!”
“Is this why they stayed here when they could have moved on to the Desert?” Mirsath asked. “These damned pearls?”
“They’re certainly reacting to them,” Karanaya said. She spilled all six pearls into her palm. The clouds chose that moment to drift beyond the Faolain, and the teardrops were suddenly brilliant black fire in sunlight. “I have them all! Did you hope to recover them from my dead hands?”
“Give them back, we’ll leave you in peace!”
“Return such power to you? Never! I am the vassal of the High Prince, the Azhrei, and I know how to use Dragon’s Tears! Leave us in peace now!” To Johlarian she breathed, “Get ready, Sunrunner.”
“At your command, my lady.”
“You know nothing!” the man challenged. “None of you understood! Azhketh’im mean nothing to you but pretty baubles!”
“So you will risk your lives!” Karanaya laughed. Carefully placing all but one pearl back into the pouch, she held the black teardrop up once more. She paused a moment to make sure she had all the words right, then drew in a breath that went to the bottom of her lungs.
“Keth dur azh!” And she flung the dark gleaming pearl down into the moat.
Against all reason and rationality, proving themselves good, honest, superstitious barbarian savages, they ran back even before Johlarian ignited the moat. Sunrunner’s Fire circled the castle, leaping up half again the height of the walls, obscuring the view of the chaos below. Yet chaos it was, from the sound of it. Above the roar of flames Karanaya heard cries of terror. There were other shouts, too, from commanders or those made of sterner stuff, unmistakable even in a strange tongue as they ordered warriors to act like it. But all at once even they howled in fear. Dimly, through the writhing white-gold Fire, she saw why.
“Goddess help us,” she whispered. “Johlarian—are you doing that?”
“N-no, my lady,” he replied in a hushed voice. “It’s the High Princess—I can sense her colors—ah, Goddess, it hurts!” He moaned, and Mirsath grabbed him before he could fall.
“Don’t stop!” the young lord commanded. “Steady the Fire, damn you!”
An immense, blazing dragon, five times the height of a man, spread wings of red-orange Same just beyond Johlarian’s Fire. Head thrown back, it exhaled streaks of light toward the sky. Karanaya knew it to be a conjuring of the High Princess’ powerful mind, but even though she felt no awe of Sunrunners she found herself completely understanding the enemy’s panic. And if she was frightened, knowing what was happening, they must be mad with horror.
Johlarian held out as long as he could. At last he crumpled to the stone floor, panting for breath. Fire sank into the moat and vanished; the dragon disappeared.
So had the Vellant’im.
“Someday you must teach me how to do that,” Pol remarked as he handed his mother a full wine cup.
With a tired smile, she replied, “One of my more flamboyant talents. Pol, if there’s any moonlight to work with later, see if you can find Johlarian and apologize for me. I’m afraid I was a little rough.”
“What happened?” Tobin snapped in what was almost her old voice, crisp and impatient.
“She scared the spit and piss out of them with a conjured dragon,” Pol reported, succinctly if inelegantly. “It was gorgeous! Do you want me to help you to your room, Mother?”
“I’m not decrepit yet, boy. It’s just the dranath. I’ll be all right.” She swallowed some wine and sighed. “You didn’t find Azhdeen, did you?”
He shook his head, “He’s gone back to the Catha Hills with the rest of the dragons. It would’ve been nice to give them a real one, but yours worked just as well.”
“I don’t like to think how close we cut it,” she mused. “Johlarian’s Fire alone might have done it. An appearance by your dragon would have been better. Maybe changing, that the sun came out in time for me
Tobin drummed the fingers of her right hand on “Gone for good?”
“Perhaps. I hope they ran like frightened deer all the way to Riverport.”
Catha Heights had not yet been so long in enemy hands that its famous gardens had suffered from anything more destructive than winter. The individual enclaves of rare trees, bushes, and shrubs were richly green with rain that swelled the ponds and leaped in the fountains. Only the flower beds, turned and waiting for spring seed, were brown. Vines scrambled up the walls of a few houses made of reddish brick; the keep itself rose pale yellow and thickly covered on its lower floors with climbing roses. Amid the workshops and storehouses ran narrow cobbled alleys, yet even here trees grew in tubs set at interesting intervals.
Rihani had settled his mind by the time he rode through the gates at his uncle’s side. Saumer approached immediately, bowing with as great a flourish as he could muster with one arm in a sling and tight strapping around his ribs.
“I beg to present you with your holding of Catha Heights, my lord,” he said, and grinned.
“Accepted,” Kostas replied, grinning back. “I think you have one or two other gifts for me as well?”
“Waiting in the square, my lord.”
Izaea and her uncle Othreg stood together beneath a tall pine. Sangna, Patwin’s middle daughter, had put deliberate distance between them and herself. Rihani saw at once the marks of gyves around her wrists—some of them scabbed, which indicated to him that this was no pose. She had worn iron for some time now. He knew his uncle would execute the other two; he was deeply relieved that Sangna would be spared. There had been enough killing today.
Dismounting, he held Kostas’ stallion and when Saumer came to stand beside him whispered, “Shoulder or ribs?”
“Both. And both my own stupid fault—I wrenched it when the balance-weight on the gates lifted. I never even saw who broke my ribs. How about your leg?”
“I don’t remember how or when it happened.” To Saumer’s startled, disbelieving glance, he defended, “Honestly, I don’t remember much of it at all. You’ll have to go to someone else for tales of the battle.”
“The biggest fight in thirty years, and he doesn’t remember! Did your own horse kick you in the head?”
“Not me—just anyone else within reach. Shh—he’s about to judge them.”
There was no plea and no mercy. Before his assembled army, the few Vellant’im who had been captured, and the frightened castlefolk, Kostas said one simple thing—“Othreg and Izaea of Catha Heights are guilty of treason”—and summarily lopped their heads from their necks with his own sword.
Had there been anything in his stomach, Rihani would have thrown up. Thin, bitter fluid gushed into his mouth; he swallowed it and set his face in stone.
Sangna flinched back against the Syrene trooper holding her up. Kostas wiped his bloodied sword on Izaea’s skirts and came toward the terrified woman. “You are evidently blameless, my lady,” he said. “But you will understand that by their actions, the rest of your family forfeited this castle. You will be taken back to High Kirat and treated with honor there. Part of the revenue from this place will provide your dowry, should you ever marry. But your line is finished here forever. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, my lord uncle,” she whispered, and swayed to her knees before him. “Thank you for my life.”
“You have yourself to thank, Sangna, for not heeding your father’s treachery.” Kostas gestured her away, and she was taken into the keep. Turning, he addressed the crowd. “For their services today to us and to Syr—and to the High Prince—we have decided to bestow the honor of knighthood on our squires. Prince Rihani of Ossetia, Prince Saumer of Kierst-Isel, come forward.”
In shock, the pair approached their prince and knelt. Saumer received the accolade with a proud smile. Rihani, hearing phrases that made him a knight at barely seventeen, could think of nothing but that he was being rewarded for his skill at butchery. Well, why not? After all, he knelt near a pool of blood.
“We have neither salt nor bread nor golden buckle to give you,” Kostas said when it was finished. “Those things, and Syr’s gift of a coffer encrusted with gems, will have to wait.
But as of this moment, having proven your courage and accomplishments on this fine and glorious day, we acclaim each of you a knight in the service of the High Prince and ourselves, Prince of Syr.”
A cheer went up—genuine from the Syrene warriors, pure release of tension from the people of Catha Heights. Some of the former, the captain Havadi in the lead, jostled forward to congratulate the young men. And in the sudden confusion, no one heard Kostas give a grunt of surprise and pain.
Rihani saw his uncle fold to the ground. He saw a bearded man rise from Kostas’ side. What he did not see was his own sword—until it was hilt-deep in the Vellanti’s guts.
He let the blade go. He knelt in a new pool of blood. He reached for the knife, snatched his hand back. It was made of glass, and had splintered.
“Oh, Goddess—no,” he breathed.
“What’s wrong with you?” Kostas demanded in a heavy, breathy voice. “It’s just a pinprick in the belly. Pull it out.”
“I—I can’t, my lord. It’s a Merida knife.”
No one believed it, least of all Kostas. Not until he tried to wrench the glass out himself. He could not move.
Saumer took the prince’s lolling head onto his knees. “Rihani got him, my lord,” he said, tears thickening his words. “Rihani killed him for you.”
“Good. Kill the rest of them, too.” He coughed, spat as if the poison had fouled his tongue, and said, “Take me to River Run, where I was born. Reclaim it and burn me there. Swear to uphold my son Daniv as Prince of Syr.”
“We swear, my lord,” Saumer said for both of them; Rihani could only nod.
Kostas looked at him, his eyes glazing over now. “Take care of your mother,” he whispered, his voice going from strength to feebleness in an instant. Rihani didn’t understand; his uncle saw it and insisted even more weakly, “Gemma—keep her safe.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, for lack of anything else and because it was what the dying man wanted to hear.
Then, quietly, light in his eyes like the last glimpse of sun before night: “My poor Dani.”
Dragon Gap was tough going in daylight at a decent pace. By night, at speed, it was madness. Meiglan’s usual mount, a placid little mare with a mouth and disposition like silk, had not prepared her for this great gelding she now bestrode. All she could do was beg the Goddess to keep her on the horse.
Laroshin was in the lead. He knew the trail as well as anyone and better than most. Next came Rislyn and Jihan, then a guard, Meiglan, and finally Kierun. She hadn’t planned on bringing the squire along, but it had become necessary when, on entering Pol’s chambers through the passage from her own rooms, she had discovered Kierun tidying his lord’s clothes for something to do. No use to dissemble; she and the girls were dressed for riding and once Kierun found out where they were bound, his presence was inescapable.
“My lord left strict orders, my lady,” he said stubbornly. “I’m to protect you and their graces. I’m coming with you to Stronghold.”
Meiglan held the name before her as if the stars had formed it overhead. Stronghold—where Pol was. Where she would be protected and cherished and utterly safe. She bent over the gelding’s neck and hung onr