JF orced to conceal his anger in public, in private Miyon of Cunaxa did not scruple to blister the ears off the hapless tutor. Catallen’s initial defenses withered quickly at the onslaught; he trembled and begged forgiveness and was ready to fall on his knees when Miyon ordered him out in disgust.
“Blind and deaf—but not, unfortunately, mute! Shut your mouth, you slug! Kill you? I ought to open your eyes and ears with a hot iron! You had charge of the brats! You should’ve alerted me when they didn’t return to their rooms last night! Get out!”
Miyon stalked from one end of his chamber to the other, seething. Catallen had been a convenient outlet for rage, but ultimately unsatisfying. The fault was his own. He’d badly underestimated the changes in Meiglan since her marriage. Evidently she’d developed some backbone. But there had been such sick terror in her eyes after the cottage burned down , .. perhaps he had frightened her too much. Either way, the mistake was his.
His hostages were gone. He had nothing to offer Chiana and the Vellant’im except Dragon’s Rest itself. Moreover, he was stuck here with Laric and Edrel and the whole palace guard, and without Meiglan to bully into giving what orders he desired for his convenience.
Adding to his troubles was the report of the Sunrunner, Hildreth: heavy snow threatened the north in the next few days, making Laric’s departure impossible. The prince had believed his story about Yarin—after much persuasion and even more agonizing over the betrayal. Laric’s slowness in accepting the tale grossly insulted him. Had Rohan and Pol so poisoned all minds against him that no one believed a word he said? The fact that he was doubted when telling an obvious truth angered him even more.
Miyon was briefly torn between staying where he was or making for Swalekeep. The latter held attractions. He would be in direct contact with the Vellant’im, planning out the shape of the continent after the wars were done and Rohan and Pol were dead. But at Swalekeep he would be just one more collaborator. Here at least he was senior prince and Pol’s father-by-marriage. Too, taking up residence at Swalekeep would be an irrevocable choice of sides. No, he would save that for when he had something to bargain with.
Maybe Pol would do the smart thing and send Meiglan home. Stronghold would soon be under siege in earnest. It was no place for anyone who had a perfectly safe palace only two days’ ride away. He began to nourish a certain hope, fed by faith in Pol’s protective instinct. Meiglan might come back; Laric would march for Balarat as soon as he could without killing his men or his horses; Edrel was only a younger brother of a ruling athri, for all that he had been Pol’s squire. With Meiglan to hand once more, Laric gone, and Edrel hopelessly outranked, things would turn Miyon’s way again.
He decided he could wait a little while. Not that he had much choice.
Lord Yarin paused outside his nephew’s chambers, arranging his face into properly grave lines. Tirel would be grieving over that damned Sunrunner woman who had taken such a very long time about dying. Yarin had to be sympathetic but firm with the boy.
He hadn’t expected the squire to be in attendance, but Idalian’s presence altered his plans not at all. He expressed sorrow he did not feel at Arpali’s death, then suggested that it might be a good idea for Tirel to remain in his chambers until any threat of contagion was ascertained.
“What did she die of, my lord?” Idalian asked.
“No one knows for certain,” he lied smoothly, glad that virulent fevers or wasting sicknesses produced the same kind of drastic loss of weight as that brought by starvation. “But until the physicians are sure it’s not catching, they advise me to keep my nephew isolated. I think you should join him,
Idalian—your remaining family would not thank me ios risking your life, and you would help make the days go faster for Tirel.”
The young man looked uncertainly at the boy, then nodded. “As you wish, my lord. Will you keep Natham isolated, too?”
Yarin searched his face quickly for any signs of suspicion and detected none. “You’re kind to worry about him,” he replied smoothly. “My son will also be kept apart—but I think he might be allowed to come play with you, Tirel, and share your lessons with your squire. Would you like that?”
“Yes, uncle,” he murmured meekly. His wide gray eyes were unreadable—eerie in one so young, but then Tirel had always been a strange child.
“I’ll see if I can persude the physicians.” Pleased—and reminding himself to order Natham kept to his rooms—he unfolded a thin sheet of parchment and continued, “In this crisis, and because you won’t be able to meet with your father’s ministers until the danger is past, I’ve drawn up a document that will ease your mind, Tirel. It gives me certain limited powers to conduct the business of the princedom and see to its defense in these troubled times.”
“Do you wish me to sign it, Uncle?” Again that flat, slate-colored stare. It unnerved Yarin for a moment.
“Yes, I do. It would be best.”
“Shouldn’t you read it first, my lord?” Idalian asked. Then he added too swiftly, “He should become familiar with official documents, Lord Yarin. He’ll rule Firon one day.”
The lame excuse was mildly amusing, but it warned Yarin that the squire was indeed suspicious. He would be watched. “He should certainly read it—as a matter of fact, I should go through it again myself. These legal minds with their tortured phrasing!”
The parchment was only to reassure the more timorous councillors that what Yarin was doing was perfectly legal. It was, and would be—right up until the time he disinherited Tirel and proclaimed himself rightful Prince of Firon. As should have been done eighteen years ago.
Tirel asked Idalian to read the document aloud. Yarin pretended to listen, thinking instead of the three sets of riders dispatched south to Swalekeep. There had been no news since Arpali had been confined, of course, but Yarin felt safe in his sunnise that Chiana would walk hand-in-glove with anyone who could destroy Pol and put her and Rinhoel in Princemarch. He had taken her measure at several Riall’im and knew that her cause was roughly the same as his: to claim a usurped birthright.
He was equally confident that at least one pair of couriers would make it through the winter storms. The message they carried was as much a triumph of vocabulary as the document Idalian recited. It managed to convey Yarin’s plots and hopes without actually stating them; it hinted delicately at Chiana’s cooperation with the enemy; it guided her toward what he really meant without actually saying it. If read by the wrong people, it would not incriminate him—but the woman for whom it had been written would understand it at once. He might need her help in spring, when the roads would be passable again. By that time he hoped to be in complete control of Firon. But just in case, he had sent a message to Chiana. Besides, she might even do him the favor of killing Laric and Lisiel, or at least putting them in the way of being killed. Whatever happened elsewhere, he believed Chiana would be the new power. The barbarians would win—how could they not, faced with that weakling Rohan and his prating, posturing son? Andry was a worry, but Andry showed scant affection for Rohan or any of his works—including Pol.
“I believe I understand,” Tirel said quietly, and again Yarin was amused as the boy played at being a prince. “Idalian, may I have a pen and ink, please?”
Yarin watched him sign, hiding his glee. Whatever he did now would be in Tirel’s name, as titular prince while Laric was absent. He was official Regent of Firon. He could rule as he pleased.
“There’s a time limit set on this,” he said as he waited for the ink to dry. “It’s now the thirteenth day of Winter. Soon we should have some sort of word from your father and we can revise the document if necessary. But I think he’ll be proud of your maturity, Tirel.”
The boy said nothing. Idalian put away pen and ink, avoiding Yarin’s eyes. The new regent shrugged to himself and left the room.
“How could you!” Idalian hissed as soon as the outer door had closed.
“I couldn’t do anything else! What if I refused? He’d lock me up anyway, and you, too. and >_ he killed poor Arpali!” Tirol’s voice himself onto his bed.
Ashamed of himself, Idalian sat beside the and patted his shoulder awkwardly. “I’m sorry. Yo« < right thing. I’ve heard tales of wicked uncles before. IM Yarin is a snake!”
“He’s worse than a snake,” Tirel mumbled into his pillow. “He’s so horrible I can’t think what to call him.”
Idalian had a much larger vocabulary, but didn’t contribute any of the choice characterizations Yarin embodied. Instead he told the prince, “At least when they decide it’s safe, we’ll be able to move about the castle.”
“Idalian, I’m scared.”
“I know. It shouldn’t be too long—you made sure Yarin thinks he’s in complete control. He’ll get overconfident and make a mistake somewhere.”
“I hope he lets me out for my birthday,” he said forlornly.
Idalian froze. “What? Say that again.”
“My birthday? It’s the thirty-fifth.”
“And you’ll be seven. Glorious great Goddess, Tirel, you’re going to be seven!” Idalian picked him up and hugged him.
“Put me down!” He squirmed away. “What are you talking about?”
The young man grinned. “You know how the High Prince keeps changing things? Your father has me read the law books out loud. He says it helps him think and it also teaches me. Well, there’s a law that didn’t get changed last Rialla, that goes back to when people used to make children sign apprenticeships and betrothals, that kind of thing. Prince Rohan wanted to raise the age limit. But the crafters couldn’t agree on an age, so it didn’t get changed. The point,” he finished as Tirel made an impatient face, “is that you have to be ten to sign anything and have it be legally binding!”
“So Uncle Yarin’s document is meaningless?”
“Exactly! Once we’re free, we can figure out some way to stop him.”
Tirel brightened, tears and panic forgotten. Idalian kept his smile steady and his worries to himself. He knew how feeble the hope was, but the child had to have something to live on.
But the little face took on an adult grimness. “There’s one thing I will sign, Idalian, and make it legal. Uncle Yarin’s death warrant.”
At New Raetia, Rohannon came back from a morning patrol and was surprised to find Prince Arlis waiting for him.
“I know—you thought me still at Port Adni,” said the ruler of Kierst-Isel. “But the ships will stay in harbor for quite some time yet. There’s a storm coming—again. So I thought I’d spend a few days here.”
They climbed the broad, polished stone staircase to what had been Volog’s private retreat, a cozy room lined with tapestries. A fire blazed in the huge hearth and a fenath stood in one comer. Arlis went to it, stroked a finger over the inlaid wood patterned with birds.
“Nobody in my family has the slightest sense of music,” he remarked, plucking a string. The note quivered for a long time. “Except for my aunt Birani. I heard her play when I was a little boy. Aunt Alasen says she lost her music when Obram died—the way Ostvel did, until Alasen brought it back to him.” Glancing around the chamber, his Kierstian green eyes filled with sudden pain. “They’re all gone now, except Alasen. I can’t even feel their presence here anymore.”
Rohannon said nothing. A young page peeked in the door and Rohannon motioned him away.
“I love this room almost as much as Grandsir did,” Arlis went on softly. “Of them all, it’s hardest to believe he’s dead. Part of me wants to keep this room just as it is ... the way they kept Birani’s fenath. But Rohan told me once that when I became prince of Kierst and Isel, everything would change—everything must change. That’s what I was trained to do.” He smiled bitterly. “I doubt even Rohan in all his wisdom could have guessed that this island that tore itself apart with wars for so long would one day be united by a war.”
“United by you, your grace,” Rohannon said firmly, and Arlis gave him the sharp, assessing look familiar to him from seeing it in Sioned’s green eyes.
“You’re growing some wisdom of your own, Rohannon,” the prince replied, then smiled more easily. “As well as a handspan in height. I didn’t ask you here to I sorry for myself. How good are you at ~
“Not very, my lord,” he apologized. “Vtv teaching me—but at such a distance, it’s hard
Arlis frowned. “What about the court Sunn Why isn’t she—?”
Rohannon hesitated a long moment, then shrugged and told the truth. “She’s very loyal to my Uncle Andry, who says that all Sunrunners must be taught at Goddess Keep.”
“Or not at all,” Arlis finished in disgust. “Another of his stupid opinions.”
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but it’s always been that way. Until Pol.”
The prince cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Rohannon. My own loyalty to Pol makes me cast Andry in a darker light than he perhaps deserves. And I often forget he’s your father’s brother. Well, if you can’t speak on sunlight yet without someone steadying you, then can you go looking as you like?”
“If the sun’s strong enough. I’ve been keeping track of our patrols when I can, but I’m not practiced enough to do things like guess the weather.”
“I have someone else to do that for me. I want to know some very selfish things, Rohannon.”
The youth understood at once. “As it happens, my lord, I had a look in at Zaldivar just this morning.” He smiled, both at the remembered scene and for the laugh it would give Arlis. “Roric and Hanella were swiping the new baby off with a feather duster, for all the world as if he was a table decoration!”
Laughter belonged in this room. Arlis told him how Roric, two winters Hanella’s senior, once asked his nurse why she didn’t just send his little sister down to be washed with the rest of the dirty laundry. Rohannon countered with the time he and Chayla had attempted the exploding fish bladder trick that was practically a family tradition by now, having been tried by their father and Pol, and learned, it was hinted, from the redoubtable Lord Chaynal of Radzyn himself.
“My brother had a knack with citrins rather like that—he punctured the rinds with needles and dripped in Goddess alone knew what. He hid them while they fermented, slipped them into his tutor’s closets, and after another day or two—“ He laughed. “Saumer never did confess to that one.”
“I might be able to find him, if there’s enough sun over the Catha Hills,” Rphannon offered.
“Could you?” Arlis sounded almost wistful, and Rohannon heard the echo of his words about keeping things as they had been.
“I’ll try, my lord.” He went to windows overlooking a forested cliff, the sea beyond, and the graceful curve of the harbor. The fleet was at Port Adni, a crown holding since Lord Narat’s death at Waes this autumn, and it was odd not to see at least fifty ships at the docks. Rohannon opened the window and felt the sun on his face, and carefully wove the brilliant threads of light.
Across Brochwell Bay, so wide that he almost lost sight of land; over the farmlands of Grib and the dark rippling waters of Lake Kadar, white-capped in the wind; a moment’s pause to find Athmyr and use it as a directional guide. He wasn’t as good at this as he ought to be; he strayed too far south, to the tangled estuaries where the Catha River emptied into the sea. Backtracking upriver, he stopped in shock at Catha Heights.
A pyre was burning outside the walls—the large, tragic kind used in war or pestilence, when dozens were honored at once. Warriors wearing Syrene turquoise and common folk in mourning gray stood watch. What startled Rohannon was that what he at first took for one pyre was in fact five—and that there were so many dead that flames lit last night were still burning at midday.
There must have been a battle. After a moment of panic he realized that the Syrenes had won, or Kostas’ people would not be standing guard over the pyres. Rohannon searched for Kostas and his squires, but couldn’t find them.
Catching his breath—only figuratively, for his body back at New Raetia did not react—he moved to the castle itself. Relief sparkled through his colors as he recognized the two squires in the main square. Saumer, distinguished by the yellow and scarlet belt that signified his homeland, had one arm in a sling but otherwise looked unharmed. Rihani’s leg was tightly bandaged, and his blue eyes looked stunned as he limped forward to consult with Saumer.
Crafters were busy building what looked like another pyre. But this one had carrying poles attached, as if the body was to be taken somewhere else. A woman knelt by one end, her paintbox beside her—and the pot she dipped into again and again as she decorated the carved handles was filled with Syrene turquoise.
Rohannon felt cold dread darken his own colors. It was confirmed by the turquoise velvet another woman shook out for inspection. Saumer and Rihani both felt the fabric, and then Rihani beckoned someone else over to give the woman a battle flag bearing Syr’s silver apple, obviously to be copied in embroidery on the shroud.
Saumer glanced up suddenly, frowning. It seemed that he looked directly into Rohannon’s eyes. Traces of Arlis were in that face—the lines of brow and jaw were almost identical— but instead of green his eyes were dark brown, like their father Latham’s. All at once it was like seeing the dead prince all over again in his son. But there was something else in that face—or, rather of it.
Rohannon glided back to the window of Prince Volog’s favorite room.
“My lord, did you know your brother is a Sunrunner?”
Tallain surveyed what was to have been his troops’ rations and couldn’t think of a single reason to keep his temper in check. The town baker, whose responsibility it was to provision Tiglath in times of war, was already apoplectic that the loaves had been botched. Tallain now favored him with his blistering views on masters who left such vital work to inexperienced apprentices while he downed a few sociable cups of wine at a nearby inn.
“And Goddess help you if I discover those boys used weeviled flour on your order, thinking no one would notice until we were halfway to Cunaxa! You’ll mix the next batch yourself, Master Baker, and use the finest, softest, most expensive Ossetian grind in your barrels—or I’ll stoke your ovens with you!”
Swinging around in the hot, narrow confines of the bakery, he gestured his cousin forward. “Lady Lyela will supervise your work. By dusk I want the loaves delivered to me, and they’d damned well better be perfect!”
Lyeia fixed the man with her large, fine dark eyes, smiling with uncharacteristic fierceness. “He understands you, my lord—doesn’t he?” The baker gulped and nodded. Lyela spread her skirts elegantly and sat on a stool near the door.
“I’ll just stay here where it’s cool, and you carry on as if you were baking for the High Prince’s own table.”
Seething, Tallain left the shop. No one dared so much as nod respect to him as he stalked back to the residence. Once inside the main doors, he bellowed his wife’s name. When she did not reply instantly, he shouted again. “Goddess damn it all—Sionell! Get down here! Sionell!”
He should have known better. His lady would not cower like the baker, nor follow orders like Lyela. She gave as good as she got.
“Put a bridle on that foul-mouthed stallion before I make him a gelding!”
Tallain strode to the bottom steps and gripped the carved wooden bouquet of the finial. “You heard me! Move! I won’t be gainsaid in my own holding!”
She appeared on the upper landing, hands on hips, sweaty from a day of backbreaking preparations for war. “Take your temper outside and soak it in a horse trough! Drown in it for all I care!”
He took the stairs three at a time. But once within arm’s reach of her, his fury drained away. Sionell possessed all the fire usually accompanying a head of red hair, but suddenly all the bright, vivid colors of her seemed—not tarnished, for that could never happen, but as if weariness had faded them beneath the flush of her anger. Tallain stood before her, tongue-tied, abashed, and wondering how he’d been such a fool as to take his frustrations out on her.
She was not so quick to relinquish her wrath. “If you can’t speak like a civilized person, then get out of my sight! How dare you come roaring in here?”
“I’m sorry.”
She’d flinched at his first shout, wondering what new disaster was upon them. His second had snapped her already overstrained nerves. But hearing those two words reminded her that Tallain was surely unique among men: he never hesitated to admit when he’d been wrong.
She struggled with lingering annoyance, then gave it over with a shrug. If he could be magnanimous, so could she. Besides, now that he wasn’t shouting at her, she saw how tired he was and her heart twisted. “I’m sorry, too. What happened?”
“Weeviled flour. Every damned loaf. We can’t march out with nothing to eat. What about you?”
“Rabisa hasn’t said a word in two days and Siona’s sickening for something, I’m not sure what.”
“And?” he prompted.
“And what?”
“You’re exhausted.” Tallain caressed her cheek with one finger.
She didn’t particularly want to tell him right now that some of the Dorvali who’d elected to stay at Tiglath had given her a hellish morning with their complaints. Or that the section of wall Tallain had ordered rebuilt would not be finished before he left. She’d worked on it herself after ordering the Dorvali to help or get out, but instead of exhausting her anger in physical labor, she’d only exhausted her body.
She closed her eyes, knowing the action was a mistake. As long as she kept going, she would be able to keep going. She suspected it was the same for her husband. But she also knew that he would have no chance to rest once he left Tiglath. So she gave in to weariness and leaned against him. “I’m about to fall over, if you want the truth.”
It worked; he drew her along beside him to their chambers and settled her on the bed. Very little effort was required to coax him down across the quilt with her, and that worried her anew. Still, if the provisions weren’t ready until this evening, Tallain would have to leave tomorrow instead of this afternoon. She could tell their Sunrunner to tell Riyan the Tiglathi forces would be a little late getting started for the assembly point.
To this end she suggested, “Tallain, why don’t you stay the night?”
He laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes. Gasping in enough breath to whoop, “Mistresses ask that, not wives.1”, he collapsed and laughed some more. Sionell discovered that a good case of the giggles was a remedy much superior to hauling bricks around. When Taliain showed signs of recovery, she demanded, “And how would you know what mistresses ask?” Which set them both off again.
The inevitable had barely gotten started when three children came bounding into the chamber, attracted by sounds of laughter, and swarmed onto their parents’ bed. Sionell regarded her brood with pride mixed with exasperation.
Antalya would be eleven on the last day of winter; Jahnev, eldest son and heir, was seven; Meig had turned four that summer. They were as dissimilar in looks as full siblings could be, as if traits from two preceding generations had been purposely parceled out to make them as unalike as possible. Talya, a redhead like Sionell, resembled the paternal grandmother for whom she had been Named. Jahnev’s eyes were the exact shade of Feylin’s—gray and luminous as cloudy moonlight—but his features and gold-brown hair had come from Tallain’s father, Eltanin. As for Meig—his blond hair and brown eyes were Tallain’s, but the shape of his face was already taking on the distinct triangle of SionelFs. It was one of the mysteries of heredity that even though they looked absolutely nothing alike, no one ever mistook them for anything but brothers and sister.
Meig landed on Sionell and gave a battle cry. Talya attacked her sire’s ribs; Jahnev paused to take stock of the situation, then grabbed his sister’s bare feet to tickle. A brief, chaotic time later, parents subdued offspring and met each other’s laughing, rueful eyes over their helplessly giggling prey.
Tallain growled, “Now we can do as we like with these hatchlings—we’ve got their wings pinned. How about having them for dinner?”
“I don’t know any good dragon recipes. Besides, there’s not enough meat on their bones,” she answered, pretending to take a bite out of Meig.
“Skin them and make saddles from their hides?”
“You wouldn’t get even a decent-sized purse out of these runts.”
Tallain sighed. “I’m out of ideas. I guess we’ll just have to keep them.”
They let go and the trio scrambled all over them again, going for revenge. Sionell exclaimed, “Enough! Get off me, you monsters!”—open invitation for husband and children to gang up on her.
Suddenly there was another child in the room. Sionell rolled away from merciless tickling hands to see a pair of big brown eyes in a pale little face. Jeren stood beside the bed, wistful and curious. Sionell’s heart turned over and she pushed the others away, holding out her arms to her brother’s son.
“Help! Come defend me, Jeren! I’m getting trounced!”
The boy smiled shyly and climbed up. The game was renewed—this time with Tallain stalking the children across the huge bed from beneath the quilt, to the sour hilarity and shrieking.
The nurse had only to follow the noise to catch her charges. She scurried them from the room after a proving glance for the Lord of Tiglath. Sionell thought we woman an idiot; Tallain looked delicious, all rumple-haired and flushed with laughter. But as he fell back onto the pillows to catch his breath, his smile faded too quickly.
Sionell was quiet for a time, then made a decision and started hauling off his boots. “Hush,” she said when he opened his mouth to protest. “You are going to stay the night.”
“Yes, but—“
“Bedtime, my lord. I’ve ordered the sun to set early.” She tossed his boots into a far corner.
“And it wouldn’t dare refuse you,” he answered whimsically. He grasped lightly at one of her braids that had tumbled loose from its pins during the roughhousing. “And neither would I,” he murmured. “Bedtime it is. Which means you’re going to stay right here and sleep, too.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere.” When he cocked a knowing brow at her, she grimaced. “AH right, all right. I was, but now I’m not.” Settling against his chest, she closed her eyes.
Tallain’s voice was barely tinged with humor as he said, “Shall I bring a Merida back for you?”
Her answer was quite serious. “Yes. Make it an important one. That’s the hide I want nailed to my wall.”
“Then if it pleases you, I will provide a very important Merida for you to kill however you like.”
She was about to thank him in all sincerity when it occurred to her that the entire conversation was barbaric. What would flaying a Merida accomplish? Would it bring Jahnavi back? Even if Tallain found the very one who had killed her brother, what good would it do?
Sionell hid her face against her husband’s neck in despair. “I hate this,” she said, her voice quivering.
“It has to be done, you know. The killing. Most people would say that dead is dead, and it doesn’t matter how you feel about how the enemy got that way, so long as it’s done. I think it does matter, Ell. I think it has to matter or there’s nothing to difference us from the Merida or the Vellant’im.”
“Dead is dead,” she repeated softly. “But those of you who have to do the killing have to live with how you did the killing—and why.”
“Most people would also say that Rohan corrupted us at a very tender age with his ridiculous ideas.” There was a smile in his voice, self-mocking and a little sad.
“Do you feel corrupted?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Neither do I. But I don’t feel completely clean, either.”
“None of us are, my love. I don’t know whether I feel sorrier for those who know it—or those who don’t.”
Though Stronghold had been built to house an entire army—two, with a little cramming—it was no disciplined, orderly host that occupied it now. Whole families, toddlers to grandmothers, crowded the keep. The castle wasn’t quite ready to burst at the seams, even with the addition of people from Radzyn and Remagev and those who had escaped Whitecliff before its capture. But for anyone used to the sparse population of peacetime, the lack of elbow room jangled the nerves.
Meals in the Great Hall weren’t really chaotic—they just seemed that way after years of quiet repasts. Maintaining usual standards of tidiness wasn’t impossible, just more difficult. After the first few days, when the servants were simultaneously run ragged and plagued by well-meaning counterparts from other places who didn’t understand the way things were done at the High Prince’s residence, a routine of sorts was established.
But an army would have been easier to house in good order—and infinitely quieter. Children hurtled through hallways and cried late at night. When they gathered for lessons, their chanted responses could be heard all over the keep. The chatter of crafters and grooms and maids and cooks and Radzyn merchants was constant and maddening.
The only escape from the noise was for the soldiers who rode out every morning on patrol. Maarken went with them gladly—and a little guiltily, at leaving to others the work of keeping Stronghold functional.
As Battle Commander of the Desert, however, it was his duty to go. The forays made him look useful, even if he didn’t feel it; at least they got him out of the keep. And one worry was eased by the long days on horseback: his beauties weren’t fretting themselves sick at being confined to a stable. Actually, he mused, horses and people were the same pass, but the horses were getting better treatment. None but warriors were allowed outside the walls. Everyone else had to make do with a stroll in the gardens.
Maarken chose to ride with Kazander’s men today rather than his father’s or Rohan’s or Walvis’. His mount was a feisty little bay mare who danced and sidled and wanted a run so badly she practically chewed the steel bit to pieces. Kazander noticed, smiling.
“She’d show them her heels at the Rialla races, my lord, no doubt of it. A true daughter of her sire, Sevol.”
Maarken glanced at him sharply. Sevol was a black Radzyn stallion who had never thrown any but black foals in his whole career at stud. Maarken said so. Kazander grinned.
“Not on your mares, my lord,” was the unrepentant reply.
Maarken felt his own lips curve in a smile. “You’re a sly thief, Kazander, and I ought to reclaim Radzyn stock.”
“Thief!” the young man wailed. “The mighty lord wounds me, my heart is bleeding!”
“Save it for my father—Sevol was his horse.” He tightened the reins a little as they rode into a narrow ravine. Lizards skittered from the path into the shelter of low, sun-baked scrub. There were no birds to take startled wing and no tiny furred creatures to rustle the bushes in warning of approaching riders. The Desert-bred must rely on their own senses and, if the animal was sensitive enough, those of their horses. “Kazander, why don’t you just ask when you need a stud? We’d be happy to provide.”
The korrus considered his answer for some time. Finally he said, “My esteemed sire taught his most unworthy son to respect and honor the dread Lord of Radzyn. How would it look, my lord, if I were to cast aside his teachings and violate generations of understanding between our people?”
“My father would have a lot fewer gray hairs, I can tell you that! When I inherit Radzyn—may it be many years from now—this ‘understanding’ between us is going to change.”
He drew back in shock. “My lord!”
“Yes,” Maarken drawled, enjoying himself. “I haven’t quite figured out how yet, but I’m not going to let you turn me white-haired!”
Ka/ander looked glum and sighed. “It won’t be any fun anymore!” Then he perked up and gave a sunny smile. “But if my lord makes it more difficult, we will find all the more pleasure in the borrowing! My lord is generous beyond all words to concern himself with our happiness!”
Maarken gave up and laughed, anticipating a delicious battle of wits between himself and this half-mad young man for years to come. Whatever tricks he devised to thwart the Isulk’im, Kazander would puzzle them through and borrow the studs anyway—praising him all the while for providing such excellent sport.
The pair led the way up the ravine, ten of Kazander’s men following. They were about five measures from Stronghold now, and after climbing a hill could see the top of the Flametower. Kazander directed his troops to scour the area by threes, himself taking Maarken and a burly youth called Visian with him to the west. It had been many days since any Vellant’im had been found lurking in the hills, but Maarken did not find that reassuring. The ride out of the castle these days seemed to bore the enemy camped down below, which worried him even more. Putting himself in their heads was easy: make a survey of the surrounding terrain and then pretend not to notice scouting parties— while waiting for reinforcements to arrive from elsewhere. But because Maarken was a Sunrunner, he knew things they did not. No one marched from Radzyn or Remagev. In fact, there was no troop movement in the Desert at all, except for Riyan out of Skybowl. He would meet Tallain soon to battle the Merida.
“Is this place sufficient to your needs, my lord?” Kazander asked.
Maarken glanced around. The bare hillcrest, dotted with low scrub and a few water-hoarding herbs, was dreadfully exposed and made the soldier in him nervous. For a Sunrunner, however, it was perfect.
“It’s fine, Kazander. You and Visian keep watch. Do you remember what I told you about bringing me back?”
“Gently, firmly, and quickly,” Kazander recited. “We will keep you safe, my lord, or die.”
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the thought.”
Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the noon sun and listened to the blessed quiet. Ears numbed by Stronghold’s multitude regained their usual sensitivity. He heard the silken whisper of dry leaves and grasses, the faint hoofbeats of the patrols, his own clothes rustling as a breath of wind plucked at them. But it was not his physical hearing that gave him the sound of his son’s voice.
Father—thank the Goddess, I found you at last!
He steadied the weaving skillfully. Rohannon barely knew how to do this; the possible reasons for risking a technique he didn’t fully understand made Maarken’s heart freeze. Are you all right?
Me? Oh, yes, of course. Don’t worry.
Then what’s happened to make you try something you don’t really know how to do?
Rohannon hesitated, and then it all burst from him hi a rush that Maarken had some difficulty in sorting out. Searching for him at Stronghold and over half the Vere Hills; Prince Arlis’ arrival at New Raetia; the excursion to Catha Heights and what he’d seen there; the certainty that Prince Saumer was faradhi.
Leave everything to me, Maarken told him briskly, hiding most of his shocked dismay. And don’t try this again without instruction. It’s too risky.
It worked, didn’t it?
Maarken replied severely, You caught me in a fairly tight weaving. Do you have any idea how to disengage from it? I thought not. Then he relented. You did well, Rohannon. But don’t do it again until you really know how.
Wait—don’t take me back yet! What are you going to do?
Tell Rohan. As he guided his rebellious offspring back to New Raetia, he savored the colors of Rohannon’s mind: glowing amethyst, bright diamond, deep garnet, all set in a pattern of elegant clarity. He had always wondered why there was never any family resemblance among faradh’im; he might have expected to see parts of himself and Hollis in their son, the way children took after parents in physical ways. Sometimes there was a similarity of color, but not always. Lady Andrade had spent many puzzled years going through genealogies, but there was no pattern to the patterns. Each Sunrunner was unique.
That reminded him of something. Did you get an idea of Saunter’s colors?
No—sorry. Father, will it be this easy for me someday? It feels like we’re flying!
Maarken smiled. Glad you like it. Learning how is serious business, but the plain truth is that it’s fun! And yes, it’ll be easy for you, too, someday. Have the Sunrunner there teach you.
She’s the type who doesn’t piss unless Andry gives permission.
Since when does the only son of Andry’s only brother need the approval of a court Sunrunner? When Rohannon’s colors sparkled with laughter, Maarken joined in ruefully. Well, all right, I guess I’ve never been any good at arrogance. I’ll have Andry tell her. Will that do?
I hope so. I want to be able to do this on my own. He paused. Please let Daniv know how sorry I am about his father.
Maarken left his son and returned to the Desert. The only explanation he gave Kazander was that all seemed peaceful enough in the hills, but he had received other news he must take back to Stronghold immediately. Visian accompanied him at Kazander’s insistence: “The dread Lord of Radzyn would skewer me on my own sword if his most beloved son so much as scuffed the shine on his boots.”
Maarken let the mare have her head on the ride back. Visian begged him to slow down through the treacherous ravines, but Maarken ignored him. Two horses racing past the Vellanti camp provided a tempting target; he could feel arrows sighted on his back and kicked the mare to greater speed. At last he was in the crowded courtyard, jumping from the saddle, shouting for the High Prince and his father
But it was Daniv who came forward to conduct him upstairs, and Maarken loathed himself for the silence of sheer cowardice. He didn’t want to be the one to tell the boy that his father was dead, and he was now Prince of Syr.
Rohannon had missed seeing one essential thing at Catha Heights: the pennant of Meadowlord sagging at the stern of the boat. Sioned saw it and drew the right conclusion with the wrong evidence. Unable to find Saumer, and unconvinced that this would be the best time to reveal his Sunrunner gifts anyway, she made a thorough search of the area to get any clues she could about what had happened. The only thing of any worth was that flag. There was no one who could tell her it had been made and placed there by Kostas’ order.
Not that it mattered; had she seen the Vellant’im wel- come the boat’s arrival, as Kostas and Rihani had, she would have known her surmise was the correct one. Chiana was guilty of collaborating with the enemy. It was just that the evidence was false.
Tobren was given strict instructions about what to say to Andrev—and how to say it. Her only question was who was going to tell Andry about all this. Sioned later expressed her amazement to Rohan that the child experienced no conflict in total loyalty to her father while being proud of the brother who was defying him.
“Be glad of it,” he replied. “Once she really thinks it through, or if she gets caught between them, she’ll go through all Hells. She loves them both.”
Andrev ran through half of Waes to find Tilal and Ostvel, who were meeting with their captains at the inn designated as headquarters for the troops. Those seated around the stoked hearth were surprised that a squire should interrupt so discourteously, but Tilal squelched any rebukes with a simple, “Lord Andrev is also our Sunrunner.”
The boy followed Sioned’s cautions as relayed through Tobren, telling his lord as gently as possible that Kostas was dead. Tilal sat very still for some moments, then excused himself and strode quickly for the door. Ostvel watched him go, sorrowing more for his friend’s loss than for Kostas personally; it had been difficult to be fond of him, although his stern but fair rule had inspired respect. But the death of the Prince of Syr concerned Ostvel more than the death of the man who had held the title.
An examination of Andrev’s face told him there was more. Rising, he said to the captains, “We’ll finish this at the residence tonight,” and led Andrev outside. He frowned up at the graying sky, where clouds were sweeping down from the north. “You cut it close,” he observed.
The boy nodded solemnly. “But it was important, my lord. And it’s not just Prince Kostas.” Andrev made short work of what Sioned had seen as evidence against Chiana.
“So,” Ostvel murmured, “we may now attack Swalekeep without compunction. How very convenient.” Rousing himself, he finished, “Thank you for your work, Andrev—and for your courage in daring the clouds.”
“The Goddess watches over her Sunrunners, my lord.”
“I’ve heard it rumored,” he said to himself as the boy ran off. Then he started through the streets, searching for Tilal.
The little ceremony went smoothly, and Master Jayachin was now an athri without the word’s actually being used. She was canny enough to decline the title “Lady,” which amused Andry. He bet Valeda in private that the woman would subtly encourage use of the title until by midwinter everyone was saying it without thinking twice. Valeda scoffed.
“Midwinter? I give it ten days.”
It was all highly illegal, of course—or would have been if athri had been the term spoken. Only the High Prince could authorize the establishment of a noble title and a new holding. Princes made applications to him and the thing was done in the presence of all the lords of a princedom gathered to acclaim and welcome the new athri to their ranks. But there was no wall for Jayachin to be lord of—excepting those surrounding Goddess Keep, or unless one interpreted a split-stick fence as a real wall—and thus the word was inapplicable. But everyone understood what was really going on here, and in truth, it was a perfect solution to Andry’s problem. He didn’t want his people or his substance involved in this small city growing about Goddess Keep. Now the whole place was Jayachin’s responsibility. He was relieved of the burden but had gained even more stature in the people’s eyes—for who but a prince could create an athri, whether the word was said or not? He was caring for them, honoring one of their own number, allowing them to stay near him where it was safe. The protection of the Goddess had settled around them all, and they were content.
He knew his whole family would be livid at his presumption. He didn’t much care. The network of Sunrunners that formed the power base of Goddess Keep—and which Andrade had used ruthlessly—had now been augmented by something that trod on the High Prince’s toes. But Andrade had done that, too—though she had never dared establish a holding here, as he had done. Then again, she had never been presented with thousands of refugees on her front lawns, either.
Yes, Rohan and Sioned and all the rest were going to be furious. Doubtless it would anger Tilal most, considering that Ossetia was his princedom. Andry owed him for stealing Andrev away from sheer spite. After a moment’s thought, however, he decided Pol’s fury would outstrip Tilal’s. The line between their separate powers and in.ing ever more smudged. Soon it would be obliterated. then let Pol writhe as he begged Andry and to turn back the Vellanti invaders.
To this end, he had them practice constructing a ros saiath— the non-lethal kind—to encompass the new holding. Tonen had tested it, reporting its thinness in spots, as if crocheted wool had stretched and left holes. Not surprising; two of its architects were dead now, and without them the pattern had been disrupted. More drill was needed, more delving into the Star Scroll for refinements of technique—and more devr’im. Still unable to get about easily on his wounded leg, Andry spent his mornings in research, his afternoons discussing his findings with Jolan and Torien, and his evenings sounding out potential replacements for Oclel and Rusina.
Their five-year-old daughter, Surida, had taken to trailing Nialdan about the castle. Andry supposed it was because he was tall and broad-shouldered like her dead father. It was a poignant thing to see the little girl trotting gamely along beside the big Sunrunner, who slowed his strides when she was with him and was as tender of her as if she had been his own. Andry, watching them, wondered if Andrev followed Tilal as assiduously, and if the prince matched his steps to those of another man’s son.
When there was safe sunlight or moonlight to work with, his Sunrunners brought him word of what transpired elsewhere. He heard with pride of his nephew Rohannon’s skillful exercise of authority at New Raetia, and with irritation of the refusal of Grib, Gilad, Fessenden, and Meadowlord to involve themselves directly in the war. The fine points of various treaties grounded them in legality—and he spared a sardonic smile that Rohan had so infected them all with his passion for law that even now they used it to cover their cowardly self-interest. But he also took personal offense. It was his signature and seal as Lord of Goddess Keep that appended some of those documents. In tricking Rohan, they grinned at him, too.
The continuing silence from Balarat was one of his primary concerns. He’d lost one Sunrunner already—the one assigned to Waes, who had accompanied Rialt to Swalekeep and died there of unknown causes. Deniker had seen the last ashes being blown away by a dawn breeze, watched over by Rialt, his family, and a few Waesian notables wear- ing mourning gray. Conjuring the scene for Andry in Fire, Deniker had been surprised when Andry identified young Princess Palila standing near her cousin Cluthine. It was possible that Chiana had sent the youngest and least important member of her family as a token honor for the dead faradhi, but Andry doubted it. The girl’s presence therefore remained a puzzle.
As the days wore on and nothing was heard from Arpali in Firon, even when there was enough light, Andry began to fear that perhaps she was dead, too. Strange things had been observed at Balarat: Lord Yarin’s flag flying where Laric’s standard should be, Lord Yarin’s soldiers riding patrol when snowfall permitted, Lord Yarin himself venturing out for a ride on a sunny morning with a retinue who deferred to him as if he was their prince. Andry wondered if Laric knew of this at Dragon’s Rest. But even if he was aware that his wife’s brother was busily taking over his princedom, what could he do?
More to the point, could Andry do anything about it? Having Laric in his debt would be a very good thing, once this was all over and the inevitable restructuring began. Besides, Firon was rife with diarmadh’im; it had been their main place of exile, especially in the forbidding mountains between Firon and Cunaxa. If Laric owed Andry his princedom, Andry would have the chance to find and execute hundreds of sorcerers. They were on the side of the Vellant’im in this war, and along with their Merida henchmen, they deserved to die.
Life would be a fascinating tangle once the war was over. Everyone—prince, athri, and commoner—would look to Goddess Keep for the reestablishment of order and stability. And the Goddess would provide.
Kazander sent word back to Stronghold that he would again spend the night in the hills with several of his men. It was to the High Prince’s credit that he had instantly understood Kazander’s reasons. Unused to living within any walls but those of his tent beneath the silent stars, the clamor within Rohan’s keep set his teeth on edge.
Still, that was only part of it. As he lay back, his head cradled on his saddle, he watched the clouds tease the stars
STBQNGHOU) and thought of Chayla. It was instinct, not that drew him to her—but what would he do if be wo« ber? By the standards of her people she was yet a child; ber birth had made her Lady Chayla of Whitecliff; her breeding bad made her a faradhi. She would not share a tent with other wives. She didn’t belong in a tent at all, but in a castle. Isulki blood had been diluted in her. She loved the Desert and understood it as well as anyone whose life did not utterly depend on knowing its every whim, but she didn’t hear its songs. Her music was that of stone and wood and silken sheets, and flowers in her hair.
He knew all that. None of it made any difference. He loved her as simply as he breathed.
“Korrus” whispered a voice in the darkness.
“My brother,” he replied just as softly.
“Someone comes.”
Disinterested as the Vellant’im appeared to be, Kazander had not made the mistake of choosing his campsite unwisely. The four men who had elected to stay with him moved with swift silence into positions overlooking the trail. Five horses—no, six—were approaching at a fast trot. By the sound of their hoofbeats they had been ridden at a killing pace for some time. Kazander glanced up at the sky, tasted the air, and decided it was well after midnight. Enemy soldiers coming from the Meadowlord side of the Vere Hills, and in such desperate haste that they had not taken the longer, safer route to the south—he didn’t like this at all. With a soft whistle to signal his men, he crouched behind a boulder to wait.
Visian, brother of his youngest wife, had the honor of taking down the first rider. The man roared like an embattled dragonsire, but high above that sound was a woman’s piercing scream.
“Hold!” Kazander yelled, leaping down to stand in the center of the road. His men followed, grabbing the reins of winded horses. The woman screamed again. Visian backed away from his victim, who scrambled to his feet and stalked up to Kazander.
“Are you the cause of this outrage?” he demanded. “How dare you lay hands on her grace’s escort! You’ve frightened the princesses half to death!”
“I’m not scared, Laroshin,” called a small, light voice, bubbling with excitement. “And my mother was just startled, weren’t you, Mama?”
Kazander identified Pol’s wife by the cloud of golden hair for which she was famous. She drooped in the saddle, huddling into a dark cloak, a boy on horseback hovering at her side. He made her a profound reverence in the manner of his people and wondered forlornly if he could charm himself out of this one.
“Your most noble grace, this unworthy fool apologizes from the bottom of his stricken heart. He begs of your highness’ benevolence to allow him to escort your grace in safety to Stronghold, where her mighty lord awaits and in his loneliness will weep for joy at seeing—“
“Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you saying?” the one called Laroshin growled.
Kazander bowed to him, too, and similarly craved forgiveness. He almost managed to finish his speech before he was interrupted again—by the child’s giggles.
“Oh, just listen to him, Rislyn!”
“Shh! It’s not nice to laugh, Jihan!”
Kazander addressed the two little girls. “Your highness’ laughter is as sweet water in the Desert.”
“Laroshin,” quavered their mother, “who is this person?”
The boy beside her snorted. “Just what he said, your grace—an idiot.”
This was too much for Visian. “Gently,” he advised in silken tones. “You speak of the Lord Kazander, korrus of the Isulk’im, honored kinsman of the High Prince.”
Kazander bowed again. The princess was too exhausted to acknowledge him, but her daughters gave him a pair of regal nods marred only by Jihan’s leftover giggles. The other one, Rislyn, hushed her again and spoke quietly to Kazander.
“My lord, please can you take us to Stronghold now? We’ve been riding since last midnight and we’re very tired.”
He wanted to ask why they had nearly killed their horses getting away from Dragon’s Rest, but that was for Pol to know. One thing was certain: the reasons would bring no one comfort.
“If your grace will permit so humble and worthless an escort—“
“Just get us there, and fast,” Laroshin snapped, and then, when Visian gave him a long look, tacked on a “—my lord.”
“Yes, please, just let’s ride on,” the princess said faintly. “Kierun, you take my reins. I’m so tired...”
“I’m not,” Jihan stated—and once they were within the castle, proved it by running up to her grandparents’ chambers as if it was midday instead of the middle of the night. Pol, roused from bed by all the fuss, was halfway down the stairs when Meiglan tottered in the door, leaning on Kierun.
He stopped cold. “Meggie?”
Rohan and Sioned, wrapped in bedrobes and urged along by Jihan, arrived on the upper landing in time to see Meiglan’s head lift at the sound of Pol’s voice. Her huge dark eyes were set in bruises of sleepless worry, there were dirt smudges on her cheeks, and all that kept her upright was the squire’s supporting arm. But when she saw Pol, her tired face lit with a radiance that said home and safety and love and release from all her troubles.
“Meggie—what in all Hells are you doing here?”
Rohan winced; Sioned started forward to do battle. Meiglan solved the whole situation by the simple expedient of slipping to the floor in a dead faint.