There had been much debate at Goddess Keep over a signal. Jolan had wanted a great sonorous bell, but the extra iron was not to be had and the work of casting took a long time. (And how disturbing it was that neither materials nor time were available; it was a first in Andry’s life.) Torien suggested drums, but the sound would not reach to the far pastures. It had been Nialdan who pointed out the solution.
It hung over the entrance to the main hall. Everyone saw it every day, which meant that no one ever really looked at it. But Nialdan remembered wanting to take it down and polish it long ago, and being forbidden by Lady Andrade herself. “It hasn’t been touched for fifty years that I know of, and not since Lady Merisel’s day for all anyone else knows. There she put it, and there it stays.”
But as Nialdan reverently detached it from its mountings and climbed down the ladder, he said, “It’s been silent long enough.”
Cleaned of several hundred years of spider- weavings, dust, and grime, the horn shone like dawn. It was as long as a horse and Nialdan was probably the only one among them who could lift it. Half its length was made of bone sections riveted with silver; the rest, solid gold. The massive bell was incised with fifty distinct markings, each stained black, each presented within an open palm, none of them bearing any resemblance to the written form of either language Andry knew.
“Clan identification?” Jolan guessed, running a finger over the carvings.
“Whatever,” Nialdan replied with a shrug. He braced the horn in Deniker’s cradling arm and glanced around the ramparts. “If this does what I think it will, hold your ears.”
The horn’s note was deep, resonant, and deafening. Torien, out in the pastures on his duties as chief steward, swore later that the sheep and goats turned to stone and the plow-elk stopped in their tracks.
“And I didn’t even put much breath into it,” Nialdan reported proudly. “Can you imagine what it will do when I really—“
“Spare us, please!” Deniker begged.
A few days later, standing on the balustrade above the main gate, Andry heard the horn and winced. Nialdan had taken it to the top of Goddess Keep and pointed it out to sea, and still his ears were numbed by the sound. But it worked. The people in the camp below came to an abrupt halt, frozen even as the last echoes died away.
“Well, it certainly does get their attention,” Valeda remarked at his side. “How’s your leg?”
“Fine.” He resisted the urge to shift his weight.
“You shouldn’t be on it too long.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated impatiently.
She gave a snort. “You couldn’t bear to miss this, could you?”
“I’ve got to find out if they’ll obey the signal.”
“And obey Lady Jayachin—excuse me, Master Jaya-chin,” she corrected sweetly.
Twenty strong young men, all wearing white tunics hastily donned at the horn’s signal, were moving among the tents now, urging everyone to proceed in an orderly fashion into Goddess Keep. Jayachin was nowhere to be seen. Andry supposed she was testing the efficiency of her little band of helpers, or waiting to see if an appearance was needed. He was amused by the notion that she had learned the trick of strengthening one’s authority until one’s actual presence was unnecessary for one to be obeyed.
But the refugees hadn’t yet completely accepted her rule. They resisted herding. Her white-clad functionaries did their best, but everyone tried to make for their own tents and possessions.
“A trifle lacking in discipline, I’d say,” Valeda observed.
“This is only the first practice. They’ll learn. Besides, if the shepherds come running with news of Vellant’im marching over the hills, they’ll do what they’re supposed to right enough.”
“Clever of you to spread the notion that it’s for their own peace of mind. That they’ll feel better with walls around them during an attack.”
“We can’t tell them the truth, can we?” And the truth was that even with the new devr’im quickly trained to replace Oclel and Rusina, they had not been able to extend the ros’salath much beyond the keep itself. “Ah, there she is,” Andry said, pointing to the tall white figure now mounting a horse.
“I do hope she doesn’t fall off. So detrimental to the dignity.”
“Why don’t you go down and help? I’m sure everyone would benefit from your advice—as I regularly do,” he added with sarcasm to match hers.
“My Lord is too kind. He is also too obvious in wanting to be rid of me.” Valeda eyed his lame leg again. “You won’t be able to use it for a whole day after standing on it so long, you know.”
He ignored her, and after another few moments she went away. When he heard the last of her footsteps on the stone stairs, he immediately took his weight from his bad leg. Valeda was right; tomorrow he’d be too sore and stiff to walk. But it wasn’t necessary to walk. Only to ride.
Andry leaned his elbows on the stones, watching the chaos below him resolve into order at Jayachin’s commands. An efficient woman, that one; a born leader. When all this was over, he’d have to secure a position for her more worthy of her talents than running a merchant house in Waes. If Pol could make Rialt a lord regent, surely Andry could reward similar ability in simi- lar fashion. He’d take it up with his cousin when he saw him.
But Jayachin would not become athri of a new town around Goddess Keep. Andry wanted these people gone as soon as possible. His eyes were offended by the crush of tents and shelters; his nose objected to the inevitable stink of inadequate sanitation; his ears ached with the noise of adult arguments and children’s squabbles and screeching babies. The area and the sensibilities of those in Goddess Keep simply could not support a permanent presence.
Still, Jayachin had done remarkably well in controlling the thousands of people now filing into the castle yard. She was readily visible on horseback, her white cloak blowing back over the haunches of her gray Radzyn mare—each a gift from him, at her suggestion. The color had become the Goddess’ symbol; possession of a fine horse had always indicated wealth and power. All she lacked, Andry thought in amusement, was a silver breastplate and a jeweled sword and she would be the embodiment of the White Swan, whose personal name had been lost to history. He had never understood why. Lady Merisel had known her, mentioned her often in the scrolls.
The White Swan had led armies of Sunrunners and their allies to victory over the diarmadh’im before perishing in the final battle. Andry had always thought that her death was a little too neat, which made him suspect that she might not have been real at all. All good symbolic figures died at a properly symbolic time. But perhaps the White Swan had been all too real, and all too much competition for Lady Merisel. From the tone of her histories, Andry had long since learned that her talents had not included the ability to share, and among her virtues modesty was not featured.
Jayachin rode through the gates right on schedule, and moments later Nialdan blew a second blast from the horn. There were stragglers left outside the walls. This exercise would teach them the wisdom of haste. Andry raised both arms, drawing their eyes, and called Fire around the perimeter of the keep. He let it flare dragon- high as the tardy ones approached. A moment later Ulwis took it over for him, working from a window high in the tower. This way, he could see to his next task while seeming powerful enough to maintain Fire.
Symbols and deceptions, he told himself as he limped down the stairs. Useful and necessary. But what happened when symbols deceived?
He rested for a moment in the stairwell, out of the chill wind, and constructed once more in his mind the sym-bology of his dreams. Radzyn destroyed, the hatchling dragon killed. But Radzyn stood. It had not been a hatchling that flew over the port, but a gigantic sire. The Vellant’im had groveled on their faces at the sight of him.
Brenlis had been able to see the future as it would be, carved in stone. Andry’s dreams were only possibilities, like conjurings in Fire and Water at the tree circle. What he saw was mutable, written in sand. He had changed things by his actions: forming the devr’im, eradicating as many sorcerers as he could. But would those changes make things better or worse?
Andry had decided that Radzyn had been the symbol of his fear. In his dream, his home and family and all his ties to the Desert had been obliterated. He saw now that sending his daughter Tobren to live at Whitecliff had been an act of defiance, a challenge to his fear.
Radzyn stood. The bonds remained. Perhaps Tobren’s presence had been the catalyst of the change; he only knew that in her way she had become a symbol, too, of his unbroken connection to his home.
As for the young dragon—so obviously explained, so difficult to admit that dark and terrible insight into his own heart. It was only because Pol still lived that Andry had recognized his cousin’s place in that dream.
And it had been Pol’s dragon that had made the enemy bow into the dirt. This was a symbol he didn’t much care for.
His thoughts turned to Lady Merisel’s brisk text, and he was comforted into a slight smile.
I dreamed one night of serving a banquet of lobster from the isle of Pimanji. There was no mistaking the size and shape of the creatures. The cooks had wrapped them in silk soaked in spices that blackened over the coals, according to my favorite recipe. I took this to mean that my Lord Rosseyn had known success there and would send me the delicacies as a gift, knowing my fondness for them.
As it happened, the very next day I discovered a diarmadhi from that island in our midst. We wrapped her in silk soaked with fragrant spice-oils to disguise the stench as we burned her alive.
Symbols mean what you choose to believe they mean.
What Andry chose was to believe that Radzyn’s survival meant he was still tied to the Desert. It was still the home of his ancestors; he still had a right and duty to defend it. As for the dragon ... who knew what the great beasts symbolized to the Vellant’im? Andry was responsible for his own dreams, not the superstitions of barbarians. Until he discovered reasons for their ridiculous reaction, he’d reserve interpretation.
When he reached the courtyard, he gestured and the gates were opened again. He made his way through the crowd and walked a few paces outside, careful not to limp. Stragglers caught beyond the Fire huddled in little groups and gazed at sanctuary with longing, defiant, or fearful eyes. Raising both arms again, knowing Ulwis would see the signal, he watched the Fire fade into the ground. A few people rushed forward; some hung back, wary of him.
Andry smiled. “Come on, then,” he urged. “You’ll be quicker next time, I know.”
Reproved by Sunrunner’s Fire, reassured by the Sunrunner Lord’s gentleness, they sought the safety Andry provided. When they were all inside, he paused at the gates to provide an impression of him standing between them and the Vellanti army they were imagining outside. Then he smiled once more and started for the steps of the keep, for they didn’t need him to supervise their return to their makeshift town. They parted for him, murmuring thanks and reverence.
They also parted for the woman on a gray horse. Jaya-chin rode over to him and bowed from her saddle.
“Were you satisfied, my Lord?”
“Quite,” he responded, hiding annoyance that he had to look up at her.
“Perhaps next time should be after dark, my Lord,” she suggested.
Oh, fine, he thought, that’s all I need—blasted from my bed in the middle of the night. And all these people need as well, unable to sleep for wondering if they’ll be put through this again in pitch blackness. You foolish woman, can’t you see you’ve just undone all the good this accomplished?
He smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I doubt the enemy will wish to stumble about. After all, we are the ones with Fire to light the midnight.” Nodding pleasantly, he turned from her and saw Valeda nearby. The Sunrunner didn’t bother to hide her grin.
“As you wish, my Lord,” Jayachin called after him.
Andry considered, then swung around again. He had put her in a position of authority for his own convenience; her lapse should not be allowed to ruin it. Having nicely reasserted his dominance, he could afford to be gracious.
“Will you be so good as to dine with me tonight in my chambers? Perhaps we can refine this procedure for the safety of all concerned.”
She bowed again. Valeda caught up with him on the stairs, climbing with him to the relative quiet of the next floor. She was no longer smiling.
“That was a piece of idiocy,” she snapped. “Make her your athri if you must, but don’t behave as if you’re courting her!”
Andry gave her a sidelong glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“Dinner in your chambers tonight? Gifts? What else does it look like?”
Knowing he shouldn’t, he laughed anyway. “Valeda! You’re jealous!”
“Andry, you’re a fool!” She stormed back downstairs, leaving him with a wide grin on his face and an interesting notion in his mind.
*
Six days earlier, on the very morning that Idalian had decided he’d had enough of isolation, ignorance, chess, and even Tirel, Lord Yarin himself arrived at their anteroom door, positively beaming.
“Excellent news! My physician assures me that all danger of illness is past. You boys are free to come and go as you like.” He smiled, dark eyes glinting with some secret glee that set Idalian’s spine itching. “It must have been very tiresome for you, stuck in here all these days with a little boy.”
Firmly forgetting Tirel’s sulks and tantrums, he replied, “Not at all, my lord. The prince is an enjoyable companion.”
“Of course. But you must be missing friends your own age. And believe me, ladies of all ages have missed your charming face around the castle.” The smile widened. “Oh, to be your age again, young and strong and handsome!”
Idalian said nothing. Yarin took it for abashed modesty; it was really an inner struggle to overcome the need to throttle this smug traitor.
He was also trying to figure out what in all Hells the man was up to. What had gained them their freedom and put that grin on the man’s face? Sudden panic threatened the young man’s composure. In here, he could keep Tirel safe. Out in the halls of the castle—
“Idalian!” the boy called from the main room. “Who is it?”
“Lord Yarin is here to see us,” he responded. “Won’t you come in and sit with us, my lord?”
“Not just now. So many things to be done in keeping Firon safe and contented.”
I can imagine, Idalian thought bitterly.
Yarin’s gaze darted around the little chamber. “How you must also be spoiling for some honest exercise! Caged in here for so long, unable to practice at arms—“ He did a passable imitation of a man suddenly struck by an idea. “Do you know, Idalian, a young kinsman of mine is newly arrived from Snowcoves. I’d wager he could learn a great deal from your proficiency at arms. Would you be willing to teach him?”
The squire blinked. He knew how to use sword, knife, and bow, but was no expert at any of them. And said so.
“Come, you’re too shy about your accomplishments.” The smile was not so sleek now. “You would be doing me a favor.”
“I—of course, my lord,” Idalian said swiftly, understanding at last that this was the condition of his release—and Tirel’s.
“Fine, fine.” Yarin gestured with one well-kept hand. “Aldiar? Come in, boy, come in.”
A tall, thin-limbed youth of about fifteen winters slunk through the door. Aldiar had the biggest black eyes Idalian had ever seen, all the larger for the hollow cheeks below them. There was no resemblance to Yarin at all, but the jawline—slightly wider on one side than the other—was reminiscent of Tirel and his mother. What was charming in Lisiel and would be interesting in Tirel when he was grown was simply off-kilter in this boy.
“This is Idalian of Faolain—forgive me, but I can never recall which Faolain you’re from.”
“Riverport, my lord,” Idalian said quietly.
“Oh, of course. A great pity it was destroyed in this terrible war. Nothing to do with our part of the continent, but a terrible thing all the same. Aldiar comes from the mountain branch of our family.”
Black hair spilled down a high forehead as the boy bowed low. “My father’s mother’s cousin was sister to my lord Yarin’s mother’s uncle’s—“
“Yes, yes,” came the hasty interruption. “It’s all as convoluted as the bloodlines of the princes—and the Sun- runners. Well, Idalian, is there anything here you can work with?” The smile was back.
The squire answered politely. “I’m sure Aldiar will be an apt pupil. Height and a long reach are good beginnings.”
“Really?” The dark face flushed with pleasure. “I hope so. I already know a little about knives, and I can bring down a doe at two hundred paces with a single arrow, and—“
“I’ll leave you to your martial discussions,” Yarin said. “Idalian, I’ll expect to hear that Tirel is back at his regular lessons this morning.”
Unwisely, he protested, “But Arpali was his teacher, and she—“
“Natham’s tutor is also here from Snowcoves,” said the regent. “I sent for him so that neither my son nor my nephew would suffer in their education, what with your Sunrunner dead.”
He understood now. Aldiar would keep him busy and under watch; Natham and the tutor would do the same for Tirel. A ten-year-old boy and a teacher were unlikely assassins—but was Aldiar, already proficient with a bow, meant to kill Idalian in an “accident”?
The boy was watching him. “Will you show me first how to use a knife?”
Now, many days later and facing Aldiar across a snowy practice yard, Idalian looked at midnight eyes set in a thin, dark face, and wondered again if he saw his executioner.
One, moreover, that he himself was teaching how to do it.
Neither thought made his tutelage a gentle one.
A few stable boys and men-at-arms paused in their duties to watch. The former were Laric’s; the latter, Yar-in’s. It was emblematic of the situation at Balarat these days, but oddly the reverse of what was happening now. For the moment, Idalian was the elder and stronger, and Yarin’s kinsman the victim.
He came in low and fast, knife angled for the boy’s ribs. Aldiar’s backbone curved awkwardly as he shrank from the thrust. Off-balance, he staggered and would have gone down but for Idalian’s hand snatching his wrist, spinning him into an armlock.
There was scattered applause for the tidiness of the move. Idalian ignored it. With his blade at Aldiar’s throat, he wrenched the captive arm tighter and said, “Stop trying to stand your ground. Step back if you need to. Give as you must—you can take it back later.”
“I thought this was a lesson in knife-fighting, not philosophy,” the boy panted, twisting his neck as he tried to see Idalian’s face.
The words puzzled him, but then he shrugged. “It’s always better to yield ground than fall all over yourself trying to keep it.” Releasing Aldiar, he stood back and observed, “At least you hung onto your knife. That’s something, anyway.”
“Show me how you’d do it,” he challenged. “Not today.” Tirel had been out of his sight now for a whole morning, and he could feel the familiar tension building. He still slept on a cot in the prince’s chamber, so at least he could give his protection by night. But though the winter days were short, he spent too much of them away from his charge. Too much time for mischief to occur, with Yarin’s mournful explanation of a tragic accident following close after.
“Why are you so worried about him?” Aldiar asked suddenly. “You’re not his mother.”
Idalian swung around, cursing himself for allowing his gaze to stray up to the schoolroom window. “Why do you say that?” he demanded, knowing he should not have spoken at all.
“I have to pry you away from his side for my lessons,” Aldiar complained. “You won’t go out riding unless it’s with Tirel, you stay with him every moment you can. Do you expect danger to him here in his own castle?”
“Yes,” he replied bluntly, saw the black eyes go even wider, then thought quickly. “You heard what happened at my home. One of the enemy walked right into the residence, disguised as a merchant. And the few survivors of Gilad Seahold talked of a young juggler who led them a chase up the ramparts and flung a torch from the walls—it had to have been a signal of some kind. What makes you think Balarat is any more secure?”
“Oh.” Aldiar raked his hair back, shaking his head as it flopped into his eyes again. “What you mean is that Fironese are all dark, just about like these barbarians. It’d be hard to tell us apart, wouldn’t it?”
“You said it, I didn’t,” Idalian snapped.
“But it would be easy to mistake one for the other,” he insisted. “And you don’t trust any of us, do you?”
Idalian sheathed his knife. “I’m going back upstairs. It’s too cold out here.”
“There’s no need to worry,” Aldiar said. “Truly.”
“You think I’m a fool for it—but if anything happens to Prince Tirel—“
“It won’t.” Flatly. “I give you my word.”
Idalian laughed aloud. “Oh, and that makes me feel so much better!”
Dark skin flushed with anger, the boy moved closer to him and hissed, “You think you understand, but you don’t. Not anything!”
“Would you care to explain it to me of your infinite wisdom?”
“Maybe. Someday when I’m sure you can be trusted!” And with that he stalked off, the knife still gleaming in his hand.
*
It was a good wine, rich and full-bodied, the very last of the prized vintage of 732. That year, Ossetian wine makers had crushed cask after cask so exquisitely that Sioned had sworn the Goddess herself had had something to do with it. Nothing could be that perfect without divine intervention.
Andry savored the taste, his eyes dreamy. He hadn’t his aunt’s nose, but one would have to be dead and burned not to appreciate this glassful of liquid rubies. Dead and burned—or Nialdan, he thought with a smile, watching the big Sunrunner take another large swallow.
Nialdan much preferred the heavy, bitter ale favored by sailors who made port in Waes, where he had been born. He tended to toss back the finest wine as if it were colored water.
Nialdan wasn’t the only one who had taken a swift, bracing gulp after Andry’s casual announcement. The other devr’im—including the two newest—had overcome their initial shock by now and were marshaling arguments. Andry won his bet with himself about who would speak first.
“You can’t!” Valeda exclaimed. “We need you here!”
“Not really.”
“You’re Lord of Goddess Keep!”
“That I am. But my duties extend beyond these walls.”
She gave a hiss of frustration. “Very well, then, let’s talk about what goes on immediately outside these walls! Jayachin and her people have been impossible enough with you here—what will happen if you leave?”
Andry shrugged and poured himself more wine. “I have complete trust that Torien will keep everyone in line.”
“My Lord...” Torien’s dark Fironese face was worry-lined. “I value your confidence, but I have a hard time sharing in it.”
“I don’t see why,” Andry said.
“That’s not the issue,” Valeda snapped. “What about your leg, Andry? It’s not healed yet—and don’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. You’ve been drinking like a tavern slug to numb it.”
“I’m fine.” He took a long, deliberate swallow of wine and waited for the next objection.
It came from the young woman who had replaced Rus-ina in their defensive configuration. Crila had eyes and hair as pale as dawn, but her skin was a rich, deep brown with a lustrous sheen over her high, prominent cheekbones. The color of that skin and the cant of those bones were the only physical clues to distant Fironese ancestry—and the diarmadhi blood that sometimes went with it.
“My Lord, you must do as you will in all things,” she said in her light, soft voice. “But as much as I trust in your teachings and in Lord Torien’s ability to lead us, I confess I would much rather have you here with us if we must use the ros’salath.”
Smiling at her, he said, “You wouldn’t hold the title devri and drink from Rusina’s cup if you hadn’t learned everything you need to know.”
It had taken many days to test everyone here, and Crila had been the closest match to Rusina’s colors and strengths. That her four Sunrunner’s rings had turned to fiery circles on her fingers during the final test increased her value—though Torien was still trying to convince her that Sorcerer’s blood was not necessarily an evil thing. Andry had found her the perfect pupil and perfectly obedient; born the year Lady Andrade died, Crila was entirely of Andry’s making as a Sunrunner.
Not so the man who had taken Oclel’s place. Antoun was of the old guard. Past sixty, his gray hair was thin and his fingers were gnarled and stiff. But the dark blue eyes, surrounded by fine lines and thick lashes, were astonishingly young. Antoun had earned all of his nine rings under Andrade’s tutelage; as a Master Teacher, he had supervised Andry’s own training years ago. He had been willing to give up the eighth ring when Andry decided it would betoken physician’s status alone, but his knuckle had swollen so with joint disease that the only choice would have been to cut the ring off. And this Andry would not do to his old teacher. Antoun was part of his memories of his youth—a youth ended when at barely twenty he became Lord of Goddess Keep. Antoun was part of the past, having known Andrade and Urival and Sioned. And despite the changes Andry had wrought here, despite the traditions overset and the innovations made, he valued the heritage of Goddess Keep.
From a purely practical standpoint, of course, there was no one better to fill Oclel’s position. The older Sunrunners, those who had their doubts about Andry, would approve of one of their number being admitted to his innermost circle.
He turned his gaze to Antoun now, arching a brow.
“Well? You’ve been as quiet as autumn sunshine all the years I’ve known you—except in the classroom when I did something wrong.”
“If you’re asking me to judge whether or not this is wrong—“ Lean shoulders shrugged. “It’s not for me to say, Andry. Nor any of us, except for you. But I do have a question.”
“Ask.”
“Meaning no offense, but why does everyone fight so hard for the Desert?”
Jolan looked taken aback, then nodded. “I’ve always wondered that, myself.”
Antoun continued, “I’ve never understood what’s so compelling about the place. It’s hot, empty, and exhausting. Except for Skybowl, there’s not enough water to take a bath in. It grows nothing but cactus. I’ve given up wondering why the Vellant’im want it, but why is Pol so determined to keep it? I say let them have it, and welcome. They wouldn’t last two seasons. I’ve been there, and I know.”
Andry chuckled. “You’re telling me this? I was born there!”
Ulwis, who usually said even less than Antoun, smiled at him. “And you can’t explain it, my Lord?”
“Oh, I could grow philosophical like my uncle Rohan, and say that the deeper one’s roots must go to find water, the harder one clings to the land—even the Desert. Lady Merisel called it a Sunrunner’s natural habitat—for which a case can be made!”
Valeda shrugged. “Yet you’ve been uprooted.”
“Never.” He was surprised to hear the word from his own lips, but the instant it was spoken he knew it to be true. And it sobered him as nothing else could have.
Setting down his cup, he said, “Listen to me, all of you. There are plenty of reasons why I’m able to leave— the least of which is that I’m the Lord of Goddess Keep and can do as I like. The reasons that mean something are that Master Jayachin has her people under control now, as we saw today. There are some rough spots to be smoothed over, but in a crisis they’ll do as they’re told. Torien, you can rule Goddess Keep perfectly well in my absence. You know how to use the ros’salath, there are two or three others now in training to strengthen it— if it even becomes necessary to use it, which I doubt.
“I’m not needed here. You know it and I know it. You’re all so careful of the trappings of my position that only a few others have begun to suspect it. But once I’m gone, after a couple of days of nerves, they’ll know it, too.”
“I don’t see how this is an advantage,” Valeda grumbled.
“But it is, you know,” he said softly. “It’s exactly as it should be, that I or anyone else in this position can be important but not essential. It’s all Sunrunners who matter, not just one.”
“Very modest and self-effacing,” she retorted. “But it doesn’t disguise the fact that we do have need of you.”
“The Desert needs me more. Since Pol failed to protect Radzyn, they’ve learned a thing or two. But I’m the only one who can teach them what they must know so that we don’t lose Skybowl and Feruche the way we lost Stronghold.”
“We,” Antoun murmured.
“Yes. Whatever our differences, I am still the son of my parents and the grandson of Prince Zehava. The Desert is my home, my birthplace. Nothing will ever uproot my heart.”
Valeda shifted her shoulder. “I understand that, my Lord. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. But you know Pol won’t welcome you. And in saving the Desert, you’re saving his position as High Prince, too.”
Andry had weighed the one against the other, finding the balance alarmingly even—until he thought of Rohan.
“Well,” he drawled, “no plan is ever perfect.”
She gave a complex snort, half of laughter and half of disgust. “Isn’t it just? Which reminds me. Very soon winter fog and rain will wrap us tight and make Sunrunning impossible. How will we keep track of you?”
“I’ll send to you as often as I can. To others here and there as the sunlight permits, so they can tell you when they’ve got time. I won’t have much to spare.” Glancing at the water clock by the doorway, he said, “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment for dinner. Torien, would you see that Jayachin has an escort? She’s never been farther than the courtyard before.”
“And shouldn’t be now.” Valeda’s eyes were bright and hard as polished steel. “She’ll play you for a fool, Andry. Anyone can see it.”
With a shrug, he answered, “She can try.”
*
When Amiel of Gilad was a little boy, he had delighted in flouting his birth to his playmates at Medawari. Though they were all sons and daughters of highborns, he would one day be their prince and he never let them forget it. When his father told him that Pol had expressed an interest in fostering him at Dragon’s Rest, Amiel was quite unsurprised. He was himself a prince, his father’s only son, and that he should be chosen as a squire to the next High Prince was entirely fitting. He was, after all, an important person.
This attitude was tolerated for exactly three days at Dragon’s Rest. On the fourth, his fellow squire, Edrel of River Ussh—a year older and a handspan taller—gave him a salutary lesson in humility and fistfighting.
Amiel’s scornful dislike of Edrel changed to an active loathing that increased with every throb of his blackened eye. Pol ignored both emotion and injury, which outraged Amiel. As the heir to Gilad, his worth was infinitely superior to Edrel’s. The mere second son of an athri, Edrel had no prospects of wealth or position beyond what he could marry. And at fourteen, he looked unlikely to attract any girl above the rank of scullery drudge—and would be lucky to get that much attention.
Life at Dragon’s Rest was not what Amiel had expected. His father had emphasized that he must serve his new lord diligently in all things, of course. But cleaning the mud from Pol’s boots and mucking out his favorite horse’s stall were beneath Amiel’s princely dignity. So, emphatically, was any association with Edrel. As senior squire, the older boy had full authority over him. And used it.
On the fifth day of his martyrdom, after Edrel had given him just that one order too many, Amiel complained to Pol. He was heard in a silence that he interpreted as encouragement to present the full list of his grievances. They were many. At length, when he was done, his lord looked down at him with those strange, changeable blue-green eyes and said something shocking. “Legally, you’re bound to my service until I decide you’re worthy of being knighted. But as you seem so unsuited to life here, I suppose I’ve no choice but to send you home.”
Amiel gaped. Send him home? It was Edrel who was impossible—and Edrel who was unimportant. Momentarily deprived of the power of speech, he finally found voice enough to burst out, “But I’m a prince!”
“No,” Pol replied. “You’re a squire. And likely to remain one for several dozen years unless you alter your thinking. If, that is, anyone will take you after I release you from my service.”
“No, my lord—please!”
Pol regarded him thoughtfully. “Well, well. That’s the first time I’ve heard you say that word. I’ll wager it’s the first time you’ve ever said it.” Then he smiled. “If we’re lucky, we all learn something new every day, Amiel.”
Over the next eight years he learned how to say “please” and “thank you.” He learned that what he was worth depended on what he was, not whose son he had been born. He learned to tolerate Edrel, then to like him, and finally to regard him as the brother he’d never had. At the Rialla of 737, Amiel knew that Edrel was in love with Princess Norian before Edrel did. This was only fair; that spring, Edrel had been the one to point out that the reason Amiel was losing sleep was bronze-haired, dark-eyed, and the niece of the Master of Hawks. When he married Nyr that autumn, it was in a double celebration with Edrel and Norian.
But after, while riding home to Medawari, Amiel knew that childhood playmates also grown to adulthood would expect a man-sized version of the dictatorial little prig they’d pretended to like because one day he would be their ruling prince. The change in him would shock them witless.
So would his new wife. Nyr lacked any inheritance of money or land; she had no important family connections; she came from a holding so remote that nobody had ever heard of it; she was barely even highborn. She had come to Dragon’s Rest to visit her uncle, and stayed because Princess Meiglan liked her. Amiel’s former companions might have understood his taking her as his mistress— though she wasn’t even that beautiful until one looked into her eyes or heard her laugh. But that he had actually married this nobody would have them gaping.
He thought this over on the first days of their journey back to Gilad, amused to find an impulse still in him to demand their deference toward his Chosen wife. It was the difference between thirteen winters and twenty-one that he thought of Nyr rather than himself—and that he decided to restrain his despotic urges and let them see her worth for themselves.
He had planned a leisurely ride home, escorted by ten of his father’s soldiers. Cabar had gone ahead, disliking travel for travel’s sake and wanting the comforts of his own castle. His had turned out the wiser choice. By mid-autumn, they were at war.
Amiel and Nyr’s pleasure trip became a journey through nightmares. They hid by day in copses and forests, and sometimes in the scorched shell of a barn, riding only by night and beseeching the Father of Storms for cloud cover that would blot out the moons. A journey planned for thirty days had taken more than fifty. When at last they arrived home, Cabar wept while embracing the son he had given up for dead.
Medawari had been locked up tight since the first day of the war. Cabar could not be budged from his adherence to the point of treaty law extolled by Pirro of Fes-senden: that because attack had not come from another princedom but from enemies totally unknown, each prince was absolved from going to the others’ aid.
Amiel learned this almost the moment he rode into the courtyard. He waited a few days to make sure, asking questions and growing more and more infuriated when people told him only what they thought he wanted to hear. Then he confronted his father—rather untactfully, as it happened, in the middle of dinner one evening.
“I know we haven’t the resources to mount an effective army of our own,” the young prince began, “but surely we could send what we have to reclaim what we’ve lost.”
“All the troops we can muster are needed to protect us here. Their duty is to protect their prince—and the heir,” Cabar added sternly.
“I don’t like the cost of safety,” Amiel retorted.
“Then look at the cost of war! If Rohan wins, he will be bound by what he himself wrote. He can’t punish us for holding to the treaty. If these savages win, we will have shown that we wish only to live in peace. But until somebody wins, our gates are closed and I will hear no more on the matter.”
“Father—“
“No more!”
It was Nyr who coaxed him from the high table, saying she felt faint and needed his support up the stairs. He very nearly told her to find a servant, then saw the urgency in her dark eyes and went with her. Grudgingly.
When they were alone in their chamber, she said, “Dearest, I know what you think and what you feel, but shouting at your father in the middle of dinner—“
“I’ll go myself!” he fumed. “I’ll take whoever has the spine to go with me. If I have to, I’ll order them out of their soft chairs and safe chambers—“
“Amiel! Listen to me! What about the physicians?”
That stopped him before he could work himself into a tirade. “What?”
“The physicians,” she repeated.
“What in the Name of the Goddess do they have to do with anything?”
“Isn’t part of their oath to give of their skills whenever there is need?”
“So?”
“There is need,” she said simply.
When he got to where she already was, he gave a whoop of delight. “Whenever and wherever! They can’t fulfill their oath, to help all the princedoms if they can’t get there! So if I escort them with a force of troops, Father can’t stop me!” Seizing his wife in his arms, he whirled her around the room and landed with her on the bed. “You’re brilliant! Whatever made you think of it?”
She hesitated. “I wouldn’t have, except that I consulted a physician myself. Yesterday.”
Paling, he sat up and stared at her. “Nyr? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m all good, healthy peasant stock on my mother’s side. We never have any trouble. You mustn’t worry.”
This made no sense to him, and he said so.
She smiled. “Oh, Amiel.”
The moment he realized his prospective fatherhood changed him as much as his eight years at Dragon’s Rest.
On the day after a dragon was killed at Stronghold, Amiel marched out of Medawari. His childhood companions had not yet had time to discover the differences between the boy he’d been and the man he was. When he gave an order, it was obeyed. When he commanded secrecy, they kept their mouths shut. If the “escort” Amiel provided for the sixty physicians who had volunteered their services was—at three hundred and twenty soldiers—a trifle excessive, no one commented on it.
Excepting Cabar, when he found out. But few listened to him, and no one stopped Amiel from going. They knew who their next ruling prince would be.
*
“One more story, Papa? Please?” Pol might have resisted Jihan—who would have demanded, not asked—but it had always been impossible to tell Rislyn “no.” Not when she looked up at him with those big green eyes from beneath a tangle of golden hair. His gentle little girl had said hardly a word since Stronghold. The terrible shocks of the last eight days— being caught in Sioned’s working, the death of her beloved Grandsir, and the flight from the burning castle— had affected her more deeply than Jihan. Or perhaps Jihan simply hid it better.
“One more,” he agreed, and settled more comfortably at the foot of the bed, his back against the post and one bare foot tucked under him. He paused for a sip from the cup of taze in his hand as the girls snuggled into their pillows, and then he began.
“A very long time ago, before even a single stone was shaped to build the keep here at Skybowl, a dragon lived on the shores of the lake. He fished in the lake or hunted in the hills when he was hungry, and curled up in the warm sand when he was tired, and—“
“What color was he?” Jihan asked.
“That’s what I’m about to tell you, if you’ll hush and listen,” he scolded with a smile, tweaking her toes beneath the coverlet. “He was all one color, just like every other dragon in the world back then. This is the story of how dragons came to be different colors. Have I your leave to continue, my ladies?”
“Yes, please,” Rislyn said. “We’ve never heard this one before.”
This was not surprising, as it had only formed in his mind a little while ago. And, of course, it wasn’t about dragons at all.
“Well, this dragon lived here all by himself. He wasn’t lonely, because dragons back then were very solitary creatures. They had their own caves, or lakes, or moun-taintops, or forests, and didn’t much associate with each other unless it was a mating year.
“One day the dragon woke from an afternoon nap to see a flight of birds overhead. He called out, and one was polite enough to slide down the breeze and talk with him.
“ ‘Where are you going?’ the dragon asked the bird, and the bird replied, To the Court of the Father of Winds, whose children of course we are as creatures of the Air. AH things that fly are, you know.’
“Now, the dragon was quite amazed. ‘Why wasn’t I included in this invitation?’ he asked. ‘After all, I can fly. All dragons can.’ The bird fluttered from the dragon’s head to his tail, inspecting him, and said, ‘But you have no feathers. Worse, you have no colors. Look at me!’ And he preened his gorgeous plumage, all red and white and gold.
“The dragon looked, and sure enough, no feathers. Worse, his hide was all one dull shade, neither gray nor black nor white, sort of like ashes, and very boring. He thought about all the birds he’d ever seen—not too many, actually, as few birds like the Desert heat the way dragons do, but he’d seen enough to know that all birds had colored feathers, be it only plain brown. He was terribly humiliated—and I can tell you from my experiences with Azhdeen that humiliation is not something a dragon likes at all.
“ ‘I can fly,’ he said defiantly, rising up into the air. ‘And I’m going to ask the Storm God why I have no colored feathers like you birds.’ “ Pol took another sip of taze. “Keep on with the story, Papa!” Rislyn pleaded. “I’m getting there, I’m getting there,” he laughed. “The dragon flew with the birds way up into the Veresch, where the Storm God held a great court every spring for the creatures of the Air. It was called the Convocation of Wings. All the birds and insects would fly around him, and sing and chitter and hum as their voices allowed, and such fluttering and buzzing was never heard in all the world as at this court. Even worse than the Rialla at Dragon’s Rest. They all flew from rock to rock and tree to tree, showing off their flying skills and their beautiful feathers or their thin, iridescent wings. But they all instantly hushed and hovered in one spot when the dragon showed up.
“ ‘What’s this?’ asked the Storm Father, startled that this lovely—if noisy—dance had been interrupted. The dragon landed before the throne and bowed, and said, ‘If it please your highness, I too am a creature of the Air. I can fly, just like birds and insects. And I’ve come to ask your highness why, of all the winged creatures, only dragons have no color.’
“Well, the Father of Winds stared at him a long moment, stroking his great white beard made of ice, and then said, ‘Come with me, Dragon. It’s a rather private story.’ And they went into an enormous cave. It was very dark and cold and damp inside, for of course the Storm God has no influence over Fire. The dragon shivered a little, and waited for an explanation.
“ ‘It’s not my fault,’ the Storm God said irritably. ‘While we were making the world, the Goddess and I, and deciding weighty questions like where to put the rivers and mountains, and how many eyes a horse ought to have, I found I couldn’t make things the colors I wanted to. Have you ever tried painting with Water? All you get is blue or green. As for Air—can’t be done. Doesn’t stick, you see, not even to the brush. So I had to concede . , . umm ... certain things to the Goddess, for it is she who holds Fire in one hand and Earth in the other. If I wanted a certain red, I had to trade for a little rust to mix with Water for the proper color. Don’t even ask about what I had to give up for yellow. I like yellow. When I think of what that piece of Fire cost me—well, never mind. The point is that by the time we got around to dragons, I’d lost all patience. So you don’t have any color to you, and I’m sorry for it, but what could I do?’
“The dragon blinked—still shivering in the damp, dark cave—and said, ‘If I asked her nicely, do you think she might oblige me? I’m not greedy. Just a tint of something here and there. Nothing elaborate.’ The Storm Father shrugged. ‘You can try.’
“The dragon thanked him and flew off to find the Goddess. She was in her summer home in the very middle of the Long Sand. This was country more to the dragon’s liking—nice and hot, with plenty of sunshine. He approached the Goddess, and bowed to her, and told her what the Storm God had told him. Then he said, ‘If it please your highness, may dragons be gifted with colors?’
“The Goddess smiled and replied, ‘And what makes you think you’re not?’ All at once there was Fire all around him, such as he hadn’t seen since his own hatching. And within the Fire were colors. Hundreds of them, thousands, and so beautiful that the dragon positively gasped.
“The Goddess said, ‘What my dear Lord of Wind and Water neglected to mention was that in order to paint the rest of the world with colors I gave him, he bargained away just a little of his mastery of the Air. And because I’d already gifted dragons with Fire—that was another bargain, made much earlier, I won’t bore you with the details of how we fought over it—I claimed the Air beneath the wings of every dragon. So you’re not his, you’re mine. Only you can see such colors as these.’ And the Fire swirled like a million rainbows.
“The dragon watched for a time, enchanted. But then he grew sad. ‘I thank you for the gift, gracious Lady, and I’m glad to be one of your creatures. I didn’t half like being so closely related to every flapping sparrow and whirring beetle. But no one knows it, you see.’
“The Goddess considered. ‘I seem to have committed an oversight. Very well, then—each dragon may choose two colors. Tell all your fellows to come to me here, and with Fire I’ll paint them in colors to mark them as my own. But only two colors each, mind—nothing gaudy or flashy like some of those feathery things. Really, at times my Lord has the most terrible taste.’
“The dragon bowed very low, and when he flew up into the sky again to tell the other dragons of this stupendous gift, he found that he had indeed been painted by the Goddess’ Fire. Instead of dull, boring old ashy-gray, he was a rich shade of russet, with magnificent golden underwings.
“Well, knowing dragons as you do, you can guess what happened next. He had only to fly past the others and they instantly wanted to be just as gorgeous as he was.
The Goddess was very busy for quite some time, painting colors onto hundreds and hundreds of dragons.
“And while she was doing it, the dragons realized that they understood the language of color the way no other creature could. For the very first time they could really talk to each other, using this new speech. And now that they could talk to each other in this wonderful manner, they had a lot to say. So no dragon lived completely alone ever again.
“At last all of them gathered above the Long Sand— gold and black and brown and russet and-bronze and slate-blue and every other color dragons are, with all the beautiful shadings under the wings—and displayed their beauty in a vast arch like a rainbow of dragons. And not just the colors of their wings but the colors of their thoughts all merged together. The Goddess was very happy that she’d finally gifted her dragons with color.”
Pol finished his taze and waited for his daughters’ reactions. As a bedtime story, it was a total failure; both were wide awake. After a moment or two, Jihan stirred and met his gaze.
“I like that one, Papa. I could see all the dragons in the Desert sky, and all the colors.”
“Like Sunrunners,” Rislyn added.
“All together,” continued Jihan. “Like at Stronghold.”
“Just about,” Pol said.
Rislyn was very still. Then: “Papa? Did they all get tangled up? The colors, I mean.”
This was what he’d been waiting for. But he didn’t have to answer. Jihan did it for him.
“If they did, then the Goddess would’ve done just what Granda did and untangled them. Remember?”
“I—I think so. It was all like you said about the dragons, Papa—hundreds of colors. But then—“ She trembled slightly. “It hurt before Granda was there with me. Why did it hurt?”
“Because some of those colors were yours,” Pol explained gently. “Do you remember the big weaving of light?”
She nodded. “It was beautiful.”
“Part of it was you. I was there, and Meath, and Hollis, and Granda Sioned, and everyone who loves you. But the Vellant’im tried to use iron against us. I know it hurt, sweeting. That’s what iron does to a Sunrunner. But your Granda is very clever, and very powerful, and she—“
“Oh, she is, isn’t she, Papa?” Jihan exclaimed. “I felt that more than I felt any hurt. It was wonderful—all her colors, and so strong and bright—“
“Your grandmother is a very skilled faradhi” Pol agreed.
“More than Lord Andry?” Jihan answered her own question. “Well, she’d have to be—she’s older, and learned from Lady Andrade, and everybody knows she took lessons from the Goddess herself. Uncle Chay said so. I heard him.”
Pol bit back a smile, imagining the tone of voice Chay had used to make that pronouncement. “That’s the rumor. But the point is that you mustn’t be afraid of your colors, or anyone else’s. They’re the Goddess’ gift to Sunrunners, just like they were to the dragons.”
Jihan gave him a tolerant look. “You didn’t have to tell that big long story to make us understand that, Papa.”
Pol silently beseeched that selfsame Goddess for the gift of whatever combination of patience, wisdom, and sheer long-suffering endurance would allow him to survive this child. “But it was a good story just the same,” he told her, and she nodded. “All right, time for bed. Your mother will have my hide if she comes in and we’re still chattering like birds at the Storm God’s Spring Court.” He tucked in the coverlet and bent to kiss them—startled and worried when Rislyn flung her arms around his neck. “It’s all right, my hatchling,” he murmured, hugging her tightly. “Everything’s all right.”
“Papa—”
“Yes, love?”
“I’m not afraid of the colors,” she whispered against his cheek, still clinging to him. “But—but sometimes I don’t like the sunlight anymore.”
“Oh, Rislyn...” He rocked her in his embrace, stricken, crooning to her. “You’re safe, little one. I promise. Papa’s here, and Mama, and Granda Sioned. The sunlight is just the sunlight, warm and soft. It can’t hurt you. I promise that the colors and the sunlight will never hurt you.”
She nodded, trusting him utterly. Easing her back onto the pillows beside her sister, he waited until both were asleep. Only then did he allow himself to begin counting how many Vellant’im he was going to kill for causing his little girl, his faradhi child, to fear the sunlight.
*
Jayachin stretched languidly and smiled. “Well, my Lord,” she murmured, “that was the second time I’ve ... entertained ... a highborn.”
“Indeed?” Andry toyed with a handful of her long, lustrous blue-black hair. Who she spread her thighs for was of absolutely no interest to him, but her claim of another noble lover was mildly amusing. He decided to play along. “If I am only the second, then either all the others you’ve met were blind, or the first was less than impressive.”
She sat up in bed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “My Lord flatters me. Or insults me, I can’t decide which. Do you believe I would lie with any man who asked?”
“Of course not.”
“Just with any man powerful enough to advance my interests.”
“Your words, my dear, not mine.”
But she was smiling down at him as she traced the muscles of his chest. “Still, you were thinking it. And think no less of me for it. We understand each other, my
Lord.”
“I believe we do.” Chuckling, he closed his eyes and concentrated on her caresses. “So it is I who must be flattered, you see. To be only the second.”
For him, she was a first—of a sort. Jayachin was the first woman he had touched since Brenlis had left him. How long ago? Years, considering the response of his flesh to the woman in his bed now. Moments, if he judged by his intense memories of gold-lit brown hair, shadowy blue eyes, and a sweet indefinable fragrance. “Don’t you want to know who the first one was?” He roused himself from imagining that it was Brenlis’ delicate hand that stroked his belly. “I never inquire into a lady’s past.”
“But you’ll see him soon, you know.”
“Will I?” She so obviously wanted him to know. Abruptly weary of the game, wishing to enhance his image of Brenlis by making love again, Andry caught her hand and brought it to his lips. “Oh, yes. A Desert lord, as you used to be.” He opened his eyes. “As I still am.”
“And always will be,” Jayachin said hastily. Pulling her down again, he rolled atop her and buried his fingers in her hair, holding her head immobile. “His name?” he asked, for he was about to take what he wanted and it was only fair to give her the satisfaction of boasting.
“Riyan of Skybowl and Feruche.” Andry’s grip on her head tightened. “Skybowl I’ll grant. But not Feruche. That castle was built by my brother Sorin and will always be his. Always.”
She was no fool; having realized her mistake, she instantly searched for a way to turn his reaction to her advantage. He watched her do it, thinking that he did understand her very well. Her comprehension of him left something to be desired—but that was just as he wanted it.
“Of course that’s true, my Lord. But I’ve wondered— if it was your brother’s work and your brother’s holding, why is it not now yours?”
Shocked, all he could think was that it was a good thing he would soon be gone from here. She was smart enough to learn more about him than was healthy.
“What prevents the Lord of Goddess Keep from owning a castle in the land where he was born? Freely, not as a vassal to any prince. There is precedent of a sort, and within your own family. Lord Aneld of Catha Freehold, father of Lady Andrade and your grandmother Princess Milar, died without a male heir. The Prince of Syr paid its worth so he could take it himself.”
Still reeling from the extent of her ambition, it took him a moment to realize that what he had thought was a mistake earlier on had been no mistake at all. She had deliberately used the word “Feruche,” knowing how he would react to it.
Jayachin twined her arms around his neck. “Prince Zehava needed Syr’s good will more than the trouble of administering the property, and Lady Andrade’s share greatly enriched the coffers of Goddess Keep. It has been on my mind.”
“And you say what’s on your mind, don’t you, Jayachin—when you perceive a profit to be had out of it.” He disentangled himself and turned onto his back. “I have never met a woman quite like you.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“It was not a compliment. What you think is that Lord Riyan can be induced to give up Feruche—and that the High Prince will countenance it?”
She had flushed scarlet at his rebuke, but pressed on with her argument. “Why should Riyan have the benefit of what was your brother’s? Feruche should remain in your family. Besides the right of it, you have sons to provide for. And—”
“And?”
She hesitated, visibly searching for a diplomatic way of phrasing it. “Your presence in the Desert, my Lord, can only bring victory.”
“And I should be paid for it?” All at once he laughed. “I understand perfectly. You see yourself as my athri at Feruche, don’t you? Taking excellent care of what you might have had as Riyan’s wife—what you think you should have had! My dear merchant-who-would-be-a-princess, you chose as your second highborn lover the wrong powerful man.” Jayachin snatched the sheet around her breasts and sat up. “It pleases you to insult me, my Lord. And I’ve only said what you enjoyed hearing! I do understand you, never think that I don’t. I know how much you hate Pol, and how you detest Riyan’s father for taking Princess Alasen away from you—“
Andry grabbed her wrist. She wrenched away and got out of bed, arranging the sheet around her as if it were a lace-trimmed gown.
“You didn’t ask when I knew Riyan. It was at Waes, of course, during the Rialla of 719, when the talk of the Fair was the High Princess’ beautiful cousin and the High Prince’s Sunrunner nephew! You highborns are all alike. None of you believes anyone under the rank of athri sees or hears, or could make any sense of it if they did!” With the sheet secure around her, she went to the windowside table and poured a cup of wine. “It’s just us here, Andry. You can admit how it hurts to think of Riyan at your brother’s castle. You’d like owning it. Forcing Pol to give it to you would be even sweeter—visible reminder that he needed you, that he’s not as powerful as you. I know the way your mind works—and Feruche is as much a symbol for you as Castle Crag is said to be for Princess Chiana.”
Livid with fury, still he was compelled to admire her. She was so utterly certain of her words—and her safety. She was necessary to him, never more than now, when he was about to leave Goddess Keep. He could take no action against her for this, and she knew it.
No one had dared speak to him this way since Tilal had spat out his venom after the battle at Goddess Keep. Sorin’s name had come up then, too. “I knew and loved your brother. For the first time, I’m glad he’s dead.”
His anger changed then. It was still directed at her, but no longer for her insight. Rather, it was for her inability to understand the most fundamental aspect of his character. Not that she was unique in this; it had been happening to him all his life. Why did no one ever see what he truly was?
Sorin had. Sorin was dead these nine winters. Andry had been alone ever since.
“My dear,” he said softly to Jayachin, “I know you won’t understand this, but I’ll explain it to you anyway. You are correct that Feruche is a symbol. It was my brother’s creation, his dream in stone and steel. It is precious to me for that alone. But despite being within Princemarch’s borders, it is a place of the Desert. Of my home. And that is why I will defend it and demand nothing in return from Pol.” He smiled as her brows arched eloquently. “Not that I expect him to believe me, either.”
Jayachin shrugged. “Does it matter to you whether anyone believes you or not?”
“Oddly, yes. But not Pol—and certainly not you.” He arranged pillows and pulled up the quilt. “You know the location of the door? Good. Use it.”
“But it’s the middle of the night!”
“Yes,” he agreed pleasantly. “Get dressed and return to your own bed, my dear. Doubtless your little boy is wondering where his mother is. Oh—speaking of children. Just in case you plan to claim that you are pregnant by me, be assured that I know your cycle. You won’t be fertile for another six days. You see, I do know the way your mind works.”