“I understand,” Rialt said quietly, “that you were the one who asked for my release from custody.”
“I did.” Mevita began stripping the bed where she had spent the last five nights alone.
“So you went to Halian.”
“I did,” she repeated, bundling sheets into her arms.
“And apologized.”
“Somebody had to, and you weren’t inclined.”
“Damn it, Mevita—“
“This chamber is cold enough. Naydra told me about the one Chiana picked out for you. Over the stables, with two guards outside the door. Hardly fit for the Regent of Waes.”
“He told me you pleaded with him.”
“The Regent of Waes couldn’t, so his lowborn wife did,” she snapped. “Why are you angry? You had five whole days to indulge your pride.”
“At least one of us has some!”
“Yes, and it just might get you killed.”
Rialt snorted. “Halian doesn’t have the guts.”
“But Chiana does. And that slimy son of hers.”
“I’d rather rot forever than watch the two of them gloat over Rohan’s death—and plan which of Pol’s daughters Rinhoel will rape first!”
Mevita flung the sheets onto the floor and whirled on him. “Don’t be such a fool! If that’s his aim, you can’t stop him by sulking! You’re right, I’ve no pride where my aims are concerned—and right now I aim to do something before the Vellanti army arrives!”
“What are you talking about? What have you heard?”
“Not too proud to set your wife to spying for you, my lord?”
He ground his teeth. “I’m sorry. Tell me what you know.”
“Swalekeep is being readied for war—really readied this time, not the half-hearted show Chiana put on all autumn. Naydra says the Vellant’im are expected any time now—with Prince Tilal and Lord Ostvel camped not a day’s ride to the west.”
“Then it’s as I expected,” he muttered, beginning to pace the room. “They’ll fight Chiana’s battle for her. Whoever wins, she’s safe.”
“And you know who she’ll be cheering for.”
A bucket was in his way, filled with the ceiling’s offering of last night’s rain. He exercised massive restraint by not kicking it over.
“Well?” Mevita asked. “What are you waiting for? You’re free now to come and go. So go!”
*
Rialt timed that afternoon’s encounters as precisely as a battle commander sets a plan of attack. First he met Naydra “by chance” in the garden where she had taken Polev for some air. She stood with him, watching the child play with a litter of striped kittens, and they talked of the day’s welcome break in the rain and how long the sunshine might last.
In between banalities she conveyed her information. Chiana and Rinhoel had been closeted in the former’s chambers last evening. Naydra, restless and bored, had gone to Halian’s private library for something to read. There, she found a steward shuffling maps. Her offer of assistance met with respectful thanks and a quick refusal. Too quick.
“I left after choosing a book, but I saw which maps he was interested in,” she murmured. “Detailed drawings of the terrain for a hundred measures around Swalekeep— and the same for Dragon’s Rest.”
“I’m not surprised. The Vellant’im have taken Strong- hold. Dragon’s Rest is Pol’s seat of authority. Due to be next. I think—is that another rainstorm coming down from the north?”
Naydra appeared not to see the courtier who bowed to her on his way past. The man was not offended; he obviously didn’t expect acknowledgment. Like Chiana, she was Roelstra’s daughter, and he was beneath her notice. “I do hope not. Even when I’m snug in my own rooms, I feel drenched to the skin.”
His next talk was with Cluthine, when he took his son back inside for an afternoon nap. Rinhoel had been bribing Polev lately with chess pieces to make him go away. It was the wrong tactic to use with a clever child who knew how far he could take his pestering. Polev had almost the whole set of white pieces now, and wanted to play with them.
“Later, my lamb,” Cluthine said firmly, depriving him of a castle, two squires, and a Sunrunner.
“I want him to give me that dragon in Princess Chiana’s room,” Polev complained. “But he won’t. It’s gold with bright red eyes—much better than this one.” He gave Cluthine a little figure of carved and painted wood, scorning its outspread gilt wings.
“You shouldn’t have bothered Prince Rinhoel in his mother’s rooms,” Rialt chided.
Polev shrugged. “He wasn’t in his. And I wanted another piece.”
“You really mustn’t plague Rinhoel. One day he’ll grow angry.”
“He was today, when I asked for the gold dragon.”
“I can imagine,” Rialt murmured. “Close your eyes, hatchling.”
He sat with Cluthine in a window embrasure along the sunlit corridor outside her rooms, ostensibly to savor the warmth. Instead of the weather, the topic was Polev’s schooling. By the time the shadows had moved a finger’s width, Rialt had learned that Tilal had sent a messenger to Halian informing his fellow prince of his presence. Halian reacted with surprise and pleasure, but was puzzled that Tilal seemed to think there might be some dan- ger to Swalekeep from the enemy. Chiana, echoing his sentiments, had cautioned that the place was already stuffed to the seams with refugees and there was no room to house an army. Halian’s reply to Tilal was an invitation to camp outside the walls and come with Lord Ostvel to stay inside Swalekeep. “Which they must not do,” Cluthine finished nervously.
“Don’t worry. They’ll be able to refuse without insulting Halian. They’ll also—my lady, is it only fatherly pride, or am I right in assuming that my son is a potentially brilliant scholar?”
Cluthine blinked her startlement. His hand on her wrist prevented her from looking around to see who belonged to the approaching footsteps. “Umm—yes,” she said blankly.
“Cousin,” said one of Halian’s bastard daughters, and it was safe for Cluthine to turn her head. “Surely you could find a more suitable companion than this criminal.”
Rialt stretched his lips from his teeth. “And a pleasant day to you as well, Lady ... uh ... Lady—“
“Salnys,” Cluthine supplied in a loud whisper, eyes sparkling as her kinswoman tensed with fury.
“Yes, of course. Lady Salnys.” Rialt widened his smile. “How are you and your younger sisters today?”
Honestly unsure of her name, he knew very well that she was not the eldest of the three. She sucked in an outraged breath and for a moment he thought she would compromise her dignity by slapping him. Instead, she decided not to have heard him, and stalked off.
Cluthine stifled a giggle. “I have so many relatives that I wish weren’t!”
“I sympathize, but can’t agree. Your connection to Halian is proving very useful to us, Thina.”
“I hope so. What were you going to say about Prince Tilal?”
“Only that he’ll also have to refuse whatever spot Chiana has picked out for his army to camp in. It’s sure to be a trap.”
“Their scouts must have seen the Vellanti host by now.”
“Yes. But there are other things they need to know.”
“Such as?”
“Where Chiana’s own troops are placed within the walls. And from what I saw this morning on my stroll, it’s not something that would be obvious to a Sunrunner taking a look at the place. Arms are hidden inside houses and shops or in carts on the streets. Soldiers are disguised as gatherings of family, or farmers from the same part of the countryside. I wouldn’t have seen any of it if I hadn’t known what to look for.”
“So we must get word to Prince Tilal and Lord Ostvel. But how?”
“I’m working on it,” he promised her—even though he hadn’t a clue.
His third encounter was equally well-planned, though the lady didn’t know it. Mevita had noted that Lady Aurar went out riding most days, even when it rained. The same groom accompanied her each time. From him, through roundabout means, Mevita learned that about ten measures south of Swalekeep, Aurar always left her groom behind and went on a long gallop.
Aurar was beautiful in the way her aunt Chiana was beautiful: proud, autumn-colored, attractively sultry when she chose. She did not choose with Rialt. She barely deigned to acknowledge his existence. That afternoon he compelled her to by dropping an inkwell so it spattered her riding boots.
“Clumsy idiot!”
“Your pardon, my lady. The cobbles are slick—“
“Damn you, this is the finest dragonhide! You’ve ruined it! What are you doing with an inkwell in the stables anyhow?” she demanded, furiously scrubbing at the stains with a parchment snatched from his grasp.
“I was making an inventory of the fodder, my lady, so that if we must withstand a siege...” He trailed off with a shrug.
“A siege? What nonsense!”
“The Vellant’im cannot be too far away. Everyone knows they left Faolain Lowland long ago—and Swale-keep is a rich prize.”
“Meadowlord is uninvolved in this war.”
“Officially, yes,” he replied. “But Princess Chiana has been sending aid downriver as often as she can.” Through his efforts, much of that aid in foodstuffs was tainted or rotten. He knew who was meant to receive it. He hoped Chiana’s allies were growing angry with her for cheating them.
“If they know she’s been helping,” he went on, “I fear for our lives.”
“Yours, perhaps,” Aurar said. “You’re Pol’s creature. But I am my father’s daughter, and they will recognize my name.” She smiled sweetly. “Who knows but that I might be able to save Swalekeep and all Meadowlord?”
Rialt bowed to hide the disgust in his eyes. “My lady ... I ask nothing for myself. But my wife, my son—“
“I’ll consider it. Ah, here’s my horse.”
“Allow me to help you to mount, my lady.”
As he did so, boosting her lightly up into the saddle, the dark green cloak wrapped to her throat fell loose. She bent over to accept the reins from her groom and something bright and silvery on a long chain swung free.
Rialt grabbed for it. “Careful—it might catch on the pommel and break the chain, my lady.”
Aurar took the pendant back calmly and tucked it into her tunic. Clattering out of the stableyard on a big Kadar Water gelding, she made a pretty picture with the sunlight gleaming on her auburn hair.
Rialt frowned, thinking about the little pendant on the chain. Why would Aurar of Catha Heights be wearing a symbol associated with the Desert rulers she loathed? What significance was there for her in a dragon?
The empty inkwell gave him the excuse he needed to abandon his project—which had been an excuse in itself—and return to his chamber. By the time he got there, he’d puzzled it out. Shutting the door and leaning back against it, he waited for his wife to glance up from mending their son’s shirts.
“I know what it means.”
“What what means?”
“Aurar goes out riding. She leaves her groom behind, disappears Goddess knows where. But she always rides south—where the Vellant’im are. She comes back, she bathes, she goes to Chiana or Rinhoel for a private talk. The next day she rides again. And the dragon token she wears around her neck is her passage through enemy lines.”
Mevita was nodding slowly. “And the one Polev keeps after Rinhoel to give him appeared after that strange visitor came and went. If we’re to get a message safely to Prince Tilal, someone will have to steal Rinhoel’s dragon.”
*
Pol hadn’t been back to Feruche since learning what had transpired at the old castle there—the castle where Rohan and Sioned had been lanthe’s captives, the castle of his own birth, the castle Sioned had destroyed with Fire. Some sort of fortress had always stood guard over the pass between Princemarch and the northern Desert. Sorin had rebuilt on the same site, fashioning a keep made equally for defense and splendor. The new Feruche looked nothing like the drawings Pol had seen of the old. Yet Rohan had refused to set foot in it, and on his rare visits stayed in the garrison down below. At the time, Pol had thought it rather odd—he would never have permitted himself to use the word “foolish” in reference to his father. When he knew the whole story, he had understood. Now, approaching the tall towers, he shared Rohan’s reluctance.
And didn’t hesitate to call it foolishness. Skybowl was incapable of supporting so many. Feruche—huge in and of itself, and with the garrison able to house half an army outside the walls—was his only choice.
The stout wooden gates opened to him and his. They revealed Sorin’s intent here: power and beauty woven together as gracefully as an accomplished Sunrunner wove light. The gates were two hands’ spans thick and braced with heavy wrought iron, yet the wood was polished to a golden glow and the iron was patterned as delicately as a lace veil. Dragon’s Rest had been designed to convey a different kind of power, and found its strength in its position in a bottlenecked valley. No one had ever called Stronghold beautiful, built as it had been for war and acquiring comforts only at his grandmother Milar’s insistence. But Feruche was as close to perfection as a castle could be. It wasn’t Sorin’s fault that Pol’s nape itched at the sight of it.
The wide circular courtyard filled rapidly behind him. He dismounted, tossed his reins to a groom, and waited for Meiglan and the girls to join him before starting up the steps to the keep. Ruala was already at the main doors, conferring with her steward. All that was required of Pol was that he go upstairs, bathe away two days of travel, and show up in the hall for dinner at dusk. Chayla and Hollis were overseeing the settlement of the wounded; Maarken was down at the garrison organizing the able-bodied troops; Isriam was practicing patience by shepherding the Dorvali merchants; Meath was taking care of Sioned.
Pol found himself necessary to only three people: his wife and his daughters. And after the last terrible days, they deserved his attention.
Instead, he received theirs. Jihan took charge of removing his armor while Rislyn hurried to get his bath ready and Meiglan unpacked what little they had been able to bring with them. It was a pleasant domestic scene, one that reminded him of the days they used to spend at the little cottage he’d built with his own hands at Dragon’s Rest. That cottage was cinders now, just like Stronghold.
“Papa?” Jihan was tugging at a buckle on his leather-and-steel breastplate. “It’s stuck.”
“I’ll do it, sweet.” His squires had punched a new hole in the strap back at Stronghold to make the fit more snug around his waist, and the hide was still stiff. “Give it all to Kierun and Dannar to clean,” he said, shrugging out of the armor. “I won’t be needing it for a while, so there’s no rush.”
“Tell them to replace the chest straps, Jihan,” Meiglan said. “You complained that they were too tight, my lord.”
Stripping off tunic and undershirt, he rubbed the place high on his ribs where the buckle had dug into bone. “Thanks for reminding me, Meggie.”
Rislyn came out of the bathroom—every chamber reserved for highborn guests had one, an elegant and welcome luxury that had driven Sorin’s architects half mad in the planning—and reported the tub filled and waiting. Pol stood, hitched his pants higher around his hips, and stretched.
“Hurry, Papa,” Rislyn urged. “Before it gets cold.”
He eyed his daughters. They wore torn trousers, filthy shirts, and scuffed boots, their hair was tangled and dusty, and they were thoroughly adorable. He picked up one in each arm and carted them into the bathroom.
“Papa! Put me down!” Jihan demanded.
“ ‘Papa’? Last I heard, I was father to a pair of princesses. What I see right now are a brace of dust storms with half the Desert in their clothes.” He tickled and they squirmed. “See? I shake them, and sand falls out!”
Rislyn giggled as he held her over the tub. “You’re as dirty as we are! And you smell awful!”
“I suppose I do, at that. But I know for a fact that underneath the stink and dirt is a prince. I’m not so sure about you two. What do you think, my lady? Are there princesses here somewhere?”
Meiglan laughed and took Rislyn from his grasp. “Give us a little while in here, my lord, and I might be able to find out. But whatever they are, they’ll turn your bath into a mud puddle.”
“Just keep scrubbing until you get down to something that looks like my daughters,” he advised. “I’ll go beg a basin and washcloth from Ruala—“
“A dunk in a horse trough would be better,” Jihan observed, then yelped as he turned her upside down over his shoulder. “Papa!”
“Insolent monster! Apologize to your prince at once!”
“Won’t!”
“Meggie, there’s no need to wash this one. It’s a princess, all right. And arrogant with it, too. I think that horse trough is an excellent idea.”
“Papa! You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, wouldn’t I?”
But she attacked the vulnerable spot just below his last rib, and he had to set her down before he laughed so hard he dropped her.
Leaving his ladies in possession of the bathroom, he returned to the main chamber. The Desert beckoned— he supposed it always would, especially now that it was his. Vast, beautiful, and merciless, it had betrayed Rohan just as Maarken had said. Sunrunners, soldiers, and sand had all failed him.
Pol sat down in a window embrasure, one foot tucked under him. Beyond the Desert was the sea, and beyond that ... who knew? No one had ever gone looking—or at least no one had come back. He’d wondered about that when he was younger, when he and Meath had ridden the northern coast of Dorval where the Sunrise Water stretched into infinity. From there—from anyplace—a Sunrunner might ride the light all the way around the world, or so it had seemed to Pol.
“Would you, indeed?” Meath asked, amused. “And how would you get back?”
“Easy—right back around to the place ... where ... I...” He faltered to a stop. “Oh.”
“Exactly. If you start out on sunlight, what happens when you get to the line of dusk between day and night? At the very least, you’d have to try switching sources of light from sun to moons—not something I’d care to try, myself.”
“You could go the other way around—follow the sunrise instead of the sunset.”
“And just how long do you think a Sunrunner can work without getting tired, anyway?”
“Not that long, I guess. Wait—you could use the moons! If it was a day when they rise while the sun’s still up, you could follow them and use the same light the whole time!”
“Interesting thought. Of course, there’s also the slight problem of your thoughts being in one place and your body in another while the sun sets.”
Pol gulped. “Everybody’s already thought of all this, haven’t they?” he asked, subdued now.
“If you mean that you’re not as brilliantly innovative as you thought you were—“ Meath laughed. “A revelation common to all of us, not just princes. Feeling stupid after you realize it is very good for you.”
“But following light all the way around the world—it’s been tried, hasn’t it?”
“Once.”
The ships of the coastal princedoms stayed within sight of land, except for those that sailed Brochwell Bay. But that didn’t signify, for in order to get out of the bay, one must pass between Einar and Isel in the north or Kierst and Goddess Keep in the south. It was impossible to get lost, even when land vanished over the horizon. Hugging the shoreline obviously didn’t figure in Vellanti seamanship. How in Hells did they do it?
Sunrunners would make great navigators—if they could stomach being on water. We’re limited to the continent, Pol thought, and a few measures beyond. Then, his gaze focusing once more on the Desert sky: But they’re limited to the ground. The sunlight and the moonlight belong to us.
Or were the Vellant’im so limited? If there were sorcerers in their ranks ... diarmadh’im didn’t get seasick. Was that how they did it? Were some of them able to use the sun and moons and stars in guiding the ships? It was not an answer that satisfied him. If sorcery was part of their armament, why had no spells been tried?
Who were these people? Where had they come from? What did they want?
He gave a start at a soft caress on his neck. “Your hair’s gotten so long,” Meiglan said behind him as she unknotted the scrap of leather thong that bound it at his nape. “And the sun’s turned it almost the same color as mine. Does it get in your way? Shall I trim it?”
“I’ll have Kierun or Dannar take care of it tomorrow. Where are the girls?”
“Getting dressed.” She finger-combed his hair, gently teasing the snarls from it with her nails.
“Do they seem all right to you?”
Her fingers stilled, resting on his shoulders. “Rislyn’s been quiet, but she usually is. Jihan’s been noisy—also as usual.”
He shrugged; misunderstanding the gesture, she removed her hands. He missed the gentle warmth. Turning in the window seat, he began, “After what happened at Stronghold...” Her eyes, liquid-dark and innocent as a fawn’s, changed what he had been about to say. “The battle, Father’s death—just keep an eye on them, Meg-gie. If they seem upset or worried, that kind of thing.”
She nodded, once more brushing strands of lank, dirty hair from his brow.
Maara, Riyan and Ruala’s daughter, came by then to collect the twins. There was to be a children’s dinner in her rooms, mimicking the grown-up meal down below in the hall.
“You’ll have much more fun than we will in a stuffy old banquet packed in with hundreds of people,” Pol said as he relied Jihan’s sash. “Can I join you?”
“This is just for us, Papa,” Jihan replied, every bit the princess guesting in an athri’s holding. Maara, he noted with an inner smile, was equally the lady of the castle. At eight winters old—barely two seasons older than the twins—brown-eyed Maara had shown herself her grandmother Camigwen’s worthy heir. She had taken charge of the children from Graypearl, organizing games, settling quarrels, and reporting to her mother on their needs and doings. Now she escorted the two princesses to her own special banquet with all the graciousness of someone thrice her age. Maara was in complete and elegant control of her little world.
Pol wished he could be as lucky. He lolled back in the bath—a fresh one, his sand-sodden daughters having done their work on the first—listening to the faint sounds of drawers and hangers as Meiglan unpacked their scant belongings. Above him, the vaulted ceiling to the bathtub alcove was a dark blue canopy playfully strewn with flecks of silver. He was alone with the painted stars.
When Meiglan came in with clean clothes—Riyan’s, sent by a servant—Pol asked, “Meggie ... what gives them the right?”
She turned from folding a shirt onto the sink counter. “Who, my lord?”
“The Vellant’im. They’re destroying our world and we don’t even know why.”
“They won’t destroy it. You won’t let them.”
“They already have. You and I ought to be at Dragon’s Rest watching the snow fall.”
“That world isn’t lost, Pol.” She sat on the edge of the tub and dipped a wedge of shaving soap into the water, rubbing it into lather. “We can go back.”
“Can we? It’ll never be the same. They’re killing our world. What if I can’t stop them? What if nothing I do is enough?”
Meiglan was quiet and still but for her quick, nervous fingers. All at once she whispered, “There’s nothing you can’t do. Please don’t talk this way.”
She had always believed in him, always trusted that everything he said and did was exactly right. If mistakes were made it was because other people had said or done the wrong things. No one else had ever looked at him with such simple, enduring faith.
“I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t be saying these things, especially to you. You have so much else to worry about.” He shook water from his hair. “It’s that damned ceiling—all those stars hanging up there like answers I can’t reach.”
She gave him a little smile. “They’ll jump down from the sky into your hands, just as in that song Lord Ka-zander sings.”
He swept a finger through the soap lather and daubed bubbles on her nose, chuckling. “Do you know when I love you best, Meggie? Besides when we’re in bed, that is,” he added, to make her blush. “It’s when you’re standing in front of your fenath, and your hands are like birds fluttering over the strings, picking each note so delicately and quickly I can barely follow. Sometimes I’m selfish enough to be jealous that other people are listening when you play.”
Meiglan blinked her surprise. “Pol—I play only for you. To hear you sing.”
“Do you, love? Do you forgive me that the music’s gone?”
Now she looked shocked. “It’s not your fault! Don’t ever think any of this is your fault!”
It was exactly the opposite of what he’d been taught all his life—that as High Prince, everything was his responsibility and his fault—but Meiglan didn’t see him as the High Prince. He was her husband, her lover, the father of her children. With remorse stabbing him, he realized he hadn’t been any of those things for a long time now.
And the living Hell of it was that husband, lover, and father was all he really wanted to be. He wasn’t like Rohan. He didn’t want to rule—not if it meant this kind of life.
And yet he was becoming very good at war. He was coming to enjoy it.
“Goddess, how I want to go home,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Meggie. I know you do, too. I shouldn’t even talk about it. I just—I need to remember, sometimes. That we had a life before all this. That the world wasn’t always like this.”
She was quiet for a long time, quiet and still. “Pol ... my world is you, and the life you made for us. When you weren’t there—“ A small tremor ran through her. “I don’t know anything about armies or castles at war or tending the wounded. I’m no use here. All I can do is stay out of everyone’s way. But I’ll try to do better, to help you. I’m High Princess now,” she finished, sounding as if she said it to convince herself and had little hope of succeeding.
Churl! he accused himself. Complaining to her when she’s afraid and won’t admit it because it would worry me. At least I was brought up to be High Prince from the day I was born. If it’s not the way I pictured it, that’s my problem—not hers. She’s got more courage than I do.
He made himself smile. “So you are. And a fine, proud, beautiful High Princess you make—with only one slight flaw. You will forgive me for observing that your grace is absolutely filthy and needs a good scrubbing.”
“After you’re done here, I’ll—Pol!” she squealed, laughing as he pulled her into the tub with him, fully clothed.
*
Walvis stood alone on the lakeshore, watching moonlight dance across the water. A hundred million fragments of shifting brightness, there and gone and there again: a great liquid mirror, shattered. Pol had spoken in the Court of the Storm God, his words remembering Rohan for them all. There had been another ritual here the night after they arrived. Ruala, as Lady of Skybowl, had brought her people down to the lake as was the custom, and they had stood silent vigil until midnight, leaving their candles embedded in the sand. But now it was just Walvis, alone with his own remembering amid hundreds of candles, as dead and burned as Rohan at Stronghold.
He didn’t want to think of that. He wanted to see his prince as he had seen and served him for forty years. Ever since a rather ragged, definitely unlettered boy had caught the attention of the Desert’s heir.
It had been during a hunting party organized by Lord Chaynal—bored by the second spring in a row of peace, with no Merida to fight and no Rialla that year to distract him. Prince Rohan, barely twenty, hadn’t even been visible next to the Lord of Radzyn’s powerful presence as they rode through the village where Walvis’ father was nominal athri. So amazed was a twelve-year-old boy at the sight of the great lord and his companions that he hadn’t even noticed when someone trying to get a better view jostled him out into the road. He nearly dropped the full wine cup his father had urged into his hands to be presented for Lord Chaynal’s refreshment, hoping, of course, that he would be remarked on and favored. The next thing he knew, a huge bay stallion was sidestepping him, snorting annoyance.
“Here, now,” warned an amused voice above him, “watch what you’re about, my lad. I realize the mighty Lord of Radzyn is a man to behold, but have a care to yourself all the same.”
“Your pardon,” Walvis replied, still unable to take his eyes from the splendid Battle Commander.
“Might I have a sip of that, by the way? It’s been a long, dusty ride, and I could do with something besides water.”
“I’m sorry, but my father bade me give this to Lord Chaynal himself.” He glanced down, angry to see that half the fine Giladan red had sloshed out.
“Ah. Well, then. Chay!” he shouted, and the tall man turned in his saddle.
“My prince?”
“This boy here is waiting to give you a drink! Hurry up before he gets trampled!”
“My prince?” Walvis’ gaze traveled up the stallion’s shoulder to a fine saddle, gloved hands easy on the reins, strong arms in a white silk shirt, and a smiling face crowned only by sunlight shining on blond hair.
Goddess help him, he had insulted Prince Rohan. His father would have his hide.
But the young heir did not look insulted. As Lord Chaynal made his way to them, Prince Rohan asked, “What’s your name? Wait—you wouldn’t be Risnaya’s boy, would you?”
“Yes—Walvis, your grace. I’m sorry, your grace. I didn’t—“
“—recognize me, or even see me, for that matter, next to the glory of my sister’s husband.” He was actually grinning. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”
Belatedly, Walvis proffered the cup. “Please, your grace. It’s good wine, my father keeps it for special occasions.”
“No, you brought it for Chay—and it’s half empty.” The prince winked. “Once you give it to him, can you run get me a full one?”
He couldn’t help but grin back. “Immediately, your grace!”
And that had been all. A stumble nearly under his horse’s feet, ignoring him in favor of Chay, a brimming wine cup (and a gracious thanks, with another wink), and they had ridden away on the hunt. Walvis had hoped they’d return by the same road so he could make amends for his mistake. But the next he heard of Prince Rohan was that summer, when a letter came asking his father if the boy could be spared to become a page at Stronghold.
Forty years. What had Rohan seen in him to make him remember Walvis with favor? Walvis was under no illusion that this summoning was only a princely whim. But why him? Poor, uneducated, barely able to read (although he had been the one to sound out the letter, for Risnaya could read nothing but his own name)—still Rohan had glimpsed something in him of value. Something worth taking the trouble to nurture.
Whatever it had been, Walvis had tried not to disappoint him. From page to squire to knight to Lord of Remagev, he had served his prince, fought for him and beside him, loved him—and now, in the shattered moonlight, he wept for him.
*
Cleanly clad in Riyan’s clothes, Pol also took Riyan’s chair at the high table. Ruala insisted on it, and also that Meiglan take the place that was usually hers as Lady of Feruche. But the new High Princess chose instead to sit on Pol’s left—and called Betheyn over to take the chair at his right.
It was kindly meant. Pol remembered that this had been Sorin’s table; had he lived, Beth would have presided here as his wife. Perhaps it was Meiglan’s way of thanking her, or of reminding those at Feruche whose Lady she might have been. Mainly it impressed the ever-fractious Dorvali merchants, for whom Beth, along with Isriam, had taken responsibility.
The Dorvali were here because Skybowl wasn’t big enough. Pol had no intention of keeping them at Feruche, either—though accommodations were much more spacious, and provisions, thanks to Ruala’s foresight in sending to Elktrap, were plentiful.
Trouble was, they might get used to this. Feruche was so obviously big and strong that the war might seem very far away. He mentioned as much to Beth over the haunch of venison—cooked to perfection and more than welcome after days of marching rations—and she nodded.
“We’ll have to convince them otherwise. Getting them out of Skybowl wasn’t much of a problem. Getting them out of Feruche...” She shrugged. “Where can we send them?”
“I know just the place.” Pol turned to his wife. “Meg-gie, I forgot to ask earlier—did you happen to talk to Master Nemthe’s daughters on the way here?”
“Yesterday, my lord,” A little smile played over her lips. “Just as you asked. They were rather nice, after they got over the fact that it was me.” She gave a little shrug of bemusement that anyone would think her formidable.
“Oh, yes,” he teased, “I’m sure they chat with princesses all the time.” To Betheyn, he went on, “By now they’ll have told their parents that they were honored with the High Princess’ confidence.” Plucking up Meig-lan’s free hand, he kissed the palm. “Were you properly nervous and fearful, my love, when you mentioned Chal-dona and how much you’d rather be there than here?”
Ruala, seated on Meiglan’s other side, laughed quietly. “Pol, you have no shame. Setting her to do your work for you!”
“Mind your chiding, my lady. I heard what you did to Master Nemthe,” he retorted with a grin.
“But not so well that he didn’t scruple to leave a tally sheet behind for Maarken and Hollis to find. As if he’d been summing up his losses, and ‘forgot’ it in his hurry to vacate the room,” she snorted.
Beth was frowning her confusion. “Chaldona? I don’t know it. What’s there that these people would want?”
“Safety,” Pol said succinctly.
Ruala leaned forward and explained, “It’s a way station on the road through the Veresch, and very appropriately named—in a valley between cliffs. Every spring the mountain folk come to trade and gossip and enjoy themselves. It’s a bit like the Rialla Fair, only smaller and more fun.”
“And Chaldona can provide for more than three hundred Dorvali?”
“Three times that number descend on it every year, and stay in the guest houses.”
Meiglan added, “Which are empty the rest of the year. Yes, please, Kierun.,” she said as the squire hovered at her elbow, “I’d love another cup of taze.”
“If the mountain folk stayed,” Ruala continued, “Chaldona would be a rather large town. The guest houses are a bit rustic, but comfortable enough. The only problem I foresee is evicting the Dorvali once they’re established.”
“Always assuming we can get them there in the first place,” Pol said, nodding thanks to Kierun for the steaming cup set before him. “An idea Meggie has now put into the minds that matter.”
Chay, who had been listening from his chair next to Beth’s, cleared his throat in warning. “Successfully, too. Here is our Meiglan’s unsuspecting victim now—looking just as he would have if Sioned herself had played him. My congratulations to the High Princess.”
Pol felt the hand in his tense at the title. But he had no time even to glance at her in sympathy, for Master Nemthe was indeed approaching the high table. Pol briefly debated the merits of offering to meet with him alone, then decided that the more witnesses, the better. He assumed his most pleasant face and hid anticipation as the merchant distributed bows all around.
Ruala spoke first. “Master Nemthe, I trust you and your family are comfortable here.”
“Feruche is a vast improvement over Skybowl—meaning no disrespect, my lady,” he added awkwardly.
“Of course.” She was all graciousness. “Although Feruche can be deceiving in its amenities. It is, after all, a castle built for war.”
“Will it come to that?” Betheyn asked, frowning.
“My lord?” This from Meiglan, with a pleading look from big, soft eyes.
Chay coughed and began peeling a marsh apple from the bowl Kierun had set on the table. Pol sternly controlled his face, wishing he was not a featured player in this little farce and could sit back and enjoy it like his uncle.
“Our enemies have sought every other castle in the Desert,” he said. “But don’t worry—if they come here, they’ll have a surprise waiting for them.”
Ruala nodded her agreement, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, she turned her attention to a nearby bowl of fruit. No one else in the hall made any pretense of not watching the encounter—or listening, if they sat close enough to the high table.
“That’s precisely what I wished to speak to your grace about,” Master Nemthe said. “What guarantee is there that Feruche will not fall as Radzyn and Remagev and Stronghold did?”
From the corner of his eye Pol saw Chay’s hands go still, one of them white-knuckled around his paring knife. But it was just the path Pol wanted Nemthe to tread, though he would have chosen another gate.
“Again, no disrespect intended, your grace,” the merchant went on, “but none of us feels entirely safe here. How can we? The traditional bargain struck between commoners and athr’im, athr’im and princes, and princes with the High Prince—support and supply in return for protection—has been broken.”
“Broken?” said Isriam, from Chay’s right. He spoke softly, but in the sudden quiet his voice carried menace in its very gentleness. Pol had the incongruous thought that Isriam must have learned that tone from Rohan. And it reminded him to behave with his father’s cunning and restraint—when what he really wanted to do was—
“An unfortunate choice of word,” Nemthe said, not sounding sorry. “But it’s true that the age-old contract was not fulfilled. We were not protected. Will it be different here? The enemy wanted Graypearl—and now owns it. Faolain Riverport, Gilad Seahold, Lower Pyrme, Radzyn, Remagev, Stronghold—the enemy has those, too. The only place that didn’t fall was Goddess Keep, thanks to your grace’s cousin, Lord Andry.”
Pol heard the murmurings even above the pounding of his heart. This was no time to point out that Faolain Lowland was safe because of his and Sioned’s efforts. That Lower Pyrme and Remagev were not in enemy hands because the deadfalls arranged there had scared the enemy away. That Tilal’s army had had much to do with the victory at Goddess Keep.
This was also no time to grow angry.
Nemthe was only expressing fears Pol wanted him to feel. If Pol didn’t happen to like the manner of that expression, it was his own fault for not arranging things better. The way Rohan would have done. He would have known what to say, what to do. Pol could almost hear him, see him. He would lean back in his chair, a small physical token of retreat—perfectly calculated. He would murmur that Master Nemthe’s misgivings were painful to him, but he was glad to have heard them honestly said. He would suggest that perhaps Master Nemthe would feel more secure in his person if he were not at Feruche, and that every effort would be made to find a place...
At which point Master Nemthe would mention Chal-dona, and in two days the whole unwanted noisy lot of them would be gone.
Damn you, Father, why did you have to die?
“Forgive me for being so blunt,” Nemthe concluded, “but none of us is sure that your grace will be able to protect us any better than your father did.”
Isriam forgot his training. He growled and half-rose from his chair, only to be shoved back down in it by Chay’s strong hand.
It was a small, frail hand that rested on Pol’s arm, and a tremulous voice that said, “You dare doubt the High Prince?”
Exactly the wrong thing to say. Part of him—most of him—loved her for it. But whenever he heard those two words, he still waited for Rohan to answer.
Everyone else was waiting for him.
He did lean back in his chair. Not in calculated retreat; his whole body proclaimed contempt.
“If you believe us in such dire need of help, perhaps you’d care to assist.”
The merchant developed a wary look. “Your grace?”
“Can you hold a sword, Master Nemthe? No? Are you an archer? Can you use a spear, perhaps? A knife? Not that either? Ah, but I do you an injustice. The weapons of commerce are parchment and pen. Would you care to write the Vellant’im a letter?”
Instinct told him not to stand; unlike Rohan, he was very tall and physical intimidation was best saved for those who required it. Nemthe’s humiliation could be accomplished with words. Pol was not stupid enough to make the mistake of overkill.
He knew it was stupid to address the subject of his cousin, but once begun, the words would not stop.
“Or perhaps you’d turn your parchment and pen in Lord Andry’s direction. Better yet, why not seek his protection yourself, as you have such faith in it? True, Goddess Keep is a goodly journey from here. In winter, with who knows which armies marching where, I estimate it would take ... oh, call it sixty days, just to be on the safe side. Well, Master Nemthe? When are you leaving?”
Crimson with rage, the merchant turned his head to look for allies. The hall was hushed to the rafters. Not even a candle dared to flicker.
Pol was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He’d known full well what he should have said, what he had set Nemthe up to hear. But every word he spoke was wrong.
That’s what he got for trying to be clever. For trying to be his father.
AH at once a chair scraped on the tiles. A tall, white-haired old man stumped forward to the high table, the light of battle in his eyes. Nemthe’s head turned; his spine turned to steel. “Tormichin,” he muttered. “I only needed that!”
The elderly merchant bowed low to Pol, then addressed Nemthe. “That’s no way to talk to a lad who’s lost his father, and still less a thing to say in the hearing of all of us who’ve lost our High Prince! You think he’s not just as worried for his wife and little girls? But he’s also got all the rest of us to protect, and all the princedoms to defend! You apologize at once, you insolent swine!”
“There’s no need for that,” Pol said swiftly. “It is I who must ask Master Nemthe’s pardon. Reminding a prince of his shortcomings can be an uncomfortable practice.” He consciously used what Andrade had always called the family smile, feeling even more the fool. “It’s true that as yet I’m untested as High Prince. It’s also true that I shall need the assistance of all persons of good will.”
“And we can help you most by packing ourselves out of your way,” Master Tormichin asserted. “Anywhere you send us is fine with me, your grace.” He elbowed his fellow merchant in the side.
Nemthe swallowed bile and nodded. “With all of us, your grace. I’ve heard of a holding called Chaldona. If it’s possible—“
And there ensued the conversation that ought to have occurred to begin with. Guilt made Pol offer carts to carry people and possessions, and mountain ponies to draw them. Nemthe wanted an escort of one hundred soldiers; Tormichin avowed they needed only thirty. Pol gave them fifty. Isriam, back in control and understanding his part, offered to lead them.
“The two hundred measures to Chaldona won’t be easy,” Pol warned.
“No worse than the many hundreds we Dorvali had traveled thus far, your grace,” Tormichin said. “I’m an old man, far from my hearth and home. But between staying in the middle of a war or a five-day journey over a good road to a safe haven, I know which to choose. Wisdom doesn’t have to bite me on the ankle.”
So Pol got what he wanted. It was settled that on the morrow provisions would be gathered and transportation organized, and the next day the more than three hundred Dorvali would leave for Chaldona. When the two masters had returned to their seats, Pol accepted the wine cup Meiglan handed him and drained it in two swallows.
“Well done, my lord,” she whispered.
She would think so. Dear, loyal, loving Meggie. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand.
*
In the event, it wasn’t necessary to steal Rinhoel’s dragon token. Mevita had one of her own: the gift Pol had sent on the birth of his namesake. Delicately wrought in silver, its hinged neck had unlatched to reveal a bracelet studded with amethysts. The jewels were back at Waes with everything except their wedding necklets, but the silver dragon gleamed from Mevita’s hand in the candlelit antechamber.
“This will do,” she said to Naydra and Cluthine. “I don’t want to make a thief of any of us.”
“Or get anyone caught.” The princess glanced nervously to the closed door. “Will this really work? Are you and Rialt sure about its being significant to the Vellant’im?”
“As sure as it’s possible to be without actually testing it.” Her thumb stroked the dragon’s back. “Rinhoel has one that he won’t let anyone near. Aurar wears one when she goes out riding—and we’re positive where she goes. It makes sense.”
“It does.” Cluthine took the token from her palm. “And we haven’t anything else to go on. I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.”
Mevita sighed. “My husband is going to have me slain for this.”
“We’ve already had this argument,” Cluthine said impatiently. “Naydra’s not strong enough—“
“What you mean is I’m too old,” the princess corrected regretfully. “Twenty-two winters your senior, which ought to make me wise enough not to wish I could go in your place.”
“I’m the logical choice,” Mevita began.
“You have a child,” Cluthine interrupted. “Who do you suggest we send? Rialt? His outburst the night of the ritual made him too visible. Everyone’s watching him now to see what excitement he’ll provide next. No, it has to be me. There’s no one else.” She closed her fingers around the token.
Mevita nodded reluctantly. “We’ve been together in here too long. You leave first and look in on Polev. I’ll stay a while and tell Naydra everything Tilal must know. She can give you the particulars tomorrow morning, Thina, when you go shopping.”
Naydra was frowning. “You haven’t said how you’re going to get a horse from the stables and go out riding by yourself.”
“Aurar does it—and she’s not even a Lady of Mead-owlord. I am. Prince Clutha was my grandfather. It’s about time I got some use of it.”
“Inheritance is a chancy thing,” Naydra remarked mildly. “Mine comes from High Princes and various athr’im of the Veresch—and I can’t say that I’ve ever gotten any use of it at all.”
*
Tobin was asleep. Chay listened to her even, steady breathing for a few moments, thinking that there was no sweeter sound in all the world, then quietly closed the bedchamber door and returned to the anteroom.
“Just as I left her,” he said to Betheyn, and lowered himself into a soft chair. “If I had any sense, I’d be tired enough to join her.”
“You’re overtired. Shall I ring for wine to help you relax?”
“No, but you can stay and talk to me for a while, daughter.”
Settling into a chair opposite his, she smiled her thanks for the fondness. “You miss that, don’t you? Sharing thoughts and ideas back and forth.”
“If not Tobin, then Rohan, and if not him, then Sioned. But it frustrates Tobin not to be able to talk as fluently as she used to. Rohan’s gone. And Sioned—“ He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d bother Maarken or Hollis, but they’re down at the garrison. So you’re the lucky victim, my dear.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word tonight. ‘Victim.’ “
“Is it? I suppose so. Perhaps I feel that way myself. I’m too old for this, Beth. And...” He struggled with it. “It’s just that everything is so dark. As if Rohan took all hope and light with him.” Shaking his head, he finished, “Forgive me. The self-pity of an old man who’s outlived his usefulness.”
“Nobody could have stopped Pol from saying what he did.” Beth toyed with the fringes of a cushion on her lap. “But he found some of the right words toward the end. He just needs time. His light is different from his father’s.”
“If he’d only stop trying to be his father...”
“I think he’s starting to learn that he can’t. Didn’t Prince Rohan, when he first came to rule?”
Chay nodded, his eyes misty with reminiscence. “It’s been so long ago I’d forgotten. But Pol can’t afford to make mistakes. And he was trained from the beginning to be High Prince.”
“Maarken has always known he’d inherit your position as Battle Commander one day—but I doubt he ever thought he’d have to lead an army. Don’t tell him I said this, but I’m surprised he hasn’t made any serious mistakes.”
He snorted. “Maarken is an unnatural son. He and I think exactly alike. It’s the duty of the younger genera- tion to flout its parents’ teachings and authority. Look at that idiot Ludhil, disobeying Chadric by chasing around their island being a soldier! What a miserable world it is that makes scholars saddle up for war.”
“From what Meath says he’s seen, Prince Ludhil isn’t doing too badly even though war isn’t what he was trained for.”
“But Pol was trained to be High Prince,” Chay repeated.
Beth was quiet for a few moments. “All he’s known is the power of it, until now.”
Chay grunted. “He and Rohan were barely on speaking terms half the autumn over power and its uses. Well, Pol has all the power now and he can do as he pleases with it.”
“But it’s so much easier to oppose a parent’s decisions than to decide on one’s own. Pol’s the authority now.”
“And he’s using it with all the obnoxious arrogance of a man who’s scared to death. I saw his face when my other son was mentioned. I only wish—“ he began incautiously, and glanced away from her gentle face.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “I wish Sorin were here, too.”
“He was the link between Andry and Pol,” Chay mused. “He loved them both, and they him. Goddess, if he were only alive—“
“They’d tear his heart out,” Beth replied quietly. “The way they’ll tear Maarken’s.”
Slumping farther into the chair, he propped an elbow on its arm and leaned his chin in his hand. “I shouldn’t say this, either, but fond as I am of Ruala, seeing you at the high table tonight I couldn’t help but think—“
She shook her head fiercely. “I know Meiglan meant well, but I wish she hadn’t done it.”
“You would have graced Feruche as you have graced our lives at Radzyn,” Chay said with great tenderness. “You are my daughter no less than Hollis is. Sorin would have been a fool not to have loved you.”
*
The suite designed for the High Prince was Pol’s now, but the chambers allotted Sioned were nearly as sumptuous. It was the place Pol had stayed the last time he’d been here, during the days they’d mourned Sorin.
An airy solar with two walls of windows was flanked by two bedrooms. All was hung with bright tapestries, furnished in carved woods, decorated with elegant or useful or amusing trinkets. Pol waited in the solar for Meath to inform Sioned of his presence. It was late, and he knew that if she slept, he shouldn’t disturb her. But he needed to talk. He needed his mother—but he also needed the Sunrunner High Princess.
A tapestry depicting the Rialla when it had been held near Waes covered the western wall. He didn’t remember it from his previous visit; it must have been one of the things Sorin ordered but had not lived to see. Gazing at its bright chaos, the colored tents scattered around the river and the bridge leading to the Fair, Pol wondered if anyone would ever see the like again.
Meath returned, leaving the door to Sioned’s room open. “She says you ought to be in bed.”
“So should we all.” He didn’t comment on the fact that there was a cot set up in here, near the fire. Meath had obviously disdained the second bedroom, choosing instead to sleep where and as a guard would sleep. Pol’s gratitude was coupled with a kind of amused tenderness. There were no enemies at Feruche, no danger at all, yet Meath would keep anyone from getting in. Or perhaps, the thought occurred to him, perhaps he would keep Sioned from getting out. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to tell her that the Dorvali will be leaving soon.”
“We’ll need the space. Riyan will be back with his troops once he and Tallain crush those northern vermin.”
“Meath! You sound Desert-born and bred!”
The Sunrunner’s smile took twenty years from his face. “Thank you, my prince.”
Entering his mother’s room, he heard Meath close the door behind him and appreciated the privacy. Sioned sat at an oblong table beside night-blackened windows that reflected the candle branches at the bedside. She didn’t turn at the sound of his soft footsteps on the rug. Light spilled along her shoulders and back, picking out the swirls of the lace shawl she wore over her bedgown, shining on her shorn hair. He realized suddenly that he’d avoided looking at her because of it: almost impossible to connect his mother, the High Princess Sioned, with the sight of that cropped, curling hair.
She lifted a languid hand and waved him closer, still not looking around. “Come have something to drink. You look like you can use it.”
“You heard what happened?”
“I heard.”
He went forward a few paces, then stopped. From this angle, her body no longer concealed what was on the table before her: two large crystal pitchers of near-black Gribain wine. One was empty, the other nearly so.
His mother, the High Princess Sioned, was engaged in getting very, very drunk.
She sipped slowly, staring out at the night, or at her own face amid the pinpoint candle flames in the windows.
“Haven’t you had enough?”
“Probably. If you want some, best hurry.”
Pol advanced another step. “I needed you at dinner tonight.”
“Did you?” Disinterestedly.
“Yes. I made a total fool of myself.”
“You don’t need my help for that.” She poured another cupful.
“Damn it, Mother! Don’t you understand? You’re no use to me like this!” He strode to her and grasped one shoulder, and was appalled to feel the bones starting through the silk and lace.
She looked up at him then, wide green eyes perfectly clear, perfectly sober. “Use?” she repeated almost gently. “How do you mean, my dearest?”
“I need your help,” he said, striving for calm. “I need your wits and your cunning. I need you.”
Shaking her head, the silver in her hair catching the light, she told him, “No, I don’t think so.”
“I need you,” he repeated. “As much or more than Father ever did.”
“Damn you.” Only a whisper, it shrieked her pain.
“Please. We’ve lost him. We’re going to lose everything if—“
“I’ve already lost everything!”
He drew back involuntarily from the look in her eyes. “Mother—“
She laughed. “Do you think I care? I don’t give a damn about castles or princedoms—“
“Or lives? We’ll all be just as dead as he is if we don’t use everything we’ve got!”
“And I’m one of your most useful possessions, is that it? Oh, you’re of Andrade’s blood, right enough! Everyone has a function, everyone is useful in the grand game. Why not use your wife?” She snorted. “Poor, delicate darling—she’s about as useful as a book to a blind man!”
“I don’t expect strength from her!” Pol cried. “But I expect everything from you!”
“So I’m to be strong for you and her and everyone, am I?” She gave him a small, vicious smile. “Sweet son, try to listen carefully. I don’t happen to feel like it.” She drank again, then cradled the empty cup between her hands, as if cherishing the memory of it. “Find someone else. I’ve no more strength to give.”
Pol stood over her, cold and implacable because he had to be. “Father would never have let you get away with such a lie.”
Sioned’s face crumpled for an instant before she glanced away. “Don’t ever use his name against me again.”
Kneeling swiftly, he took one of her hands. “Mother, please. You’re right, I can’t rely on Meggie. It’s not her fault. She’s never had to be strong like this. The others— they do all they can, more than I could ever ask of them. But there’s no one else like you.”
She choked softly and he pressed his lips to her clenched fist. “No,” she breathed. “No, Pol ... I don’t have anything left—“
“I can’t do this alone. Father couldn’t. You were his strength for forty years. I’m asking for some of what you gave him. Mama, I need you.”
When she spoke, her voice shook and the great emerald trembled on her hand. “If ... if I was his strength ... he was mine. And he’s gone. All the Fire is gone. I’ve got nothing left, Pol. Not even for you. I can’t, not now. Perhaps later, when I—when I can think past the sight of his eyes...”
Pol stood and let go of her hand. He smoothed the tousled curls at her nape, as if he was the parent and she his child.
“I’m sorry. You’re tired and I shouldn’t have said any of this.” Bending to press his lips to her cheek, he murmured, “Forgive me.”
Sioned caught at his arm with both hands. “I’m frightened—and everything that used to chase away the fear is lost to me now.”
“I know.” He gazed down into her face that was white and strained and lost, and touched the crescent scar on her cheek. “Try to get some rest.”