Karanaya wanted the pearl back, of course.
So did the Vellant’im. All the pearls.
Used as part of Sioned’s wild conjuring at Faolain Lowland, a single Tear of the Dragon now nested in the mud at the bottom of the moat. The other five were still in Karanaya’s possession. That she had them at all was a miscalculation on the part of the Vellant’im, who had had every expectation of retrieving them the night they’d attacked Faolain Riverport. How were they to know Kar-anaya would leap onto a horse and escape, the precious Tears in a silken bag around her neck?
The Vellant’im wanted the pearls back. All of them.
Johlarian, Sunrunner at Faolain Lowland for many years, had an idea of what to look for. The Tears glowed oddly when one looked with faradhi eyes, almost with an aura of their own. Still—one black pearl stuck in black mud beneath murky water deep enough to cover a horse’s ears?
He advised Karanaya to be content with the five she still had. She informed him that as the enemy had fled, not to return lest the Fire Dragon rise again, he might as well locate it for her. She would then drain the moat if it would help.
The day after this operation began, the Vellant’im returned—Fire Dragon or no Fire Dragon.
The people of Faolain Lowland, out sorrowing over their ruined fields and charred cottages, barely gained the keep ahead of the enemy. Mirsath, its young lord and Karanaya’s cousin, spared exactly one livid curse for her folly before joining his archers at the walls. Johlarian immediately took to the sunlight and begged help from Pol. The High Prince followed him back in time to see the Vellanti advance. And stop.
No Fire Dragon appeared to terrify them. The torrential rain of arrows was only a minor inconvenience to be shrugged aside in contempt. They had come for the Tears of the Dragon, and by the Father of All Winds, they were going to get them.
Ninety warriors, fully half their army, surged forth with shields upraised. Ninety warriors, yelling “Diarmadh’im!” at the top of their lungs, charged across the turf in a brave assault that would surely end with their scaling Lowland’s gates and walls.
Ninety warriors took three running steps into the shallow moat—and began a strange, desperate little dance. Just beneath the lazy water was a layer of knee-deep mud. The ninety didn’t know they were in it until they were in it to their boot-tops.
Shields flew as arms windmilled frantically for balance. Knees pumped wildly, hands tugged at boots, and bodies toppled with a splash. Ninety cursing warriors, dancing madly in the mud, were felled by arrows from above and sucking ooze from below.
The few Vellant’im lucky enough to have gained the causeway fled in very bad order.
It took a while to shoot them all down, despite the ease of the exercise. Like everyone else, Mirsath’s aim was a little off; Karanaya kept dropping the arrows she was supposed to be handing him. They were all laughing too hard.
And so ends the Second Battle of Faolain Lowland! Pol told Johlarian on sunlight. They’re not bad dancers, are they? Let me know the moment they look like trying it again. I could use another laugh like that!
But as he returned to Feruche to tell the tale, he knew that Mirsath was going to need help. The supply of arrows was not endless. The Vellant’im would not be hindered by the moat once it dried—and there was no way to open the sluices from the Faolain again without sacrificing lives.
What did the Vellant’im want with the pearls, though? Was it something to do with dragons? Nothing about their reactions to the great beasts made any sense to Pol.
They had bowed down at Remagev when Azhdeen flew by, as if in worship. They had fled from Sioned’s Fire Dragon at Lowland, utterly terrified. And yet their High Warlord had killed Elidi. And they were willing to die to retrieve a bunch of black pearls they called the Tears of the Dragon.
Pol was damned tired of questions without answers.
*
Rihani was cold again, after a long time of being very, very hot.
He was riding through Syr again with Kostas and Saumer. The cold was the rain, the heat had been the hard exercise of fighting a skirmish. The fire had been in his blood as he killed. The chill was what always came after.
He tugged his cloak tighter around him, coughing a little with the damp. There was a weight in his chest and he knew it was his fear and his guilt. “I’m sorry, my lord,” he said to Kostas, who rode beside him in the night. “Why? You did your duty as a man, as a prince, and as my kinsman.”
“But I was afraid. I hate this. I hate myself for—“
“Hush. You did what you must, Rihani. You did what was necessary. You killed the Merida who killed me.”
But if Kostas was dead—and he remembered now that this was so—why could Rihani hear his uncle’s voice?
He turned, and for just an instant Kostas was there, and nodding proud approval of his courage. He knew he didn’t deserve it, but before he could speak, his uncle vanished. The pressure in his chest got worse.
He took a deep breath. It hurt. He kept trying, but the cough was bad and each time left him more ex- hausted. The air around him was sweet, fragrant with flowers. Spring flowers. He and Saumer had gathered them that morning, setting them in vases and bowls and in a garland over the hearth as a surprise for his gentle aunt.
But it was not Danladi’s touch he recognized now as fingers cradled his head. It was his mother, and he was a little boy who must drink all of the medicine, that’s right, dearest, just a little more, and it tasted strange and sticky-sweet but not too unpleasant.
He tried breathing again, and this time the coughing lasted only a little while. But he was so cold.
Saumer was calling his name, trying to wake him from a sound sleep. They’d been up half the night polishing their new armor for the trip to Dragon’s Rest and the Rialla, and he was so tired. But it wasn’t their own armor they worked on, it belonged to Kostas, and tomorrow (today?) they would buckle it into place for the last time and begin the journey from Catha Heights where he had died to River Run where he had been born.
“Rihani? Please, my son, open your eyes and look at me.”
Oh. Not Saumer. His father. But what was he doing at Catha Heights? Had Waes been taken, or Swalekeep? Who was protecting Mother and Sioneva and Sorin at Athmyr?
“Hush now. No, lie still, it’s all right. Everyone is safe, everyone’s fine,” his father said. “You mustn’t worry about them, Rihani. Just please, dearest, please look at me. Please open your eyes.”
He tried. He tried so hard. His eyelids felt swollen, the lashes heavy. After a long time he saw something pale framed in darkness and all crisscrossed by black spidery lines. He forced his eyes open a little more, and the lines went away.
“That’s it. Look at me, my son. I’m here. It’s all right now.”
He looked harder, and soon enough recognized his father’s face. He felt his lips curve in a smile to answer Tilal’s own, and drew a cautious breath.
And coughed until sparks exploded behind his eyes.
“Rihani!”
More of the pungent sweet medicine. He drank between coughing spasms, held safe in the curve of his father’s strong arm. Slitting his eyes open again, he saw that Tilal had taken one of his hands. He couldn’t feel it. He was cold almost everywhere now, except where his father held him.
He breathed shallowly, trying to store up enough air to be able to speak. He was so tired, and the weight on his chest was an iron circle now, slowly squeezing his ribs against his heart.
“... Father...”
“Yes, my dear?”
He waited, hoping that his hand had obeyed him and pressed Tilal’s fingers. When he could, he said, “I’m ... sorry.”
“Rihani, listen to me,” said the gentle voice, and he felt the movement of lips against his head. “I know what war is. I would have spared you the knowledge of it, but not because I thought you couldn’t face it. I’m your father and I love you, and I want the world to be a sweet place for you. But it isn’t. You’ve seen that now. Listen to me, Rihani. Only a madman enjoys war. Only a fool goes into battle unafraid. You hate and fear war—and that makes you the only kind of man I want to call my son. You are the man and the prince I always knew you would be. Your mother and I are so very proud. And we love you so much.”
Whatever had been shaming him—and he couldn’t quite remember what it was—it was all right now. His father had said so. Smiling, he turned his cheek to the warm strength of his father’s chest, listening to his heartbeat, and closed his eyes.
*
Andrev didn’t recognize the colors that swirled around him in the chill winter air. He was walking the battlements of High Kirat not because he expected anyone to need him as a Sunrunner—Diandra took care of all that here—but because he didn’t know what else to do. There was no comforting Prince Tilal, who had come from his son’s deathbed this morning shattered.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, opening himself tentatively to the unfamiliar colors. Goddess blessing, Sunrunner, he said politely.
And to you, Sunrunner—and cousin. I hope you don’t mind too much, but I asked your aunt Hollis to show me your colors. We haven’t spoken before. I’m Pol.
Andrev almost fell over. Pol! The sunlight steadied around him, woven by a masterful mind.
Trust me, I won’t eat you alive, said the High Prince. Andrev heard the humor, but somehow knew it wasn’t himself being laughed at. Quite frankly, Pol went on, you’re stronger than you know. I wouldn’t care to have you find that out at my expense if I did something you didn’t like. l-l would never dare, your grace. Then you’re not your father’s son. Bitterness, anger, immediately shadowed with contrition. Forgive me, Andrev, that wasn’t fair—or true. It’s just that I’ve been hearing those words about myself recently... I don’t understand, your grace.
That makes two of us. Andrev, I have a favor to ask of you. Will you ask Prince Tilal if he’ll be so good as to march on Faolain Lowland and rid Lord Mirsath of some pesky Vellant’im? It seems they want a set of pearls they call the Tears of the Dragon, and are being rather persistent about it.
I can’t, your grace. I can’t bother my lord right now. He—his son died this morning.
Pol’s colors—clear diamond and bright topaz, dark emerald and misted pearl—quivered with the shock. Rihani? Oh Goddess, no. How?
His wound was getting better. Princess Danladi said it was. But then something happened with his lungs, and—
No, you mustn’t trouble him with this, you’re right. If there’s anything I can—no, of course there’s nothing I can do. There’s never anything I can do.
Had Andrev’s eyes been open, they would have opened even wider. The High Prince, son of Rohan and Sioned, admitting to helplessness?
Pol had sensed his astonishment. What did your father tell you about me—that I have icewater in my veins and snow where my heart should be? Ah, but that’s not fair, either. Andrev, forgive me.
Stranger and stranger: the High Prince asking twice for his pardon. That’s all right, your grace. And—and I’ll mention Faolain Lowland as soon as he’s ready to hear it. He was almost the same as this after Prince Kostas was killed. Not as bad, but— but after a few days, after the shock wore off, he felt a need to go out and do some killing. Yes, I know the feeling, Andrev. It helps a little. Not much, but a little.
Andrev didn’t really understand, so he let it pass and asked, Your grace? Have you—is there any word of my father?
He’s left Goddess Keep. That’s all I know, Andrev. He may be coming here. The rest of the family is well. Tobren is becoming quite a good nurse, helping Chayla with the wounded. I think we may have another Sunrunner physician in the family. It’s a shame they’re getting so much practice.
And more before this is over.
I’m afraid so. Take care of yourself, Andrev. And of Tilal.
When Andrev was alone again with the sunlight, he looked around and found he was not alone on the battlements.
“I saw that you were Sunrunning,” Tilal said quietly. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Andrev had to look away from the prince’s eyes. He could have seen grief, pain, anger, despair, without being frightened. But Tilal’s Kierstian green eyes were empty. “Who was it?”
The boy’s gaze followed the steep switchback road that made High Kirat so easy to defend. Back and forth, back and forth for nearly two measures up the hill, lined and paved with stones taken from terraced fields that in spring would be thick with ripening grain. Tell him or not, tell him or not, his mind nattered in time to the shift of his eyes as they traced the twisting road.
“Andrev? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing, my lord.” He lied to his prince for the very first time. “It was Tobren. She just wanted to talk.”
Joining him at the low stone wall, Tilal said, “I don’t know how to tell Gemma. Not the words or the method. Diandra looked for our court Sunrunner at Athmyr and couldn’t find him.”
“Didn’t you say that your daughter is faradhi, my lord?”
“Sioneva? Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. But the only one who’s ever spoken to her is your father. No one else knows her colors.”
Andrev slanted a quick look upward, then away. Tilal’s eyes were still frightening. “I could send to Aunt Hollis,” he offered. “And she might be able to find my father, and he could tell Sioneva.” Tilal’s brief, bitter laugh made the boy flinch. “Why does everyone hate my father so much?” he burst out. “None of you talk about him except to say something unkind!”
There was life in the green eyes now, and sorrow. “I’m sorry, Andrev. It’s a very long story. And painful.”
“He’s my father. I have a right to know.”
“Perhaps you do.” Tilal braced his hands on the wall and stared unseeingly out at the hills crowned with deep woods. “Andry never wanted to be anything but a Sunrunner. For quite a while, your grandfather didn’t much like the idea. And neither did the other princes. You know recent history, I hope—resistance to faradh’im being allied with any one princedom, and so on. Andry never cared for the politics of it. I think he refused to see that politics were involved at all. What he saw was that Chay didn’t want yet another son becoming a trained faradhi.”
“But my uncle Maarken—“
“Yes. You have to remember, though, that both Maarken and Riyan were experiments of a sort. They knew they’d be coming back to the Desert, taking their places as powerful athr’im. Andry wanted none of that. I think even then he knew he’d become Lord of Goddess Keep. “But nobody expected it to happen so fast. He was so young, barely twenty. Only seven years older than you are now. He hadn’t even earned all his rings yet. But Lady Andrade chose him to rule Goddess Keep after her—only she thought she’d live long enough to train him in the responsibilities.”
“Nobody trusted him,” Andrev said. “They were afraid for him,” Tilal corrected. “He was afraid, too. Imagine being twenty years old and having the ten rings and the armbands put onto you—like shackles, I’d find it.” He shook his head. “He made changes in the way things were done. And there was Sioned, who hadn’t been ruled by Andrade and wouldn’t be ruled by Andry.”
“Like Pol.”
A quiet nod. “Like Pol.”
“But that doesn’t explain why people hate my father.” Andrev clenched his fists. “He only does what he thinks is right. Just like everyone else.”
“True enough,” Tilal admitted. “But you forget that he has the power to compel people to do what he thinks is right.”
“Like Pol,” Andrev repeated. “Not exactly.”
“How is it different?”
Tilal chewed his lip for a moment, then said slowly, “Andrev, what your father is ... is all bound up in what we believe. It has to do with the Goddess, and needing to feel close to her without having to think about it. There are only three rituals in life—Naming, Choosing, and Burning. For you Sunrunners, there are one or two more. But for the rest of us, for our everyday lives...” He sighed. “I’m not explaining this well. The new rituals, those your father introduced, make us feel as if not saying the words keeps the Goddess from hearing us. It puts something between us and her.”
“But it’s only songs and things at sunrise and sunset,”
Andrev protested. “I don’t understand why that should make people hate my father.”
“Some of us feel that Andry is trying to stand between the rest of us and the Goddess.”
Andrev drew back in shock. “That’s not true!”
“Whether it is or it isn’t, that’s how some people feel. Me among them.” He glanced over, then away. “But there is a ritual I would have you help with tonight, if you would.” He closed his eyes. “Will you stand with me while ... while my son...”
“Yes, my lord,” Andrev whispered.
Tilal nodded. A long time later he spoke again—to himself, not to the boy. Not to Andry’s son.
“He would have been the kind of prince Rohan always wanted. Careful and wise, hating war, wanting only the best for his people... It ravaged him, the fighting. The killing. But the time isn’t here when a prince can be what Rihani was. Warriors are still necessary, may the Goddess have mercy on us.” A tremor ran through him. “He wasn’t even eighteen—my firstborn, my son—how am I going to tell his mother? How do I tell Gemma that our son is dead?”
Andrev saw the tall body bend, heard the choked sounds of grief. All at once he understood Pol’s feeling of helplessness. “... nothing I can do ... never anything I can do...”
But there was one thing he could do. He left his prince alone, and searched for other sunlight, and on it, the towers of Feruche.
*
“It needs a delicate touch,” Hollis said worriedly. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“No sign of Andry?” Maarken asked.
“None. He could be anywhere from Ossetia to Princemarch to Syr.”
He paused to pick dead leaves off a bush. They were in the west garden, where it had been Sorin’s elegant whim to plant a maze. Waist-high now, the hedges would take ten more years to grow tall and lush enough for the solid arcades he’d had in mind. There were other mazes at other castles, but Maarken knew where Sorin had gotten the idea for this one. As children, they’d spent whole days in the cellars at Stronghold, cisterns and crates making a lovely maze for little boys. The one Sorin had planned here was definitely the work of a Desert lord; instead of the usual bench-and-bower at its center, those who threaded the maze were rewarded with a pond of cool, clear water.
“Andry’s coming here,” Maarken said.
“Whatever for? And how do you know?”
“I know my brother. It’s obvious by now that the really important part of the war is happening in the Desert. Do you honestly think Andry would or could stay away?”
Hollis searched his eyes. “Because this is his home,” she said firmly.
“Oh, that too, I’m sure,” Maarken replied. “I just hope the damned fool doesn’t take the southern route past the Vellanti army and try to set them all on Fire.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“Perfectly. I hope somebody’s told him that their tents, like their sails, don’t burn.” He went on ripping at yellowed leaves. “So what are we going to do about Sioneva?”
“Maybe Pol or Meath could—“
“Maybe. But you know which Sunrunner among us has the finest control and the gentlest touch.”
Hollis shook her head. “I don’t want to bother her.”
“Nobody does. I’m beginning to agree with Pol. It’s been twenty-five days. She’s got to stop this before she kills herself.”
“I know how much wine goes up to her rooms. In the last few days, it hasn’t been. Will you stop shredding that bush and look at me!”
He did, only to look away again and start down the path toward the center of the maze.
“Maarken!”
Swinging around, he demanded, “Are you going to tell Sioned what she has to do, or am I?”
His wife’s soft blue gaze turned cold and remote as distant mountains. But only for a moment. Maarken hated himself for causing the sorrow that brimmed in Hollis’ eyes.
“You’re worried about Rohannon, aren’t you?” he murmured.
She nodded, bending her head. “They’re so close in age ... their names ... both called after Rohan—oh, Maarken, I’m sorry for Gemma and Tilal but all I can think about is our son.”
Taking her in his arms, he buried his lips in her hair and said, “I know. I know. And I can’t bear being afraid for him and useless to everyone else—“ Suddenly it poured from him, like poison from a wound. “Chayla looks like a shadow, Sioned might as well be one—so many children sick and the castle so silent with it—and those whoresons living in our Whitecliff, our Radzyn— and Meiglan, sweet Goddess, Meiglan ordering executions—and the hurt in your eyes that I can’t cure, that I only make worse—“
She cradled his face in her hands. “Don’t, love. You mustn’t. Please.”
“You see?” he demanded bitterly. “I’m only hurting you more by telling you this, but there’s no one else.”
Hollis gave him a tender smile. “I will be your thyria, my love. Every dragon needs one for shelter in a storm.”
Startled, he asked, “How did you hear about that?”
“Lord Kazander was singing about it the other night.” She paused, then added thoughtfully, “Actually, Lord Kazander was singing to our daughter.”
Maarken snorted. “When she starts singing along, then I’ll worry. I haven’t heard mention of the thyria tree in years. It’s only legend.” He held her tighter. “But you’re right. You are mine.”
“And no legend,” Hollis murmured, rubbing her cheek to his.
“Oh, I don’t know. A legendary beauty, certainly, to hear everyone tell it.”
“Mmm,” she purred. “I could learn to like this.”
He laughed, glad to do so. “After eighteen years, you’re still only learning?”
“After eighteen years, I’ll still rise to the lure.”
“And so will I, which is indecent in the middle of the morning. I—“ He broke off, his head turning instinctively to the southern tower. Hollis didn’t share the perception, but after eighteen years she knew the signs well enough. And it wasn’t just any dragon that soared over Feruche, but Maarken’s own Pavisel, black as night against the blue sky, silvery underwings gleaming like gathered stars.
The flight of dragons led by Azhdeen had more or less taken up residence at Skybowl. They fed in the nearby hills, drank of the clear lake water, and nested at night on the slopes of the crater. Every so often one or the other would fly up to Feruche as if to check on things— but none had ever slid down the wind to perch on the curtain wall before. Pavisel did just that, and trumpeted an unmistakable summons to Maarken.
He and Hollis ran for the main courtyard. They passed Meiglan on the way, standing white and still as ice as she stared at the dragon. Maarken was curiously pleased— and felt a little guilty because of it—that at least this was the Meiglan he knew, with her terror of dragons. Then he forgot everything else as Pavisel caught him in a powerful weave of light.
The picture was clear, distinct, and sharply colored by a ferocious anger. Vellanti troops on the march, over four hundred of them, leaving their camp outside Stronghold’s ruin and heading due north for Skybowl. Pavisel growled then, as if to demand, Well? What are you going to do about it?
Maarken gazed up at the dragon where she balanced daintily on crenellated stone. So you don’t much like the bearded ones, eh? No more do I, my lovely. He responded with a conjuring of their own soldiers, adding Pol’s dragon banner. She liked that, and hummed low in her throat while making an addition of her own: Maarken’s orange and red pennant, Sunrunner’s Fire on a silver staff. And flying higher than Pol’s own flag, he noted with amusement.
Having done what she came to do, Pavisel launched herself back into the sky. Maarken watched her go, aware of the awed silence in the courtyard. From behind him, Riyan broke it in sardonic tones.
“If your dragon is quite finished digging dents in my castle walls, maybe you’d like to tell us what that was all about.”
*
Meiglan knew by now how to make ready for war. She knew what orders to give Pol’s two squires about his armor, and what clothing to lay out, and to pack an extra shirt into his saddlebags herself after she sent the boys down to the kitchens for his share of food. But never, ever, would she know how to tell Pol good-bye.
She knew the outward forms by now. She had used them to excellent effect. They all looked at her differently since her half-brothers had died, and when they said “your grace” or “my lady,” High Princess was in their voices. She had used power, and that made her powerful.
But the change went no deeper than the looks and words. They were different. She was not. She was still only Meiglan. For that brief, deadly while she had thought of herself as the High Princess. Now she was only herself again—but what they saw when they looked at her was what she had been as she ordered the executions.
“Meiglan” shared a father with those three men. The High Princess could not allow them to live. So she had stopped being “Meiglan” and become High Princess. It had been that simple, that obvious. She must not be herself, for that woman had no power.
That other woman, though, her word and her lifted hand could cause death.
During that time she had made a mistaken equation between outward form and internal function. If she be- haved as a High Princess ought, then surely that was what she would become. Appearances created reality.
For other people, perhaps. She had shown them a woman of power. They would treat her as such from now on. They would not know—and must not discover—that it was only something she had worn for a little while, like a cloak or a crown. It was real, but it wasn’t hers. The appearance was false, and the reality was just Meiglan.
She wished she could talk about it with Pol, but explaining it would expose her weakness. And he needed her to be strong. So she would be, for him. It was easier somehow when it was only for him.
As Kierun and Dannar finished the last buckles and bowed themselves out of the chamber, Meiglan called on the High Princess and wasn’t too surprised to feel a smile come to her lips.
“Kill a hundred of them for me.”
It wasn’t the right thing to say. Pol actually flinched. She tried again.
“But don’t you dare let them so much as bruise you, my lord.”
That was a little better. He smiled slightly and said, “Or you’ll go out and bruise them right back?” But his look was still dark. Earlier, before he’d been strapped into his armor, his eyes had picked up the Desert blue of his tunic; now they reflected the violet of his cloak. The tiny golden wreaths she had stitched over the yoke, like a collar around his broad shoulders, seemed dull compared to the gleam of his sun-bleached hair. He was a prince to his fingertips, a warrior, a Sunrunner. But the eyes that searched her own were her husband’s eyes: worried, tender, loving.
Meiglan suddenly found herself enfolded by his arms and the heavy cloak. She squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled his familiar scent, but the leather of his armor and the wool of his cloak spoiled the illusion. She couldn’t be his wife. She had to be the High Princess.
“Meggie,” he said into her hair, “Meggie, I want you to listen to me. I want you to go back to Dragon’s Rest with the girls.”
Every muscle in her body turned to stone. “Pol? No, I don’t underst—“
“Listen,” he repeated, and with one finger turned her face up to his own. “We’ve said before that Skybowl is the perfect place for the battle. Especially with the dragons there. I don’t know how we’ll use them, but we will. I think this will be the fight that pays for all.”
“And I’ll wait right here until you come back with your victory.”
“I’m confident that we’ll win. But if we don’t—“
“No!” she cried. “Don’t ever say that!”
“Meggie! I have to know that you and the girls are safe. Dragon’s Rest is the best place for you. Edrel is there to protect you. If it comes to it, Ostvel will march there with his army as well.”
“My father is there, too,” she reminded him, starting to tremble and hating herself for it. “What about him?”
Pol smiled down at her, stroking her cheek. “Any woman who can do what you did the other day can make kindling out of Miyon of Cunaxa. Besides, what can he do? His princedom is gone, and his sons. There’s nobody at Dragon’s Rest to help him—and everybody to watch every move he makes. He has nothing now, Meiglan. Kick him out of the palace if you don’t want to look at him. You needn’t concern yourself with him at all.”
“But—“
His smile died. She realized then that it had never reached his eyes. “I must know you’re safe, and far away from the fighting. And I want the girls out of here before they catch this sickness from the others.”
She stared up at him, unable to believe that he was sending her away. After all she had been through to come to him at Stronghold—
A thing she had done out of fear. The High Princess was never afraid.
“There’s another thing, too,” he said, and his voice had changed, hardened. “If something does happen to me, you’ll be regent for Jihan. She’s the elder. My heir.
We’ve never talked to her about it, and I hope you won’t need to. But if the worst happens, everyone has orders to go to Dragon’s Rest. Chay is old, but he was Battle Commander until this year and what he doesn’t know about war isn’t worth knowing. But you’ll be the regent, Meggie. You’ll have to protect Jinan, and help her.” He hesitated. “She’s diarmadhi. That’s something we’ve never talked about, either. But if what Naydra says is true, then it may be she’ll have help from sorcerers who believe as this Branig did. It’s Jihan they’ll call Diarmad-h’reia, Jihan they’ll fight for.”
“Andry won’t,” Meiglan heard the High Princess say. Pol’s eyes lit with a cold fire. “Probably not. But Andry may decide to be reasonable.”
She had never liked the Lord of Goddess Keep. Andry intimidated her even when he was being kind. Especially when he was being kind. But the thought that he might refuse help to her daughter suddenly infuriated her. “He will decide what I tell him to decide,” she said grimly.
He stared for a moment, then smiled and hugged her tight. “The High Princess has said it, and it will be so,” he told her. “Goddess help Andry!”
“She won’t help the Vellant’im.” Meiglan heard noises outside in the hallway; the squires’ tactful warning that it was time to leave. “I’ll go to Dragon’s Rest, my lord. But it’s not necessary. You’ll drive them down the Long Sand into the sea.”
“I hope so. But it may take a little while. I promise that the moment this battle is over, I’ll send someone to let you know.” He paused again, rubbing his cheek to her hair. “Meggie, it’s selfish of me. Sending you home. I want to know that there’s someplace that hasn’t changed, something I won’t lose. I need you to be safe for my own reasons, love. I want to think of you there, and the life we’ve always had. What all this has done to us— what it might do to the girls if it lasts much longer—it doesn’t bear thinking about.” His voice took on a desperate passion. “I want our life back, Meggie. Our own life, where neither of us has to kill people no matter how necessary it is.”
She looked up, frightened. “Pol? Did I do wrong? Did I—“
“No, of course you did the right thing. They deserved to die, if only for the pain they caused you. But no one should be forced to do such things—certainly not you, my love. It broke my heart to watch you do it. And it scared me to death.”
“You? Never.” She simply couldn’t imagine it, and was more terrified than ever by his reply.
“Oh, Meiglan—almost all the time these days.” He gave a quiet sigh. “I want things back the way they were. I want to see you happy and safe, not ordering people killed.”
“But I had to, as High Princess,” she said slowly. “I never really thought about what would happen when you became—but now it’s here and—”
“It’s not what either of us expected, is it?”
“Pol, you can make everything right again. But will people let you?”
His jaw set. “I don’t know. But it won’t be because I haven’t tried.”
“You will,” she told him, and it was everything in her speaking now, going back to the first days she’d known him. He could do anything. “The Vellant’im will all die and you’ll come home to me at Dragon’s Rest and everything will be as it always was.”
At last she had found exactly the right thing to say. He smiled down at her, the softness of his eyes matching the curve of his lips. “If you believe it, then so must I.” He glanced around as someone knocked on the door. “It won’t be long, Meggie. I promise. We have the advantage of Skybowl—“
“Your grace?” Dannar called from outside. “I’m sorry, but—“
“In a moment!” he said over his shoulder. Meiglan couldn’t help it; she clung tighter to Pol, knowing she shouldn’t. To cover her body’s treachery she made her mouth speak calm, reasoned words. “We’ll leave tomorrow, with Laroshin to command the guards and—“
Pol had no use for words or reason. He lifted her off her feet and crushed her to his chest, and as always his passion broke over her like a summer storm. She was bruised by his arms and his lips and the stiff leather of his armor, and clung to him just the same.
He had just set her down when the door opened and their daughters burst through. Meiglan watched Pol gather them up in his arms and smile and kiss them, and admonish them to be good and not to plague poor Edrel to be their dragon and to take care of their mother.
And then he was gone.
“Can we go up to the tower, Mama, and see the army ride?”
“Yes, Jinan,” she said, “as long as you don’t get in anyone’s way.”
“We won’t! Thank you, Mama! C’mon, Lynnie!”
She closed the door behind them, and faced the empty room. The empty bed, where last night—
Quietly, efficiently, the High Princess began to pack.