Prince Arlis of Kierst-Isel — canny ruler of two princedoms, husband to a cherished wife, father of three fine children, an intimate of the High Prince’s circle by friendship as well as blood, able commander of the war fleet in harbor at Einar — had at the moment one simple ambition. He wanted to speak a single sentence to its finish.
A lesser man, faced with Lord Sabriam’s selective deafness, would have given up long since. Arlis was young enough and stubborn enough to keep hoping he would eventually succeed.
“The storm kept them busy for a while, but now they’re sailing down Brochwell — “
“How do you like this piece?” Sabriam, Lord of Einar and probably the richest man in all the princedoms (excluding Pol), gestured for his harpers to play louder. “I wrote it myself. Music is only a different form of mathematics than account books — and I do so enjoy both,” he added, smiling all over his long, pale face.
“Lovely,” Arlis said because he was expected to. Personally, he found the tune chilly and too precise. Music ought to be made with the heart as well as the brain. “Tell me, my lord, had you given any thought to — “
“You certainly are Lord Maarken’s boy, aren’t you?” Sabriam went on as Rohannon circled the small table, pouring more wine. “How’s your charming mother, my lad? Still as beautiful as ever?”
“Yes, my lord.” Rohannon smiled back. “I was wondering if I might — “
“So many pretty women in the Desert,” Sabriam mused, picking over a plate of delicacies. His were not the hands of a musician or a scrivener; they were large, thick-fingered, and strong enough to choke a wolf. “I always look forward to Riall’im for that very reason. Dragon’s Rest is a fine enough place, I’m sure, but the scenery is vastly improved when the Desert ladies arrive. Try one of these sugared pears, Arlis. My cook stuffs them with chopped nuts and steeps them in wine syrup.”
“Thank you, I’m—“
“Perhaps some of this.” He sliced off a large chunk of layered cheese—five different kinds and colors wrapped in a pastry shell—and popped it in his mouth.
Never, not even at Dragon’s Rest, had Arlis seen so many marvelous things to eat. Never had he seen anyone eat so much and so constantly, and not weigh upwards of twenty silkweights. Sabriam was as thin as a rail, and looked utterly strengthless but for those huge, powerful hands.
Nor had Arlis ever met anyone with more exquisite hearing. Sabriam could hear the cork slide from a bottle in his wine cellars. But every time Arlis or Rohannon got five words into any topic the Lord of Einar disliked, Sabriam’s deafness was as instantaneous as his interruptions. At first, Arlis seized on the moments when the man’s mouth was full—and there were plenty of them— to ask his questions. He learned very quickly that concentration on food was absolute; Sabriam really didn’t hear anything while he chewed and savored and swallowed.
Arlis wanted to know if Sabriam would cooperate in reoutfitting his ships, making repairs, and buying provisions. Rohannon wanted to know if Einar’s court Sunrunner would teach him more about their craft. The only thing Sabriam wanted to know was whether his son and heir, Isriam—Pol’s squire now that Rohan was dead— was all right. Assured of the young man’s safety and health, he had heard nothing they’d said since. That had been seven days ago.
Perhaps, Arlis thought, perhaps there was a moment— just after swallowing broke the dreamy contemplation of a mouthful and before the judicious selection of another morsel—that might find Sabriam vulnerable. Somehow, he doubted it.
Lady Isaura had been no help. She was mourning her sister, Lady Cluthine, and her uncle, Prince Halian. Sharing her husband’s adoration of fine food but not his immunity to its effects, she was a great gray-velvet presence in the corner of the solar, with none of the wispy beauty of a cloud and all the solid bulk of thick fog. Rohannon had commented this morning that Isaura and Sabriam resembled nothing so much as a heavy hoop and the thin stick that rolled it.
Arlis had hoped she’d roll herself down to the docks, or at least to the maritime office at the residence, and decree all needed assistance from local chandlers and the like. Failing that, she could with the stroke of a pen have authorized his credit with them. For even though he was now prince of both Kierst and Isel with all the resources of two lands behind him, no one in these troubled times dealt on any but a cash basis.
The Hell of it was that he needed repairs and supplies, and there was nowhere else to go. His own people were doing what they could, but nothing substituted for skilled shipwrights—or the treated wood they worked with. Arlis had inherited nothing of the Kierstian Sunrunner gift and everything of his Iseli grandfather Saumer’s love for ships; it tore his guts out to see the makeshift patching done to hulls damaged in the battle with the Vellant’im.
Between the apologetic but unyielding caution of the merchants and the selective deafness of their lord, Arlis was very close to breaking heads. The first two days in Einar, he’d seen to his troops and his ships, getting an idea of what was needed and spending very little time with Sabriam. The third and fourth days had been spent trying to convince the dockside folk that his credit was good. The fifth day was wasted trying to get a word in— straight on, edgewise, backward, however—with Sabriam. He didn’t really begrudge the time spent here; the wind was wrong anyway, and his people deserved a rest.
The sixth day, he’d accepted Lord Bosaia’s invitation to go fishing. Nothing like relaxing in a sailboat to inspire one’s thoughts to creativity. But Sabriam’s brother had brought along his ten-year-old son in a fairly obvious attempt to win Arlis’ interest in making the boy his next squire. Anheld chattered incessantly all morning; Arlis pleaded fatigue at noon and spent the rest of the day growling in his chambers.
Yesterday, the seventh of his sojourn in Einar, Isaura had cornered him and Rohannon to tell her all that they knew about what had happened at Swalekeep. She had heard it all from the court Sunrunner, of course, but wished to hear it again. Arlis had thought repetition of the sacrifices of her sister and the brave death of her uncle would push her into offering her help. But she only sat and cried, and rambled on about her terrible loss, and vowed she could think of nothing other than their dear faces, certainly not about nasty things like war.
Rohannon, who had met Isriam at Stronghold several times before leaving for Kierst-Isel, was of the opinion that the son resembled neither parent—and a good thing, too, or he would have driven Uncle Rohan quite mad.
Arlis was not about to suffer that fate. He thought of himself as a patient man, but this was the outside of enough. He signaled to Rohannon and got to his feet. Sabriam didn’t even glance at him.
“... as I told my brother Bosaia the other day, the Spring Hunt should be—“
“My lord,” Arlis said firmly, determined to speak his piece if he had to shove a rug down Sabriam’s throat to shut him up, “I regret to say that I can accept no more of your kind hospitality and must leave immediately.”
“Leave?” Sabriam was betrayed into a blink. “For where?”
“Goddess Keep, where the Vellanti fleet has gone. They must be stopped.” As Sabriam drew breath, Arlis plowed on, “Rohannon says they’ve been stalled by the winds so far, but that will change. And if I must sail without proper stores, or arms, or with holes in my ships, then so be it. I can wait here no longer.”
“Oh, they won’t dare attack Goddess Keep again,”
Sabriam assured him. “Do sit down, have a taste of this cake—“
“Thank you, my lord, but no. Rohannon?”
They started out of the solar—and ran smack into two men in armor and a staggeringly beautiful woman in white furs.
“Laric?” Arlis stared at the taller of the men. “What in the Name of—“
The Prince of Firon gaped at the Prince of Kierst-Isel. “Arlis? I saw your colors flying from the masts, but—“
The next Prince of Fessenden—who had yet to tell Arnisaya that her fatherless son was not in competition for the honor—pushed past them both and strode into the room.
“Sabriam,” he began, “what’s all this idiocy I hear about not giving Prince Arlis everything he needs?”
*
Properly applied, power was a lovely thing.
Before Arnisaya had even removed her furs, Sabriam had ordered a page to run down to the docks and command his steward there to set everything in motion. They would work through the night if necessary, but all repairs and replenishing of stores would be finished by morning.
Isaura did not look very pleased to see Camanto; Laric eyed him as they handed their cloaks to Rohannon and whispered, “I thought you said she was a friend of yours.”
“When she was younger—and thinner,” Camanto replied. He went to her chair to bow over her hand and compliment her on her beauty. “Which is greater than ever, my lady, even though tinged with such sadness after your tragic losses. I was so sorry to hear—“
“Yes, thank you,” she snapped, snatching her hand away. Tears did not instantly follow mention of Cluthine and Halian, which Arlis noted with an irritated frown. He wondered quite suddenly what she and her husband meant by delaying him here.
“May I hire one of your ships to take me to Snow- coves?” Laric asked him, low-voiced. “It seems my wife’s brother has decided he can rule Firon better than I. Prince Camanto has kindly joined me in the effort to demonstrate otherwise.”
“Kindly, or self-servingly?” Arlis muttered. Laric shrugged.
“We don’t discuss his motives much. But he has one very important one. He believes Yarin to be supported by sorcerers.”
“Sorcerers? Has he any proof?”
“A long tale, and one I’ll save for private. But whatever the circumstances, my princedom and my son are in danger. Will you help me, Arlis?”
“With great pleasure. And no more about ‘hiring’ one of my ships.” He grinned. “Lord Sabriam’s example of generosity has moved me to the same.”
Meantime, Isaura was watching Camanto draw a chair closer to the hearth for Arnisaya. Heavy black lashes drooped a little, and a little menacingly, over dark brown eyes, especially when Camanto’s fingers swept a subtle caress to the princess’ waist. Isaura didn’t see Arnisaya’s quick glance of surprise at the gesture—the first time he had willingly touched her since Edirne’s death—but she did see her former lover’s smile.
Sabriam was watching, too. His fingers clenched briefly around the stem of a golden wine cup. But his voice was as smoothly innocent as ever as he said, “Prince Camanto, do sit here by me and have a little of this pastry.”
*
Andry had been to Dragon’s Rest four times, so the landscape was familiar to him. But that bright dawn, Princemarch seemed enchanted.
The snow had stopped yesterday afternoon, and with sudden sunshine had come a brief thaw. Andry had spent the night shivering in a shepherd’s abandoned hut, glumly positive that with the morning he would be combing his hair with icicles instead of fingers. His first look outside made him catch his breath and forget his discomfort. The overnight freeze had caught meltwater in long, thin trickles from every hedge and tree. Each blade of grass poking up through the snow was wrapped in its own glassy casing; bare branches were cloaked in clear, shining shawls. And from it all the sun glinted in colors that called joyfully to his faradhi senses.
He rode through a forest of crystal and rainbows—and music, as sliding icicles shivered others with a sound like chimes. Sometimes he drew rein and simply listened, holding his breath, eyes wide and laughter hovering in his throat. Goddess in all her wonders be praised, the world was a glorious place!
There was a layer of ice atop the creek that ran through the Dragon’s Gullet—an unlovely name for the beautiful and eminently defensible ravine that led into the valley. Andry dismounted and cracked a boot heel through the ice, bending to splash water on his face. Gasping with the shock, he dried his hands on his cloak and closed his eyes to the cascades of snow clinging to the canyon walls. He concentrated, and within moments had finished. He was becoming rather good at this; Evarin would be proud of him.
But Evarin was the person he avoided most of all as he was escorted to Princess Lisiel’s rooms. The sentries had challenged him well before the ravine broke open into the valley, but he was obviously harmless—although they did take his sword. There was nothing remotely sinister about this dark-haired, dark-eyed, clean-shaven man of anywhere between thirty and forty-five winters, the condition of his clothes and his tired horse silently restating his claim that he had ridden a very long way. Where from? Swalekeep, of course, with news for the Princess Alasen.
“Too late, friend,” one of the guards told him. “She rode out yesterday for Feruche.”
Andry shrugged, privately seething. Couldn’t the fool woman stay in one place more than two days together?
He gave his prepared speech to Lisiel, surprised to find her in charge of Dragon’s Rest. But Edrel and Norian had gone south to help her crippled brother Elsen, and Miyon was not a candidate for supreme authority here even though this was his daughter’s residence. Andry hid surprise and worry at the news of Elsen’s destination. What sort of trouble was Torien in at Goddess Keep to make him call for help?
When Andry added almost as an afterthought that Chi-ana was not to be found anywhere between Swalekeep and Dragon’s Rest, Lisiel sighed in pure relief.
“Goddess be thanked for her goodness. Although what sort of welcome Chiana thinks she’d have here is beyond my imagining.”
“If she was admitted to your presence, your grace...” He let himself smile. “I’m told she’s rather creative with her tongue.”
Lisiel snorted indelicately. “If you mean she can lie like 3 carpet on a bare stone floor, you’re right. And now I think you’d better go have something hot to eat. You’re a walking icicle, you poor man. Have the steward find you a bed, too. You could use some sleep, I’m sure.”
Thanking her, he bowed his way from her presence and started for the kitchens, pausing to ask directions as a newcomer would. At one turning he caught sight of Hildreth and slipped into a side hallway. She would not be looking for a Sunrunner, let alone the Lord of Goddess Keep himself, but she might be more perceptive than was safe for him right now.
Andry waited a little while, pretending to inspect a tapestry, then started for the kitchens again. Something to eat, a little rest—though not sleep, for his assumed face would vanish as he slept—and then he would be ready to find Prince Miyon.
So intent was he on weaving the story more tightly for Miyon’s benefit that he slammed right into one of the servants.
The man stumbled back. Andry looked at him.
“My Lord!” blurted Evarin.
“Shut up!” Andry exclaimed. He glanced swiftly around; no one had seen them. “Meet me in the Green
Library, the one with the maps—you know it? Good. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve eaten. Go on, hurry! We can’t be seen together!”
“Yes, my—uh, yes,” Evarin stammered, and fled.
As the cook’s assistant plied him with hot soup and fresh bread, Andry made a show of complaining about the maze of corridors at Dragon’s Rest, and how easy it was to get lost in their turnings. That would give him a reason for becoming confused enough to end up in the Green Library—and for happening upon Prince Miyon later today. He made himself ask for a second cup of taze when a pair of guards came in to flirt with the maids, and begged directions from them to the guest servants’ quarters. Better to spread it on thick than thin.
At last he rose, complimented the girl on her cooking—she blushed; evidently his new face was a handsome one—and left the warm kitchen for the cold hallways. A short time later he let himself silently into the Green Library, sparing not a glance for the gorgeous rugs and velvet upholstery that gave it its name.
Evarin was wearing a path in one of Pol’s carpets. He swung around as Andry came in. “My Lord, don’t think I’m not glad to see you, but what in the Name of the Goddess are you doing here?”
*
Laric and Arlis said more or less the same thing to each other in private. The answers brought more questions—and Arlis’ sudden decision that Goddess Keep could fend for itself. He was going to Firon with all his ships and soldiers.
“I can’t ask that of you—“
“You don’t have to. Rohannon says that even without Andry, Goddess Keep’s defenses are adequate. And they’ve got all those people outside the walls to fight for them now. Besides, I have no intention of having done to me what was done to Tilal. Let someone else come to their rescue. Your trouble up in Firon is more dangerous.”
Laric chewed his lip for a moment. “I can’t believe it of Yarin. I’m married to his sister, for the Goddess’ sake! My sons are his nephews!”
“I believe it, all right,” Arlis responded grimly, leaning forward in his chair to stir the fire with an iron poker. “He was none too happy when you were made ruling prince.”
“But that was more than eighteen years ago! There’s been no indication—“
“Would you give any, if you wanted to keep what’s yours? Lord Patwin was the perfect vassal to Prince Kos-tas, too. And look what he tried to do.”
“Yarin can’t hope to keep what he’s trying to steal.”
“Not without someone very powerful behind him. Which is why I’m inclined to Camanto’s view.” He paused a moment. “Goddess. Can you imagine telling your people that they’ll have to fight an army of diarmadh-‘imT
“Why do you think I haven’t said anything about Camanto’s suspicions to my troops? And I see I’ll have to agree with you both. It’s more than just a suspicion.” Suddenly Laric put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “When I think of Tirel, all alone and helpless—he just turned seven, not twenty days ago. If Yarin harms my boy, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”
“Well, we have to get there first. I’ll have Rohannon watch as he can at Balarat, see who’s at Snowcoves and who isn’t, what the best plan might be. How many at Snowcoves can you count on?”
“I thought I could count on Yarin,” the prince replied bitterly.
“You were wrong,” Arlis said bluntly. “It’s the privilege of your position that you’ve got the power to make amends for your mistake.”
Laric sat back in his chair. “That’s Pol talking, not Rohan.”
“I was Pol’s squire, and frankly, I find his example a better one these days than his father’s. Forgive me, I know your family’s affection for Rohan, but we can’t invite the Vellant’im to a conference and read them the law.”
“Or the diarmadh’im, either,” Laric said, “Very well, Arlis. Ask what you need to know, and I’ll tell you as best I can.”
*
“But that’s insane!” If Andry had had just a little more energy left, he would have sprung from his chair and paced as Evarin was doing. “Why send Meiglan back here? She’s safe enough at Feruche. Sorin built it so it could never be taken.”
“That’s what they said about Radzyn,” Evarin replied. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but it’s true.”
“Radzyn wasn’t taken” Andry corrected, scowling. “My father—“
“Whatever,” the physician interrupted, then shook his head. “Another apology, my Lord. I’m too accustomed to asserting myself here, to counter Hildreth’s influence.”
“I don’t understand.”
“She doesn’t like you,” Evarin said in mild tones.
“So what? Neither do half the Sunrunners who were trained by Lady Andrade.”
“No, I mean she really doesn’t like you. If she knew you were here, she’d tell Pol if she had to go shadow-lost to do it. You haven’t heard her talk about you, Andry. As far as she’s concerned, you’ve perverted every aspect of Goddess Keep and made her ashamed to be a Sunrunner. Some of the arguments we’ve had—“
“Regarding my transgressions? Or regarding your relative places here?”
“Both. What she gets from Hollis and the others, she doesn’t tell me. And who can say what she knows that I don’t?”
“And if you don’t know, neither do I, is that it?” Andry laughed again. “Oh, Evarin, you are so young! I really ought to fine you one of your rings as punishment for doubting me.”
The physician stopped before the map table and planted both fists on it. “What do you mean?”
“Only this.” Andry rose and stretched. He craved rest, but would have to wait until after he’d seen Miyon. “Did it ever occur to you that Hildreth was a little too emphatic? That she reviled me a little too much?”
Evarin’s jaw dropped.
“Pol always knew I had someone here at Dragon’s Rest, keeping an eye on him. He allowed it because that’s how the game is played. I know there’s someone at Goddess Keep, too. Part of the fun is not knowing exactly who it might be.”
“Fun—?” Evarin choked out. “Fun?”
“If I can do nothing about it, then I might as well amuse myself with it.” Andry lost his smile. “The point is this. Hildreth, though she was part of the group that brought Sioned to the Desert in 698, was never caught in my dear aunt’s spell as the rest of them were. Meath, for instance. He’d give his life for her, but he wouldn’t offer me his extra cloak in the rain.”
“You mean all this time Hildreth has been—“
“Exactly. She tells me what I wish to know about what happens here. But don’t let on that you know. Keep arguing with her. It wouldn’t do for Pol to have even a hint that his faithful court Sunrunner isn’t.”
Evarin nodded. “Who do you think it is at Goddess Keep?”
“I haven’t a clue,” Andry said breezily, as if it didn’t matter. “But you know now why I trust so few people.”
“Only the devr’im.”
“And you.”
“Why?”
Andry smiled again. “Because I gave you what you wanted most in the world. In return, you gave me your loyalty. That isn’t a thing one can buy, Evarin, and certainly not command. It must be given freely—and accepted without demands put upon it.”
After a moment, the physician said musingly, “You know, you would have made an excellent High Prince.”
“You know, I think so, too.” He laughed without humor. “But Pol can keep the job. It’s not a Hell I covet. Now, tell me how I can accidentally encounter Miyon this time of day.”
*
In the event, Miyon sent for him. Having heard that a courier had come to Dragon’s Rest with news from Lord Ostvel, the prince commanded the man’s presence in the early afternoon. Not only did Miyon want information—and was irked with Lisiel for not including him in on the first hearing of it—but he knew that his impersonation of loyal father-by-marriage could use some burnishing.
The courier, once assured they were alone and unobserved in Miyon’s chambers, claimed to be a Merida. The prince backed up a pace.
“If you are, which I doubt, you’re out of your mind to be here.”
“Not all of us wear the warrior’s scar, your grace.” The man shrugged. “It can be something of a fatal liability in some circles.”
“You can have nothing to say that I wish to hear.”
“Judge that after you’ve listened.”
“Why should I?”
“Because even though Birioc failed, there is still hope.”
It had been a frustrating Autumn and an infuriating Winter, but suddenly Miyon laughed and went on laughing until his stomach ached and he had to grope his way to the nearest chair.
“By the Father of Storms,” he managed at last, “you must be a Merida! No one else talks so stupidly! Lady Merisel destroyed your masters and most of you. Zehava finished the work of taking your lands and castles. Rohan slaughtered you. Pol damned near annihilated you not fifteen days ago. And still you talk of hope!”
Broad shoulders shrugged. “Yet we are still here. More importantly, the Vellant’im are now here. And from them we Merida receive our hope.”
“Oh, fine. You have my leave to do whatever you like. Enjoy yourself. Breed up another generation in time for Rohannon’s turn at playing Battle Commander of the Desert. And then his son after him, and his—it never stops for you Merida, does it? But hear me well, and take my words back to the High Warlord or whatever madman sent you. For me it stops now, and forever.”
“What if Princess Chiana and Prince Rinhoel are waiting in a safe place for the Vellant’im to join them?”
“What if plow-elk were dragons?”
“What if the diarmadh’im will be coming as well, to mount an attack on Dragon’s Rest?”
“What if I called the guard and told them what you really are?” But Miyon’s brain tantalized him with a glorious image. Much as he tried to banish it, the picture of himself at the head of an army was too sweet to deny. The Merida was smiling just a little. “What if I told you that after the palace is taken, as senior prince you will escort Rinhoel here in triumph and proclaim him Ruler of Princemarch?”
His pretty vision included no such thing. He scowled. “Why would I want to do a fool thing like that? And what makes Chiana think she can take Dragon’s Rest in the first place? She lost Swalekeep.”
“She had no help in keeping it.”
“And the sorcerers will throw in with her now?” He snorted. “Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess. Because Rinhoel is Roelstra’s grandson, and thus the rightful prince. Do me a favor! Neither those bearded savages nor the diarmadh’im strike me as being particularly interested in lawful succession.”
“Rinhoel is useful—for the time being.” Miyon hesitated, then shook his head. “No, you’ll get no help from me. None of you has done anything but lose, leaving me with several sticky explanations to make.”
The Merida’s face tightened. “You must agree, your grace. You must.”
“Don’t use that word to princes,” he warned. “When Prince Rinhoel rides in at the head of an army of sorcerers, he won’t forget that you refused to aid him.”
“It’s by no means certain that he will win.”
“It is a fact,” the man stated flatly. “What defense does Dragon’s Rest have against sorcery? Not even High Prince Pol could withstand—“
“What about Lord Andry? He turned them away at Goddess Keep. Hildreth and this physician fellow can send to him—“
“Why should he protect his cousin’s palace?”
Miyon chewed a fingernail. “No love lost there, true.”
“Your best chance—“
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
Suppose Rinhoel did win. Nobody knew what an army of diarmadh’im could do. And if Miyon was on the wrong side of it...
But suppose Rinhoel lost. How could Miyon explain— always assuming he survived the battle himself—his presence on the wrong side?
He already had a lot to gloss over.
Would one more thing make any difference?
It might, if he claimed he had done as this Merida suggested to make sure Rinhoel lost. Maybe he’d kill Chiana. Pol would like that. Miyon would like it, too. Whichever way the battle went, surely he could manage to stick a knife in her throat and silence her for good. Hells, Rinhoel might even thank him. At the last Rialla— Goddess, only a season and a half ago?—the boy had chafed more under his mother’s doting eye than at his father’s spinelessness.
He could feel the Merida watching him. It reminded him of the way his father’s ministers had watched him, those first years after he’d succeeded to Cunaxa’s throne. Calculating, self-serving, ready to interrupt instantly if he said the wrong thing—which was anything they hadn’t told him to say. He’d had such a satisfying morning, killing them all with his own sword...
“Your grace’s daughter is coming to Dragon’s Rest, is she not?” the Merida asked softly. “Her daughter Jihan will do as Prince Rinhoel’s wife.”
Miyon reclassified this man from irritant to danger. It was a fine and ruthless mind that did not scruple to use children in its scheming. It was the only thing he admired about Chiana.
He knew about her long-range plan; she had hinted at it this Autumn, right here at Dragon’s Rest. He had had an interesting time of it, keeping his face neutral at her roundabout proposal of a marriage alliance while making sure his eyes encouraged her. For he liked the idea very much, though not for the reasons Chiana did. With the marriage, one day Princemarch would be Rinhoel’s—but with Rinhoel dead, one day Meadowlord would be Jihan’s.
“You said Rinhoel is convenient for now,” Miyon said abruptly.
A frown greeted this question. “He ... is our best hope,” was the cautious reply.
“But someone else would do as well.”
“Rinhoel is all we have.”
“Why marry him to Jihan, then? Legitimacy of claim doesn’t matter.”
“There is ... something else.” Long legs brought him a few paces toward Miyon’s chair. “Jihan is ... gifted, as you know.”
“She’s a Sunrunner. I would have thought the diarmadh’im would execute her instead of—“
“She is one of them,” he said softly. “Her gifts are sorcerer’s gifts, her blood is diarmadhi blood.”
Miyon gaped at him. “Have you lost your mind? How could she possibly—“ He caught his breath. “Not Pol. Is it Pol?”
“No. Your daughter. Through her mother. She didn’t know it, but the sorcerers who sent her to you did.”
“By the Goddess and all her works!” Miyon exclaimed. “I knew about Birioc’s mother being a Merida, but Meiglan’s? You can’t mean that puling little bitch is—“
“—of the Old Blood,” the Merida finished for him. “And when she rules Princemarch, so will the sorcerers. On behalf of the Vellant’im, of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed, his mind hurtling after possibilities. “So Rinhoel will be the public reason and the rallying point, and Jihan—“
“—will be the next High Princess, the legitimate heir born of diarmadhi blood, and able to command the loyalty of her people—and the Merida.”
Miyon glanced up. “Once you’re back to your old tricks, whom do you intend to assassinate first?”
“Whomsoever threatens our Lady.”
“Make it Rinhoel,” Miyon said, grinning. The Merida blinked. Then a small smile tugged the corners of his mouth, and he bowed. “Your grace is wise, an essential quality in a Regent.”
“Mmm. Yes, it is, isn’t it?”
If Pol eventually came out on top, Miyon could claim to have had Rinhoel killed to avenge the insult done to his darling granddaughter, and hand Pol Meadowlord besides. But if Pol died... He smiled. With Pol gone, who better to be Regent until Jihan was of an age to marry someone else? A man of whom, naturally, Miyon must approve, and who would be ruled by him—on behalf of the Vellant’im and the sorcerers, of course. Oh, of course.
“Very well,” Miyon said, getting to his feet. “I will say that I am leaving Dragon’s Rest with my escort to assist Lord Ostvel. Where’s Chiana hiding, by the way?”
“Rezeld Manor.”
“The site of her former transgression?” He started for the door. “Not very clever. But I suppose it’s a rallying point for the diarmadh’im or some such. It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“Your grace is indeed wise.”
“You’ll go back to the Vellant’im and tell them all this?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be safe?”
The Merida looked puzzled. “It’s true that it took me some time to avoid Lord Ostvel’s patrols, but—“
Miyon’s fingers clenched on the door handle—silver cast in the shape of a dragon’s head and neck—and schooled his expression to a pleasant smile as he looked over his shoulder. “With no scar on your chin, you escape being known for a Merida. But with a shaven face and no gold beads, you might not escape being killed by the Vellant’im for a spy.”
The man shrugged. “I’ve been careful and lucky thus far, your grace. It is kind of you to worry.”
“Not at all. You look tired. I interrupted your rest, I fear. But it’s excellent news you’ve brought me, and a relief to be doing something after so long. Go back to your chambers. And you have my thanks.”
Miyon strode down the hallway to the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, spotting a servant, he ordered the tutor Catallen sent to him in the lower gardens at once. When he was outside in the cold, heart pounding and hands clammy, he took several deep breaths that seemed to ice his lungs. He walked very fast through the water garden, then down the steps to terraced plantings covered in snow.
Fool.’ he raged at himself. Why hadn’t he checked earlier, before blurting out so many damning schemes?
No help for it now. Only the swift concoction of another scheme—one much simpler, and much lovelier as it took shape in his mind.
Two days to Stronghold—or what was left of it. Catallen had been there before, he knew the way. All the same, Miyon would send one of his own guards along with the tutor. Just in case.
But where could he find what he must send with them? He knew the message; it formed in his mind to the rhythm of his footsteps in the snow. Two days to Stronghold through Dragon Gap. There would be snow only on this side of the mountains. They could make up the time on the Desert side.
But where could he find the essential item that would see his message safely delivered—and believed?
Two days. Catallen must leave tonight. No one would miss him until morning. Who cared about a tutor, anyway? But where could he find—
This was Dragon’s Rest. The place was crammed with the things—door handles, clothes hooks with open jaws, candle holders that curled sleeping wings around wax tapers, the damned spigots in his bathroom— and the brass finials on the mirror frame in his bedroom.
He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He’d have to saw the little figure from its base, but that would be the work of a few moments. And then he’d have his dragon token.
Which the purported Merida, claiming to come from the Vellant’im, did not.
*
Andry locked the door behind him and collapsed bone-lessly onto the bed. He could feel his assumed face change back into his own and was too tired to care. That short while with Miyon of Cunaxa had exhausted him more than the ride from Swalekeep. All he wanted was to sleep for three days.
He lay flat on the bed, willing his knotted neck muscles to relax. It had taken Miyon a long time to bite, let alone to swallow. Once or twice Andry had come near to panicking. But he hadn’t, though his stomach felt a little queasy even now at how close he had come to failure. If he hadn’t bumped into Evarin... His shoulders tensed again. He drew a few slow, deep breaths, using each to give heartfelt thanks to the Goddess. Without Evarin’s information about Meiglan, Andry would not have been able to use her and the princesses to catch Miyon’s greedy, wicked mind in his trap.
He gave a convulsive shiver of disgust, silently begging Meiglan’s pardon for even mentioning her daughter’s name in Miyon’s presence. Telling the truth about Jihan’s gifts and a whopping lie about where she got them had been the inspiration of the Goddess, he was sure. It had been so easy for Miyon to think that since the Merida had bedded one of their own with him, the diarmadh’im would have done the same. As if he had qualities worth preserving in future generations, Andry thought sourly, wondering how Meiglan had turned out so innocent and innocuous. As long as he was apologizing, he added one for maligning her ancestry with sorcerous connections. Having Miyon for a father was bad enough.
But it had all worked. By the grace of the Goddess and his own wits, it had worked. Andry curled onto his side, pulling a blanket up, and at last began to relax. Tomorrow Miyon would leave Dragon’s Rest on a fool’s errand to Rezeld, where he and Chiana and Rinhoel would wait in vain for an army.
What would they do when the appointed day arrived and the Vellant’im and sorcerers didn’t? Perhaps they’d do everyone a favor and murder each other.
On the smile this thought brought him, Andry fell asleep.