Like any sensible dragon, the Azhrei sought shelter the instant he saw the sandstorm blowing up from Skybowl.
But there was nowhere to go. They were too far from the foothills to outrace the wind—as Kazander pointed out while leaping from his saddle. Pol was momentarily agape as the Isulki tugged his horse around so its tail faced south and touched the animal behind the knees. Instantly the stallion knelt, nesting into soft sand for all the world like a dragon settling down for a nap. Kazander then crouched beside the horse’s neck, unfurled his cloak around both their heads, and vanished.
Pol, Maarken, and Riyan exchanged amazed glances, shrugged, and followed Kazander’s lead. It took some persuading to get Pol’s proud golden Azhenel to wallow on his belly in the sand. Hunkered beneath his own little tent, cloak drawn sung around his stallion’s withers, Pol grinned at the sight he must make: a woolen lump of a head ending in a horse’s ass.
It occurred to him that Sionell would doubtless call it appropriate.
Only the brief tag end of the storm caught them on its meandering journey across the Desert, its main force spent. But as the horses struggled to free hindquarters half-buried in sand, Pol realized the pause had been a Goddess blessing. A hard ride down from Feruche had left scant time for rest. Relaxing back against Azhenel’s shoulder, listening to the wind that sounded like a great rushing river of Air, tension eased from Pol’s muscles and the grim urge for battle loosened its hold on his chest.
Maarken, emerging from his cloak, cast a sour look at Kazander. “Is this why we can never find you after you’ve stolen—pardon me, borrowed—a few horses?”
“High and Mighty Battle Commander, Most Noble Lord of Whitecliff, Worthy Heir to Radzyn’s splendors—“ Kazander’s grin lifted his mustache from the corners of his mouth like a pair of black pennants. “That would be telling.”
The sandstorm delayed their progress to Skybowl. By the time they neared the crater, sunset had washed the Desert sky in crimson and orange that faded to smoky violet. It was much too late in the day to do battle. Or so Pol thought, until Maarken pointed to the first moon peeking up over the horizon.
“See that? The sky’s clear. We can do it, you know. They won’t expect us to do anything so foolish.”
“Neither do I,” Pol complained. “I’ve studied enough about war to know that fighting in the dark isn’t recommended.”
“No, but the major objection doesn’t signify.” Maarken smiled, his gray eyes nearly colorless in the dusk. “Hells, I’ll even make Walvis shave off his beard, just in case.”
Riyan, on Pol’s other side, gave a start as he realized what Maarken was proposing. “It would be difficult to mistake us for them, wouldn’t it? Once a battle is engaged, it’s all confusion anyway. You have to watch and make sure you’re not skewering your own people.” He nodded. “I think it might work.”
“Kazander?” Pol turned to the Isulki lord, and told himself he should have known better than to expect sensible caution from him. The korrus’ eyes glittered with gleeful anticipation.
“Did you not witness it with your own eyes, Great Azhrei? The sky itself proclaimed your colors, and those of the Battle Commander.”
Pol sighed. “If you say so. All right, Maarken. The moonlight should be bright enough. We’ll have to hurry, though, and let Walvis know what we’ve got in mind.”
“Why bother? Once he hears the commotion, he’ll be down the mountain with everyone he can muster.”
Riyan agreed. “Let’s just choose our moment and do it.”
Vellanti scouts had seen them, of course. Pol ordered camp set up and word passed to every man and woman: kill anyone wearing a beard and gold beads. Then they waited for the moons to rise above the sand.
But before Maarken had judged the silvery light strong enough to fight by, three shadows appeared in the night sky and three dragon voices called out on the freshening wind.
“Somehow, I don’t think they’re happy to see us,” Maarken commented, wincing as his black-and-silver Pavisel’s angry shriek was immediately seconded by Riyan’s Sadalian.
“Putting ourselves in danger,” Pol agreed. “Potential harm to their precious human possessions.” He almost ducked as Azhdeen swooped low, his voice at least twice as loud as the others’.
“We might as well have it out with them,” Maarken went on, “and explain why we’re here.”
Riyan was already starting across the sand to where Sadalian had landed. All at once he looked over his shoulder and said, “Pol, do you remember what we talked about after the Pillar? Would it be possible to use them?”
He slanted a startled glance at his friend, but in the next moment strands of moonlight wrapped him so firmly that he gasped with the shock.
Easy! I’m not made of crystal, but you could shatter me just the same!
Azhdeen tightened his hold and settled on the sand with wings outspread and forelegs clawing the sky. He flung his head back and roared, looming over Pol like a mountain peak over a pebble.
Of images there were none this time. The onslaught of emotion nearly felled Pol. Fury, concern, indignation, warning, and what felt like—but surely could not be—a fierce protective love. Each time Pol tried to gather thought enough to conjure in the air between them, Azh-deen’s grip increased and his anger redoubled until Pol fell to his knees, certain his head would split open.
Stop! Please, stop, you’re hurting me!
Better Pol should be hurt by this than killed by the dragon-slayers scuttling through the sand like insects.
That was when he understood. Through the pain and the struggle, he knew that Azhdeen was afraid.
Oh, no, my friend, you mustn’t! That’s why I’m here, to kill these things that killed one of your own! And with a mighty effort, he called Fire and within it a scene of battle wherein every Vellanti died.
Azhdeen’s bellow was a sword thrust through Pol’s skull. He barely felt the wind of powerful wings as the dragon leapt into the air, and knew nothing of the shouts of his troops as three dragons swept over the sand toward the enemy.
“Pol! Damn it, wake up! Pol!”
“Your grace?”
He moved feebly, the air thick against his fingers. After a moment someone helped him sit up, and he realized he’d been trying to swim through sand.
“Gentle Goddess, Mother of Dragons,” Kazander said at his side. “I thought that bloody great beast had slain you, my lord.”
“Close,” Pol muttered. The moonlight was a painful dazzle. He shut his eyes. “Kierun, your wineskin, please.”
He heard the squire fumble at his belt, but Kazander beat him to it. “This helped before, my lord,” he said, and poured the familiar and incredibly foul mixture down Pol’s throat.
When he stopped choking, he found his head had begun to clear. But he didn’t feel quite up to standing just yet. He opened his eyes again, saw Walvis, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Nice to see you, too,” the older man grinned. “Surely you didn’t think I’d miss this?”
“But—Goddess, how long was I out? And where’s Maarken? And Riyan?”
Kazander answered. “The Battle Commander’s little lady was gentler with him than those two great sires were with you and Lord Riyan. He’s already gone.”
“Gone? Where?”
“To the battle, mighty Azhrei.”
“Damn it, don’t call me that!” Pol bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Kazander. But I don’t understand. Battle?”
Kierun’s voice was quick with excitement. “The one started by your dragon, my lord.”
*
Camanto had successfully avoided both Isaura’s and Arnisaya’s beds, having no desire to sleep with either lady. Given a choice between a vast mass of flesh and an ice-blooded murderer, he chose neither. Instead, he eyed the maid who lugged his bathwater upstairs—Sa-briam spent thousands on culinary luxuries, but nothing on modern plumbing—and invited her to his bed.
After much mutual enjoyment, Camanto snuggled down beside her, relishing the warm woman-scent, and reviewed events with satisfaction. Laric was here. Edirne was dead—though sooner than expected and not as intended. Sabriam had knuckled under. Ships were being outfitted, and small matter that they belonged to Arlis. Camanto would have preferred to be Laric’s sole source of help, for then he could have maneuvered the prince into concessions after the war. But his presence with his soldiers on the expedition to recapture Firon would count for much. He wouldn’t get all of what he wanted, but he wasn’t greedy. He would be the next ruling Prince of Fessenden. That was quite enough.
He patted the round, firm hip of his bedmate and congratulated himself on excellent management. He’d been surprised several times but never thrown off stride. A prince’s most important talent was the ability to adjust to changed circumstances and turn them to his benefit. Not for nothing had he studied Rohan’s career and observed him at Riall’im, agreeing wholeheartedly with the late High Prince’s belief that wit could accomplish what war used to, and without war’s inconvenience.
Camanto would have to engage in a bit of the latter, of course, once in Firon. But he would not lead the battle. It was Laric’s princedom, after all. Tact alone must keep Camanto well to the rear, so that it could be seen that Laric alone led his army to victory. He’d have to remember to mention this to Arlis, and keep him out of things, too. Such sensitivity to Laric’s position was the sign of a truly noble man.
The girl shifted languidly, her fingers sliding down to his groin. Excitement curled in him. He woke her with soft mouthings against her ear. She giggled sleepily at the erotic words, her body flirting with his as he rolled her onto her back.
“Wait, my lord,” she protested. “I brought something to enhance my lord’s delight.”
“You’re doing just fine as you are,” he told her, laughing.
“But this will give my lord twice the pleasure. Lord Sabriam uses it in hopes it will give him any pleasure at all,” she added with a grin. “You think I need help?”
“Oh no, my lord, not you! Twice tonight you have made me very happy! And I can feel you’re about to once more. But this isn’t for a man who can’t. It is meant for a virile man. Will you allow it?”
“Why not? It might be amusing.” She wriggled from beneath him and padded naked to where she had tossed her clothes. Soon she was back with a little covered jar. “May I, my lord?”
He lay back, propped on his elbows so he could watch her by moonlight. She dug a finger into some heavy, strange-scented cream and stroked a thin line down the center of his chest from throat to belly. The sensation was exquisite, a soft-crawly chill that slowly heated his flesh, turning him to fire.
“Goddess!” he moaned, writhing with the pleasure of it. “Whatever that is, let me have the whole jar!”
The girl wiped her finger meticulously clean on the sheet. “Only a little is necessary, my lord,” she said, dipping her hand into a full wine cup on the bedside table. “You’ll feel the effects soon.”
When he did, he screamed.
*
What the dragons began, humans must finish.
Although the Vellant’im no longer fell on their knees or ran in terror at the sight of the huge beasts, Riyan had been essentially correct, back at the Pillar: a flight of them sweeping through the sky, blotting out the moonlight, could make the bravest of the enemy shudder. Pol would have been terrified himself if he hadn’t known the three dragons were on his side.
He didn’t last long in the thick of it. The agony in his head, helped by Kazander’s noxious potion only enough so he could ride and fight, came back in force when a bearded warrior on a Radzyn mare knocked the side of his helm with the flat of a sword. He didn’t fall from the saddle, but as he swayed drunkenly and scrabbled to right himself, he saw another sword gleam its silvery moonlit way toward his belly.
Another sword countered it in a crash of steel. “Ka-zander!” Maarken shouted. “Get Pol out of here!”
“No—I—“
“Do as you’re told!”
Groggy with pain, he heard Azhdeen scream overhead and looked up. Kazander had his reins and was tugging his infuriated stallion out of the chaos. “Stop it, damn you—“
“With respect, great and noble Azhrei—shut up!”
Pol opened his mouth to argue, then broke into a cold sweat and bent over his horse’s neck, sure he was going to vomit. By the time he’d swallowed the bitter bile back down where it belonged, he was a quarter of a measure from the fighting and Kazander was calling his name.
Straightening, Pol glared weakly at him and sheathed his father’s sword. “If you had a castle, I’d deprive you of it for this.”
White teeth flashed beneath the sweeping black mustache. “Indeed, I have been meaning to offer you my best tent, High Prince. The one with the silken ceiling and silver stakes, where I pay homage to my wives.”
Pol grunted, not up to continuing the banter. Snatching his reins back, he turned Azhenel around and got his bearings. Maarken was nowhere to be seen in the frantic shifting mass of swords and bodies, but Riyan was over there flailing away, and Walvis near him, and Sethric’s unmistakable head of curly dark hair.
“Go help that stupid boy. He’s lost his helm and I don’t want him to lose his head as well. Go on, Kazander, I’m fine,” he ordered impatiently.
“But Lord Maarken said—“
“Go on, damn it! Velden of Grib hates me enough as it is. I don’t want to have to tell him his nephew died while you babbled on about it!”
Kazander galloped off. Pol spent the next little while wondering if he was going to faint. The indignity of the thought kept him sternly in his saddle; Azhdeen’s next roar nearly startled him out of it.
The dragon flew toward him out of the moons, and though he was nothing but a blackness against the sky, Pol knew by the sound of his wingbeats that he was hurt. Azhdeen landed a little way from him; he was already off his horse and racing toward the dragon.
A great shout went up from the Vellant’im. Pol barely heard it. He ran straight for the wing Azhdeen held out at an awkward angle, conjured a fingerflame so he could get a look at the silvery underskin.
“Oh, Goddess,” he breathed, seeing an arrow lodged in the flight muscles beside one long bone. There were other rents in the dragon’s hide where arrows had scraped the hide, pricking blood. Pol turned to look into Azhdeen’s huge eyes, and whispered, “This will hurt. Hold still, I beg of you. It has to come out.” Gripping the arrow with both hands, he yanked it from the dragon’s wing.
Azhdeen growled low in his throat and butted his head against Pol’s backside. “Just a little bit longer, while I clean it,” Pol said, and unstoppered the waterskin at his belt. He poured the whole of its contents over the wound. The dragon yelped once, then hummed as cool water soothed the gouge.
“That’s better, is it?” Pol asked, smiling as he rubbed the delicate blue-gray hide between Azhdeen’s eyes. The dragon rumbled, stretching his hurt wing. “If you can fly on that, old son, get yourself up to the lake and I’ll bring something later to make it heal. Too bad Chayla isn’t here. She’d treat you eagerly enough. But I’m afraid Fey-lin won’t get near—“
Azhdeen reared up to his full height, jaws parting in a deafening shriek. The injured wing swept forward to enclose Pol in a suffocating shimmer of silvery hide. He pushed it away, gently at first and then more insistently— and saw a hundred and more Vellant’im bearing down on him, marching in closed ranks, their swords aloft like so many fluttering steel feathers polished by moonlight. Leading them was a white-garbed man who wore no gold in his beard, who held no sword, whose lips moved in impassioned screams Pol’s numb ears could not hear.
Two things crossed his mind as he drew his sword: a piercing disappointment that it was not the High Warlord he faced, and a vicious glee of anticipation. He was about to kill these savages who had dared hurt his dragon.
They stopped just out of arrowshot when Azhdeen howled again. Pol heard it more as a vibration in the hollows of his body than against his sound-shocked ears. He laughed, seeing them hesitate.
“What are you waiting for?” he shouted, stepping from the shelter of the dragon’s wing, unable to hear his own voice. “If it’s me you want, I’m here!”
The man in white robes surged forward, and Pol saw the rust-colored stains on his clothes, the bandage across his brow. He stumbled slightly in the sand, recovered his balance, and pointed a long, shaking finger at Pol.
No need for hearing; the word was clearly formed on the man’s lips and he cried it out again and again: “Azhrei! Azhrei!”
The enemy advanced. Pol stood his ground, the dragon behind him. The one in white screamed in a frenzy of hate. Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up in a circle around him, and Pol laughed again as the Vellant’im stopped and the man inside the flames turned and turned and flinched with every turning. Screaming differently now.
The sand below Pol’s feet trembled. The moonlight and his own Fire showed him scores of mounted soldiers, clean-shaven, angry faces intent on the enemy threatening their High Prince. Their Azhrei. Pol started forward, knowing he had done a clever thing without being aware of it. He had bought time for Maarken to gather a charge, and with that time he had bought his own life.
And then all was familiar insanity around him. Sword-play in the practice yard had a rhythm, an elegance, a mannered pattern to thrust and parry and counterthrust. Battle lurched like a broken plow drawn by a lame elk.
But all at once he felt chaos order itself, his body’s instinct telling him to use a technique learned years and years ago. He turned his head slightly and saw Maarken’s sword defending his left side, just as he protected his cousin’s left. They had done this a hundred times in the practice yard. They were back-to-back, always moving, always turning, striking as one fighting unit with two swords.
Pol didn’t bother to demand why Maarken had abandoned his horse. He already knew. The Battle Commander’s duty was to protect the High Prince. Well, Pol thought, he owed the same to Maarken, from the same loyalty, love, and kinship. Through skill and determination they imposed their personal rhythm on the battle and worked their way through the Vellant’im like reapers scything wheat.
Kazander rode by, and a little later Sethric with ten of
Walvis’ trainees from Remagev. Neither of them stopped to help the pair who were obviously doing just fine on their own.
Pol glanced to his left, where he figured Azhdeen western hills. Behind him, down on the sand, the Vellanti cookfires had burned down to barely visible embers. The Vellant’im themselves would make another, much larger fire tomorrow night.
But for all of it, for all the victory here tonight, it wasn’t enough. The High Warlord lived, and the other half of his army with him. Pol’s own army was spent. He saw that as he and Kierun entered the courtyard. Feylin and Audrite and Jeni—the latter assisted by Daniv, who was not in armor and whose arm, strapped to his side, told Pol why—were directing three separate groups of servants to help the wounded. Feylin took the most serious cases, naturally; Audrite the next worst, and Jeni and Daniv the simple cuts that only needed cleaning.
Pol didn’t see Maarken.
He could hear again, not clearly, and with a buzzing as of a thousand bees muffling sound, but he could hear the calls for water and bandages and the exclamations of joy that a beloved was alive and the moans of grief that a beloved was dead. And the groans of the wounded. Those he heard most of all.
Chadric approached him, and said, “Upstairs, Pol, quickly.”
No, he thought as he slid numbly from his horse. No, he can’t be—
Maarken lay in an oaken bed, as white as the silk pillows behind his back. Riyan was with him, and Ka-zander at his other side. Pol gripped the door frame for support. No. No.
Someone’s fingers cupped his elbow. Pol recognized the touch from his boyhood at Graypearl a hundred years ago.
“It’s all right. He’s only asleep—and neither dead nor dying.” Chadric drew him into the room. “Do you think Feylin would be elsewhere if there was any danger to Maarken?”
Pol made his legs walk. Kazander stepped back so Pol had room at the left side of the bed, where the stump of Maarken’s arm was carefully bandaged and held upright by a silken gold cord tied to the post. Not a single drop of blood stained the white wrappings.
Riyan, leaning heavily against the footboard for support, said, “He’ll be all right, Pol. You called Fire in time.”
Pol reached out a shaking hand to brush the fine brown hair from Maarken’s forehead. There was gray in it, and he looked as old as his father.
All at once Pol glanced to the windows, where a flash of silver underwings had flickered by. Not Azhdeen; Pol had seen him draping his wounded wing in the coolness of the lakewater. Just as Elisel had hovered outside Sioned’s windows, crying out plaintively in the night, Maarken’s Pavisel was doing the same.
*
After Arlis dismissed him for the night, Rohannon had gone to his chamber and stared at what remained of his supply of dranath. He’d have to use it up tomorrow to check the weather. But even though he knew very little about weaving the strands of the moons, he was tempted to take a look around Snowcoves and Balarat tonight. Things happened by dark that were hidden by day—and Camanto’s belief that sorcery was involved was darkness indeed.
He argued with himself, weighing the possibility of knowledge against the dwindling supply of the herb. Perhaps now that Sabriam was so cooperative, his court Sunrunner would knuckle under as well and Rohannon could get more from her. She had been unmoved by his entreaties to teach him something of their art, even when he invoked his Uncle Andry’s name. There was always a supply of dranath kept ready in case of Plague, stored with other medicines and overseen by the court physician. In this case, the physician and the Sunrunner were one and the same. Well, she’d just have to part with some of it, the way Sabriam was parting with goods and the money to pay for them.
He mixed dranath in wine, and after a few moments blushed with the pleasant glow that warmed his body. Had he been at Goddess Keep, he would have had his man-making night by now and known exactly what to do with this feeling. As it was, Rohannon’s sexual experience encompassed a few kisses and a marked preference for girls with very dark eyes. So he waited out the arousal, squirming a little with embarrassment, until the glow focused someplace other than his trousers.
Opening his window, he braced his hands against the frame and drank in a long breath of cold, sea-salted air. Sabriam’s residence was removed from the town, overlooking its own sheltered cove and a wide rocky beach. A brisk wind blew up from the south and tossed sparkling whitecaps on the shore by moonlight. Lifting his face to the three silver disks in the sky, he closed his eyes and let his senses tangle in their light.
He was above the sprawling pinkish stone of the residence. Then he was over the docks that swarmed with workers outfitting and repairing ships. He grinned inwardly as Arlis’ shipmasters paced their vessels, suspicious eyes on everything the crews from Einar did. Then he ranged north, across the snowy hills of Fessenden toward Snowcoves.
He followed skeins of light far above the clouds, enchanted by the billowing whiteness limned in silver. They looked like snowdrifts hovering in midair, as if one could travel across the sky on foot. But every so often they thinned and vanished, and the glimpses of ground below made him slightly dizzy. The dranath steadied him, kept his weaving firm and strong.
Snowcoves tucked into its harbor neat as a baby in the crook of its mother’s arm. Twin lighthouses marked the eastern and western boundaries, their fires sharply defined in the cold black air. Between, the frailer lights of the town glowed in irregular patterns, where people sat up late in their houses or crafters worked into the night over their glass-fires. Connecting the whole web was a grid of street corner lamps on high poles. These were marvels of the crystaller’s art, each one different, elaborately shaped to refract the flames inside to maximum brilliance. They were like huge diamonds of fanciful cut and blinding polish, and Rohannon spent more than a few amazed moments exploring from street to street.
His service to Prince Arlis had taken him far from his home—very much farther than most people, even high-borns, traveled in a lifetime. But recently he’d come to know that as a Sunrunner, he could go anywhere. As long as there was sufficient light, the whole of the continent was open to his gaze. It was a wonderful thing— heart-filling, mind-dancing, magical.
But there was a drawback to seeing whatever he chose to look at, and it was that sometimes he must see what troubled him. For instance, Yarin’s flag flew over the residence at Snowcoves, and Laric’s did not. It should have, and it was insolence enough to bring any prince at the head of an army to demand explanation. Rohannon moved on from Snowcoves toward Balarat, certain that there, too, the usurper’s banner would spread solitary against the starry sky.
He was right—but on his way firelight had caught his attention and he returned to identify it. It came from a snowy woodland clearing, resolving as he neared to a broad circle outside of which about a hundred people stood handfast. They wore pale, hooded cloaks shaded orange and red and gold by firelight. Occasionally a bare hand would show the glisten of a ring, some set with gems that indicated position, or at least wealth. Their faces were hidden inside draped cowls. AH faces but one—a tall, dark-haired man who wore Firon’s color and Firon’s jewel: clothes of solid black from neck to heels, diamonds draped around his neck. The gems sparkled like ice by Fire—ice that Fire could not melt.
Rohannon slid closer. The flames sprouted from large rocks poking up through the snow. If he’d had any doubts, he knew now what this was: a diarmadhi ritual.
A slight, lanky figure, shapeless in homespun robe and with dark head bared to the cold night air, stepped through the flames to meet the man in black and diamonds. They stood in the center of the circle, facing each other. The smaller man raised his hands, sleeves falling back, thin fingers clenched at either end of a curious rope. He pulled it suddenly taut, the three twisted strands of gold, silver, and bronze shining. Everyone else knelt as the cord was raised high and draped around the tall man’s shoulders. The Fire leapt around the circle of stones.
Rohannon fled, neither needing nor wanting to see more. Though he had never met Lord Yarin, Arlis had, and could confirm a description. Not that confirmation was required—who else could it have been, wearing Fir-on’s diamond collar and receiving a diarmadhi accolade within a circle of Fire on stone?
Back in his chamber, his eyes opening to a serene view of the beach below Einar, he shivered with cold and slammed the window shut. The sound made him flinch— too loud, just as the candles reflected in the glass were too bright. That was how it was with dranath; the senses intensified, and not just the Sunrunner ones.
So Camanto was right, and there was sorcery at work in Firon. When Arlis and Laric heard this, then no matter what the weather tomorrow they would sail for Snow-coves with the tide. Rohannon spared a grimace for the long days at sea, and hoped he’d be so miserable that he wouldn’t even know how much time passed. He was proud of his heritage and he had grown to love using his skills—untutored as they were—but there were definite disadvantages to being a Sunrunner.
It needed no dranath to sensitize his hearing to the shriek that echoed through the upper halls. Rohannon darted from his chamber, pausing to follow the echo back to its source. A terrible thud sounded, one floor down. He jumped on the wooden banister and slid its length to the landing, his expert technique learned from his grandmother long ago at Radzyn.
Catching his balance neatly, he started down the long arcade that linked two wings of the building on this floor. To his left was a wall of windows overlooking the sea; to his right, carved railings above the main entrance hall. Rohannon looked down. Prince Camanto, stark naked, lay on the flagstones, fair hair black with blood, dead of a shattered skull.
Later, after Arnisaya had been given a sleeping draught to calm her hysterics and the corpse had been taken away, Rohannon mulled wine for the two princes in Laric’s chambers. Sabriam had already sent a courier to Fessada to apprise Prince Pirro that his other son was dead; it was not, he declared, news best given by one Sunrunner to another.
Rohannon listened while Arlis and Laric talked over the death, but the one question that needed asking went unspoken. So Rohannon asked it, quietly.
“My lord, why is he dead?”
Arlis blinked. “Because he fell a dragon’s height and more onto the paving stones, that’s why.”
“No, my lord, I mean why? He doesn’t have the reputation of being a drunkard. There was no smell of liquor about him...” He trailed off, frowning.
“What is it, Rohannon?” Arlis murmured. “What are you remembering?”
He seized on the word. “Remembering, that’s just it. Something about the smell.” He tried, then shook his head. “It’s not coming. I’m sorry, my lord.”
“Don’t chase it and it’ll come of its own accord. I’m more interested in your question. It sets me to some unpleasant thinking. Why, indeed?”
Laric nodded. “Isaura was wailing about what a tragic accident it is that he fell—but it occurs to me that he was pushed.”
Rohannon shook his head. “I don’t think so, my lord. I heard no footsteps in the hall but my own.”
“There are no doors within easy distance, no rooms to hide in.” Laric tapped a finger on the rim of his wine cup. “You slid down the banister barefoot?” Rohannon nodded. “So. No clattering footsteps on the stairs to warn anyone that there was need to hide. You heard the sound of his fall, and only moments later you saw him. And no one else. He wasn’t pushed, he really did fall. But why?”
“Not drunk,” Arlis mused. “Naked, so he’d been abed. No nightrobe, though, which might indicate he wasn’t exactly sleeping. Anyone see him take a girl into his rooms?”
“If he did, she was long gone by the time the body was carried back there.” Laric poured more wine all around. “And near as I can recall, the bed was fairly tidy, not rumpled as one would expect if he’d been making love in it.”
“She might have pulled the sheets back in order,” Arlis said. “But this doesn’t get us anywhere, really.” He put a hand on Rohannon’s shoulder where the boy sat next to him at the table. “And what were you still doing up, anyway? I thought I’d sent you to bed a long while before.”
“Yes, my lord, but—“ He drew a deep breath, the dranath still singing softly in his blood. “I went for a look at Snowcoves and Balarat. Please don’t scold me, my lord, what I saw is too important.”
When he had finished the telling, Laric covered his face with his hands for a moment. “The man you saw is Yarin,” he murmured. “My wife’s brother.”
“And Ludhil’s wife’s brother, too,” Arlis reminded him. “If Yarin gains power in Firon, Dorval isn’t safe either. He stands in the same position to your brother’s children as to yours—uncle and heir.”
“Not for long.” Laric slammed both hands flat on the table, making the cups and pitcher rattle. “Whatever condition your ships are in at dawn, we sail in them for Snowcoves.”
“And face sorcery when we get to Balarat.”
Rohannon jumped out of his chair. “That’s it! Sorcery and the Star Scroll!”
“The what?”
“It’s something very old, my lord,” he told Arlis hastily. No need to explain to Laric; he’d been at Graypearl when Meath had discovered it. “A book of encoded recipes and spells. My mother helped Uncle Andry with them years and years ago. And she—“
“I’ve heard rumors of it,” Arlis said. “But it’s a diar-madhi book, isn’t it? Do you mean to say it’s real?”
“Very,” said Laric. “Go on, Rohannon.”
“It was something my mother used, for a colt that kept chewing the wood of his bin. Nothing else worked, none of the usual things you put onto what you don’t want a horse to gnaw at. So she asked Sioned for a recipe from the Star Scroll, and diluted it so it would only burn the colt’s mouth a little, not really hurt him. And that’s what I smelled around Prince Camanto!”
“Good Goddess,” Laric breathed. “The man was murdered.”
“Yes, my lord. Not pushed, but so crazed with the pain he’d try to run from it the way a mountain cat would if its back was on fire, Trying to escape the pain. But he couldn’t, and tripped, and fell.”
All three were silent for a time. Then Laric spoke, his voice weighted down with despair.
“There has been sorcery at work here. We will meet it again in Firon. Arlis, it’s not your fight. You can change your mind now and I wouldn’t blame you in the least.”
The young prince shook his head. “We sail at dawn. And I’ll hear no more about leaving you to face them alone.”
“But how can we fight them?” Laric cried. “What can we use against diarmadh’im?”
“What can they use against us?” Arlis countered. “Only what any army uses—swords and arrows and bravery. They’re allied with the Vellant’im, aren’t they? Have you heard of any spells being woven in battle?”
Rohannon hesitated, then said, “There is a weakness that prevents it, my lord. Or at least makes it dangerous. They feel great pain when iron pierces their flesh while they’re at work.”
“And Sunrunners? What about them?” Arlis asked sharply.
“We ... are vulnerable, too.”
Laric lifted an admonitory finger. “Tell him the truth, Rohannon.”
Shrugging, he admitted, “It hurts them. But it can kill us.” He lifted the wine pitcher and got to his feet. “I’ll go refill this,” he said, and hurried from the room before either prince could stop him.
On his way down the hall, his bare feet almost numb against the cold tile floor, he heard someone speaking in Lady Isaura’s solar. The dranath sharpened his hearing only so far; he crept closer, recognizing Sabriam’s voice.
“... never knew, did you? I don’t care who you rut with, my dear, but a man’s son must be his own.”
“You’re fantasizing. Your jealousy has addled your wits.”
“Deny it all you like. Isriam will never have Einar. My brother Bosaia has a fine son—of my blood, if not my breeding!”
“Anheld is a bastard. Isriam—“
“Is Camanto’s bastard. I can choose whom I please to hold Einar after me!”
“You wouldn’t dare! You’d be laughed at all the way to the Sunrise Water!”
“Isaura, sweet wife, my friends from the mountains still owe me one more favor. Would you like me to have them kill you, too, to spare you the shame?”
Rohannon backed away, sickened. So it wasn’t a diar-madhi who’d wanted Camanto dead, it was Sabriam— whom the diarmadh’im were helping as they helped Yarin. Another thing fell into place, too: the Lord of Einar’s highly selective hearing.
Clutching the empty pitcher to his chest, he ran back to Laric’s rooms. They must leave Einar. Now. Tonight. The princes could say whatever they had to, but if they waited until dawn, the diarmadh’im might kill them, too.