Lisiel had no interest in the news that the courier from Swalekeep had ridden out at dawn. She was a trifle irritated when Meiglan’s servant—whose name she could never remember—could not be found when needed. But when Ullan told her that Master Evarin seemed to have vanished from Dragon’s Rest, too, the princess used an oath that her mother would have slapped her for even thinking.
“But I’ve run out of the salve he gave me for Larien’s rash. What can the man be thinking of? Where is he?”
“Wherever he’s gone, he’s not coming back,” Ullan said. “His clothes and medical supplies are gone.”
Lisiel swore again, and went to soothe her fretful child.
Evarin had no intention of returning to Dragon’s Rest. His talents, as he informed Andry when he caught up to him at noon, were worth more than cooking up ointment for a baby’s sore bottom.
Both had taken the hard way out of the valley, up past the remains of the little cottage Andry referred to as Pol’s Folly. It was the path Alasen had ridden three mornings ago, scarcely more than a goat-track along the hillsides above the creek that fed the lake. Eventually even this narrow trail gave out, and one must urge one’s outraged horse up a steep slope and pray to the Goddess that it didn’t start a landslide. Previous rockfalls had choked the ravine, diverting the watercourse in some places and damming it in others; otters and flat-tails found good fishing in the pools.
But it was winter, and all sensible creatures were snugly nested. As Andry applied his boots yet again to his stallion’s ribs, he told himself that sense had nothing to do with what humans did. Loose stones underfoot were covered with alternating layers of snow and ice that in spring would melt down the canyon in a million small rivulets to swell the creek. For now, frozen water turned to slush in the noon sun. With every lunge his horse took, Andry felt hooves slip. It needed no riding skill to negotiate this horror; all he had to do was give the horse its head, cling to the saddle with his knees, and try not to fall off.
It was a long way down.
When he reached the top, having let Evarin go first for the best footing—such as it was—he glanced over the rim and blanched.
“I know,” the physician said, teeth chattering and not from the cold. “It’s a g-good thing I didn’t look before I g-got up here, or I’d never have m-made it.”
It took Andry a try or two before he could speak. “No wonder Pol feels so secure here. Can you imagine trying to bring an army down that?”
“I don’t even want to imagine bringing me d-down that.” With shaking fingers, Evarin unstoppered the wineskin at his belt and took a long swig. It restored him at once. “From Pol’s own cellars. I made friends with the winemaster.”
Andry had long since let his borrowed face fade, so his grin was his own. “I haven’t the least doubt of it. Hand that over.”
They sat easy in their saddles for a time, letting their horses recover. It was a fine, bright day on this side of the Veresch, but to the east thin wisps of fog slunk between snow-crowned mountaintops, indicating cloud cover across the Desert.
“Now where?” Evarin asked. “As if I’d have any idea what you’re talking about when it comes to this part of the world.”
“It’s simple enough. We’re about midway between Stronghold and Skybowl. There’s a series of passes we could take to either, rather like Sorin’s little garden maze at Feruche. But if we head due north, it’s a fairly straight route to Elktrap Manor through a succession of valleys, and from there only one serious climb before Feruche.”
Evarin jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the canyon. “That serious?”
“Relax,” Andry laughed. “There’s a road.”
*
Meiglan was nearing the end of that road, with twenty more measures to Elktrap and a night of rest in a real bed to look forward to. When Riyan married Ruala, old Lord Garic decided that for his own convenience in visiting his granddaughter at Feruche, he would build a series of shelters along this road. The established ones, constructed of wood and used by trade caravans, gave protection from the rain but little warmth. Garic’s three small stone cabins were snug against the wind and heated by cunning little iron stoves specially made for him in Cunaxa. But Meiglan longed for clean sheets and a soft mattress, and a night’s rest uninterrupted by the sounds of animals outside and the changing of the watch.
More than anything else, however, she longed for her own bed at Dragon’s Rest. Pol’s need to know that there could be one unchanging thing in their world had struck a chord deep within her, hardly heard until she was actually on the road back home. Her own bed, her own hearth, her own food served on her own plates—why had she left? She had accomplished nothing, proven nothing. She was what her father had jeeringly called her years ago—nothing but a witless little ornament who made pretty music on the fenath and looked charming at Pol’s side.
She was useless on this journey. Laroshin commanded the twenty guards, and Lyela organized everyone else with quiet efficiency. Meiglan had only to stay in the saddle, scold Jihan when she pestered poor Dannar, eat what was given her, and curl up in Pol’s cloak at night with her daughters beside her and her husband a hundred measures away.
Futile as her existence seemed, at least she had the wit to be aware of it. Meiglan shuddered every time she looked at Rabisa—silent and pliable and no more conscious of the world around her than a drifting snowflake. Maybe it was better to be like her, and not have to think.
Occasionally her pride rebelled. If she had done nothing else, presiding over her half-brothers’ executions was enough. But somehow, the very fact that she had acted as High Princess had injured Pol in some strange way.
What did he expect of her? What did he want her to do? Pretend the war didn’t exist? Make believe that Rohan was not dead, that she wasn’t High Princess now, and that after all this was over they could go back to their sweet, peaceful life at Dragon’s Rest with nothing changed?
What a fool he was.
Instantly on the heels of that thought came an almost physical shock. Never in the nine years of their marriage had she criticized anything about him, even in the privacy of her own mind, let alone called him a fool.
He was right: she had changed, and not for the better. He wasn’t the fool. She was. High Princess ... simple murderer, that’s what she’d become. She had used the power of her position to rid herself of men who meant her father to her. Men she had never even seen before that day. How many times had she heard Rohan or Sioned or Pol himself speak of the dangers of any kind of power?
She held the authority of the High Princess in her hands. And her first use of it had been to kill.
It was best that she return home, and protect the children from the kind of warping changes that had overtaken her. At Dragon’s Rest she could forget the battles and the wounded, the fear, the dead men at her feet— and the sight of Sioned’s eyes.
And SionelPs.
Her friend’s agony had been somehow worse, more cutting and desperate than Sioned’s. After all, she and Rohan had had almost forty years together, a whole lifetime. They had ruled wisely and well, raised a son to manhood, rejoiced in their grandchildren. Sionell and
Tallain had been married only eleven winters. He would never see his daughter married, his elder son knighted— he wouldn’t even see Meig, his younger son and her own Namesake, learn to ride. And Sionell—every morning for the rest of her life she would wake up alone.
Meiglan had gone to her that first night, thinking to give comfort. A few words, an embrace while she wept— but there had been no tears, not a sign of them. Sionell merely sat in a chamber lit by a single candle, watching her children sleep, needing nothing and no one. Meiglan had entered silently, waited to be noticed, and after a time crept out again without receiving any indication that Sionell even knew she had been there.
Returning to her own rooms, she’d cursed herself for thinking there was any comfort to be offered a woman who’d lost a beloved husband. And, stealthily, the other thing had come to her, the passionate gratitude and the shame for it that it had been Tallain who died and not Pol.
No, she had too much time to think. And there would be so many days of it, at least five more to Dragon’s Rest. She supposed she ought to be grateful that at night she was so tired that sleep came quick and deep and dreamless.
At Elktrap she would bathe herself and the girls, enjoy a hot meal, and sleep from dusk until dawn. And tomorrow she would climb back on her horse and continue on the road back to her home. To her old life. Her real life, the one Pol had said he must believe in and hold in his heart. She would make sure it was there for him when this war was done and everyone went home and all was as it had always been.
Yet she knew it was impossible. Meiglan was the person Pol needed, but only the High Princess had power and strength enough to do what he wanted done. She could not be both at the same time, so she must switch back and forth from one to the other—from wanting to hide to ordering death.
She wondered how she would keep her balance. She wondered if she could create the illusion for Pol that nothing had changed.
Everything had changed. She had seen it haunting Sioned’s eyes, and SioneH’s—and especially Pol’s, no matter how he wished it otherwise. But he must never see it in hers. Never.
*
“Sit still, close your eyes, and don’t move. In a moment you’ll feel a sort of tingle at the edge of your mind. Locate it and concentrate on it, just as you do when Hollis speaks to you on sunlight. Ready?”
Jeni nodded, gray eyes wide, and Pol smiled. When Meath had taught him this, he’d been as breathless with nerves as she was now. He supposed it happened to all Sunrunners at their first real lesson. Even Sioned. Even Andry.
She closed her eyes as bidden. Pol stretched, settling more comfortably on the rag mat. They were seated beside the lake, morning sun shining clear. The crisp breeze that had blown early haze away now ruffled the water. With Riyan giving orders in the keep, Feylin giving orders about the wounded—and Azhdeen growling his own commands to the younger dragons on the opposite shore—Pol had nothing to do. Much better to spend his time teaching Jeni instead of brooding over what he would do next. What he could do next. His choices were somewhat limited.
He could not allow any of that to shade his colors while giving this lesson. Calming himself, he relaxed and let his eyelids drift shut. Delicately, his instinctive skills refined over the years, Pol wove light.
Jeni’s mother had resisted this all her life, this expansion and alteration of senses that allowed a faradhi to taste and touch and smell and hear colors in an initially confusing but ultimately gorgeous profusion. Alasen had been assaulted by her gifts in ways that had terrified her. Jeni’s introduction had been no less frightening; the power of Sioned’s working at Stronghold had caught the girl against her will, trapping her in a pattern of pain and danger. Yet their reactions were completely different. Alasen had rejected her Sunrunner abilities to avoid Andry; Jeni had no desire to avoid her dragon.
The contrast was an interesting one, but Pol didn’t waste time analyzing it. Into the sunlight he threaded his own colors—icy clear diamond and deep emerald, iridescent pearl and golden topaz—and wrapped Jeni in them, waiting for her to sense him and respond.
When she did, it was with an eagerness that nearly made him laugh. Easy! Don’t drown me, girl!
Sorry—oh! she exclaimed, astonished as he patterned her colors for her, showing her what she was. Her dominant color was blue, skirting in and out of a complexity of bright yellow and a milky pink glow like moonstone held up to a red lampshade.
Is this me? she asked shyly, and he replied, Every bit of it.
He guided her around and through the image, formed in the space between them much as dragons presented their colors. Every angle and curve and depth, every crystalline clarity and subtle opacity was explored so that she might memorize it and call it up again with ease.
Watch for the faceting—there, you see, right where that darker blue meets the yellow? The sparkle is the place where your colors merge with sunlight. See? Here, and here, and along this junction—can you feel them?
I think so. But there are so many! And you have even more than I do.
I’m twice your age. As you grow older, your pattern will become more complicated—not in its configuration, but in the shadings of color.
Can I speak with Sunrunners who don’t share a color with me?
Of course. These are just your primaries. A musician would call it an open tuning of lute strings, without fin-gerwork making the string shorter and the note higher. Only we can’t adjust our colors—blue to purple, for instance—so I suppose it isn’t a very good analogy.
But each color has different shades already there, so maybe it’s like a string that plays all its possible notes at once.
Hmm. I never considered it that way. I’ll have to try that idea out on my mother one of these days—or on Meath, he’s always interested in the hows of Sunrunning.
You mean nobody’s ever sat down and figured it all out?
Pol laughed. Careful. I just might appoint you my faradhi scholar!
I promise I won’t emulate Feylin’s curiosity about dragons and take one of us apart to see what makes us work.
Snide child, he teased. Before you start—and before you start asking questions no one’s been able to answer— I think I ought to show you what you’ll be dealing with. That sensation I mentioned earlier, of feeling where the joinings are—when you pull the sunlight in on your own, it’ll be much stronger. I’m going to draw back a little now. As I do, weave light through all those places. Like this.
And he found and gathered more skeins of sun, showing her as Meath had shown him how to separate and plait them, for all the world as if they were individual silk threads. There was something inside faradh’im that instinctively recognized and delineated strands of light; the closest anyone else ever came to understanding it was the sight of the sun shafting through clouds. Sunrunners could describe color patterns as being stained-glass windows, and working with light to be weaving or stitching, but to those who could not scent color or taste the sun, true comprehension was impossible.
He should have known that Jeni, daughter of a fine musician, understood best using the lute image. I can hear it! Pol, I’m listening to sunlight!
And drinking it, touching it, smelling it, seeing not just one color in it but millions. Now do you know why nobody’s ever been able to figure it out? Look at what you’re doing. I’m gone from your pattern, but it’s still there— and shot through with sunlight you gathered in. How did you do it, Jeni?
I don’t—I don’t know. But one of these days I’m going to find out!
When you do, explain it to me! Now, I’m going to back off even farther. I want you to approach me, just the way Hollis approaches you on sunlight.
For a long time he heard nothing, sensed nothing but his own colors, elegantly precise as his mother had taught him. Then, at the edges of himself, a brush of sensation, a tentative touch.
And then a chaotic crash of colors against his own.
He steadied her, sorted them both out, and said, I can see we’re going to have to teach you some subtlety. I’m not a mountain that you have to slam up against like a Sunrunner sandstorm!
I’m sorry. What went wrong?
Nothing, really. It’s just manners. The first little quiver lets me know you’re there. Choice of acceptance is up to me. Of course, you can try to knock me down with it if I’m unwilling, but then you risk retaliation. Come at me again, and I’ll show you what I mean.
The contact was less forceful this time, but he used what Sioned had taught him—and what he’d taught Alasen some years ago at Castle Crag, to allay her fear of being similarly seized by Andry’s colors against her will. First he built a wall of solid sunlight around himself so that Jeni could not get through. This was Alasen’s defense, but Pol did more. He reached through the wall and pushed her back out of reach.
She lost it all then, her concentration and her colors. He felt it and opened his eyes. She was staring at him, breathing raggedly, her cheeks ashen.
“Not very nice,” he apologized. “But I was rather gentle with you. Your dragon won’t be.”
“You mean—no, Lainian would never—”
“Azhdeen does, when I make him angry. You never know what’s going to set a dragon off. And that little bump you gave me was nothing compared to what a dragon can do.” He smiled. “Sure you want to talk to him?”
“Yes!” He waved a hand toward the far side of the lake where the dragons sunned themselves after their usual dawn hunt. “Go right ahead.”
“Now?”
“You know what you need to.”
She was on her feet and running. Pol followed more slowly, aware that she would probably have to be carried back to the keep after the initial shock. He hoped Lainian would be more tender of Jeni than Azhdeen usually was with him, but dragonsires seemed to need tutelage in the care of fragile humans. While the females were just as powerful, they were much gentler.
Halfway around the lake, he paused to watch Jeni catch her breath before continuing on to her dragon. Ah, Goddess, he’d forgotten what it was like to weave sunlight for the joy of it, to talk with someone and not talk of war. When all this was over, and he was back at Dragon’s Rest where he belonged—
He could see that very clearly. What he could not see was how to get there.
And even when this was over, all the ensuing problems would be his to solve. There was the intransigence of certain princes to be dealt with; he already had a few ideas about that. If people like Velden of Grib and Pirro of Fessenden thought he would excuse their cowardice, they had another think coming. The treaties of mutual defense meant he could not touch them legally, but he would get them where it really hurt when it came to reestablishing trade. They could damned well pay up for the privilege of sitting on their asses while brave men and women died. After all, there were castles and towns to rebuild—Tuath for young Jeren, Remagev for Walvis, Riverport and Gilad Seahold and Graypearl, where he had spent so many years. And Stronghold.
Shying away from the pain, he started for Jeni again. She stood before her big russet dragon. He saw her stagger, then fall to her knees on the hard stones. Hurrying now, Pol winced as Lainian cried out plaintively and nudged her with his nose. But when he got closer, the dragon unfurled a wing over the trembling girl and snarled at him.
Pol stood his ground. “Let that be a lesson to you,” he told the creature. “If you could understand me, I’d tell you I can help her. But you can’t, so what am I going to do? Trying to chase you off won’t help me survive to old age. And I know from experience that you dragons are a picky lot—you don’t talk to anybody but your own chosen human. So I suppose I’ll just have to wait you out. Or—“
But Azhdeen was curled up in the warm sunshine, sleeping off his injury. Pol didn’t have the heart to wake him and ask him to explain things to Lainian. So he hunkered down in damp sand to wait.
Footsteps crunching the gravel behind him made his head turn. Sethric, dark curls wildly tangled by the breeze, charged up with one hand on his sword.
“Your grace! We have to help her, she’s hurt!”
“Not a bit of it,” Pol replied cheerfully. “She fainted, and he’s protecting her. Dragons get that way sometimes.”
“But—“
“Sethric, please don’t tell me you believe dragons eat pretty girls for breakfast.”
“Your grace—“
“Settle down. And don’t you dare draw that sword against a dragon, or I’ll have you in my court for breaking the first law my father ever wrote.”
“But—“
“Have a seat. You don’t happen to have a wineskin on you, do you? Teaching a Sunrunner how to talk to a dragon is thirsty work.”
The young man plopped down next to him, not entirely as if he’d had any say in the functioning of his knees. “She—Jeni—that dragon—?”
Infatuation, Pol reflected, made perfectly rational individuals into total imbeciles. “Yes. Jeni and that dragon. His name’s Lainian, by the way.”
Heavy-lidded hazel eyes opened very wide. “Lainian?”
“It strikes me as very natural,” Pol observed, “that you don’t quite know what words to employ. When and if any apply for the job, then we can discuss it. For now, the fact remains that Jeni has been talking to a dragon she Named Lainian, the experience literally felled her, he’s standing guard until she wakes up, and all that you and I can do is sit here and wait.”
“Oh,” said Sethric.
“Oh,” agreed Pol. After a moment he added thoughtfully, “Something else you might wish to consider is how you’re going to contend with this.”
He waited for Sethric to say something. All he got was a blink and a stare.
“It’s not every man who has to compete for a lady’s attention with a dragon as well as a good friend and the lady’s desire to be trained as a Sunrunner.”
Once again he paused to let the young man respond. Once again Sethric kept his mouth shut—but his gaze narrowed a bit.
“Of course,” Pol went on, beginning to enjoy himself, “if all you’re after is hand-holding and a few kisses, none of the rest really signifies.”
Sethric went crimson beneath his sunburn, and Pol bit back a grin.
“It may seem presumptuous of me to bring it up, but I am her father’s overlord and in his absence—well, you understand, I’m sure. My point is that if you’re serious about her, I ought to tell you a few things. Her dowry will be substantial, one might even say staggering. Actually, I’m thinking about giving her something in Mead-owlord, because Rinhoel is not going to be its prince, believe me. Waes might do. I’m not sure, I haven’t thought that far ahead. But she’ll bring much more than wealth to the man she marries. She’ll bring her Sunrunner gifts—and a dragon.” He pointed. “That dragon.”
“I don’t care,” Sethric blurted. “Not about the dowry or her being a Sunrunner or even the dragon. I don’t have any right, your grace. It’s all hopeless. My uncle Velden—“
“—is not making himself conspicuous in our support,” Pol interrupted. “I’m not going to punish him—well, not severely, anyway,” he admitted. “He can keep Grib, if not the better portion of his treasury. But there’s no reason for you to think you’ll share in—good Goddess, boy, you’ve led part of my army!”
Sethric picked at the worn knee of his trousers. “She won’t even look at me,” he muttered.
“She’s not yet seventeen. You’re twenty.” Pol smiled. “I think you’ve got time.”
“In the middle of a war?”
That brought Pol’s amusement to a staggering halt.
“I don’t blame you for teasing me, your grace. Nor Lord Walvis and the rest. Daniv and I are making fools of ourselves over Jeni. But there’s no time, you see. And we both feel guilty about even trying to get her to—to—“ He raked both hands back through his hair.
“To like one of you?” Pol supplied gently.
Sethric nodded. “What if she does, and whoever she picks gets killed? How could any man do that to a woman he cared about? But even knowing that, we both want to be with her as much as we can so that if something does happen—“
“I ask your forgiveness, Sethric,” Pol murmured. “It was thoughtless of me to make fun of you.”
“You have more to worry about than us, your grace. We don’t matter.”
“Lives are all that matter.” Finally he understood something Rohan had known instinctively: that as High Prince, it was his responsibility and his alone to make sure lives could be lived in peace. Even though he hadn’t started this war, even though he was doing all he could to finish it, every day that it continued was his fault.
But he would never take conflict inside himself and make of his own soul a battleground as his father had done. He must turn this war back on the enemy, become a mirror that reflected violence and destruction on those who had brought it to his lands and his people. Innocent people, such as these children who had all their lives ahead of them, yet worried about dying.
“I’m sorry,” he told Sethric, thoroughly ashamed of himself. “All I can tell you is that when this is over, you’ll have a holding of your own to offer any lady you Choose.”
“I’m not here for—“
“I know that. I’m not promising a reward. Princes are practical folk, Sethric. We’re never generous unless it profits us. I need you and I’m going to make just as much use of you after the war as I have during it.”
The young man stared at him with something akin to awe. “You’re the only person I’ve heard talk about after since the war began. Can you see an end to this, your grace?”
“Not clearly. Not yet.”
“But you’ll make an end, and a victory. We all know you will.”
Pol nodded, not trusting his voice, and looked away from the glowing confidence in Sethric’s eyes. He’d done nothing to cause such belief. He didn’t deserve it. But he would use it, as he must use everything and everyone to make that end, that victory.
But how? In the Name of the Goddess, how?
He was abruptly distracted by a dragon. A black female with iridescent silver underwings called out from her vantage at the crater’s lip. Azhdeen raised his head, grunted irritably, and snuggled back into his hollow. The female growled back at him and swept her tail along the ground, sending a small avalanche of stones down the slope—right into Azhdeen’s face.
The dragon shook himself from nose to tail and bellowed his displeasure, an impressive rebuke interrupted by a mighty sneeze. The female, Maarken’s Pavisel, snorted with what Pol swore was laughter, and repeated her original call. Azhdeen blew dust from his nostrils and craned his neck around to peer at Lainian. The younger dragon was whimpering in bewilderment, poking gently at the unconscious girl like a cat puzzled by a bird that won’t play anymore.
“What are they doing?” Sethric whispered.
“Shh. Just watch.”
Azhdeen rumbled deep in his chest, then snarled loudly enough to make Lainian jump. Pol’s breath caught in his throat as the russet dragon turned and a hind foot nearly crushed Jeni’s outflung arm. Azhdeen howled again. Lainian gave a worried yelp and stepped carefully around the girl as he backed away.
After a satisfied grunt, Azhdeen settled down. He cast a baleful look at Pavisel where she watched from her sentry post, as if daring her to interrupt his nap again, tucked his head under his wing, and went back to sleep.
Sethric started for Jeni. Pol grabbed his arm. “No. None of the dragons know you.” He darted forward himself and gathered Jeni up. She was a tall, sturdy girl, an awkward dead weight in his arms as he carried her. When she jerked awake and moaned, he almost dropped her.
“Hold still,” he panted, setting her on her feet with an arm around her shoulders for support. “Are you all right?”
“Ohhh, my head!”
“Experience tells me that means you were successful.” He grinned. “Welcome to the exalted ranks of people owned by dragons. Let’s get you back to the keep so Feylin can give you something for the headache. You can tell me all about it later. For now, you have an anxious— umm, friend—ready to make a fuss over you. I suggest you let him.”
“What? Oh. Sethric.” She dismissed him with a shrug and stared over her shoulder at her dragon. “Is Lainian all right?”
“Of course. We’re the weaklings in these encounters. Come, my dear, you can’t mean to keep the young man waiting.”
He gave her over into Sethric’s care, and she was glad enough of his strong arm to steady her steps. Pol lingered beside the lake, thinking about what he’d seen. Pavisel had noted a difficulty and alerted Azhdeen, who had scolded Lainian as if the younger dragon was a child who had played too roughly with a new toy. Pol didn’t miss the humor of it—but the additional implications of swift communication among dragons was more important. Had they done it only with their voices, or had there been colors woven on sunlight that he hadn’t sensed? As he walked back to the keep, he told himself that
Feylin was going to be fascinated. But he also began to wonder if this was something else that he might use.
*
Andry took advantage of the sunshine to make a quick sweep of what he could reach of the continent. What he saw puzzled him in some cases, alarmed him in others— and in two instances made his throat ache and tears spring to his eyes.
Predictably, these involved his children. At High Kirat, Andrev was intently watching some of Tilal’s soldiers at sword practice. A woman came over to the boy and said something; he shrugged and gestured to his side, where only a knife was attached to his belt. She smiled, reaching out as if to ruffle his hair, and then seemed to think better of it before drawing her own dagger.
It was a terrible thing to watch someone come at your son with a blade, even to teach him how to defend himself—all too easy to imagine a Vellanti warrior doing the same—but Andry was startled by Andrev’s skill. True, he was entering the gangly stage, and his technique was more accident and instinct than purpose and training, but he managed to hold his own for quite some time. The lesson ended with Andrev on his back on the cobbled courtyard, naturally enough, but for a boy of thirteen winters he had done very well. His teacher thought so, too; she stood over him and grinned her approval, and he blushed with pleasure.
And then he did something quite unexpected. Curling one leg up as if to gain his feet, his fingers flashed to his boot top and brought out another knife, instantly poised to fling into the woman’s chest. She backed off a step, her jaw dropping. Andrev laughed and scrambled up, bowing an apology.
Andry nearly laughed, too. So someone had told him about Rohan’s trick, had they? Clever lad!
But humor washed away on a surge of anger and despair. That second knife—and perhaps a third, in his other boot—might mean the difference between living and dying if he was caught up in a battle. Goddess, that a child his age should have to defend himself in earnest, against an enemy who would kill him without remorse even though he was only a child.
This was not what Andry wanted for his sons and daughters. And when he looked in at Feruche, the rage and sorrow grew even more bitter. For there was Tobren, a year Andrev’s junior, walking with her cousin Chayla on the way to the infirmary to treat the wounded. They carried coffers of medicines and surgical instruments as if the handles had melded to their fingers. Children, all of them merely children, forced by grown-up circumstances to grow up too soon. Both girls looked twice their years—poised, serious, and so weary.
It was one more reason to swallow his pride and give Pol all the help he could, even though Pol didn’t want it. Well, he could endure that; his cousin wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t turn Andry away from Feruche. And what did it matter if they had to choke down each other’s presence and powers? There was too much at risk, too many faces grown too old too soon.
He slid away from Feruche, skirting a cloud bank in the Veresch, and followed the sunlight to a place high over the great web of rivers in the south. He saw no Vellant’im—not even when he descended to the places they’d been, not even when he glided the length of the Pyrme and Catha rivers from Syr to the sea. Hiding from faradhi eyes? Possibly. But that hadn’t worried them much before. Where were they, all the hundreds who had laid waste to the land on either side of the rivers, burning and killing and leaving corpses to rot?
There were forests, and roads through the forests, that his vision could not penetrate; charred shells of manors and castles where they might be taking their ease. But surely he should have seen at least a few. They could not simply have vanished.
He knew where some of them were: sailing for Goddess Keep. Torien was watching them, too. Andry ap- proached him and felt the overwhelming relief in his chief steward’s colors as they touched on sunshine. Andry, where are you? They’ll be here soon— You II have help enough. Elsen’s on his way from Summer River, and his sister Norian is coming with her husband to help—him, I might add, not you. But you won’t need them. You know how to do the work.
I’m glad of your confidence, but I’d be happier if you were here to do it yourself. Can you tell me where you are?
On the way to Feruche, freezing my fingers off. Evarin’s with me. I suspect Valeda will be too, eventually. Don’t worry about us. Or about Chiana and Rinhoel, either. They’re at Rezeld Manor by now, waiting for something that isn’t going to happen.
He explained his little diversion, and Torien’s colors of amber and ruby and sapphire began to brighten. Pol’s cherished father-by-marriage will join them shortly, so there’s another one we won’t have to concern ourselves with.
You’ve been busy! Goddess, I’d love to see their faces when the twenty days run out and neither Vellant’im nor diarmadh’im appear!
Set somebody to watch, somebody who’s good at a Fire-conjure so we can all share the laugh this spring.
Jolan—she’ll enjoy it. Andry, do you really think this will be over by spring?
The Isulk’im think so, I’m told. If you listen to their signs and portents, the war will last three seasons—or three years. Symbols are a little ambiguous at times, as Lady Merisel said. But I prefer to believe in the seasonal interpretation. Do you think we could get through three years of this?
I don’t know if I can get through three more days of Master Jayachin. Although I must say she’s been behaving herself recently—no more demands to have everyone packed into the Keep until the Vellant’im go away.
Hmm. Why don’t you give her an assistant? She’ll enjoy having a Sunrunner apprentice at her side to increase her consequence.
She’ll also know any “squire” we send her will be a spy.
But she won’t dare refuse, so what she knows doesn’t matter. Give her Kov. He’s got a nice, honest face, and he’s reasonably clever.
All right. But she does her scheming inside her own head, in silence. He’s not likely to find out much.
He won’t have to. She’ll feel his eyes—our eyes—watching her. That’ll be enough.
Andry asked after his other children, received word that all was well with them, and left Goddess Keep far behind. He glimpsed Arlis’ fleet sailing around Kierst-Isel, not fooling himself for an instant that the prince was coming to defend Goddess Keep. He reminded himself to make life interesting for Arlis after this was over, and finally returned to the snow and cold of the Veresch.
“Well!” Evarin said by way of greeting. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
“There was a lot to see.” He took back his reins and added, “And some things I expected to see and didn’t. I’ll tell you as we go.”
*
The tent he inhabited was a fine one, taken from the storerooms at Radzyn Keep and delivered only a few days ago. Spacious and high-ceilinged as a castle bedchamber, its sky-blue wool kept heat in by night and its silk-meshed windows let in cooling breezes by day. Two large carpets woven in grass-greens covered the floor. The furnishings—a bed with a feather mattress big enough for two, several folding chairs, a portable stand with mirror and ceramic washbasin glazed in blue, and a map table—were carved of pale, polished wood and fitted in silver. It was Lord Chaynal’s own tent, he who was Battle Commander of the Desert; naturally, its luxurious comforts now belonged to the High Warlord of the Vellant’im.
He sat in one of the cushioned chairs, drowsy in the afternoon warmth, bare feet rubbing idly back and forth over the thick pile of a carpet. His eyelids drooped a little as he studied the trinket in his palm. Some decoration at Dragon’s Rest was now missing a piece. A dragon.
He smiled, well-satisfied. Events would now center entirely on the Desert. Soon enough the entirety of his forces—but for those who would make life nervous for the accursed faradh’im at Goddess Keep—would mass here outside the remains of Stronghold. Even now his armies were moving by stealth back across ravaged lands, their feints completed, the princes and athr’im either dead or terrified into shutting themselves in their castles where they would be no trouble to him—and no help to the Azhrei. They moved within the trees, and under clouded night skies, and as far as any watchers would know, most of them would simply have vanished.
But they would all be here on the appointed day. And then let the Azhrei bring whatever poor army he could muster against the might of all the Vellanti Islands.
He knew the priest had failed at Skybowl. It didn’t matter, except that perhaps it might make the new young Azhrei think himself powerful. And that was a good thing, for it would be that much more of a shock when he was proved wrong. But the loss of the fools who followed the priest mattered not at all, and it was just as well that they lay unburned and buried by Desert sand. An example to others that as strong as the priests made themselves out to be, the High Warlord was stronger.
The survivors were limping south to Stronghold. They would be in terror of his wrath, frantic to atone for their mistake. They had failed at Faolain Lowland, and now they had failed at Skybowl. Now he would give them something simple to do, something ten women armed with blunt knives could accomplish.
And they would return successful this time, and be on their knees to him for his wisdom that had let them succeed at last.
He held the brass dragon in his fingers, lips pursed and gaze narrowing, his body and even his breathing stilled as he considered the information this token symbolized.
Then, with the sudden explosive grace of a hunting cat, he rose and went to the map table.
In due course, after application of pen to parchment, he placed the dragon on a drawing of a section of the Veresch. Three words were written on it: Skybowl, Fer-uche, and one other. The dragon perched just above that last word. Here.
*
Yarin did a bizarre thing that evening. He allowed Tirel to sit in on a meeting of what he called the Regency Council. He did not allow Idalian to attend the boy— and the squire spent the whole time pacing his chambers and chewing his underlip almost raw.
But Tirel returned whole and healthy, if furious. “All they talked about was spring planting! What in Hells do I know about farms?”
“Don’t swear,” Idalian said. “You’re going to be Prince of Firon one day, you have to know about things like farming.” Suddenly he paled. “You didn’t say anything foolish, did you?”
Tirel slumped sullenly into a chair. “I was good. I remembered what you told me. I didn’t say anything. But I wanted so bad to tell them Uncle Yarin killed our Sunrunner and wants my Papa dead—and me, too!”
“Considering that these are the people who are helping him take Firon from your father, that wouldn’t have been very smart. I know it’s hard to keep waiting. But Prince Laric will come, never think he won’t.”
“And then they’ll fight and maybe Papa will be killed anyway—and you know what they’ll do to you and me!”
“Yarin’s too afraid of the High Prince to do anything like that.” Goddess, how he wanted to believe it.
“I want to do something now!”
“We can’t,” Idalian snapped. “And don’t even think about it or I’ll tell them you’re sick and can’t leave your room.”
Tirel scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Nobody even remembered my birthday.” .
“I did,” the squire said more gently. “And so did Nolly in the kitchens. She made you a special dinner, everything you like—“
“It’s not the same.” He sniffled. “Papa said this year I could have a horse—a real horse, not just a pony. And Mama—sh-she said—“
Idalian scooped the child up and hugged him fiercely. “Don’t cry, Tirel. It’ll be all right. You just have to be brave and clever a little while longer. And when your papa gets here, we’ll make Yarin pay for what he’s done. Tell you what, if Prince Laric doesn’t get him in battle, then you and I will have at him together. I think he’d look a lot better without lips, don’t you?” Tirel gave a little hiccup of laughter. “Nose!” Exhausted with tension and tears, the boy was asleep the moment he was tucked into bed. Idalian was awake much longer, hunched before the hearth in the outer room with a blanket over his shoulders. Despite the fire it was bitterly cold. He shivered in a sudden draft from the opening door.
“Take the dinner tray back down, and next time remember to knock.”
“I’m not here for that,” said Aldiar behind him, and he turned quickly. “I came to tell you that Prince Laric will be at Snowcoves in eight days, ten at the most.”
“How nice of you to let me know.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
Idalian very nearly smiled. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re Lord Yarin’s kinsman, you have the best information.” The thin face acquired blotches of color across the cheekbones. “You don’t believe me. What do I have to do to prove it to you?”
“Could you?” The squire shook his head. “I’m more interested in why you’re telling me to begin with. What could I possibly do about this?”
Aldiar’s fingers fretted the braid of his belt—a strange plaiting of gold, silver, and bronze wrapped twice around his skinny waist. He pulled in a deep breath and blurted,
“Take the prince out of the castle as soon as you can.”
This time Idalian laughed. “In the middle of winter?
Where to? Oh, I know! A conveniently isolated spot where a convenient accident can be staged, making Tirel and me conveniently dead.” He rubbed his chilblained hands before the fire and yearned for the Desert. “Sorry, I’m not in a mood to be convenient.”
“Listen to me,” Aldiar hissed. “It’s not just Laric, it’s Prince Arlis as well. They’re coming in ships filled with his troops. Yarin can’t command an army half that large to defend Balarat. You must get Tirel out of here. If you stay, they can’t storm the castle. Yarin will dangle him over the battlements with a sword at his throat until Laric withdraws. Don’t you see, you’ve got to leave!”
Idalian surged to his feet and grabbed the boy’s bony shoulders. “You’re on Yarin’s side, you’re of his blood. You’re telling me this so I’ll do something stupid and get myself and Tirel killed!”
“Yarin doesn’t want you dead! At least, not Tirel,” he amended, and wrenched out of Idalian’s hold. “He needs Lark’s son to hand—I just told you why! But he knows he’ll have to get past you to get to Tirel, and that makes you dangerous.”
“I don’t believe any of it,” Idalian stated—but only for Aldiar’s benefit. It sounded all too terribly logical. “And I don’t trust you a finger’s width.” Which was true.
“Father of Storms, you’re the thickest man I’ve ever met! Have I offered to sneak you down the back stairs? Did I present a plan all ready and waiting? Have I asked how you’ll get out? I don’t want to know anything about this! I don’t care when or how you leave, as long as it’s soon!” And with that he slipped back out the door and closed it behind him.
Idalian was shivering again. He retrieved the blanket from the floor and wrapped it around him again in a vain attempt to get warm. Goddess, it made too much sense. But why did Aldiar warn him? That made no sense at all.
But as he put another log on the fire and crouched beside it, he began to think that if he was careful and clever, he might actually pull it off. Tirel could pester
Yarin for the horse Laric had promised, and they could try its paces in the hills...
Madness. This wasn’t called the “dead of winter” for nothing. They were watched all the time.
By Aldiar.
But if he was truly on their side, then he would look the other way, and—
No, nothing made any sense.
Aldiar was right about one thing, though. When Laric finally arrived, Tirel would be worth more than a whole army to Yarin. And the boy would be killed either way— when Yarin won, or the moment it became clear that he’d lost.
Idalian would be dead long before that, of course.