Miyon was wrong about the morning clouds.
At midnight the moons and stars were blotted out by a storm that sent everything that could move scurrying for shelter. Draza woke Alasen when the rain began to fall, apologizing for having to crush their entire party into the stone shelter.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “No reason why everyone has to get soaked. Besides, it might make it a little warmer in here.”
Warm it was, with forty-eight men, women, and children packed inside a space meant to hold twenty-five. Feneol and Laroshin stayed outdoors with five of the guards to watch the horses, huddled miserably beneath the few trees, and to patrol the road for half a measure in either direction. Meiglan cradled Jihan in one arm and Rislyn in the other, admonishing the former every so often to hush and go back to sleep. Dannar, beside Alasen, eventually nodded off again, and it was a poignant joy to hold her son to her heart—possibly for the last time, for he was growing up so fast. But no one except the children slept for the remainder of the night.
Andry and Evarin, taking advantage of the moonlight, were caught on the road by the storm. By the time they found shelter beneath an overhanging rock, they were so sopping wet it hardly seemed worth the trouble. But a little Fire warmed them enough to stop their teeth chattering, and they, too, waited wakeful until dawn.
Miyon, already beneath a tree and wrapped in a blanket, merely rolled onto his other side and went back to sleep.
*
“Sun’s up, my lady,” Feneol whispered.
Alasen peered at the doorless entry. It was a tall gray rectangle now instead of just one more blank place in the night. But of sunshine there was none. “I’ll take your word for it,” she mumbled, shifting Dannar against her shoulder. Her adventure of the previous day ached in every bone of her body. “Sounds as if the rain has stopped, though.”
“A light mist, just enough to curl your hair, my lady.” He smiled down at the sleeping boy. “Or straighten his?”
“You could press it flat with a clothes iron and it’d only laugh at you.” She ruffled her son’s wild red hair. “Time to wake up, darling.”
Dannar snuggled closer to her side and buried his nose in the curve of her neck. Alasen grinned and hugged him.
“We’re heating water for taze, my lady,” Feneol told her. “And for a wash, if you’re inclined. Breakfast as soon as you’re ready.”
“Let everyone else eat first. But I’d love a cup of taze as soon as you can manage it, Feneol.”
A little while later she was sharing the hot, bitter drink with Dannar, who was as grumbly as his father on first waking. The guards had all gone outside, leaving only the highborns of the party within the shelter. Lyela was coaxing Rabisa to drink some taze; Meiglan combed out Rislyn’s bright hair; Jihan stood in the center of the room, trying to juggle three pine cones.
All at once Meiglan snapped, “For pity’s sake, sit down and stop making all that noise!”
“But I’ve almost got it, Mama.”
“I told you to stop! Come over here and let me do your hair. Now, Jihan!”
Sulkily, the girl obeyed, casting a resentful glance at Dannar. Alasen arched a brow at her son, who shrugged.
“I showed her how the other day at Elktrap. But you have to get pine cones the same size, or your hands get confused.”
“Ah. I see.”
Rislyn was hunched into her cloak and a blanket, shivering and mute. Jihan, noticing her twin’s discomfort, frowned and made a gesture with her right hand. A small fire appeared near Rislyn’s feet. Meiglan gasped and dropped the comb. Even Rabisa flinched, spilling taze from her cup.
“That’s very good, Jihan,” Alasen said, grateful that her voice was calm and even. “Did your father teach you how? Or Grandmother Sioned, perhaps?”
“No, your grace.” She looked over her shoulder at her mother, fidgeting nervously. “I just—I’m sorry, Mama, but Rislyn is cold, and—“
Meiglan was white-faced, the effort clearly visible as she said, “You ... you startled me, Jihan.”
Alasen began to understand what it must be like to have a farahdi child. How would she feel the first time she saw her own Jeni call Fire, or wear that strange blank expression that meant she was Sunrunning?
“I can make it go away, mama,” Jihan offered meekly. Abruptly, Alasen was angry. As deeply as her gift frightened her, she had never been ashamed of it.
Rising, sure that everyone could hear the creaks in her muscles, she crouched near Rislyn and warmed her hands over the flames. “Oh, that feels good! If you could keep this going a while, Jihan, I’m sure your sister will be nice and warm in no time.”
“It’s no trouble,” the little girl admitted. “I don’t even have to think about it much.”
With bloodlines like yours, I’ll just bet you don’t, Alasen thought. But I’m going to speak to your father and grandmother about you, my dear. You’re too young to know so much.
There were two kinds of Sunrunner’s Fire. One burned cold without consuming fuel. Sioned had explained it once as essentially a trick of conjured light, shaped into flame because that was the common reference. Candle fire or conflagration, the size depended on the amount of light a faradhi gathered and the skill of the gatherer.
Sioned’s Fire dragon at Lowland had been an elaborate conjuring, using light but no heat.
The other kind of Fire truly burned. This was what Jinan had called just now. Alasen wondered if she knew the difference.
In due course, everyone was fed, the horses were saddled, and they started off again. A fine mist drifted down from indolent clouds, collecting on Alasen’s lashes even beneath the hood of her cloak. She wiped her eyes and cheeks so often it was if she were crying.
Rislyn nestled into her mother’s arms, too listless to ride by herself. A few questions had eased Meiglan’s mind of worry that she was coming down with silk-eye. It was only a cold, and weariness. The sooner they were home at Dragon’s Rest, the better.
Seeing all the attention her sister was receiving, Jihan predictably wanted to ride with someone, too. Just as predictably, her choice was Alasen. Meiglan drew breath to forbid it, but Alasen only shook her head and smiled, saying that she would be glad of the chance to talk with Jihan as they rode. So she took Jihan with her on Tiba. The girl perched in front of her in the saddle, holding the reins for her and chattering freely. Alasen nudged her around to what had happened during the weaving at Stronghold. As she’d expected, Jihan’s response to the revelation of her Sunrunner talents had been the exact opposite of Alasen’s own.
“—and it was beautiful, your grace, all the colors and shapes and things, but Papa kept chasing me and finally he caught me, and he’s wonderful, so strong and powerful, like Granda Sioned only different. But he’s her son, wouldn’t they be almost the same, and me and Rislyn the same as him?”
“I don’t think it works like that, Jihan.”
“Oh. It should. People who are in the same family should have colors like each other.” Jihan glanced over her shoulder, blue eyes brilliant. “I saw Jeni, too, you know. She’s so pretty—all blues and golds, and kind of a soft glowy white like Mama’s moonstone necklet.”
“Sunrunners name their colors after gemstones.”
“Do they? I didn’t know that. So Jeni must be sapphire, and moonstone, and—“ She frowned. “It’s not like Grandsir Rohan’s ring, but I guess it’s topaz. My Papa has the ring now, your grace.”
“I know.”
“He’s High Prince. Mama’s High Princess. But is Granda Sioned still High Princess, too?”
“Yes. Just like Lady Rabisa is still Lady of Tuath Castle, even though her son Jeren is now its lord.”
“Lady Rabisa is so sad, isn’t she?” Jihan lowered her voice. “I try to talk to her, but she doesn’t say anything. I don’t think she even sees me. Why is she so quiet and strange?”
“Because Lord Jahnavi is dead.”
Tiba reached with sharp white teeth for a tuft of grass; Jihan tugged her gently but firmly back to the trail. “Grandsir is dead, too. Granda didn’t say anything for a long, long time after. But not like Lady Rabisa. Lord Jahnavi came to Dragon’s Rest once, back when we were little, and played with us. He gave us earrings made of sand jade, too. Do you have a lot of jewels?”
Alasen smiled, thinking of the huge coffer on her dressing table at Castle Crag. It overflowed with trinkets both of her own choosing and lavished on her by an indulgent husband who nevertheless complained about her extravagance—and paid the bills. “Oh, a few.”
“Mama has lots and lots, but she only wears them for the Rialla. Your necklet is pretty—I like the sapphire. Is it from Lord Ostvel?”
“Yes, he gave it to me when Jeni was born. The sapphire is for her, the pearl for Milar, and the amethyst for Dannar.”
“Because Dannar will be Lord of Castle Crag one day, and that’s in Princemarch, and our gem is amethyst! I’m amethyst, too.”
“Are you?” Alasen knew she wasn’t talking about jewelry.
“And emerald like Granda and Papa, and something dark red—what would that be? Not like the stones in Maarken’s Sunrunner rings, those are rubies.”
“Garnet, I should think.”
“Garnet.” She nodded. “And bits of shiny black, like some of the stones at Skybowl that cut if you’re not careful.”
“That’s obsidian—black glass. I think Sunrunners use onyx.”
“Granda has it, too, just like me. So maybe colors really do run in families. What are yours?”
Alasen blinked. “I don’t know.”
Jihan was quiet for a moment, then squirmed around in the saddle and stared very hard at Alasen. “Oh! You have onyx, too! And moonstone like Jeni. But your red isn’t like mine, it’s rubies. You’re very beautiful,” she added shyly.
“Thank you,” Alasen replied automatically, stunned. Calling Fire at eight winters old, able to see another Sunrunner’s colors—a Sunrunner who didn’t even know her own—definitely she would have to speak to Pol and Sioned about this child.
“You’re welcome,” Jihan said, facing forward again. “Can I call you Alasen? Mama says you’re from Kierst, and that’s my Granda’s family, so we’re cousins, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Jihan, you may call me Alasen.”
“Thank you. Who’s that man?”
She felt rather like shaking her head to resettle her brains. She’d forgotten what it was like to spend time with a ruthlessly curious child. “What man?”
“The one with Laroshin, coming this way. He looks funny.”
Alasen saw them—Pol’s captain and a tall, plainly dressed, pale-haired man whose intense dark eyes stared straight at her. She didn’t recognize him, but something about his gaze made her stiffen. He regarded her too closely for a chance-met traveler—and who in his right mind would travel this road in mid-winter anyway, unless he absolutely had to?
“He looks like his face doesn’t fit,” Jihan said, and giggled.
Alasen began to understand poor Meiglan’s constant chiding. “It’s not polite to say such things where someone can hear you.”
“I know how to behave,” the child pouted. “I’ve had lessons.”
“Your grace,” Laroshin said as he neared, the unknown man riding a little behind him, “this merchant, Master—what was your name again?”
“Sorindal, your grace,” the man said. “Master Sorindal asks if he and his companion may ride with us to Feruche.”
“You have business there?” Alasen asked politely. He nodded his fair, rain-dampened head. “I come for Cunaxan arms and armor, your grace. Usually I deal in gold and silver, but in these times, it’s steel that’s needed. I do what I can.”
“Commendable, but surely foolhardy to travel so far, and under these conditions, Master Sorindal.”
“And yet your grace is in the saddle, and, if I’m not mistaken, the High Princess as well. I have been to Dragon’s Rest for the Rialla Fair, your grace. I recognize the gentle and lovely Princess Meiglan.”
Jihan shifted against Alasen and said, “Master Sorindal, why—“
She got no further. For at that moment, from the cover of the rocks and trees around them, sprang half a hundred bearded men, bellowing “Diarmadh’im! Diarmad-h’im!” as if with a single voice.
*
Pol was so numb with fatigue that he barely saw the outlines of the garrison buildings below Feruche. Sometime during the night his brain had for some reason begun calculating the number of measures he’d ridden since Autumn. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to Remagev to Stronghold to Feruche to Zagroy’s Pillar—no, Skybowl had come between Stronghold and Feruche. Begin again. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to Remagev to Stronghold to— now he’d forgotten the chase he’d led part of the Vellanti army after Remagev. Once more. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to...
When he reached something over two thousand measures, he decided he didn’t want to know. Every one of them, counted or not, seemed to stretch between the Desert floor and the castle on the cliff. When his exhausted stallion tottered into the courtyard, Pol dropped the reins and slid from the saddle and very nearly fell to his knees.
Everyone clustered around Maarken. Hollis ran to him first, of course, but not far behind were Chay and Tobin; Ruala hurried up bearing a large goblet of heated wine. Pol looked around slowly for Meiglan, then recalled that he had sent her back to Dragon’s Rest. Well, if he couldn’t have the welcome of his wife, then at least his mother might have come down to greet him.
Instead he saw Sionell.
Nothing had ever hurt so much as the sight of her. Her stride was sure and easy, her hands steady around the wine cup meant for him, her face composed. But her eyes were bruised beneath with weariness, her face all hollows and stark, proud bones. Dark red hair straggled around her brow and temples from a braid knotted around itself at the crown of her head; it shocked him to see there were a few strands of gray in it. Her frightening calm was a mask of self-possession cast in steel that to him looked as thin and brittle as glass.
“There’s been no word,” she said, her voice deep and slightly husky. He heard it someplace in his chest that twisted with pain at her weariness. “Chay sent out more people to search for her. Meath has been Sunrunning since daybreak. The others watched on the moons last night, and after that your mother used the stars. She’s upstairs sleeping now—and you should be, too. You look horrible.”
He nodded and drank. The warm spiced wine immediately made his head spin.
“When the—the bodies were brought back, they also brought the satchels of herbs Chay la went to collect.
Most of the children will get better soon, now that there’s enough medicine for them.”
“Most?” He coughed thickness from his throat.
“Jahnavi’s daughter Siona died just before dawn.”
“Oh, Goddess,” Pol breathed. “Ell, I’m so sorry—“
She interrupted briskly. “A delegation from Cunaxa arrived yesterday evening—merchants, mostly, with nothing useful to say but apologies. They’re rather at a loss at Castle Pine. You may want to send someone back with them to take things in hand up there. Oh, they did bring four crates of swords and ten of arrows—hastily refletched in blue and violet. But Chay says they’re among the finest he’s ever seen, and the swords the same. So we’re well-armed.”
She paused, waiting for some sort of response. Pol gave a mindless nod. Looking at her hurt; he could not look away.
Sionell continued. “Another caravan of supplies—food and so forth—came from Elktrap. They passed Meiglan and the girls on the road a few days ago, all serene. She should be with Alasen by now.”
Again he nodded, because she seemed to expect it.
“Finish your wine, Pol,” she advised. “It’ll give you legs enough to make it upstairs. We’ve done everything there is to be done—and there’s nothing you can do until you can think straight again.” She smiled just a little. “I must say the look in your eyes is not encouraging.”
He went meekly, unable to do otherwise. Anguish cramped inside him like the sudden onset of a fatal disease.
It was a terrible thing to realize he was in love with a woman who was not his wife.
*
The mare sidled under Alasen, nearly crushing her right leg against Laroshin’s stallion. Guards cried out warnings punctuated by the harsh music of steel on steel and a persistent, high-pitched shriek that ended in a sick- ening thick gurgle. Rabisa toppled to the ground, a scarlet necklet half-circling her throat, gushing blood.
Tiba backed and turned again and again, teeth bared as she snapped at anything that got too close. Alasen didn’t know it, but this was what all Radzyn horses were schooled to do in battle, especially in the absence of recognized signals from the rider: move constantly, find room, bite and kick at anything that got too close, and above all give the rider space to swing a sword freely. All Alasen knew was a dizzying whirlwind of bodies and horses and flashes of deadly silver as swords dug into flesh and came away dark with blood. Meiglan was a slender cloaked and hooded shape huddled protectively over Rislyn; Lyela reached for her reins to pull her horse from the battle. Feneol launched himself right out of his saddle, knife uplifted, at a Vellanti whose sword turned for Dannar. Alasen screamed her son’s name just as Feneol was impaled. But arms already dead completed the embrace, embedded the knife in the enemy’s back.
Alasen lurched forward as Tiba’s rear hooves lashed out. She scrabbled frantically for reins that were clutched in Jihan’s fists. The girl’s legs pumped as she kicked the mare with all her strength. Alasen added her own heels to the effort. Jihan yanked on the reins, turning for her mother and sister. But neither she nor Alasen knew how to overcome the horse’s training. Tiba continued to turn and retreat, biting what she could reach, moving sideways when she could to crash against Vellant’im who staggered and fell stunned.
Hooves trampled something soft and yielding. Alasen looked down and choked on a cry of horror. Lyela, one arm outstretched, the other missing at the shoulder, sprawled in the mud, brown eyes staring and dead.
“Mama!” Jihan shrilled, and Meiglan looked up. Her hood had fallen away, her cloud of pale soft hair wild about her white cheeks and stricken dark eyes.
Alasen gripped Jihan’s fingers in her own and hauled back on the reins. Tiba stopped, absolutely motionless. Someone yelled practically in Alasen’s ear as she urged the mare toward Meiglan.
“Your grace, no! Not that way!” Laroshin, bleeding from a wound at his hip, booted one attacking Vellanti in the face and stabbed another in the chest. “Follow me!”
“But—Meiglan—Dannar—“ She searched frantically for her son.
“Lord Draza will take care of them! Hurry!”
Alasen dug her heels into Tiba’s ribs and tried to follow, but the writhing knot of battle thickened around her. “We can’t get through!” She saw her son’s fiery red head lift into view. He straightened in his saddle, tugging hard at the sword he’d just sunk into a Vellanti skull. Sweet Goddess, he was only eleven years old—
She pried Jihan’s fingers loose from the reins. “Laroshin! Take her! Get out of here!”
“No! I want Mama! Let go of me!” She fought the captain’s strong arm, kicking and clawing like a hatchling dragon breaking from its shell. Laroshin swung her free of Alasen’s saddle and tucked her under his elbow, freeing his hand for the reins, his other hand still swinging his sword.
Alasen didn’t wait to see them gallop away. “Dannar! To me!”
The boy’s head snapped around. There was a wide streak of blood on his cheek. “Mother!” he shouted, and cut his way through to her side. “Are you hurt? Mother, tell me you’re all right!”
“Dannar, take me out of here!”
He cast a single glance at Meiglan nearby; that was where his duty lay.
Alasen damned Pol for making so conscientious a squire of her only son. “Draza is already with her. Dannar, hurry! Please!”
A man’s rough voice, somehow familiar, shouted from beyond the battle noise. “The princess! Take the princess! Damn you, there she is! Take her!”
She looked past the fighting and saw him, standing between two clean-shaven guards safely up the hillside. His long, thin arm projected like a drawn arrow. His black eyes were afire.
“The man who harms her dies! But take her! Nowr
She would never understand how it came to her so quickly, how the knowledge cut through the terror like a sword stroke. But she shook back her hood so her own golden-brown hair would show, and sat straight in the saddle, and screamed, “Father! Father!”
For just an instant, everything seemed to stop. Then a man’s anguished voice shouted, “Alasen! No!” and three things happened.
A bearded dark face appeared at her mare’s head and a hand darted out to grab the bridle. Two fingers were bitten off by Tiba’s vicious white teeth. The Vellanti crumpled to the ground, yelping with pain.
Another man leapt onto Meiglan’s little mare just behind the saddle, arms wrapping around her and Rislyn to seize the reins.
And Miyon of Cunaxa stumbled howling down the hillside, every piece of his clothing and every hair on his head engulfed in Fire.
Dannar slapped the flat of his sword against Tiba’s rump. The mare leapt into a gallop. Alasen half-turned and cried out her son’s name. In the morass of battling soldiers beyond him, she had the insane impression of Andry’s face.
Then all she could do was bend low over Tiba’s silvery neck and hang on.
*
Chay told his son much the same thing Sionell had told Pol: that all that could be done was being done, and he must go upstairs and rest.
“No,” Maarken replied. “They can’t stay hidden forever. I’m going to look for them on sunlight again.”
“Meath is doing exactly that right now,” Chay said.
“We all have,” Hollis added. “Come upstairs with me, Maarken, please.”
No one said what they were all thinking—that the Vel-lant’im must know how Sunrunners worked, and would use the scant time between starshine and sunrise as their only chance to move. There were forests to hide in, of course, but on the Desert side of the Veresch these were few and far apart. And they had had a whole night and a day to ride in any direction from Ivalia Meadow.
Or not ride very far at all.
Chayla and her captors could be just about anywhere. And all of them knew it.
Maarken shook his head stubbornly. “I know these hills better than Meath. I was up here constantly while Sorin was building Feruche. I’ll find her.”
“And then do wh-what?” his mother inquired in her slow, halting voice. She sounded worse than at any time since the first seizure had come upon her. “Don’t be a fool,” Tobin went on, every word a struggle to make the ruined side of her face help form the syllables. “Rest. Now.” She smacked her cane on the flagstones for emphasis.
Maarken started to reach for her, to embrace her. Instantly he caught sight of his maimed arm. No one had said anything about it. No one had even looked at it after the first horrified shock. He tucked his arm back against his chest and glanced away.
“Fool,” Tobin rasped again, and with her stronger hand clutched the stump of his wrist. “Darling fool,” she said more softly, and shook him weakly. “Just like your f-father.”
Maarken forced himself to smile. “Thank you.”
Tobin gave a snort and released him.
Upstairs, Hollis insisted on looking at Maarken’s arm herself. Unbandaged.
“No,” he said again, even more flatly.
“Your mother’s right about you, though I’m surprised she insulted your poor father that way. Sit down. Shut up. Let me see your arm.”
“What’s left of it.”
He suffered her to unwrap Feylin’s work. Her breath caught slightly in her throat and he closed his eyes, not wanting to see horror on her face.
Hollis’ voice was pure and steady. “Feylin did the main work—I recognize her stitchery. But who cauterized it?”
“Pol. Almost immediately.”
“Pol? Oh. I see.” She touched the great ugly scab. “I must remember to thank him.”
“He also got the one who did this to me.”
“Pity. I would’ve enjoyed killing him myself. Pol was undoubtedly too quick.” Hollis bunched the soiled white silk into a ball and stuffed it in her pocket. “Tobren ran up to start baths for you and Pol and Kazander the moment you got into the courtyard. Why don’t you have a long soak while I get you something to eat? You look starved as well as exhausted.”
He looked up at her. “Hollis—“
Delicate hands, glittering with Sunrunner’s rings, stroked his cheek, his hair. She was smiling. “They didn’t hurt any of the really essential parts, did they? You were riding astride, and you walk perfectly well, so—“
“Hollis!” he blurted, and she laughed softly.
“Well, then, what’s the difference? Go have your bath, love.”
He clutched at her with his right hand. With this woman, he need not pretend strength he didn’t feel. With her, he could be weak and afraid, without fearing loss of her love.
“Hollis, don’t leave me.”
She knelt before him, clasping his fingers between her own. “Listen to me, my darling,” she whispered. “I won’t start crying the moment I’m out of your sight. I took care of all that last night. Yes, it will take time to heal this—not only your arm, but your heart. But it makes no difference to me, Maarken.” She pressed her lips to his palm. “If you’d come home to me lacking both hands, blinded, and unable to walk for the rest of your life, it would be just the same as if you’d come home whole. I love you. You are my husband, and my lord, and the father of my babies. And you are alive for me to hold in my arms. That’s all that matters to me. If it takes the rest of our lives to prove it to you, then you’re more of a fool than even your mother thinks you are. But you are my fool, beloved,” she ended with a smile, blue eyes liquid with tears. “All.mine.”
Maarken knew this wouldn’t be the last time he’d wish he could cradle her face in both hands. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to that. All the same, he smiled and murmured, “I suppose if I said ‘what’s left of me,’ you’d hit me. So I won’t.”
Hollis nodded. “Good choice.”
*
In the silence and solitude of Ruala’s solar, Sionell plunged her needle over and over into blue and yellow silk, stitching the slippery lengths into a battle flag. Tal-lain’s people would fight in the next and final battle. And she intended that all should know it by this banner, snapping in the wind alongside those of Stronghold and Radzyn, Remagev and Skybowl and Feruche.
And Tuath Castle, she reminded herself, glancing at the bright pile of silk waiting for her needle. Jahnavi’s people too would be there, following an orange-and-brown banner made by his sister’s hands. Tuathans and Tiglathis, they would march under their own flags— leaderless, their athr’im dead.
There were two new lords whose names they would shout as they fought. The names of children. Her brother’s son Jeren was two winters old. Her own son Jahnev was just seven. Digging skeins of yellow thread from Ruala’s sewing box, tears clouded her eyes so that she couldn’t tell which color matched best.
Her brother and his wife and their daughter were dead. Her husband was dead. She must serve as athri for both castles until the children were grown. The years stretched ahead of her like an unknown landscape beyond a dark river. How to cross that river and get to those years from where she was now?
However it happened, she knew she must do it alone.
“Mother?”
Sionell glanced up, badly startled. Jahnev had never called her that in his life. But as Lord of Tiglath in his father’s stead, he had evidently decided he must leave childhood behind.
At seven winters old, leaving childhood behind.
“Yes, love?” she said gently, letting the silks drape over her lap. “What is it?”
“Mother,” he said, slowly and deliberately. “We should go back home now.”
“Once everyone’s rested, we shall. It’s a long, hard journey to do twice in the space of a few days.”
“No, I mean now.” He came toward her, tall for his age, long-legged and whip-thin. His eyes were gray and his hair was a sunny brown, and he resembled his grandfather Eltanin down to the arching quirk of his brows. Still, at this moment Sionell saw Tallain in him, that quiet strength so often hidden by wry humor. But Jahnev wore no smile, and would not for a long time.
“Now?” she echoed, pushing the half-finished flag from her lap. “Why?”
“Because our people will be safer at home. But mainly because we’ll have to bring our troops back to help the High Prince.”
“Ah.” Her hands and her knees were empty, and she abruptly understood why. She had been preparing to take him onto her lap and cuddle him, not for his own comfort, but hers. He was still her little boy—but it would be the worst possible thing to do when that little boy was trying so hard to be grown up.
“You agree, don’t you?” Jahnev asked—not as if he needed her to, but more by way of consent between equals. “He’ll have to have everyone, Mother, against the Vellant’im.” .-.•.-
She nodded.
“And we’ll have to start rebuilding, too. Tiglath is going to be a major port in the north, now that Cunaxa belongs to the High Prince.”
She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Tallain had taken the boy with him on inspection tours for the last year or so, while he talked with merchants and watched ships being loaded and unloaded into landing boats. Tallain had always wanted to make Tiglath a better harbor. Jahnev was right; now that the Cunaxans would not be forced by enmity to transport their goods overland, Tiglath might one day rival Radzyn as a port town.
Seven winters old.
“Yes, I agree,” she said at last. “But let everyone rest another few days, Jahnev.” She hesitated, and because she wanted to be mother again to a little boy, she told him, “Especially me. I don’t know if I can go home just yet—“
She hadn’t meant to say that much, or that honestly. But it got her what she needed—and what Jahnev needed, too, judging by his swiftness in embracing her. She didn’t draw him onto her knees, but sat with her head cradled against his thin shoulder, trying not to cry.
*
“... can see me, your eyes are open. Come on, talk to me. The bump on your head isn’t bad enough to addle your brains. Andry!”
“Stop shouting,” he mumbled. Evarin was a rainy blur of pallid skin, blue eyes, and brown hair. “What hit me?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I wasn’t in the fighting more than three shakes of a dragon’s tail myself. Can you sit up? Tell me if you’re dizzy or sick to your stomach.”
He was neither, although his vision was framed in wavering black for a few moments. His right shoulder and hip ached fiercely, and when he tried to take a deep breath, something stuck him in the left side of his back. When the blood stopped rushing in his ears and he could hear himself think, he said, “I can’t see clearly. Nothing’s in focus.”
“That should pass in a little while.” Evarin put a wa-terskin to his lips. “Be glad you can’t see all of this,” he added quietly. “I wish I couldn’t.”
Andry drank, rinsed his mouth, and squinted at the physician. “How bad?”
“No one is alive here but us.”
Surely he’d heard wrong. “What?”
Evarin was rummaging in his medical kit. “All dead, my Lord.”
“Where’s Alasen?”
“Gone. Bite down on this.” He slid a wafer between Andry’s lips. “Have some more water to wash it down. That’s right. It’s just something to take the sting from your bruises. Evidently you fell off your horse—and don’t think I’ll ever let you forget it, either! A rib got cracked on the left. I’ll strap it now that you’re sitting up and I can get to it. Take off your shirt.”
“Let’s get out of the rain first.”
Evarin hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, my Lord. We can’t just yet. You can’t carry yourself, let alone me.”
He noticed then how Evarin’s right leg was extended limply, awkwardly in front of him, his cloak tied in a pad at the thigh.
“A sword punched right through to the bone. I’ll be all right,” Evarin assured him. “It’s not serious, just a puncture. The artery wasn’t hit and the hole isn’t even that big. I cleaned it and took something for the pain.”
“Are you sure it’s not bad? It looks awful.” He grimaced. “Stupid question to ask a physician. Damn it, Evarin, I don’t remember any of what happened!”
“That’s the knock on the head. It’ll come back to you.”
“Tell me what you know,” he demanded, wincing as he struggled out of his tunic and shirt. He ripped the latter into strips as Evarin talked.
“We were ambushed. I was back with Lord Draza while you rode up to Princess Alasen. All of a sudden there they were, swarming like bees. I got this pretty early on—and I’m not ashamed to say I fell off my horse when it happened, too. I’m no hand with a sword, and being trampled wasn’t my idea of how I wanted to die, so I sneaked off the road into the scrub to wait it out. Here, sit up very straight and I’ll wrap those ribs. Beautiful bruise you’re going to have there, my Lord. All the colors of the faradh’im. Anyway, about all I really saw was Miyon go up in flames on the hillside. Your work, I suppose.”
“If it wasn’t you, then it must have been me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Goddess, Evarin, leave me some room to breathe!”
“Sorry. Well, then one of those bastards galloped past me, riding behind Princess Meiglan’s saddle with her and one of the little girls caught in front of him. Those who were left of his fellows grabbed horses and took off after him. Those who were left of Alasen’s and Meiglan’s people did the same, and that was that. I think they probably left you for dead. Everyone else here is.”
Andry rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “How many? And how do you know?”
“I made it here to you, but you weren’t going to be waking up for a while. So I had a look around.”
He stared at the young man, who shrugged one shoulder deprecatingly. “You went around to all of them? On that leg?”
“Like everyone, my Lord, I learned to crawl before I learned to walk. Not exactly dignified, but nobody noticed. There are fifty-eight corpses. Thirty-two of theirs, twenty-six of ours, and one Prince of Cunaxa charred to a crisp.” He tied off the last strip of Andry’s shirt and sank back, propped on one hand. He was sweating, and despite whatever he’d taken for the pain his young face was drawn taut. “That’s got it. We’ll rest a bit, then find shelter for the night.”
Andry opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. Neither of them would be going anywhere until tomorrow. Evarin couldn’t walk; Andry could hardly breathe.
His vision finally steady again, he looked around at the carnage and instantly wished he hadn’t. Whatever shelter they found must be soon, and stout; the scavengers would come now, even though the misting rain dampened down the stench of fresh blood.
“Alasen didn’t ride past you, did she?”
“No. Just the High Princess, and the Vellant’im, and then our people chasing them back the way we rode in. I heard that young lord—Draza?—yelling at a woman wearing Pol’s colors, something about getting Princess
Alasen to safety. Probably back to Elktrap. Oh—Hil-dreth’s son Feneol is dead. Gave a good account of himself by the look of it. Be sure to tell her that.”
“Anyone else you recognized?”
“Two highborn women I didn’t know.”
Andry jostled his memory back to the moment he’d ridden toward Alasen. Near her had been two other women besides Meiglan. “One very dark and small, the other blonde with brown eyes?” When the physician nodded, Andry finished, “Rabisa and Lyela—Jahnavi’s widow and Tallain’s cousin. Poor Sionell. First her brother, then her husband, and now she’ll be lucky to come out of this with any family left.”
“So will Pol,” Evarin pointed out. He wiped mist off his face and drank from the waterskin. “What do they want with his wife and daughter?”
“If Miyon was still alive, I’d ask him. But I can make a pretty good guess.”
After a moment, the young man said diffidently, “I don’t like to say this.”
;’But?”
“Prince Miyon.”
Andry thought it through, trying to remember. He shook his head. “If you say he’s dead of Sunrunner’s Fire, then I must have done it.”
Evarin looked anywhere but at him. Andry understood.
“He was a traitor. Deserved to die.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
He’d killed before with his gifts. Those memories sparked a matching one. “I know what happened now,” he said slowly. “Miyon was calling for them to take the princess and not to harm her. Alasen drew their attention—she cried out ‘Father’ as if she were Meiglan. They would have taken her—“
“So you killed him.”
“Yes. Before he could identify her as a second prize. I killed him with Fire because I was too far away to kill him with my bare hands. If you don’t approve, too damned bad.”
Evarin met his gaze then, and his voice trembled with intensity. “You’re the Lord of Goddess Keep. It isn’t for me to question your decisions. But ... such use of what we are as Sunrunners...” He was almost pleading for Andry’s understanding. “I’m a physician. I use my gifts to save lives. It’s not easy for me to see that the opposite is possible, too.”
“I’ve had do to a lot of hard things in my life, Evarin. Killing a man who sold his own daughter and grandchildren to the enemy doesn’t even make the list.” But he hadn’t done it because of Meiglan.
Gathering his legs under him, he put a hand on Evar-in’s shoulder for leverage. “I feel stronger now. I’ll help you get out of the rain. Just let me stand up, and—“
“—and fall over. Sit down, Andry.” Evarin gestured around them. “No one here will mind.”
*
Kazander spent a good part of the morning in the bathtub, sluicing the long night’s ride from his body, knowing exhausted muscles needed the water’s soothing heat. Then he wrapped himself in a thick woolen robe Lady Ruala had provided from her husband’s closet. He paused to stroke the soft nap, liking the swirl of dark green leaves against a black background. What luxury these castle-dwellers surrounded themselves with; though it was a pleasure to partake of it, for some time now he had been missing his own tent.
Still, he must be sure to bring his family on a visit to Feruche. They would enjoy it so. He smiled to himself as he imagined his children splashing in the huge tub— always assuming their mothers allowed them to set their grubby little selves in such a quantity of clean water. He sighed at the thought of his wives, and lay down on the bed, and slept until dusk.
When Visian crept into his room, he was already awake and dressed.
“They are all at dinner, my brother. I said I would find out if you still slept, but they do not expect you.”
“Then they will not miss me.” He finished wrapping his headcloth—black as night, as his clothes, as the horses he had ordered Visian to select from the stables for their use. “Everything is prepared?”
“Nineteen ros’eltan’im wait for us at the appointed place. Each departed singly. Nothing is known.”
“Nineteen?”
“With you and I, the ritual number, my lord.”
Kazander gave him a sharp glance, but said nothing.
Visian hesitated. “My brother, will not the Azhrei be angered by this?”
“It doesn’t shame me to admit that I don’t care if he is. It does grieve me to keep him in ignorance, but he is a stubborn man, Visian. They all are.” He took up the band of beaten gold that secured the headcloth and set it carefully into place. White jade studded the flat, shining strip, like dull stars within a streak of sunlight across a blackened sky.
“I understand why you wear that, but...”
Kazander smiled. “But it makes me visible. I know. I promise I’ll remember to take it off when the time comes. Allow me my little vanities.”
Visian smiled back. He unfurled the black cloak he carried and set it about Kazander’s shoulders. “Ros’el-tan,” he said. The Black Warrior. “You are he, in truth, my lord.”
Kazander blinked at this second reference to a very old legend. “No one was surprised when the word was given?”
“We have expected it since we learned that the Lady Chayla had been stolen.”
“But the way it was said—it was your word.” Visian’s gaze lowered. “It is written, my lord.”
“But not spoken for a hundred years.” Kazander sighed. “Do you think it so necessary?”
“They are Merida kin. Unspeakable vermin, like them. It is written—“
“Yes. I know. Very well. Ros’eltan’im we shall all become, then. And the stronger for it, my brother?”
Visian gestured to the gold around Kazander’s head. “You knew that, too.”
“I won’t claim what comes after,” he warned suddenly. “I am not a legend, nor the embodiment of a word on parchment, nor certainly the Ros’eltan come alive. Pol is our prince—now and always.”
“It is enough that when the Lady Chayla is safe, we will know that the claim could be made.”
“Just so that’s understood.” Kazander fastened the neck-clasp of his cloak. “Besides, we’d have to go find it first, and the White Crown hasn’t been seen since Lady Merisel’s time.”
“If anyone could find it—“
“I don’t want it,” Kazander snapped. “It is enough that I believe in it.”
“No matter what the song says?”
He had to smile at the sly, knowing look Visian gave him. “Not to believe is not to go looking. The opposite doesn’t hold. I choose not to search, my brother.” He ran a finger over the gold circling his head. “This is crown enough for me.”