Pandsala, Regent of Princemarch and daughter of the late High Prince Roelstra, scowled at the letter on her desk and told herself that life would have been much simpler without sisters. Her father had provided her with seventeen of them. Though ten were dead now—some in the Plague of 701, others since—and good riddance, she was still left with far too many for her peace of mind.
The survivors were a plague in themselves. Letters such as the one now before her arrived constantly here at Castle Crag; petitions for money or favors or a word in High Prince Rohan’s ear, and especially requests to be allowed a visit to their childhood home. Pandsala had spent the first five years of her regency removing her sisters from Castle Crag by various methods; she was not about to let any of them come back, not for so much as a day.
But it was the youngest of them, the one who had never even been here, who was the focus of Pandsala’s present irritation. Chiana’s letter could not have irked her more had the girl written every word with a calculated eye to insulting her powerful half sister. She presumed an intimacy repugnant to Pandsala; she even styled herself “princess” as if her mother, Lady Palila, had been Roel-stra’s wife instead of his whore. Born in Waes and raised in various places, including Goddess Keep for the first six winters of her life, Chiana evidently chose to forget that Pandsala had shared those six winters and knew every detail of her character in excruciating detail. Their rare encounters since and the letters Chiana wrote were ample evidence that maturing had not changed her. At nearly twenty-one, her haughty selfishness had grown worse. In this letter Chiana implied that if Pandsala extended an invitation to Castle Crag for the summer, Chiana might be persuaded to grace it with her presence. But Pandsala had long ago vowed that Chiana would never set foot here so long as she was the keep’s mistress.
A few of the other sisters had shared Chiana’s rearing after Lady Andrade had flatly refused to have her back at Goddess Keep. Lady Kiele of Waes, wedded to that city’s lord, had taken the girl in at first. But she had eventually wearied of Chiana’s pretensions and packed her off to Port Adni when Princess Naydra had married Lord Narat. The island of Kierst-Isel had been an excellent place for Chiana, distance being a thing to be cherished insofar as Pandsala was concerned. Yet after a few winters even Naydra’s patience had given way. By that time Lady Ra-bia, Chiana’s full sister, had married Lord Patwin of Catha Heights, and the pair had invited the homeless girl to live with them. Rabia’s death in childbed had ended Chiana’s time in Catha Heights, and she had lived in Waes again for a time before Kiele had caught her trying to seduce Lord Lyell. It had been back to Naydra, from whose seaside residence she now wrote.
Pandsala looked sourly at the royal title and thick flourish of ink Chiana used as her signature. She knew very well why the girl wanted to come to Castle Crag—so that at summer’s end, she would naturally become part of Padsala’s suite at the Rialla, with access to all the princes and their unmarried heirs. Landless though she was, she would yet have a considerable dowry from Rohan, as had all the sisters who had chosen to marry, and her beauty alone would make her a desirable match. But Pandsala was damned if she’d lend her own countenance to her loathsome little sister.
She penned a brief, firm denial, then scrawled her own titles and signature. Leaning back in her chair, she contemplated the words that meant her power and thought of her other surviving sisters. She and Naydra were the only ones left of the four daughters born to Roelstra and his only wife. Lenala had died of Plague and lanthe was dead at Feruche Castle these fourteen years. Foolish, harmless Lenala and beautiful, brilliant, ruthless lanthe; they represented the extremes found in Roelstra’s offspring. The other surviving daughters all fell someplace in between. Kiele was a fool, but not harmless—nor, fortunately, ruthless enough to be any real danger. Naydra was intelligent enough to have schooled herself to acceptance of her lot. Pandsala suspected she was even happy as Narat’s wife. Chiana, on the other hand, was beautiful, brilliant, and a constant irritant. As for the others— Pandsala could barely remember what they looked like. Moria lived placidly on a manor in the Veresch foothills; Moswen divided her time between a townhouse in Einar and visiting Kiele in Waes and Danladi, Roelstra’s daughter by Lady Aladra, at High Kirat. Fourteen years ago at Stronghold, when Rohan had been acclaimed High Prince, Danladi had become friendly with Princess Gemma, last of her branch of the Syrene royal house since her brother Jastri’s death. Prince Davvi had taken his young cousin under his protection and Danladi had become part of Gemma’s suite. But whatever the rest of Roelstra’s daughters were doing, thinking, or thinking of doing, Pandsala knew she could safely ignore them. They each had a share of beauty and a modicum of intelligence, but none of them was a threat.
And Pandsala herself? She smiled slightly and shrugged. Neither as beautiful nor as clever as lanthe, she was nevertheless far from stupid and had learned many things in her years as regent. She wondered if her dead sister, in whatever hell she surely inhabited now, could see Pandsala’s current position and influence. Pandsala hoped so. The knowledge would torment lanthe more than anything else that could be devised for her punishment.
Pandsala’s dark eyes squeezed shut, her fingers curving into claws at the thought of lanthe, for all that her ruin at her sister’s hands was over twenty years past and she had long since tasted her revenge. Their father’s last mistress, Palila, had been pregnant and due to deliver sometime after the Rialla of 698. But just in case she was early, three other child-heavy women had been brought along—for lanthe planned that if Palila delivered the precious male heir, then a girl born to one of the others would be substituted. At least, that had been the plot outlined to Pandsala.
Rising from her desk, she went to the windows and stared across the narrow canyon gouged out of the mountains by the Faolain River. She could hear the rush of water far below, but no sound of the keep’s daily life reached her in this aerie. Gradually she calmed down enough to recall the past without succumbing to blind fury, and even with something resembling dispassion.
Most people would have said she deserved what she had received that night long ago. She had promised Palila that if yet another girl was born, she would find a way to substitute a boy birthed by one of the servant women, who would be drugged into early labor. Roelstra would have his long-desired heir, Palila would be the all-powerful mother of that heir, and Pandsala would have first place in the pursuit of young Prince Rohan. Both plots had been insane gambles based solely on the sexes of unborn children. So insane, in fact, that lanthe had had no trouble denouncing Pandsala to their father the night of Chiana’s birth. Clever, ruthless lanthe—Pandsala could still see her smile as Roelstra condemned his newborn daughter and Pandsala to the exile of Goddess Keep, lanthe had been rewarded with the important border castle of Feruche.
But the real irony was not Pandsala’s discovery of her faradhi talents under Andrade’s tutelage, nor even her present position of power. The laughable part was that only moments after lanthe had betrayed her, a boy had indeed been born to one of the servant women. Had the timing been just a little better, Pandsala would have been the victor, not lanthe.
Her gaze went to her hands and the five rings of her earned Sunrunner rank. Another ring set with topaz and amethyst symbolized her regency. The golden stone of the Desert shone brighter and more compelling in the sunlight than did Princemarch’s dark purple gem. And that was how it should be, she told herself.
Her lack of filial devotion to her dead father’s aims troubled her as little as her lack of sisterly affection. Years ago she had accepted a charge from the man who might have been her husband, on behalf of the boy who might have been her son. Her life had found focus when Rohan made her Pol’s regent. For them she governed sternly and well; for them she had made this land a model of law and prosperity; for them she had learned how to be a prince. For them, anything.
She returned to her desk and sealed the letter to Chiana, watching her rings gleam. She alone of all Roelstra’s daughters had inherited the gift; it ran not through his line but that of her mother, Princess Lallante, his only wife. Had lanthe been similarly gifted—Pandsala shuddered, even at this late date. lanthe with Sunrunner powers would have been well-nigh invincible.
But lanthe was dead, and Pandsala was here, alive, and second among women only to the High Princess herself. She remembered then that she had a report to write to Sioned, and forgot Chiana, her other.half sisters, and the past.
* * *
Lady Kiele of Waes was also at her desk that evening, and also considering the gift Pandsala possessed and she did not. Kiele did the best with what she had—but how much more she could have done had she the ability to weave the sunlight and see what others might not wish seen.
Smoothing the folds of a gown made of green-gold tissue, she consoled herself with what she did possess. But in a short while she would preside over a dinner for Prince Clutha, in Waes to discuss arrangements for this year’s Rialla, arrangements that would nearly bankrupt her and Lyell. Again. Clutha had never forgiven Lyell for siding with Roelstra during the war with the Desert, and all these years of being watched and suspected had not been amusing. Clutha had hit on the idea that making Waes pay the entire expense of the triennial gathering would \ keep its lord and lady too short of funds to work mischief elsewhere. Treading the extremely narrow path their overlord had decreed kept Kiele in a near-constant state of nerves. Lyell, however, never seemed to mind. He hadn’t enough wits to mind; he was too busy being grate- f ful that he still possessed his life, let alone his city. i Kiele’s fingers trailed along the gold headpiece on her desk. It was not quite a coronet, for not even she would dare that in the presence of her prince. Her pretty mouth twisted as she calculated yet again the chances of wearing the real thing one day. None, unless a great many people died. Though elderly, Clutha was in the best of health, as was his son Halian. The blood connection between them and Waes was in the female line and so remote that Kiele had no hope of its ever becoming applicable to the inheritance of Meadowlord.
The best she could do was set up one of her half sisters as Halian’s wife. She had been well on the way to it some years ago when her choice, Cipris, had died of a slow, mysterious fever. Halian had been sincerely attached to Cipris, but that had not prevented him from taking a mistress to console himself. He had sired several children on the woman—all girls, for which grace Kiele thanked the Goddess. Had there been a son, he might have become the next heir to Meadowlord, with no blood ties to Kiele at all.
Halian had been quite happy in his illicit domestic life and reluctant to exchange it for legal marriage. But now his mistress was dead. Kiele smiled as she put her signature to a letter inviting her half sister Moswen to Waes for the summer. Moswen would make Halian an excellent wife—although Kiele wondered why she took the trouble to elevate one of the hateful Lady Palila’s daughters. Then she shrugged. She worked with what she had. Moswen was the right age, reasonably pretty, and grateful to Kiele for past favors. She was also hungry for the trappings of power. She saw the jewels, the lovely clothes, the deference, and it was these things she desired. Of the real- ities of power she saw and understood nothing. Kiele considered her the perfect choice, for she would be easy to instruct and influence. Once Clutha died and both Halian and Lyell were out from under the old man’s eye, Meadowlord would be Kiele’s to play with as she wished. Halian had proved himself the type of man who could be led by what was between his legs—just like Lyell. With Moswen leading Halian, and Kiele leading her. . . .
A shift of light in the mirror caught her attention, and the door behind her swung open to admit her husband. Lyell was an angular, pallid man whose blue eyes and nearly colorless blond hair were more faded than ever by the Waesian colors of red and yellow that made up his formal clothes. Kiele frowned slightly as he approached her, for she had ordered his squires to dress him in a shade of green to complement her own gown. They would have been a matched set, and Clutha would have been honored by their wearing his color. But Lyell was stubborn about his family dignity and wore his own colors on all formal occasions. In some ways his stubbornness had served Kiele well, for she might have made some tactical errors in the past if not for Lyell’s insistence on the rigidities of tradition. Faint gratitude stirred at the memory, and her frown became a smile by the time he crossed the chamber and stood behind her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her bared shoulder.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said demurely. “I had thought to save this gown for the Rialla, but—“
“Wear it then, too. Not even High Princess Sioned can have anything so magnificent.”
Mention of Rohan’s Sunrunner wife, who with her fire-gold hair and forest-deep eyes wore green even better than Kiele did, decided her against making the dress part of her Rialla wardrobe. “Did you have something to tell me?”
“A letter arrived for you from somebody in Einar. You said you didn’t wish to be disturbed while dressing, so I opened it for you.” He produced a piece of folded parchment from his pocket.
A curse nearly left her lips when she recognized the handwriting and the remains of a dark blue wax seal.
Forcing herself to stay calm and casual as she placed the letter aside, she said, “It’s from my childhood nurse, Afina, who married a merchant in Einar.” It was the truth, but she did not add that Afina had been the only servant at Castle Crag to care for her after her sister died of Plague. Afina had wanted to come to Waes, but had been persuaded that she could be much more useful in the vital port of Einar, the first link in Kiele’s chain of informants. Merchants heard everything, and usually passed it on to their wives.
“A boring letter, really—just family news. I don’t know why you bother with a former servant, Kiele.”
“She was very kind to me when I was a little girl.” To distract him from the subject, sure to touch soon on the unsuitability of the Lady of Waes corresponding with a mere merchant’s wife, she brought her arms closer together to deepen the valley between her breasts. Lyell’s fingers strayed downward from her shoulders, as she had intended.
“Let’s go down late for dinner,” he suggested.
“Lyell! It took me all afternoon to put this on!”
“It’ll take only a few moments to get it off you.”
“We don’t dare insult Clutha,” she scolded, winking at him. “On any other night—“
“But it would be perfect now. I’ve talked with your women. This is the right time to make another heir.”
Kiele vowed to dismiss whichever of her maids had been blabbing. She had learned long ago that men strayed when their women were child-heavy; her father had never been able to bear the sight of his mistresses during pregnancy. Kiele had fulfilled her duty by giving Lyell a son and a daughter. Conception tonight would mean she ; would be bulky and uncomfortable by the late summer, when she would need all her wit and charm—and when other women would be at their loveliest in pursuit of the richest and most powerful men. Lyell had been the key to the locked walls of Castle Crag for her; she did not love him and never had. But he was useful, and he was hers, and she did not intend for him to seek other beds. Once she ruled Meadowlord through Moswen and Hal-ian, then Lyell could mount as many mistresses as he pleased. But not now.
She smiled at him. “Anticipation always enhances enjoyment, Lyell. Now, be a darling and find my green slippers, please? After all, you’re the one who kicked them under the bed the other night.”
He kissed her shoulder and obeyed. Kiele locked Afi-na’s letter in her jewel box and replaced the key in a pocket of her underskirt. Lyell returned from the bedchamber just in time to see her smoothing her green stockings. He knelt beside her to slide on the velvet slippers.
“If you don’t put your skirts down, I’ll forget Clutha even exists,” he said playfully.
She deliberately hiked the gown a little higher. “Does he?”
“Kiele!”
But she glided smoothly from her chair and out of his reach, laughing as she placed the golden headpiece on her piled dark braids.
Dinner in the banqueting hall was endless. Prince Clutha was full of plans for making this year’s Rialla more splendid than ever, and, Goddess knew, the cost of the last one had been such that Kiele had gone for half a year without a new gown. She was forced to listen in angry silence with a smile on her face as Lyell’s pride made him agree to schemes that would beggar him. Most entertainments were put on by the princes, with the burden falling on Rohan as usual, but the prizes for horse races and the spectacle of the last evening’s banquet were Lyell’s responsibility, with only nominal assistance from Clutha. Kiele promised herself that once Halian was Prince of Meadowlord with Moswen as his wife, this triennial penury would cease.
Clutha had brought his Sunrunner with him, a frail and withered old man with very dark eyes that saw too much as far as Kiele was concerned. She knew that whenever he accompanied Clutha to Waes, Lady Andrade received detailed reports. When dinner was over, the old faradhi wheezed his way into the dining room, Clutha’s squire at his side. The young man gave Kiele a slight, elegant bow, his fine dark eyes flickering with disapproval of her almost-crown. She favored him with a lifted brow, won- dering if his place on the social scale of nobility was low enough to allow her a calculated insult in return.
Clutha glanced up from the written list of expenditures. “You’ve the look of the last sunlight about you, Tiel.”
“Indeed, your grace, Riyan and I have just received word that Prince Ajit of Firon is dead. A seizure of the heart, it was.”
Kiele made appropriate noises of shock and grief, but her mind raced. Ajit had no direct heir. She tried to recall the collateral branches of the Fironese royal house, and if she was allied with or related to any of them.
Clutha gave a heavy sigh, shaking his bald head. “Unhappy news. Many times I’ve told him he should live life more easily, as befits men of our age.”
Kiele coughed to hide a giggle, remembering that Ajit had planned to take yet another wife—his seventh—this year at the Rialla. Halian caught her eye and his lips twitched.
“There’ll be one less wedding at Lastday this year,” he remarked.
His father thundered, “You will mourn our royal cousin with respect, you insolent fool!”
“I mean no disrespect,” Halian said contritely, but there was that in his eyes that told Kiele he wished the old man dead, burned, and out of his life. She lowered her gaze to her lap after casting a careful look of sympathy at him. Yes, he was ripe for the plucking, if Mos-wen was clever and played on his impatience with his father. Clutha behaved as if his son was still a lad of barely twenty winters, not a man nearly forty. Kiele would have to remember to tell Moswen the best approach to use. She would be a princess before autumn.
News of Ajit’s death dampened LyelFs ardor, for which Kiele was profoundly grateful. While he slept in the huge state bed, she returned to the dressing chamber and lit the candle on her desk. Its reflection in the mirror gave her enough reading light as she scanned the letter from Afina.
You may recall my sister Ailech, who was in service at Castle Crag during your childhood, though not in the honored place I had at your side, but in the kitchens. We were never very close, for she envied me my place. But I have had news of her family after these many years. As you may know, she went to Waes with Lady Palila, both of them big with child, and it happens she bore a son, a fine young man with dark hair and green eyes. Ailech died shortly after his birth, and her husband also having died, Masul was raised by my parents where they are pensioners at the manor of Dasan in Princemarch. Masul is something of a hawk in a sparrow’s nest, for with his black hair and green eyes he is unlike the rest of our blond, brown-eyed family. Ailech’s husband also had dark eyes, and was small of stature like us, but they say Masul is the height of your late father. But I chatter on about matters that could not interest you.
Afina never wrote about anything that did not interest Kiele and they both knew it. Kiele had asked her to use her contacts in Princemarch to get definite news about a boy said to be Roelstra’s son. She had been toying with a particular scheme all winter, working out ideas—purely speculative until now, when it seemed that her arrow shot in darkness had hit an unexpeted target. Delight brought a soft burst of laughter from her throat. She glanced at the open door to the bedchamber, but there was no sound from Lyell.
That night at the Rialla had always intrigued Kiele. Four newborns in one night; a princess exiled and a princess rewarded; a mistress burned in her bed. Of the four babies, one had been Chiana—insufferable girl. If Kiele shared anything with Pandsala it was an aversion to their half sister.
But was Chiana Roelstra’s daughter? Kiele chuckled silently as she set fire to the letter and watched it burn to ash on a polished brass plate. Afina had not had to repeat that part about the green eyes. Roelstra’s eyes had been that color. And Masul was nearly Roelstra’s height, was he? Kiele bit her lips to keep from laughing aloud.
She pulled out parchment and pen, and wrote a swift letter to Afina thanking her for her letter and asking for more interesting family news to distract her from the strain of organizing the Rialla. She ended by expressing a desire for a gift, one of those trinkets Afina often provided to cheer and amuse her—something in shades of black and green. This would be correctly interpreted to mean that the gift was to be Masul himself. As she signed and sealed the letter, another idea struck her. She wrote a second letter, this one a prettily worded invitation for her dear younger sister Chiana to do her the favor of coming to Waes to help her plan this year’s entertainments. That Chiana herself would be providing Kiele’s entertainment caused another chuckle as she folded and sealed the parchment.
Kiele weighed her letter to Moswen in her hand for some moments before burning it, too. With Chiana here, Moswen could not be. And with the thought of her other half sister she nearly laughed aloud—for what could be more hilarious than setting Chiana’s hopes on Halian, only to have him reject her utterly when her lowly birth was made public? Kiele hugged herself as the letter burned, rocking back and forth with suppressed mirth.
After a time she sobered. She knew she would have to be cautious. The physical characteristics Afina had mentioned would be a help, no matter what the boy’s true ancestry. Once Kiele had Masul to hand she could judge whether the green eyes and height were matched by reasonable facial resemblance. Lady Palila had had auburn hair; if Masul’s was very black, Kiele could heighten the illusion of his parentage by application of a subtle reddish dye. Proper clothes were essential as well. And jewels. She rummaged in her cases and came up with an amethyst brooch that could be redone as a ring to hint at connection with Princemarch. She could slip it in with jewels due to be reset in time for the Rialla. At worst, if the boy was impossible, she would have a new ring.
But if Masul was believable as Roelstra’s son, then even if he was truly baseborn there were endless ways to use him. Chiana’s public mortification when her birth was doubted was worth anything. The burden of proof would be on those who suspected his ancestry to be common— for the only thing certain about that night had been its chaos.
And if the rumors were true, and Masul really was her half brother. . . . Kiele grinned into the mirror, contemplating the delightful prospect of Pandsala ousted from Castle Crag, Pol disinherited, and Rohan humiliated. She pictured Lyell as Masul’s champion and herself as his mentor, teaching him how to be a prince—and through him ruling Princemarch.
She gazed at the two letters. One would go to Einar and bring Masul, the other to Port Adni and bring Chiana. She would keep Masul in hiding until the Rialla, school him, attach him to her as his only hope of winning his cause. It would not do to have him meet with Chiana before the princes assembled.
But it all depended on his ability to pass himself off as Roelstra’s son. Kiele regarded her own reflection by candlelight, asking herself if it might be true—and if she wanted it to be true. She decided not. A fake, with reality to hide, would be much easier to control than the real son of the late High Prince. She knew the characteristics of her father’s breeding only too well.