Andry surveyed his audience, trying to banish a sudden attack of nerves. He’d used up his full quota of reassurances getting Andrade to agree to let him rather than Urival experiment with a formula from the Star Scroll. He knew it would work. He had fretted with excitement all day long at the imminent prospect of proving his theory. But all at once the idea of working an ancient sorcery unnerved him. He gulped down the peculiar lump in his throat and composed himself.
He had chosen the little kitchen in the library wing for his demonstration. Not only was that whole section of the keep quiet and deserted at this time of night, but there was a necessary supply of running water and a hearth over which to concoct his potions. This was also the oldest part of the castle—he’d found its plan in one of the historical texts—and if Lady Merisel’s spirit lingered anywhere at Goddess Keep, it would be here.
Urival and Morwenna were to be his subjects while Andrade observed. Hollis was with them as well, looking a little strained around the eyes as she gave him a slight smile of encouragement. She believed in his interpretation of the scroll, and thus could not be part of the experiment. Instead she would help him and provide extra witness to what happened.
“I’ve chosen an ointment whose properties I won’t tell you about just yet, so your reactions will be spontaneous,” he began. “I’ve mixed two versions, one according to the recipe as it stands and the other following the indications of the manuscript code.”
“I hope it’s something you can counter with medicine of our own making,” Morwenna said casually, though her suspicious gaze flickered to the pots on the table.
“Of course.” He glanced at his great-aunt, whose face was perfectly expressionless. But her fingers beat slowly, arrhythmically, on the arm of her chair. Andry swallowed and attempted a smile. “It’s nothing serious, believe me, and nothing we can’t cure in an instant.”
“Get on with it then,” Urival said.
Andry directed them to chairs facing the door, backs to the hearth and the table where he would work from two small cauldrons. Hollis stood beside him, ready with clean cloths and a bucket of water. Andrade positioned her chair so she could watch everything, including Urival and Morwenna.
“I’m going to give you several doses each. You won’t be able to see which pot I’m taking them from. They might all be the real thing, they might all be fake, or they might be any combination in any order.” When all was ready on the table before him, well out of view of the subjects, he chanced another look at Andrade. She lifted one elegant brow in silent challenge. She wanted him to fail, to be proved wrong. The implications were too dangerous. Andry knew very well it was going to work, and at this moment gave not a damn about the implications.
“Please hold out your right hands,” he said. Taking a spoonful of thick, warm paste from one of the copper pots, he smeared a little on each upturned palm over the heel of the thumb. A few moments later Urival half-turned in his chair.
“So? Nothing.”
“I know. That was made strictly according to the recipe. Hollis, can you wash off their hands for me, please?”
He dipped the spoons into both mixtures this time, placed a little of one on Urival’s hand and the other onto Morwenna’s. She tensed, expecting she knew not what— but it wjjs Urival who gave a gasp of surprise and pain.
“God of Storms! My hand’s on fire!” His fingers were trembling and the muscles of his hand cramped, drawing the thumb into the palm with a contortion as agonizing to see as it was obviously painful to experience.
“Wash it off, quickly,” Andry said to Hollis. When she had done so, the muscle slowly relaxed, and some of the tension left Urival’s face.
“I take it that was the real thing,” Andrade observed in her coldest voice. The fingers of her left hand drummed the tabletop.
“Yes, my Lady,” Andry said. “Morwenna, please dip your hand into the water. Thank you. Any aftereffects, Urival?”
“It aches a bit, but the pain’s gone.” He inspected his thumb, prodded the heel gently. “Leave it on longer next time. I want to see if it’ll spread to the rest of my hand.”
Andry said nothing, feeling Andrade’s eyes on him like blue ice while he smeared the different ointments over his subjects’ thumbs. Urival cursed, sweat springing out on his forehead. The deep lines on his face drew taut with pain as his hand began to cramp around itself.
“No—leave it on,” he gasped. “It’s spreading all through my palm—Goddess!”
Andry winced in sympathy as his fingers knotted together, muscles contracting to draw bones out of alignment. Urival’s other hand gripped the arm of his chair forcefully enough to splinter the brittle wood. Hollis reached over to wash his hand clean, but he shook his head, teeth gritted.
“Enough!” Andrade exclaimed as his wrist began to contort. Hollis bathed Urival’s hand in cool water and his head fell back, his eyes closed and his face ashen. Andrade fixed Andry with a hard stare. “You proved your point.”
“But it’s not fair to let Urival be the only one.” Morwenna turned in her chair and held out both palms. “Make one the fake and the other real. I don’t know which it is from your little pots there.”
Andry looked to the Lady; she nodded curtly. He applied the pastes to Morwenna’s hands, and the fingers of the left began to curl up at once. Her breath hissed between her teeth. “Sweet Mother! He was right—my whole hand’s afire!”
Andrade rose, grabbed the bucket of water, and plunged Morwenna’s hand into it. “Congratulations,” she snapped at Andry. “You were correct. Now destroy that terrible brew at once!”
“But—“
“Destroy it!” she thundered. “And you’re lucky I don’t order the Star Scroll burned as well! If this is the kind of knowledge it contains, then it ought to be burned!”
“No!” Andry exclaimed, unable to help himself. Hollis put a warning hand on his arm and he subsided.
“Hold your tongue,” Andrade told him. “And say nothing of this to anyone. Do you understand me, Andry?”
“Yes, my Lady,” he muttered.
When Morwenna had recovered, she and Urival left the little kitchen with Andrade. No one had said another word. Andry slumped into a chair by the glowing hearth and stared into the flames, grim silence like a too-heavy cloak on his shoulders. Hollis stood beside him, hands deep in the pockets of her trousers.
“She’s blinded by fear,” Andry muttered. “She doesn’t understand.”
“Perhaps you chose the wrong sort of demonstration,” Hollis suggested. “It was dramatic, I’ll grant you, but something that causes such pain wasn’t the wisest choice you could have made.”
“What else could I do? I couldn’t very well make somebody sick and then cure it with something else from the Star Scroll, could I?” He rose and began to pace the tiled floor. “But I was right, Hollis. I was right. She just doesn’t want to admit it. Do you know what it says about dranath? That it cures the dragon sickness, what we know as the Plague. Lady Merisel wrote in the scrolls that dranath can cure the sickness, and we know that’s right because we saw it happen. If we’d known sooner, if we’d had the scrolls, then maybe my brother Jahni and my grandmother and Lady Camigwen and all the others would still be alive! And she talks of burning the Star Scroll !
The usually soft-spoken Hollis rounded on him in sudden fury. “Can’t you see why she’s afraid? She’s seventy winters old, Andry! The scroll threatens her—not because she’s set in her ways, but because she’s old and may not have time enough left to control the danger you’ve shown her! Can’t you understand that?”
He stared at her. In all the times he had secretly put himself in Andrade’s place as ruler of Goddess Keep, he had never considered that one day he, too, would grow old, that time would grow short, that he would not be able to make plans and see them through. That he would die.
Hollis evidently found something in his face that satisfied her. In quieter tones she continued, “It’s not that she doesn’t want to know what’s in the Star Scroll. She’s frightened of a future she may not be around to shape. She’s spent her whole life at it. Do you wonder that it scares her?”
“But she can’t order me to burn it. She can’t. “
“I don’t think she will. She knows how important it is. But she also sees dangers you don’t.” Hollis rubbed her forehead wearily. “And forgive me for saying that you’d better learn to fear those dangers yourself.”
Silently he took the two small copper pots from the table, went to the fire, and scraped out their contents onto the coals. A sickly stench rose and he coughed, backing away hastily as his nose began to burn. Hollis, who had also gotten a faceful of the smoke, staggered over to a chair and slid into it, choking. Andry glanced around frantically, barely able to see through the tears clouding his eyes, and snatched up a cloth to soak in fresh water at the sink. He ripped the cloth in two, placed half to his own nose and the other against Hollis’ white face.
“Breathe!” he ordered.
After a moment the burning sensation faded, soothed by the droplets of water they both inhaled. But their eyes teared and they coughed for some while afterward. When each had recovered, Andry crouched beside Hollis’ chair and looked anxiously up at her.
She wiped her eyes and tried a smile. “It seems we haven’t translated far enough into the scroll to learn that one. Believe me now?”
Andry bent his head. “Yes. I’m sorry, Hollis.”
He felt her fingers tousle his hair fondly. “Listen to me, little brother—for I hope that soon you will be my little brother. You’re brave and clever and more intelligent than you have any right to be, and your gifts are far greater than you realize just now. I love you for yourself, Andry, and for Maarken’s sake.”
“But?” he asked in a muffled voice.
“You’re young. It takes years to learn how to be patient, how to be wise and cautious. Don’t let your powers and your intelligence blind you to the fact of your youth.”
He looked up, about to reassure her that he would be cautious and wise. But the deathly weariness of her face swept all other thoughts from his head. “Hollis—are you all right? You look awful.”
She chuckled softly. “Another thing you’ll learn with age is how to talk to a woman. The proper words would be, ‘You look a little tired, why don’t you go rest?’ But never mind. I’ll find Sejast and get him to brew me a cup of that special taze of his. It works wonders.”
“I feel in need of a little, myself,” Andry admitted.
“He swears the recipe was given to him in secret by an old witch in the mountains,” she said smiling.
Andry grinned and got to his feet. “Who made him swear never to reveal its contents, or she’d pry out his eyes with her fingernails and draw his veins from his living body—“
“Andry!” she chided. “Don’t make fun. Maarken told me you were terrified of lizards when you were little, because you thought they were baby dragons that had crawled out of their shells to breathe fire on you!”
“A perfectly natural assumption! But I suppose it really doesn’t do to make fun of witches.” He glanced significantly at the door where Andrade had disappeared. “You go to bed. I’ll clean up in here. And you really do look awful, you know.”
She pushed herself to her feet. “What happened to your share of your father’s infamous charm?”
“I’m saving it for a girl who’s not already promised to one of my brothers!”
* * *
It was very late, and Riyan had to keep pinching himself to stay awake. Following Lady Kiele on her nocturnal excursions in and around Waes was usually very dull. Tonight looked like no exception.
Riyan had made quite a few friends in Waes through the natural inclinations of a sociable nature, through ul- terior motives, and through sheer boredom. His informant, the servant of Jayachin’s father and sometime drinking companion at a local tavern, had heard from a footman, who had heard from an undercook, who had heard from Lady Kiele’s maid (whom the undercook was courting) that she had ordered a horse saddled for an evening ride. A groom had accepted Riyan’s help in readying the horse, and it had been child’s play to cut a deep groove in the mare’s off hind shoe. The mark would show up very clearly on ground still moist after the previous night’s light rain, making it simple to follow Kiele.
Riyan had done just that after posting another servant outside his door with orders to answer all inquiries with the news that he was abed with a summer chill. Slipping out by one of the multitude of doors was easy. And now he huddled beside a bush, watching a small manor house tucked into a stand of trees.
The windows had been hung with black curtains, but jagged lines of light seeped through here and there, tempting him closer. He resisted, not knowing how many people might be within. He had no intention of being caught; he’d seen no guards thus far, but there was always a chance.
Over the spring and early summer he had followed Kiele whenever he could manage it. Most times she went to the homes of various notables in the city—including that of Jayachin’s father. The visits were undoubtedly connected with plans for the Rialla, but every so often Riyan strongly suspected that Kiele’s arrival was a complete surprise to her hosts. She went out every eight or ten days, and once he had traced her to a dockside house. Investigation the next afternoon had revealed only a very large sailor and a very ugly servant woman, neither of whom he could imagine being of use to the Lady of Waes. Riyan had riot seen her go to the house again, and cursed himself for scaring her away. His own visit had doubtless been reported, and she had not dared go there again.
But tonight the marked horseshoe had led him from the city gates to this country manor. Riyan had lost her in a wood, not being overly familiar with the paths around Waes despite interesting excursions with Jayachin. (They usually had more to do than conduct a comprehensive walking tour—although Riyan had thus far enjoyed little romantic success.) But the nick in the horse’s shoe had served him well, and he had only to conjure a wisp of Fire as needed in order to know where she had gone.
Kiele’s journeys might be nothing more sinister than meetings with a lover—Riyan wouldn’t have blamed her, Lyell being the dullard he was—but Kiele had struck him as a cold woman whose passions would be reserved for power and hate. He’d heard the stories about her father and her sister lanthe.
And there was an odd feeling slithering around the residence these days. Chiana, after being rebuffed more than once by Riyan, had at last left him alone and concentrated on Lyell. Kiele didn’t even seem to notice. She spent a great deal of time away from the residence, saying she worked on arrangements for the Rialla. But sometimes Riyan saw her sitting with plans spread out before her, staring into space with a secret, feral smile on her lips.
After waiting what he considered enough time to make certain no one would come marching around the side of the house with sword in hand to guard whoever was inside, Riyan moved closer. He was sufficiently familiar with the mare tethered outside so that the animal did not sidle nervously or whinny at this appearance; he patted her neck in thanks and crept up to the windows.
He could see a slice of the room through the chink in the curtains. Clean, neatly but not luxuriously furnished, blazing with light that made him blink, it was the home of comfortable but not wealthy people. Kiele walked past and he started at her closeness to the window. She was wearing a light summer gown of green silk and he could almost hear it swishing with the angry swiftness of her steps. Riyan squinted, trying to bring into focus a figure standing just out of his range of vision.
A steely hand clamped own on his shoulder. ‘ ‘What in all hells are you doing here?” a voice hissed in his ear.
He nearly yelped with fright. Another hand grabbed his jaw shut to prevent just that. Riyan considered struggling, abandoned the idea as too noisy, and was just about to go for his boot knife when he realized the hand over his mouth wore rings. He relaxed completely and lifted his own hand.
“So,” the voice breathed, and let him go.
Riyan followed the man away from the house. Safe in the cover of the trees, he saw a little finger of Fire dance delicately atop a waist-high bush, and nearly yelped again.
“Kleve?” he whispered. “What are you doing here?”
The older man grinned tightly. “What I’ve done for most of my life, of course—following Lady Andrade’s orders.”
“So am I! She told me to watch Kiele—“
“But not, I think, to follow her all over Waes and beyond.” Kleve sank down in the dirt, shaking his head, and Riyan crouched beside him. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to hide from you as well as from her when she takes her little jaunts in the night!”
“You mean you—and I didn’t see you?”
“Of course not. Count your rings, Sunrunner. And then count mine.” Kleve gave him a genial slap on the shoulder. “You’ve grown since last I saw you at Sky-bowl.”
Kleve was one of a few itinerant faradh ‘im who traveled the princedoms at Andrade’s behest, observing and reporting things that Sunrunners attached to specific courts did not usually hear about. He had been instrumental in certain maneuverings during the war the year Prince Pol was born, and during Riyan’s childhood at Skybowl had sometimes arrived for a few days of relaxation, companionship, and good food. Ostvel set great store by Kleve, and a running joke between them was the athri’s attempt to persuade Kleve to become his court Sunrunner. Kleve hated walls of any kind, be they around a city or a small keep; he was happiest traversing the rugged lands around Cunaxa, Princemarch, and the northern Desert.
“Why so far from home?” Riyan asked now.
“I could ask you the same. Has Clutha given up and thrown you out of Swalekeep in despair at your ever becoming a knight?”
“He doesn’t trust Kiele or Lyell, either,” Riyan answered, grinning. “And I’m to be knighted at the Rialla.
Father will be here, I hope—say you’ll stay long enough to see him.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Do you know what Kiele’s up to?”
“I know about the house by the docks,” he began.
Kleve snorted. “You mean the one you scared her away from? I could have throttled you for that!” He doused the finger-flame with a gesture and peered out at the house. “Get back to the residence now, Riyan. I can take it from here.”
“Lady Andrade told me to watch,” the youth said stubbornly.
Kleve gripped Riyan’s shoulder. “Andrade would half-kill me and your father would finish the job if I let anything happen to you. So far you’ve been safe enough— you haven’t seen anything or learned anything important. But if what I suspect is true, then it’s more dangerous than you know to be here tonight.”
“What have you found out?”
“A few things,” he evaded. “I hope to know for sure” tonight. You did me quite a service, by the way—by following you, I found Kiele. She’s given me the slip the last few times out.” He got to his feet. “I’m going for a look and a listen. You can help me best by returning to town. There’s a goldcrafter named Ulricca who lives on New High Street. Meet me at her place tomorrow morning. Now, move.”
Riyan looked rebellious. “Kleve—“
“Sunrunner you may be, and nearly a knight—but this isn’t work for you. Do I have to number my rings and quote the authority they give me?”
“No, but—“
“So do as you’re told. You’d better get started. It’s a long walk.” Kleve softened the command with an affectionate »adge. “I’ll tell you the whole thing tomorrow.”
“You’d better,” Riyan muttered. * * *
Andry could not sleep. He almost went to Hollis’ room to ask her to work the spell she’d been learning from Urival, but basic decency demanded he let her rest. With or without Sejast’s witch’s brew, she had been exhausted recently. He shook his head as he pulled on his clothes, glad he’d grown up in sophisticated places where witches and the like were tales to entertain children.
And yet—he was brought up short on the stairs as a thought hit him. Some of the things in the Star Scroll could definitely be considered witchcraft. Its very title was evocative: On Sorceries. What if Sejast really had run into one of the old folk? He was more inclined to think the boy had encountered a sage who knew odd herbal remedies, rather than a sorceress of the old ways. But someone had been watching the night Meath had delivered the scrolls—watching not on sun or moons, but the faint thin glow of stars. Andry continued down the stairs, shivering slightly, and resolved to find out more from Sejast about his witch.
He made his way to the library wing through the silent halls of the keep. He was nearly at the locked door of the chamber where the scrolls were kept when he realized Hollis had the key. So much for spending the night in soothing research, Andry thought ruefully, and wondered what else might ease his restlessness. A brisk walk around the gardens? Perhaps he could visit the stables to check on his horse. Maycenel had been sadly neglected while he worked on the scrolls, and he felt guilty about it. His father had given him the young stallion when he had become Prince Davvi’s squire—a mount fit for the knight Andry would never become. Sorin had been gifted with Maycenel’s twin brother on his departure for Prince Vol-og’s court that same year—a nice piece of work, twins for twins. But Sorin had put his Joscenel to the use their father had intended, and would be knighted this year. Andry wondered suddenly if Chay was terribly disappointed that he had not done the same. And, if he was, whether he would ever show it.
The courtyard was empty but for cats on the hunt. Andry crossed the flagstones to the stables, expecting to hear only the drowsy sounds of horses in their stalls. The clink of a bridle startled him. He followed the sound to the far end of the building, stepping noiselessly on fresh straw.
“Hollis!” he blurted, unable to prevent the exclamation when he saw her long tawny hair. “What are you doing here?”
She whirled and dropped the bridle in her hands. A saddle was propped in the straw near a fleet little mare that had been his father’s gift to Andrade a few years ago; old as she was, the Lady of Goddess Keep could still appreciate a fast ride on a good horse. Hollis stared for a moment, then bent to retrieve the bridle. The metal clanked with the shaking of her fingers.
“I just—I thought I’d go riding—“
“At this time of night? Have you slept at all?”
She shrugged, back to him as she fitted the leather straps over the mare’s head. Andry leaned his elbows on the half-door of the stall and frowned. Hollis loved horses and riding—she would hardly have been a suitable wife for the next Lord of Radzyn Keep if she had not—but this was more than a little strange.
“Want some company?” he finally asked, a deliberately casual offer.
She shook her head violently, untidy golden braids whipping around her shoulders. Her fingers were wound in the mare’s black mane, and her body began to shake. Andry’s jaw dropped when he heard a tiny sob claw up from her throat. He hauled open the door and went to her, patting her back awkwardly, wishing Maarken were here to comfort her. He must be the reason she wept, Andry told himself.
When she stopped crying, she faced him and attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so silly.”
“You don’t have to worry about the Rialla, you know,” he said, trying to explore his surmise about Maarken. “My parents will love you, just as Maarken does.”
She blinked, and he realized that his brother was the farthest thing from her mind. She didn’t even bother to cover the reaction, and that startled him even more.
“You’re tired,” he went on, floundering for excuses to explain her behavior. “You haven’t gotten any sleep. Go back upstairs, Hollis.”
She nodded feebly. Andry took the bridle from the mare’s head, hung it on a nail, and heaved the saddle back up onto its stand. When he turned, Hollis was gone.
He caught up with her in the courtyard and touched her arm. She gave a little cry and started away from him.
“Oh! Don’t sneak up on people! What are you doing out this time of night?”
It was as if the moments in the stables had never occurred. He could find nothing in her face or her eyes to indicate she was not seeing him for the first time that night. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to the library to work on the scrolls, but you’ve got the key.”
“It’s up in my room.” She cast a glance back over her shoulder at the stables, almost desperately.
“I know,” he said, more mystified than ever at her strangeness. “I’ll just go back to bed and pretend I can sleep.”
“Maybe a book would help,” she suggested, sounding more like herself. “I know several guaranteed to have you snoring in two pages.” She laughed, but there was a wildness to the sound that canceled any relief he might have felt at the return of her sense of humor. She was fey and skittish as an untamed filly—not at all the sensible, practical Hollis he knew.
* * *
Kleve slid up to a window, hoping Riyan would do exactly as told. Bother the boy, anyhow—and bother An-drade, for setting Riyan to do what Kleve was perfectly capable of doing all on his own. Still, he had to admit that the young man’s presence had been useful tonight. He would never have found Kiele if not for Riyan.
He moved around the side of the house, trying to find a partially open window that would allow him to hear what was being said inside—and nearly got hit in the face by a window suddenly flung wide. He flattened himself against the wall, clamping his teeth shut over an exclamation of surprise, and froze until the curtains dropped again to guard the light inside.
“It’s an oven in here, damn it! Hotter than the Desert in high summer!” a man’s voice grated. “If I have to try these damned clothes on, then at least save yourself the trouble of washing my sweat from them afterward!”
“You have absolutely no sense of caution! I’m sure I wasn’t followed, but if you think we’re safe, then think again!”
“Shut up, Kiele!”
“How dare you give me orders! And whatever pos- sessed you to come into the city today? Of all the stupid, foolish things—!”
“I was bored! You’ve kept me out here for longer than I can remember! And no harm came of it—who’d recognize me?”
“Someone recognizing you is exactly the point!”
“If my former jailer hadn’t been out drinking, no one would have been the wiser. But no, he had to be half-drunk and, of course, he had to run to you and tattle!”
There was the sound of something, a chair perhaps, crashing to the floor. Kiele gave a little cry and then a curse, and the man laughed.
“Calm yourself. You came here to lecture me, and I’m not interested. Let’s get on with the clothing, shall we?”
“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say—or you’ll ruin us all, Masul!”
When he spoke again, his voice was savage. “I’m sick of being caged, and I’m sick of you telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, and most especially I’m sick of your doubts! When are you going to admit that I am who I say I am, sister darling?”
Kleve dug his fingers into the weathered wood of the house as his knees wobbled with sudden shock.
“Try on the tunic,” Kiele said with the inexorable ice of a mountain glacier.
Kleve shifted so he could peer through the tiny gap in the black curtains. His muscles creaked a protest at the awkward stance necessary to avoid rustling a flowering bush, but his reward was a view of Masul’s head poking through the neck of an elegant dark violet velvet tunic.
Once, a very long time ago, Kleve had traveled to Ei-nar on Andrade’s business. Midjourney, he had nearly been trampled on the road by a group of highborns out for a day’s hunting. No apology had been offered; indeed, tteir young leader had told him to get his filthy Sunrunner carcass out of the way or regret it. Laughing, they had ridden on. It had been Kleve’s distinct pleasure to follow them in secret and scare off a prime stag by calling up a judicious gust of wind across its hindquarters. He’d amused Andrade with the story on his return to Goddess Keep. Her satisfaction had been all the greater when he had conjured the leader’s face in the fire. She had identified him instantly.
The face he saw now—green-eyed, high-boned, sensuous, sullenly handsome—would be, without the beard, nearly the living image of that arrogant youth, High Prince Roelstra.
He slid down the wall to the grassy ground, stunned. So the rumors were true, and his suspicions justified. The pretender existed and Kiele was sheltering him. She had probably coached him in her father’s mannerisms and the like, rehearsing him for an appearance at the Rialla. And Chiana was at the residence in Waes—Kleve understood that very well. Kiele’s delight in Chiana’s humiliation would be the final spice in the taze. The Father of Storms himself could not have created the uproar this Masul would cause, with Kiele’s help.
He could still hear voices from within the house, but paid them little mind. Masul was trying on clothes, half a dozen garments designed to make him look as regal and as much like Roelstra as possible. Kleve leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing both faces to mind again. The resemblance was there, no doubt of it. But was he truly Roelstra’s son? And if so, what then? Had he a right to his father’s princedom? Strictly speaking, Kleve supposed he did. But Rohan had defeated Roelstra years ago and claimed Princemarch by all the rules of war. And none of that would matter, for even if Masul was not who he claimed to be, many of the princes would choose to believe—if only to make trouble for Rohan.
Political complexities were beyond him, Kleve told himself. He would convey this staggering news to An-drade and she would make the decisions. She was very good at that. He pushed himself to his feet, bones aching a little with the dampness of yesterday’s rain. He needed quiet, seclusion, and moonlight. He crept away from the house, not needing to see or hear anything more, heading for the trees where he’d left Riyan.
Something warned him, some muted whisper at the edge of his perceptions, half an instant before he heard the voice.
“So you were right after all, Kiele. We were being watched.”
A long, hard hand circled Kleve’s wrist, fingers that dug all the way to the bones. The Sunrunner wrenched away and cursed, lunging for the mare tethered nearby. Masul only laughed as Kleve grabbed the reins, fit his boot into a stirrup, and lurched up. The fist that slammed into his lower back made him spasm with pain. He lost his balance and sprawled to the ground.
“I told you I heard something!” Kiele cried, her voice thin and shrill. “Masul, what are we going to do with him?”
“First, we’ll find out what he knows.”
Kleve knew what would happen after that. He struggled to his feet, hanging onto the saddle for support, and lifted one hand. “You’ll answer to Lady Andrade! I’m faradhi!”
Into the darkness he spun a flaring weave of Fire, called up in desperation—for by its light he saw his own death in Masul’s green eyes. The young man was laughing at him, a deep and mellow laugh that congealed his blood.
“Ive always wanted to meet one.”
Kleve fought a small, incoherent war with his lifelong vow not to kill using his gifts. Self-preservation and the need to get this information to Andrade battled against his training, his ideals, his vocation, and his morals. He turned his face to the moonlight, staggering back against the horse’s flank as Masul kneed him in the groin. The Fire guttered out, and instinct spun other threads with frantic speed. Power flushed through him with dizzying strength in his need as he completed the weaving. The iron grip* twisted his arm. He fell to his knees, tangled in moonlight. Sorting threads with frantic bursts of power, he struggled against Masul’s physical hold and made a mighty effort to pattern the moonlight into fabric that would reach to Goddess Keep.
There was an icy chill at the base of his left little finger, quickly replaced by a searing pain.
“Finger by finger,” Masul said.
In his youth, when he’d delighted in invigorating battle with mountain raiders who respected profits more than Sunrunners, he’d known his share of wounds by knife and sword. But when Masul’s steel blade slashed off his finger, he felt as if his entire body had been cut open, every nerve severed. Threads of moonlight turned to spun silver glass around him and shattered. The shards lacerated his mind. He screamed, the sound becoming colors that were additional knives in his head, in his flesh. The thumb was carved from his right hand and he screamed again.
“Don’t kill him! We have to find out what he knows and if he’s told Andrade!”
“It’s only two fingers. He won’t die of it. What a coward he is—just listen to him yelling!”
Kleve was incapable of fighting the appalling agony that butchered him from inside out. Another finger dropped into the blood-washed dirt. He died before they could ask their first question: died not from loss of blood or physical shock, but from the steel that repeatedly pierced him while he tried to use his faradhi gifts.
* * *
Segev heard voices in the library just as he located the Star Scroll on the shelf. He froze, fingers extended, nearly touching his prize. A flicker of his mind darkened the tiny flame he had conjured to see by. He told himself to wait it out, stay calm, remember how close he was to success. Whoever had entered would soon be gone. He had waited earlier behind a row of shelves for Andry to leave, and he could wait again.
But it was Andry’s voice he heard. “If you think Wil-mod’s essays are boring, you should try Dorin’s. At least Wilmod knows how to construct an argument. Dorin’s just plain awful at everything!”
They were down the room from the small chamber where the scrolls were locked away with other important records. Segev rapidly reviewed the layout and breathed a sigh of relief as he recalled that the books Andry talked about were on the other side of the library. But then he tensed again when recognition of the second voice destroyed all his plans.
“I was thinking along the lines of farming manuals as a soporific,” Hollis said teasingly.
Segev heard their footsteps fade down the long row of shelves and moved quickly. He had touched nothing but
\the lock on the door, so there was nothing to put back as it had been. He let his fingers brush longingly against the leather case containing the Star Scroll, then went to the door. He slid through and the lock worked with a faint click. Pocketing the key, he cursed Andry for ruining it all. Hollis, obedient to a suggestion he had made tonight while serving her dranath-laced taze, had gone to the stables as planned to saddle a horse for his swift, unnoticed departure. But Segev dared not chance now that the mount had been left for him.
He used the shadows to conceal his progress toward the main door, but froze again as he heard them coming back in his direction. There was an alcove nearby with a study table and a chair. Segev sat, opened a book left there, and put his head down on his folded arms.
“Oh, Andry—look,” Hollis said softly from nearby. “I didn’t see him earlier. Poor boy!”
“He certainly is devoted to his studies,” Andry whispered. “Should we wake him?”
“He’ll have a terribly stiff neck tomorrow if we don’t.”
A gentle hand touched his head and despite himself a shiver of excitement went through him. He had never forgotten that night with her and doubted he ever would. He used the startlement to mime abrupt awakening from sleep, and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Morwenna—I forgot the answer—oh!” He blinked and sat up. Hollis wore a fond, amused smile, and Andry was grinning over a scroll clasped to his chest. “What happened? Did I fall asleep?^’
“Yes, and quite some time ago, I’d wager.” Hollis ruffled his hair. “Come up to bed, Sejast.”
He gave the perfect impression of being fuzzy-headed with too little sleep as he got up and yawned. Andry’s sharp gaze had gone to the open book on the table, and his brows lifted exactly the way Andrade’s did.
“Magnowa’s treatises? That’s pretty advanced stuff.”
Segev was thankful that he actually knew about the book, and managed a bashful shrug. “Some of the words are hard, but it’s interesting.”
“A good deal of it is closely related to the old language,” Andry observed. “Are you having much trouble?”
“Some, my lord, but it gets easier.” Boldly he added, “I guess it must be the same way with the scrolls.”
Hollis answered Andry’s astonishment with, “He comes from the mountains. The dialects there are closer to the old tongue than what we speak. He’s interested in history and has helped me several times.”
The young Sunrunner nodded slowly. “Maybe you’d like to give me some advice on a few translations.
Segev nearly yelped in delight. “Could I, my lord?”
“The histories are tough going in parts, and there are a lot of words I can’t figure out. I’d appreciate the help.”
“Oh, thank you! I’d love to work with you and Lady Hollis—“ He cast a look of calculated adoration at the golden-haired Sunrunner, who smiled back at him, her dark blue eyes alight.
Andry’s lips twitched at the corners, for he had seen precisely what Segev wished him to see: a boy infatuated with an older woman. “I’ll talk to Lady Andrade about it tomorrow. Meantime, I think we all ought to go back upstairs, don’t you?”
Having impressed Andry with his admiration for Hollis, it was an easy matter to include himself in escorting her back to her chamber. He pretended to be drawn to the view of the sea from her windows, and on the way back to the door dropped the key soundlessly into the little silver bowl on her desk where he’d found it. He lingered as long as he could in telling her good night, then returned to his own small, windowless room.
Reaction set in after he had closed the door. He sat down on his bed, the chamber lit by the glow of the brazier—necessary for light but also for keeping some of the damp from the walls, even in summer. Bemused, he held out both hands and watched the fingers tremble. He had nearly been caught tonight. He didn’t want to think about what Andrade would have done to him had she discovered his true identity and purpose here, let alone what he’d done to Hollis by addicting her to dranath.
But he had not been caught. True, the Star Scroll was not in his possession, and he was not galloping north to Mireva. But something even better had happened, if Andry followed through with his notion of having “Sejast” help with the scrolls. He could work his way to free ac- cess to them, and learn more than Mireva had ever guessed—certainly more than she would ever teach him of that dangerous knowledge. Ruval was the one she’d chosen to educate in the finer points of the craft; Ruval, whose only recommendation was that he was lanthe’s firstborn son.
Her thirdborn sat hugging his knees and grinning. He was glad he’d been unable to steal the scrolls, glad he would be staying here. If he played his part correctly, he would learn what the Star Scroll could offer along with all the faradhi secrets being taught him daily. He might even be taken to the Rialla as part of Andrade’s suite. Hollis liked him, could not do without him. She would ask Andrade for permission to bring him along.
Why wait? Once there, he would challenge the High Prince himself.
* * *
Riyan flattened his back to a tree as Kiele galloped past on her mare. He’d heard the screams, faint but clear in the night stillness, and had barely slid into the woods in time to avoid her as he ran back to the manor house.
By the time he arrived, the place was silent and deserted. Riyan watched for some time from shelter, tremors shooting through him, before he finally approached the dwelling. The door was unlocked. He entered cautiously to find the interior empty. There were signs of habitation—and also of hurried leave taking.
Outside again, circling the house for a clue as to what had happened there, he found nothing. Dirt and grass had been scuffed along one wall, but that could have been the work of the mare. Of Kleve there was no sign at all.
Riyan inspected the house once more in growing perplexity. He discovered food, used crockery, a rumpled bed, and a few clothes that would fit a tall, athletic man. Returning outside, he glanced up at the moons, tempted to use their light to cast about over the countryside for Kleve. Memory of Andrade’s warning dissuaded him— that, and Kleve’s promise to meet him tomorrow at the I goldcrafter’s. Riyan looked down at his four rings with a sense of betrayal. Knowledge enough to weave the sunlight, but not the moons he needed so much right now.
He returned to the residence, slipping into his chamber as dawn first touched the sky. Despite his unease, he slept soundly for several hours and was up in good time to keep the appointment at the goldcrafter’s. But Kleve did not.