Everyone knew that no serious business would be transacted by the princes in the time before Lyell of Waes addressed them that morning. Rohan spent half the night wondering how he might save himself the embarrassment of trying to conduct what were bound to be fruitless discussions. He resigned himself to a morning that would reflect badly on his leadership through no fault of his own—while cursing Kiele’s cunning that had deliberately arranged the time at which her husband was scheduled to speak.
But Prince Lleyn spared him any awkwardness. The old man insisted on making an uncharacteristically garrulous report on the current state of shipping throughout the princedoms. Everyone used Lleyn’s merchant fleet, so everyone was compelled to pay attention. Rohan blessed him and kept an eye on the water clock.
It was a new device, more reliable than the old sandglasses. Sand eroded crystal as it passed through, shortening the days. Time in the form of water dripped from a sphere through a hole cut into a flawless ruby, down to another sphere marked off in regular increments. The hinged, airtight lid of the upper crystal was a golden dragon with emeralds for eyes. Rohan had ordered it made for him two years ago after a Fironese crafter had written to him about its principles, and one of his goals was to establish the manufacture and trade of such clocks. But as Lleyn droned on, and there was no discernible difference in the level of water in either sphere, Rohan began to doubt that accurate measurement of time was such a good idea after all. Waiting was waiting, no matter how one counted off the time.
At a little past the fifth level of the clock a guard in Desert blue slid into the tent and around to Rohan’s chair. Lleyn immediately gave over the meeting without a single indication that he had rambled on at great length to very definite purpose. Rohan thanked his grace of Dorval for his valuable information, then addressed the other princes.
“Cousins, yesterday Lyell of Waes requested a few moments of our time. As all of us know, it’s not unusual for an athri to have something to say.” He smiled slightly to imply that LyelPs words had about as much importance as the customary whining of a dissatisfied vassal. “Shall we hear him out?”
“If it doesn’t take too long, then why not, my lords?” Cabar drawled, and won a few half-hidden grins of anticipation from around the table.
Davvi said pleasantly, “Perhaps we might admit our heirs to observe. Our sons are trained at home and they’re well-schooled by their fostering lords, but there’s no substitute for observation of ruling princes at work.”
“Excellent notion,” Clutha said. “It’ll give my boy a chance to see how princes conduct themselves. A lesson he needs,” he finished grumpily.
There were no objections, although there were only four heirs present at the Rialla this year. Volog and Pi-
334 Melanie Rawn mantal visibly regretted not having brought their eldest sons; Velden’s and Cabar’s were still little boys. Miyon was not married, but it was rumored that several children could claim him as father.
Rohan met Davvi’s gaze, seeing a familiar look of innocent cunning in green eyes very like Sioned’s, and silently conveyed his approval of the ploy. Pol was the heir who needed to be where all could see and compare him to the man Lyell would undoubtedly produce at the climax of his speech. There was a brief interlude while squires were sent to collect Chadric, Kostas, Halian, and Pol. Rohan used the time to give a casual explanation of the water clock with an eye to creating a demand for them when Firon became his. Saumer of Isel made the wry observation that although the device could not be much use in the Desert, where the sun shone constantly and sundials were common, he could certainly use one at his own rainy castle.
Prince Chadric arrived, bowed to all, and took the seat placed for him behind his father’s chair. Lleyn murmured something to him and Chadric’s lips quirked with amusement. Soon Kostas, Halian, and Pol were present, the latter with his cheeks still pink from a hasty scrub and his hair slicked back by a damp comb. He gave them all a sunny smile, obviously excited to be included, and from around the table kind nods were given—some reluctantly, to be sure. But Pol was hard to resist.
Rohan was about to order that Lyell be admitted when the tent flaps parted to admit an unexpected quartet. Three were princesses; one was the acting representative of her princedom. Sioned and Pandsala flanked young Gemma and Lady Eneida of Firon, and the men frankly stared. With all her outrageous assumption of co-sovereignty with the High Prince, Sioned had never sat in on any Rialla meetings before. Women were simply not allowed in formal conclaves, and not even she had dared flout tradition. But Davvi’s suggestion that heirs be included made this an informal meeting. Rohan knew he should have expected his wife to take advantage of it.
“My lords, good morning. I was with my son when your summons came, and took it upon myself to bring the Princess Gemma from her tent. Along the way I en- countered Lady Eneida of Firon with the Princess-Regent.” She smiled as if this happy coincidence had indeed been a coincidence. Her eyes didn’t bother challenging them to object; they wouldn’t, couldn’t, and she knew it. “Cousin,” she gently prompted Chale, “your heir needs a place to sit down.”
Four drops of water fell from the clock’s upper crystal to the lower one while the old man looked torn between indignation that women had invaded this princely gathering and smug approval of Sioned’s coup. Tradition lost—as usual around Sioned. He waved Gemma to him and placed her chair himself.
Sioned continued, “I regret I cannot stay. Your ladies are joining me in only a little while, and there is much to be done.” She gave them all another sweet smile and, after bowing to her husband, withdrew.
A lifetime of discipline kept Rohan’s face straight. Sioned had instituted her luncheons three Riall’im ago, and princes grew nervous when they considered what their wives, sisters, and daughters said during private chats with the High Princess. Women said to other women what men often scorned to hear; Rohan usually got a clearer idea of what was going on from Sioned’s reports of what the ladies had said than he got from the princes themselves.
Lady Eneida, thin and straight as a sword, stood beside the chair placed for her. “My lords, though Firon is without a prince, her grace asked me to join you as my land’s representative.” With that she sat down, the action fairly trumpeting her right to be there.
Pandsala had already taken her seat behind Pol, who sat directly at Rohan’s side and not behind him. This, too, startled the other princes slightly, but he had been acknowledged by them all shortly after his birth as possessing Princemarch in his own right. Legally, he could have sat in on their formal talks as well. As his regent, Pandsala technically had no right to be present, but no one had the courage or the bad manners to protest. Besides, many were eager to see her face when confronted with the man who could be her brother.
Rohan gestured to Tallain and leaned back casually in his chair. It was a deliberate pose expected of him under the circumstances; he did it anyway. A glance at his son’s profile polished his wits to a sharp gleam. Pol would not lose Princemarch before he ever had the chance to rule it.
Lyell came in, and not alone. A tall, bearded young man was with him. His dark hair had a faintly reddish tint that was stronger in his neat beard, and was trimmed to frame very green eyes. He wore a plain tunic of finest blue silk so dark as to be nearly violet. Tan leather trousers clung to muscular legs above soft boots dyed to match the tunic. A heavy silver ring was on one finger, a thin gold circle on another, and an amethyst earring swung close to his cheek. His gaze moved slowly from face to face in the stunned silence, lingering a moment on Pol before he stared straight at Rohan. He did not bow.
No one breathed for several seconds. Then Pandsala surged up from her chair, white to the lips and trembling with fury. “Bend your head and your knees to your betters, peasant!” she spat.
“And greetings to you, dearest sister,” Masul replied, smiling.
“That relationship has yet to be proved,” said Prince Lleyn in mild tones, a calm reminder that broke the tension holding everyone in thrall. Rohan blessed the old man again and touched Pandsala’s arm. She sank back into her seat, glaring.
“Lord Lyell, I assume you have an explanation,” Rohan said quietly.
“I do, your grace.” Lyell bowed, as Masul still had not. “Of all the things I might have said, none would impress your graces so much as the simple sight of this man. My wife, Lady Kiele, has questioned him at great length, and she is satisfied that he is indeed her brother, born of the late High Prince Roelstra and his mistress, Lady Palila. I have spoken with Lord Masul as well, and I, too, am convinced.”
Pandsala’s breath hissed as Lyell gave Masul the title, but she neither spoke nor moved. Rohan hoped she would continue to hold her tongue, and regarded Lyell with one brow slightly arched.
“I ask your pardon for my boldness,” the Lord of Waes went on, “but—“
“But you required our complete attention,” Rohan said dryly. “Proceed.”
Lyell’s pale cheekbones acquired a ruddy stain and he licked his lips nervously. But no one was looking at him. He faded next to Masul’s vivid presence.
The pretender stepped forward. Cabar and Velden moved their chairs apart so he could stand at the table between them. “I can tell my own tale, my lords,” he said.
“Your own lies,” whispered Pandsala, but only Rohan and Pol heard her.
“I was born here at Waes twenty-one years ago on the sail barge belonging to High Prince Roelstra—a fact I have known all my life, verifiable in city birth records which will be presented for your inspection. On that same night other children were born in the same place, and their names also are listed.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt; Roelstra’s gesture. Kiele had taught him well, Rohan thought.
“The Princess-Regent can testify to the confusion of that night, brought about by her own efforts and those of her sister, Princess lanthe.” He smiled mockingly in Pandsala’s direction. “Should Lady Palila produce a male child, the boy would take precedence over them—a thing most undesirable in their eyes. So they brought along other pregnant women, induced labor in them when Palila began her own, and hoped that at least one of the women would bear a girl who could be substituted for the male heir if such was born. This was the plan outlined by Princess lanthe to her sister. But Princess Pandsala then went to Lady Palila, told her of the plot, and promised that if a girl was born to her that Pandsala would exchange this eighteenth worthless daughter for a boy-child who—they hoped—would be born to one of the other women.
“A risky plan, you will agree. There was chaos that night—babies being born, people milling about, the two princesses running back and forth from Palila’s suite to the lower hold. Yet some things were seen and heard by all.
“First, Lady Palila was heard to shout in triumph that she had borne a son to Roelstra. Second, when the happy father arrived, there were two children present. One was Chiana. The other—“ Masul again fixed his jeering gaze on Pandsala. “The other was a boy. Roelstra’s true son.
Me.”
“Liar!” Pandsala snapped. “Both children were girls!
The infant boy hadn’t been born yet!”
Rohan stifled a sigh. It would have been better for Pandsala never to have admitted that she had seen a male child at all. But he supposed she was past her limits now. He couldn’t much blame her.
“Look at me, sister! Haven’t I our father’s eyes, his height, his bearing? Doesn’t the color of my beard suggest the color of Palila’s hair?” He addressed the others once more. “The woman who called herself my mother was blonde and dark-eyed. Her husband was of the same coloring. Both of them were of less than medium stature. How could two small, fair, dark-eyed people produce a tall, dark, green-eyed son?”
It was Davvi—loyal, earnest, one of the architects of Rohan’s power and Pol’s inheritance—who rose in their defense.
“I have two sons taller than I, and my late wife was small enough to fit beneath my chin. Posture and gestures may be learned. As for green eyes—many people have them. Prince Pol’s eyes are quite green in certain lights. Does this mean that he, too, may be Roelstra’s son?”
Davvi, who believed the lie Sioned had started and Rohan had let stand because every good barbarian prince desired a son to rule after him. Rohan sat with an impassive face, dying a little inside, v
“I respectfully ask our cousin of Syr what evidence there is to the contrary?” Velden of Grib got to his feet beside Masul, hands planted aggressively on the table before him. “Can the Princess-Regent say for certain which child was which? Who else was there that night to witness the birth of Palila’s child?”
Pandsala spoke in a voice that would have iced the Long Sand in midsummer. “My sister lanthe was the only attendant at the birth. And she is dead.” Velden spread his hands, dark eyes wide with pre- tended bewilderment. “I ask you, my lords. Is it possible that this man is Roelstra’s son? There are no Jiving witnesses to the contrary. But there is the evidence of our own eyes.”
Miyon rose to his feet on the opposite side of the table. “Look at him, cousins,” he said in silken tones. “Some of you knew the late High Prince very well. Is there a resemblance?”
The older princes stayed silent. Pandsala did not.
“I am Roelstra’s unchallenged daughter, and I say this man lies!”
“But does he look like Roelstra?” Miyon pressed. “Enough like to be his son?”
“Tall, dark-haired, green-eyed—I could find a hundred fitting the description! It proves nothing!”
“But this man’s birth is recorded in the registers of Waes for that particular night.”
“Are you telling me I would not know my own flesh and blood?” Pandsala exclaimed, rising half out of her chair. “Are you.daring to call me a liar?”
“Never, my lady!” he protested, eyes wide. “But . . . perhaps your position does not encourage you to look on what may be the truth with clear eyes.”
Madness, Rohan told himself. None of this had anything to do with Masul’s claim, but with Pol’s.
Cabar of Gilad took up Masul’s cause. “My lords, consider. If this man is indeed Roelstra’s son, then we must think very carefully whether or not we shall deprive him of his birthright as a prince. As one of us. “
It was not that Miyon and his faction wished Masul to take up residence at Castle Crag, but that they wanted to prevent Pol from ever doing so.
“It is true that High Prince Rohan defeated Roelstra in war, and claimed all of Princemarch on his son’s behalf,” Cabar went on. “But if this man’s words are indeed true, then he is one of us. A prince.”
“Look at him,” Miyon said. “Weigh the evidence of your own eyes against the lack of specific information about that night.”
Rohan slanted a look at Pol from the corner of his eye. The boy sat very still; his wary, fascinated gaze on Masul. Rohan wondered what Pol was thinking. He tried to ignore the questions rampaging through his own mind-was the man really Pol’s kinsman, his uncle? Did it matter? If what they wanted was for Princemarch to continue in Roelstra’s line, then Pol would fit the requirement perfectly. But Pol ruling both Princemarch and the Desert was exactly what they did not want.
“The coincidences are too many,” Miyon said. “I have spoken with Lady Kiele—another of Roelstra’s daughters—and she has concluded after interviewing this man that he is indeed her brother.”
Turn Chiana loose on him, whispered Sioned’s voice in his mind. Rohan looked down at his ring, the huge topaz gleaming in the circle of emeralds like a dragon’s eye—watching, waiting. Dragons knew how to attack with exquisite cunning. Rohan was the son of one dragon, father of another.
Clutha and Saumer were questioning Masul about his life at Dasan Manor, his training in arms, his views on everything from the silk trade to the new port a-building at the mouth of the Faolain. Masul pleaded ignorance of many princely matters, but that would flatter the others into thinking he could be influenced. The answers he did give were forthright and cleverly thought out: guileless honesty disguising deliberate cunning, and designed to present him as a worthy prince. But, more importantly, an unthreatening one.
Rohan felt as if the ground was crumbling beneath him like sand over a sinkhole. If only the past could be conjured up to exhibit the truth as clearly as Masul’s form and features visibly exhibited a lie. . . . Conjuring.
Powerful Sunrunners could glimpse bits of their personal futures. Sioned had known that Rohan waited for her from the time she was sixteen winters old. Years later she had seen and shown him herself holding an infant with Rohan’s blond hair; they had known that although she was barren, she would somehow give Rohan a son. Faradh ‘im could sometimes conjure up visions of the future. But could they do the same with the past?
Andrade had been there that night. So had Pandsala. Their verbal testimony was worthless because of who they were to Rohan: his aunt, his regent. But if either or both could provide a clear vision of what had happened that night—
Rohan got to his feet and glanced at the water clock. All conversatipn ceased; he drew attention away from Masul effortlessly. The young man recognized and resented it. He was supposed to be the focal point and it visibly galled him to be so easily upstaged by this slight, quiet man who was twice his age.
“My lords, my ladies,” Rohan said, “it grows late and I ‘m sure we are all in need of time and privacy in which to consider this matter. There is evidence still to be presented. Lord Lyell, be so good as to hold yourself in readiness for such time as we may call upon you again.” He pretended to consult his notes. “Cousins, this afternoon we will take up matters of trade between Cunaxa, Fessenden, Isel, and Ossetia. Until then, we are adjourned. I thank the heirs and representatives present for their attendance and attention—and I trust the experience has been edifying.”
Masul did not bow on his way out, either. He left in company with Miyon, Cabar, and Velden, with Lyell, forgotten, trailing along behind them. Chadric took a few steps toward Rohan as if he wanted to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and helped his father leave the tent. Soon Rohan was alone with Pol, who was staring into the empty air. To give the boy time to marshal his thoughts and questions, Rohan made a slow circuit of the tent, halting before the -water clock. He ran one finger over the carved dragon, watching water drip inexorably through the ruby.
“Father?”
“Yes, Pol.”
“Why aren’t you going to let them discuss the evidence this afternoon?”
“Think about whose trade we’ll be reviewing.”
There was a short pause. “Miyon’s, so he has to come and pay attention and you can keep an eye on him. But the others haven’t really declared for either side, have they?”
“No. And by listening to how they conduct themselves with Miyon over trade, I may get an idea of where they might jump on this other matter.”
“Oh!” Another moment, and Pol said excitedly, “And if he’s nasty over his wools and metals, they might get irritated and lean toward us!”
“Maybe.” Rohan turned and asked, “How do you read all this?”
“Miyon looks pretty easy to twitch,” Pol said shrewdly. “I think he thinks he’s very clever. But he’s also stubborn and proud.”
“A dangerous mixture. Why should I—what did you call it? Twitch him?”
“To get Chale and Pimantal and Saumer mad at him.”
“And would it be wise of me to do it openly?” Rohan shook his head. “Roelstra did that, you know. He created dissension deliberately, so he could solve problems he himself made by exercising his power to get what he wanted to begin with. That’s not how I work, Pol. If Miyon antagonizes them on his own, fine. I must be more subtle, and let him know what real cleverness is.” He smiled. “He’s eager to try his strength against me, and my army along his border this spring and summer hasn’t made him love me.”
“But what about Kiele? She’s the one who made all this possible for Masul.”
“An interesting woman,” he admitted. “Presumably, she didn’t balk at murdering a Sunrunner. By the way, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Masul had done that himself. He seems to have all the right killing instincts. Look at how well he played off Pandsala.” Rohan sighed deeply. “Pol, there’s a vast difference between wanting power and wanting what power can accomplish. Fa-radh’im inherit power and are trained in its uses. But sometimes a prince or athri comes along who doesn’t understand it at all. He wants the fact of it, but cares nothing for its substance. Roelstra was like that. He enjoyed power for its own sake. Am I making any sense?”
“I think I understand,” the boy said slowly. “He opposed you because you had power and Mother. It wasn’t that he wanted to do the same kinds of things you did with your power. He just couldn’t stand that you had it.” Pol hesitated, then said, “From what I’ve heard today, Princess lanthe was like that, too, wasn’t she?”
Rohan kept his expression calm. “Yes. She was like that, too.” He stretched and said, “Come on, we should get something to eat. I have a long afternoon ahead of me. I assume you’ll return to the paddocks to exercise Chay’s horse?”
“How did you know that’s where I was?”
Rohan was glad of the chance to laugh. “Your mother— or was it Tobin?—made sure you were washed and combed before you got here, and you even cleaned your boots. But you forgot to remove that hoof-pick from your back pocket.”
Pol made a face. “It was Aunt Tobin. I thought you were going to say something magic, like Mother usually does when she figures out what I don’t want her to know.”
“Start practicing the art of observation. It can be very useful—and not just when you want to astonish your son.”
* * *
Another father and son spoke alone together in another tent, but this time it was the son who astonished the father.
“Why didn’t you come to me witlf this earlier?” Ost-vel demanded of Riyan. ‘ ‘Has Clutha kept you under lock and key?”
“Just about,” the young man replied. “I’m sorry, Father, but this is the first chance I’ve had to get away. I’m only here now because Sioned made a direct request to Clutha this morning. Halian demands my constant attendance, for all that I’m supposed to be Clutha’s squire.”
“Couldn’t you have—“
“No,” Riyan stated-flatly. “I couldn’t disobey Halian or do anything out of the ordinary. And I didn’t dare tell anyone but Lady Andrade what I saw. If Kiele and this Masul murdered Kleve—“
“They’d have no qualms about doing the same to you.” Ostvel surprised his only offspring by pulling him into a rough embrace. “Forgive me for snapping at you. You did the right thing.” He released his son and sank into a chair. “So we have proof of a sort.”
“Of a very poor sort. Kleve never actually told me his suspicions. And I never got close enough to the house to see who was in it besides Kiele. I didn’t see Masul. I didn’t see him kill a Sunrunner.” His hands clenched, his rings bright arcs between whitened knuckles. “Father, for all I know Halian is in league with Kiele, and has been keeping me away from you on purpose. I don’t trust anybody and that scares me.” He paused, shaking his head. “The most we can do is tell Rohan and Sioned. Maybe they’ll be able to confront Kiele with it and frighten her off somehow.”
“It would only put you in danger by letting her know that you saw something you shouldn’t have. I can’t risk you, Riyan. I won’t risk you.” Looking directly into his son’s eyes, he said, “You’re all I have left of your mother.”
Rarely had he heard Ostvel even mention the woman Riyan barely remembered. He swallowed the ache in his throat. Standing beside his father’s chair, he studied the worried face, the cloud-gray eyes. “What do you think Mother would have done?”
Ostvel shrugged, uncomfortable with the emotion. “If you knew how many times I’ve asked myself that over the years since she died. . . . She probably would have said exactly what you have.” He shifted position and went on, “We—Maarken and I—took Pol over to the Fair again for a little while today, and only had to keep our ears open to hear all the latest rumors. Masul is, he isn’t, he couldn’t be, he ought to be, how long will Rohan let him live. ...” Ostvel slammed his fist on the arm of the chair.
“It seems to me that the length of Masul’s life depends entirely on Masul himself,” Riyan murmured.
“Try convincing others of that. They don’t know our High Prince the way you and I do. He’d cut off his own arm before he’d make a surreptitious or dishonorable move against this pretender.”
“And tell us it’s practicality that stays his hand, not any particular nobility on his part.”
“Accuse him of being noble and he’ll laugh in your face. It has to do with freedom.”
“Whose?” the young man asked, bewildered.
“His. Don’t worry,” he added jn sympathy. “I don’t completely understand it either. What he says is that when you take action, you trap yourself into that action. But by waiting and seeing how things develop, you keep your options open. You’re free to choose what to do—or what not to do.”
“You’re right. I don’t understand at all.” “I think it goes back to his first Rialla, “ Ostvel mused. “He did certain things that trapped people into doing certain other things. But he got trapped, as well—and he didn’t much like it, I can tell you. What you have to understand about him is that he’ll never use us. He knows exactly what we’re made of, our strengths and weaknesses, and makes his own plans accordingly. But he’ll never trap us into doing things. It was done to him and he hated it. With Rohan, you’ll never do anything for him that you wouldn’t have done of your own will. He won’t twist you all awry getting you to do what he wants. But because he knows who and what you are, you’ll do it anyway.”
“He really is the azhrei, “ Riyan said, half in wonder. “A dragon waits to see which way the herd will run before he begins his hunt.”
“I suggest you do the same,” his father warned. “You’ve not been away so long that I can’t still tell what you’re thinking. You’ve your mother’s eyes, you know. She never could hide much from me. Don’t even consider it, Riyan. Rohan and Pol must meet this man in public and discredit him in public, or Pol’s claim will never be secure.”
“Pity,” Riyan said briefly.
“Whatever you’re thinking, I forbid it,” Ostvel warned.
“I wasn’t thinking anything, Father.” “Good. See that you continue not thinking it.” The storm clouds in his eyes cleared a little. “Sit down and talk to me of other things. I’m sick of plots and politics. How did you like returning to Clutha’s service? Has he treated you well?”
Riyan answered with stories of his time at Swalekeep, finding relief equal to his father’s in discussion of matters no more weighty than the best method of saddle breaking a horse or the antics of Halian’s illegitimate daughters. But though much of him relaxed into easy conversation, a deeper part of his mind was working out ways he could continue to observe Kiele—as his fostering prince had, after all, commanded.
He found his opportunity later that day. Lady Chiana required certain things at the residence in Waes, and had enlisted Prince Halian as escort on the ride. This was a piece of rather transparent guile on her part, for if Halian was with her, he could not be elsewhere listening to persons who doubted her royal birth. Riyan, whom Halian had once again appropriated from Clutha, went along with them and listened stolidly to their flirtation. All the arch comments and teasing laughter Chiana lavished on Halian were things long since directed unsuccessfully at Riyan; he was privately amazed that she varied her technique not at all from man to man. But Halian swallowed all of it as if he was the very first ever to rise to her bait. Riyan felt rather sorry for him, but he was contemptuous, too. The prince was welcome to her, and much joy might she bring him if he was fool enough to make her his wife. On arrival at the residence, she tossed her reins to Riyan as if he were nothing more than a groom and gave him casual permission to attend to his own pursuits. Halian waved him away, intent on Chiana.
Riyan watched the pair mount the steps to the main doors, thinking sardonically of Kiele’s probable reaction to having her home used as a whorehouse. Chiana was no idiot, he’d give her that; there were servants aplenty inside to witness the amount of time she and Halian would spend alone, probably locked away in an upper chamber with access to a bed. If Halian thought he’d be getting Chiana for free, he was in for a shock. Riyan shrugged and helped stable the horses, exchanging idle chat with a friendly groom who knew him from his stay here.
After a brief debate with himself, he rode to the manor house outside town where Kleve had been killed. He reined in before it, lips pursed and brow furrowed. Sunlight poured down the roof like a glaze of warm honey; wildflowers sprang up from the surrounding grasses; it did not look like a place of death. Tethering his horse, he opened the door cautiously and went inside.
The rooms were as empty as when he’d inspected them the night of Kleve’s death. Nothing had been touched— the bedclothes were still tumbled and the used crockery stank of rotted food. Riyan shook his head over the fool’s errand he was engaged in. If no one had returned to tidy the evidence, chances were there was no evidence to be found. But he had to try.
The afternoon yielded faint dark stains on the floor that might have been blood, and other signs of hasty abandonment he’d missed last time—a shirt kicked under the bed and forgotten, a woman’s earring under the table where candlelight hadn’t caught it but sunlight did. It had to be Kiele’s. But short of ransacking her jewel coffers for the other one, there was no way to prove it. Besides, she would have disposed of the matching earring the instant she’d discovered she’d lost this one. But evidence was here, all right—which made him revise his original interpretation of the disorder. No one had returned because no one dared. Perhaps he’d disturbed something in his search that night, warning the occupant to flee at once. Perhaps he had even been seen entering or leaving the house—and if that was true, he marveled that he was still alive. Riyan pocketed the earring and continued the hunt.
Toward dusk he found usable evidence stuffed into a closet at the back of the house. Riyan’s active imagination prompted speculation that a piece of clothing or some other article belonging to Kleve had, like the shirt and earring, been forgotten in a panicky departure.
But he was not prepared for the bundle of heavy wool in the closet, stiff with dried blood, wrapped around a towel that contained three severed fingers.
Riyan dropped the grisly bundle, backing away in horror. A cry clotted in his throat. Stumbling, half-blind, he ran for the sink and vomited up everything in his stomach. When he was empty and exhausted by the violence of his reaction, he pumped water to wash his face. Sight of his own water-polished rings made him gag again.
It seemed forever before he could make himself go back. The blanket lay where he had flung it, the pattern of red and yellow crusted over with dried blood. As for the towel—Riyan knelt, trembling, and forced himself to touch a finger, to begin removing its ring. Andrade would want them, he told himself over and over. Andrade would want them as proof.
But then he stopped, staring at the plain circles around the severed fingers.
Kleve had worn six rings, marking him as adept at using both sun and moons. But on the bloodied towel before him were three fingers wearing only two silver rings.
He sucked in a great lungful of air, steadying himself. His father had told him that Sioned had somehow recovered one of the gold rings; it was how they learned of Kleve’s death. It must have been from the left first finger—missing from this grim collection. The other gold was gone from the right thumb. It was the proudest ring of all, the fifth that signified full Sunrunner status. He could see the white circle on dead skin where the ring had been worn for most of Kleve’s life.
Where was that fifth ring?
Riyan pushed himself to his feet and went to the window, flinging it wide to let clean air in. Then he got a fresh sheet from the stack in the linen cupboard and used it to wrap the evidence. He took another sheet and folded the blanket in it—thick red-and-yellow wool, Cunaxan weave, that had undoubtedly shrouded Kleve’s corpse while it was carried away. Masul was said to be tall and strong, with broad shoulders and muscles enough to make the burden a relatively light one. And Riyan felt sick again at realizing that while he himself had been poking around the manor house, Masul had been depositing Kleve’s body somewhere for the scavengers to find. Why couldn’t Masul have returned while Riyan was still there? He bitterly cursed the missed chance—then gulped and acknowledged that the Goddess had been watching over him that night.
But why had Masul not sliced off Kleve’s hands completely? Even if he’d taken all the rings, there would have been marks around the fingers left by the sun. Without hands, nothing could identify him as faradhi. An instant later the answer was obvious. A corpse with missing hands could point in only one direction: the murdered Sunrunner.
Still, Masul had neglected to dispose of the severed fingers; a stupid mistake. No, a fatal one. Had he trusted that after once finding nothing, no one else would come and make as thorough a search as Riyan had just done? Had haste made him careless? Had he not dared come back here or had his own arrogance betrayed him?
Riyan wondered what poor terrified person had found Kleve’s body. But he knew why no one had come forth with the information. Who wanted to be connected with the death and desecration of a Sunrunner? How the gold ring had found its way to Sioned was a mystery he gnawed at while stuffing the sheets into his saddlebags. Perhaps someone had gone looking for Kleve or heard a rumor, or the remaining rings had been taken from his fingers for sale. It didn’t matter much, and Riyan told himself to stop questioning the Goddess’ good will. She looked after her faradh ‘im; that was all he needed to believe in. What was important was the terrible evidence lashed securely into leather pouches.
He returned to the house and washed his face and hands again, shivering. It was dusk; Chiana and Halian would be impatient for his return. He stuffed the sheets with their terrible contents into his saddlebags. A gallop through the crisp evening air blew away the horror and fanned his anger. He would see Masul dead for this, and Kiele with him. They had murdered a Sunrunner. He hoped Andrade would match their viciousness when she decided the manner of their deaths.
Halian and Chiana had ridden back without him. Riyan shrugged, caring nothing for any punishment the prince might decree for his dereliction of duty, and stayed at the residence long enough to down two large cups of wine before riding back to the encampment. He did not stop at Meadowlord’s light green tents, but instead made straight for the High Prince’s pavilion.
Riyan went past Tallain without a word. He bowed and swept a grim gaze over his father and Rohan, who fell silent as he threw the saddlebags on the desk.
“Proof,” he said curtly.
Ostvel opened the leather bags and caught his breath. Rohan said nothing as the contents were placed before him. He studied them for a long time, then met Riyan’s eyes.
It took only a few moments to tell the story of his afternoon. His father looked murderous. Rohan’s eyes kindled with a slowly gathering fury that, if unleashed, would destroy everything in its path.
“One of them has the other ring,” Riyan finished. “I’m sure of it. My guess is that it was the fifth, gold for the right thumb, the Sunrunner’s ring.”
“Too big for Kiele,” Rohan murmured. “But Masul’s size. Yes.”
“If he dares to wear it, we have him.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps.” Rohan folded the sheets over and replaced the bundles in the saddlebags. “Your father has told me the rest. But I must give you an order now as your prince, Riyan—something you may find difficult to obey as a Sunrunner.” He held Riyan’s gaze with his own. “Say nothing to Andrade of this. Nothing.”
He felt no conflict. “I was your man the day I was born.”
The blond brows arched slightly. “Not even a fleeting qualm? Andrade won’t be pleased by that. Whatever you may be to me, you are partially hers.”
“All that I am, my prince, is yours,” Riyan said with simple dignity.
Rohan nodded slowly. “You honor me, Riyan. Have Tallain return with you to Clutha’s camp. If anyone asks, he is to say you were summoned by me when you rode in. That should excuse you from any difficulties with Halian. As for your absence today—“
“I’m answerable to Prince Clutha, my lord. Not Halian.”
“I understand. But let me know if there’s any problem.”
“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and started for the door, then paused and turned. “I have a favor to ask. Will you make sure they take a long time to die?”
Ostvel made a sound low in his throat. Rohan merely nodded. “Yes, Riyan. Both Masul and Kiele will be a very long time dying.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Riyan bowed again, satisfied, trusting his prince as implicitly as he trusted his father, and left them.
Ostvel picked up the saddlebags and held them to his chest. “You know what the penalty is for murdering a faradhi. “
“Yes. But not yet. Not until he’s been disproved in his claim. That ties my hands, Ostvel.” His fists clenched as if tightening around Masul’s throat. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered, “how dearly I’d love to kill him now. “Then he looked up. “Riyan must be watched very carefully. If Masul suspects anything, his life will be worthless. Have you friends among the Sunrunners Andrade brought with her?”
Ostvel nodded. “I’ll make it a personal favor, nothing that Andrade need concern herself with.”
“Good. It will turn out as we need it to, my friend. We haven’t come this far and done so much to see it all ruined now.”
Ostvel bowed slightly. “I never believed any differently, my prince,” he said softly.
After he had gone, taking the saddlebags with him, Rohan murmured, “I wish I could believe with you, my friend.”