Princess Alasen was a past mistress of the art of escaping any escort her father chose to set over her. Simplicity itself in and around the castle of New Raetia on Kierst, freedom was even easier to arrange in the crush of people on their way to the races. Among them, Alasen became only a young girl in a plain dress, anonymous unless one noted her father’s silver-flask emblem stitched on the tiny leather purse at her belt.
A canopy of green silk had been raised above the royal enclosure, and the stands were filling rapidly. Much of the crowd veered off to find good seats, but Alasen continued on to the paddocks, where young men soon to be knighted were to demonstrate their horsemanship before the racing began.
She found a place at the rails and propped her elbows on the painted wood to watch. Her father’s squire, Sorin of Radzyn Keep, led fourteen highborn youths on mag- nificent horses into the grassy meadow, pausing to acknowledge the cheers of friends and relatives assembled to watch. They began a formal ride around the enclosed area, changing gaits and directions with invisible signals to their mounts, cutting diagonals and riding intricate patterns in perfect formation. Sorin rode one of his father’s horses, an elegant dapple-gray mare with a black mane and tail; Alasen wondered about the chances of convincing her father to purchase the animal for her and decided they were fairly good. Volog was in excellent humor despite the scandal of Masul’s appearance, and his private talks with the High Prince had been much to his liking. He was pleased, too, that she had formed a friendship with Cousin Sioned. It might be possible for her to coax him into buying the mare, even without its being a wedding present.
Alasen was under no illusions as to why her father had brought her to Waes this year. Young men had been presented for her inspection at New Raetia for two years now—rather late for a princess, but then she was Volog’s last and favorite child, whom he wanted to keep with him as long as possible. But she would be twenty-three this autumn, and it was time she married. If she was disinclined to accept any of the young men who came to Kierst, then Volog was determined that she look the rest of them over at the Rialla. But he expected her to choose a husband, and she knew it.
Sorin rode into the center of the paddock by himself, showing off more fanciful maneuvers—curvettes and flying leaps designed to flaunt a rider’s skill and impress potential customers with the horse’s quality. Lord Chaynal stood a little way down the railing from Alasen, critical eyes noting every nuance of his son’s performance. Many of the other horses being ridden today were his as well, the rest belonging to Lord Kolya of Kadar Water—Chaynal’s only serious rival in horse-breeding. The two holdings had enjoyed generations of friendly competition, scorning and degrading each other’s horses with cheerful predictability at each Rialla.
Alasen applauded her approval of Sorin’s skills and waved as he rode past the railing to collect well-deserved accolades. He grinned and winked at her. He certainly was the best-looking of all the young men—long and lanky, with his father’s chiseled features. He was the best rider, too. Alasen’s pride in him was that of an elder sister, and it was a relief to them both that the warmth of their friendship was untouched by Fire. Their parents had once or twice discussed the possibility of a match, but nothing had ever come of it. She and Sorin laughed heartily at the very notion. He would make a wonderful husband for some woman, but not her. For all his twenty winters and many knightly accomplishments, Sorin was like a great playful colt who still bumped his knees and nose. Alasen was a little surprised to see him so self-possessed and grown-up today.
She wondered suddenly what his brother Andry was like, the twin who had rejected the usual nobleman’s training in order to become a Sunrunner. The seriousness of his goals was probably reflected in his personality, she mused—all the playfulness and humor she liked so much in Sorin schooled out of Andry during his years at Goddess Keep.
Other young men were taking their turns now, and Ala-sen’s eye was caught by a splendid Radzyn sorrel ridden by a youth wearing Meadowlord’s light green. The squire made his mare dance delicately across the paddock at an impossible angle, and the onlookers gasped with pleasure as the horse changed directions with the airy grace of a feather in a wayward summer breeze. The young man was of middling height with the dark coloring of Fironese mountain folk, and not half so handsome as Sorin. But as he rode past her, one sight of his eyes reversed her opinion of his looks. Fringed by long, thick black lashes, his eyes were a deep velvety brown with bronze glints, shaped wide and long beneath straight, heavy brows. These astonishing eyes changed his face from merely pleasant to nearly beautiful. He reined in the mare directly in front of her, shifted not a breath in his saddle—and the horse suddenly reared back, gathered herself, then came down on forelegs with rear hooves lashing out. It was a warhorse’s move, precise and deadly, and the crowd burst into applause.
“Oh, well done!” Alasen cried along with the cheering audience.
“Do you think so?” a man’s deep voice said at her shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” she answered without turning, enthralled by the young man’s ride. “Just perfect! Do you know who he is, sir? He wears Meadowlord’s colors, but then every squire is still in his fostering lord’s colors.”
“His own are blue and brown, for Skybowl. His name is Riyan, and he’s my son.”
Alasen looked up then into a pleasant, smiling face. There was a family resemblance about the brow and nose, and she realized that with maturity the son would become nearly as distinguished as the father. But their eyes were very different; the ones gazing down at her now were gray, shaded by dark lashes and a shock of tousled brown hair showing threads of silver. “You must be Lord Ost-vel,” she said, returning his smile.
“The same. I thank you for the compliment on my son’s behalf. A father’s pride is one thing, but to hear a young lady’s praise confirm it. ...” He gave a self-mocking shrug. “And you must be Princess Alasen of Kierst.”
“How could you know that? I purposely wore my oldest and plainest dress today, and I’m trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd!” She laughed up at him.
“I doubt you could ever succeed in that, my lady. As for knowing who you are—I met your mother once and you’ve the look of her. But the green eyes confirm it. They’re precisely the same color as Prince Davvi’s, and the same shape as Princess Sioned’s.”
“Really? I know I look like my mother, mostly, but do you think I resemble the High Princess even a little?”
“You sound as if you’d like to. But I’d say that looking like yourself is quite enough. You’ve certainly impressed that young man over there.” He nodded to where Lord Chaynal stood with a youth whose blue eyes were indeed studying her most intently. “Obviously he finds it more rewarding to look at you than to watch his brother ride.”
“His brother?” Alasen repeated blankly.
“Sorin. Your young admirer is Andry of Radzyn, and lately of Goddess Keep.”
She forgot the dignity of her twenty-two winters and stared. So that was Sorin’s twin! “They’re not very much alike, are they, my lord?”
“It used to be almost impossible to tell them apart. But they’ve grown up quite differently in the last years.” His voice was suddenly expressionless and she glanced up at him, startled. He noted the look and smiled once more. “But I’m keeping you from watching the rest of the show. They’re about to ride toward each other at a full gallop—Sorin’s idea, the madman. I just hope Riyan doesn’t disgrace himself by falling off.”
“I doubt he’s done that since the first time you put him on a pony,” she chuckled.
The line of riders formed again, then broke in two at the middle. They cantered to opposite ends of the meadow, wheeled in place, and at a signal from Sorin thundered toward each other with a speed that promised to annihilate them all. Yet somehow each found a space to gallop through, and in the next instant they had all lined up again to enjoy the crowd’s applause.
“Excellent,” Lord Ostvel murmured. “But don’t tell my son I said so,” he added.
“But he deserves to be told, my lord. Next to Sorin, he’s the best rider here.”
Laughter rumbled up from deep in his chest. “No more syrup for my paternal pride, my lady! Tell me, what do you think of the mare he’s riding?”
“As a warhorse, perfection. As a casual mount—“ She shook her head. “That mare would fret herself to skin and bones if she wasn’t given anything more than a good gallop every other day.”
“I agree. She’s too high-strung. I need to gift Riyan with a proper knight’s mount, though. Which horse would you favor?”
She hesitated, then had to answer honestly. “ Sorin’s gray, without a doubt.”
Lord Ostvel gave a long sigh. “I was afraid we’d agree on that, too. Chay’s going to demand half a year’s income for that horse—and he won’t knock the price down for the sake of friendship, either!”
The crowd was breaking up now, heading to the stands to watch the first race, and Alasen was jostled against the rails. Ostvel took her arm to steady her. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “But I think I’ll wait here until the crowd thins a little.”
“No need. I’ll escort you, if you’ll permit. Would you like to go congratulate Sorin?” “Yes, please!”
Together they made their way to where Lord Chaynal stood with his sons and Riyan. Ostvel ruffled his own son’s dark hair as if he was still ten years old instead of two days away from formal knighthood; Riyan bore with it, grinning, and gold sparkled with the bronze in his eyes. Alasen was introduced and noted that Riyan was not another such as Sorin—though just as accomplished at the arts of being a knight, he also possessed social skills enough not to blush in the presence of a pretty girl. He gave her a bow and a smile, and again she saw his father in him.
Sorin then claimed her attention with a demand to be told how wonderful he was. Alasen laughed at him. “You stayed in your saddle, which is more than I expected!” He turned an aggrieved face to his father. “Allow me to thank you, my lord, for never giving us any sisters! Andry, this is the girl I told you about, who’s made my life misery for nearly eight years. Princess Alasen of Kierst, my brother, Lord Andry.”
Alasen was in for a surprise. She received a very elegant bow, a very direct stare, and a very composed pronouncement of her name and title in a voice that made her complexion change color, not his.
“So you’re Volog’s youngest,” said Lord Chaynal. “Happy man, to have such a treasure in his castle. I even hold you excused from never having taught this hopeless whelp of mine any manners during his time at New Rae- tia.”
She met his grin with sparkling eyes and her lips tucked into a rueful line. “Indeed, my lord, I am sorry. We tried everything, but to no avail.” His eyes were gray like Lord Ostvel’s, but like sunlight on moonstones where the other man’s were silver in shadow.
“She means,” Sorin said, “that she used to throw books at me in the schoolroom. Don’t try to deny it, Allie, you know you did. I still have the scars.”
“And the addled wits, if her aim was good enough,” Andry teased.
Lord Chaynal moaned. “Mannerless, impudent, fractious—Ostvel, what did I ever do to deserve such offspring? “
“Something dreadful, I’m sure. We ought to get out of the sun, Chay. Desert folk don’t mind it, but I’m sure Princess Alasen would prefer to be in the shade.”
“Is the heat in the Desert as terrible as they say?” she asked.
Lord Chaynal smiled, and once more she could see a son’s maturity in a father’s face. “It would burn forty freckles onto your charming nose before you could draw a breath.”
“Stop flirting or I’ll tell Mother on you,” Sorin threatened, grinning.
“Indeed?” The Lord of Radzyn drew himself up to his full height—only a fingerspan or so greater than his sons’, but he also outweighed each by a silkweight of solid muscle and out-shouldered them by the breadth of a hand. “I compliment pretty girls just as I please, boy, and the day I stop—“
“Is the day Maarken inherits,” Andry interjected slyly, “because you’ll have been dead at least three days!”
His lordship gave a martyred sigh. “Alasen, my dear, if you ever have sons, have them only one at a time. They’re bad enough singly—as Ostvel and Rohan can at-test. Twinned, they’re more than any rational person should be called on to endure. If you’ll excuse me, I should be seeing to my entries in the first races. And if you’ve a mind to a wager, I recommend my black mare in the fifth.” He bowed, smiled, and strode off.
Alasen was a little amazed by the playful bantering between fathers and sons, so different from the relation-ship between Volog and her brothers Latham and Vol-naya. The scrupulous respect and politeness they showed each other were quite the opposite of the affectionate abuse she had just heard. But she liked their easy man-ners and knew instinctively that their teasing came in direct proportion to their love for each other.
She was also surprised at herself for joining in. But she had probably picked up the ability from an indulgent father and Sorin’s constant teasing. She would miss them when she married. The reminder of the reason she was at Waes took some of the brightness from the day. She deliberately turned her thoughts elsewhere as she started back to the stands.
Sorin, Riyan, and Lord Ostvel took the lead, leaving Alasen and Andry a pace or two behind. They walked in a silence she found embarrassing after the preceding chatter. At last he spoke.
“You have no attendant with you today, my lady?”
“I like to escape sometimes,” she confessed. “My father has a tendency to watch over me as if I’m made of Fironese crystal.”
‘ ‘Anyone looking at you might say that you are,” he mumbled.
Alasen gave him a startled glance. He was looking anywhere but at her. She had heard compliments from her cradle, yet Andry’s words sounded more like a grudging admission of an inescapable and somewhat uncomfortable fact than a bid for her favor. All at once he looked exactly like Sorin did in the presence of other pretty girls, his cheeks red and his steps a bit too long. She smiled indulgently. Boys were amusing creatures, but she was old enough to know that she preferred grown men. Still, Andry was rather sweet, and though the set of his features was different from Sorin’s he was just as good-looking. With the exquisite Princess Tobin and the dashing Lord Chaynal for parents, none of the brothers could possibly have turned out ill-favored. And Alasen approved wholeheartedly of handsome young men.
It seemed to Sioned and Tobin, sitting in the royal stands, that there were more young people at the Rialla than ever before, most of them looking for suitable spouses, as Alasen was supposed to be doing. The High Prince’s liberal rules about who could attend had swelled the ranks of each prince’s retinue with highborn youths and maidens, their servants, and guards for their material wealth. For their persons, no guards were necessary; Rohan held each prince personally responsible for the safety of the young people in his charge, and no one wanted to cause a war over any outrages perpetrated on or by those whose innocent purpose here was to get married.
Sons and daughters not heir to their parents’ lands usually had little other than their charms to recommend them. Rohan and “Sioned, wanting to even up the matrimonial stakes a little, had once considered providing all with enough gold to make a decent start in life. Tobin had ruthlessly quashed this notion by saying that if they really wanted to advertise the dragon gold, why not just take everyone on a tour of the caves? Ways were found of dowering the worthier and poorer young men and women just the same, principally through the races. Formerly, only the winning riders had come away with prizes, but now those who came in second and third received small purses of silver. It was said that some of the young men lost on purpose to win useful cash instead of the gems that came with victory—gems they could not afford to have set and which did not fetch their true value at the Rialla.
Heirs and athr’im had no need of anything but their positions to attract young women to them. There were many unmarried men present this year—Miyon of Cu-naxa being the greatest prize as a prince already ruling. Sioned thanked the Goddess that Pol was still too young for the flirtatious follies going on all around her in the stands, and she and Tobin amused themselves between races by commenting on pairings that seemed to change every other moment.
Halian of Meadowlord and Kostas of Syr were much in demand and obviously enjoying themselves hugely. Patwin of Catha Heights, widower of Roelstra’s daughter Rabia, was another excellent catch, judging by the cluster of females around him; in addition to his wealth and caressing brown eyes he possessed a gorgeous hilltop castle legendary for its gardens. Young Kolya of Kadar Water, Allun of Lower Pyrme, and Yarin of Snowcoves were all besieged.
“I’ll bet the next winter’s snowfall that Clutha’s granddaughter Isaura marries Sabriam of Einar,” Sioned whispered to Tobin, nodding to the pair who were trying to hide their clasped hands beneath the cover of the girl’s skirt.
“Every grain of sand in the Desert says that Allun finally gives in to Sabriam’s sister,” Tobin replied. “Look at Kiera over there, using those big eyes on the poor boy!
It’d make for an interesting alliance, I must say.”
“Mmm. I’m more interested in who goes after Tilal. Where’d he vanish to, anyway? And just look at Chale, glowering over there—he’s scaring off anyone who even comes within speaking distance of Gemma! How’s the girl ever going to provide the next Prince of Ossetia if he doesn’t let her talk to anybody?”
“Who’s that with them? The blonde girl who looks as if she’d been washed once too often and hung out limp on a line?”
“I think it’s Danladi—yet another of Roelstra’s daughters. You know, the one he had with Lady Aladra.”
“Oh, Sioned, quick! Chiana’s cornered Miyon! And there’s Halian near them, looking like a storm over the Veresch! Now, that’s interesting!”
The next race began, and they concentrated on cheering a Radzyn stallion to victory. Most of Chay’s horses were being ridden by younger sons with hopes of winning prizes. Chay was generous, but only youths he trusted personally were allowed to ride his entries. The approval of the powerful Lord of Radzyn was enough to keep many young ladies avidly watching to see who he honored with a ride on one of his horses.
Tobin applauded immodestly. “We won again! Mar-velous! Who’s up, Sioned? I can’t see that far.”
Rohan slid into the seat beside his wife and announced, “Our own Tilal. I’m going to have wonderful fun pouring a river of garnets into his hands. Have you ladies decided yet who’ll wear the wedding necklet he’ll have made of them?”
“Who’s applauding loudest?” Sioned countered. Many cheered him as he rode past on his victory lap, but Sioned’s eye was caught by something that puzzled her deeply. Kostas, despite a smile and a wave for his younger brother, did not take his gaze from Gemma very long. She had her nose buried in a book, ignoring everyone and everything. Pale, delicate Danladi’s blue eyes were narrowed with worry. Sioned sat back with a frown. One of Lord Kolya’s entries was the victor in the next race. The young man danced with pride and excitement as he went down to congratulate his rider, and actually flung his arms around the mare’s neck. The royal trio laughed, then paid close attention as the next race was called—for Maarken was riding.
“I do so want him to win,” Tobin said with a casual-ness that fooled no one. “I can’t afford to part with any of my own jewels when he finally needs a necklet for his bride.”
Rohan snorted and exchanged a half-hidden grin with Sioned. A short time later Maarken had ridden to an easy win. Tobin forgot herself and leaped up, cheering raucously for her son. This time Rohan and Sioned burst out laughing, and her sternest reprimands could not shut them up.
A vendor selling fruit ices came up the aisle, and Rohan tossed him coins enough for three cups. Tobin appropriated the apple ice right out of her brother’s hands.
“I wanted that one!” he complained. “I paid for them, I should have first choice.”
“Hush up and behave yourself,” Tobin admonished, handing him the mossberry ice he had given her. “Anyone would think you’re still twelve years old.”
“You’re a selfish and unnatural sister,” he grumbled. “Look, there’s Sorin!” When her head turned, he snatched the cup from her and replaced it with the moss-berry ice.
“Rohan!” She elbowed him in the ribs.
Sioned laughed. “In another moment you two will revert to childhood and start playing at dragons. High Prince and the Lady of Radzyn, indeed! Now, tell me the name of that beauty Sorin’s riding. He looks like one of Pashta’s get.”
“He is. That’s Joscenel, twin to Andry’s Maycenel. We gave them both a good horse when they became squires. Rohan, give that ice back!”
He held the apple cup out of her reach. “A good horse? That one looks like solid muscle covered in sunlight. I give him three lengths and a tail.”
“Pashta never sired a finer pair,” Tobin said. “No bet, little brother.” She licked at the dripping ice in her hand*, making a face at him. “This is better than the apple, anyway.” at Kiera over there, using those big eyes on the poor boy!
It’d make for an interesting alliance, I must say.”
“Mmm. I’m more interested in who goes after Tilal. Where’d he vanish to, anyway? And just look at Chale, glowering over there—he’s scaring off anyone who even comes within speaking distance of Gemma! How’s the girl ever going to provide the next Prince of Ossetia if he doesn’t let her talk to anybody?”
“Who’s that with them? The blonde girl who looks as if she’d been washed once too often and hung out limp on a line?”
“I think it’s Danladi—yet another of Roelstra’s daughters. You know, the one he had with Lady Aladra.”
“Oh, Sioned, quick! Chiana’s cornered Miyon! And there’s Halian near them, looking like a storm over the Veresch! Now, that’s interesting!”
The next race began, and they concentrated on cheering a Radzyn stallion to victory. Most of Chay’s horses were being ridden by younger sons with hopes of winning prizes. Chay was generous, but only youths he trusted personally were allowed to ride his entries. The approval of the powerful Lord of Radzyn was enough to keep many young ladies avidly watching to see who he honored with a ride on one of his horses.
Tobin applauded immodestly. “We won again! Mar-velous! Who’s up, Sioned? I can’t see that far.”
Rohan slid into the seat beside his wife and announced, “Our own Tilal. I’m going to have wonderful fun pouring a river of garnets into his hands. Have you ladies decided yet who’ll wear the wedding necklet he’ll have made of them?”
“Who’s applauding loudest?” Sioned countered.
Many cheered him as he rode past on his victory lap, but Sioned’s eye was caught by something that puzzled her deeply. Kostas, despite a smile and a wave for his younger brother, did not take his gaze from Gemma very long. She had her nose buried in a book, ignoring everyone and everything. Pale, delicate Danladi’s blue eyes were narrowed with worry. Sioned sat back with a frown.
One of Lord Kolya’s entries was the victor in the next race. The young man danced with pride and excitement as he went down to congratulate his rider, and actually flung his arms around the mare’s neck. The royal trio laughed, then paid close attention as the next race was called—for Maarken was riding.
“I do so want him to win,” Tobin said with a casual-ness that fooled no one. “I can’t afford to part with any of my own jewels when he finally needs a necklet for his bride.”
Rohan snorted and exchanged a half-hidden grin with Sioned. A short time later Maarken had ridden to an easy win. Tobin forgot herself and leaped up, cheering raucously for her son. This time Rohan and Sioned burst out laughing, and her sternest reprimands could not shut them up.
A vendor selling fruit ices came up the aisle, and Rohan tossed him coins enough for three cups. Tobin appropriated the apple ice right out of her brother’s hands.
“I wanted that one!” he complained. “I paid for them, I should have first choice.”
“Hush up and behave yourself,” Tobin admonished, handing him the mossberry ice he had given her. “Anyone would think you’re still twelve years old.”
“You’re a selfish and unnatural sister,” he grumbled. “Look, there’s Sorin!” When her head turned, he snatched the cup from her and replaced it with the moss-berry ice.
“Rohan!” She elbowed him in the ribs.
Sioned laughed. “In another moment you two will revert to childhood and start playing at dragons. High Prince and the Lady of Radzyn, indeed; Now, tell me the name of that beauty Sorin’s riding. He looks like one of Pashta’s get.”
“He is. That’s Joscenel, twin to Andry’s Maycenel. We gave them both a good horse when they became squires. Rohan, give that ice back!”
He held the apple cup out of her reach. “A good horse? That one looks like solid muscle covered in sunlight. I give him three lengths and a tail.”
“Pashta never sired a finer pair,” Tobin said. “No bet, little brother.” She licked at the dripping ice in her hand, making a face at him. “This is better than the apple, anyway.”
“It is?” He tried to switch cups again, and they giggled like children.
Sioned, safe with her snow-cherry ice, lost her grin when another horse came into view. “Rohan . . . look who’s riding the Kadar horse.”
He glanced around. All mirth faded and the light left his eyes.
“Well?” Tobin prompted. “I’m a victim of old age and my eyes aren’t any good at that distance. Who is it?”
“Masul,” Rohan replied colorlessly.
It seemed that everyone saw him at the same time. Quiet descended like a cloud over the animated conversation in the stands. One last nervous giggle sounded from somewhere, and then all was still. Masul bestrode a magnificent bay stallion, the characteristic white blaze and feathery white tufts at each hoof marking the horse as one of Kadar Water’s breeding. The young man was not wearing Lord Kolya’s colors, however—and Lord Kolya was in shock at the sight of the pretender riding one of his horses. Masul was dressed in a silk shirt the deep violet color of Princemarch.
He had shaved off his beard, a ploy not lost on anyone with half a brain. The clean, harshly handsome lines of his cheeks and jaw were visible now below the startling green eyes. As the horses paraded past the stands, Sioned met his gaze for an instant and saw the sheer glee in his grin. Fury gripped her that he dared wear Princemarch’s color, swiftly followed by profound gratitude that Pand-sala was safely in her tent. Rohan had told her about the regent’s mood and actions yesterday, and Sioned was certain that had Pandsala been here she would have ripped the violet silk right off Masul’s shoulders.
She darted a look at her husband, who appeared to be contemplating some similar act of mayhem. Tobin’s black eyes were snapping with rage and her cheeks were deeply flushed, but Rohan’s anger was as pale and cold as if his face had been carved from snow.
Lyell was the official starter. He toyed with the fringe of a large red-and-yellow flag as the dancing, restive horses lined up. Sioned’s gaze traced the measure-round course and saw to her horror that this was the race to Brochwell Bay and back. The jumps were in position; a section of railing had been removed where the horses would leave the track for the cliffs. Anything could happen along that unwatched course. She knew that only too well. Rohan had ridden the same race twenty-one years ago to win her emeralds, and had nearly been killed along the way.
Sorin patted Joscenel’s sleek, sunny neck, and a white-tufted ear swiveled back to listen to whatever he was saying. Sioned glanced over the other horses. Sorin was definitely the entry to beat. Two riders were on Lord Kolya’s horses and wearing his russet-and-white; two more entries bore the plain red of Prince Velden of Grib. Another of Chay’s horses was down the line from Sorin. Both young men were in his red-and-white silks. The eighth horse was Lord Sabriam’s, distinguished by the orange and yellow of Einar, and a ninth belonged to Lord Patwin, the rider his younger brother dressed in garish red and blue stripes. These would battle it out for third place, for it was obvious that the contest for first would be between Sorin and Masul.
Tobin, recovering from her initial shock, was now the picture of composure to anyone who did not know her. Sioned, who knew her very well, saw a telltale pulse pounding in her throat as she bent to place the uneaten ice at her feet. Small, delicate fingers were then laced together in the princess’ lap, knuckles white with tension. Tobin would show nothing more than a mother’s justifiable pride when her son rode to victory. And Sorin must win, Sioned told herself, looking at Rohan’s frozen, expressionless face. He must.
Lyell swept the flag down and the horses shot forward like arrows from nine warrior bows. Clods of dirt were flung up as they pounded past the stands and through the opening in the fence. The crowd gasped once, and then the strange, unsettling, whispering silence descended again.
As she had done years ago when Rohan had been up on Pashta in the same race, Sioned swiftly wove a thin plait of sunlight and sent it after the riders—thanking the Goddess that the sunlight was on her face and she did not have to draw attention to herself by moving. As she watched the nine horses separate on their way to the wood, she had the distinct impression that someone else was observing on the sunlight as well. Maarken, perhaps, or Andry, anxious for their brother. Careful to keep her own weaving distinct and separate, she glided toward the cliffs, waiting for the riders to emerge from the trees.
Masul was in the lead, Sorin just behind, the others trailing by at least two lengths. Joscenel was a streak of pale gold against the dark gravelly ground. Sorin rode close to his horse’s neck, so much in harmony with the stallion that every stride seemed to find response in the ripple of muscle beneath Sorin’s shirt. Sioned had never seen anyone ride this way, not even Chaynal, who was the best rider in living memory. Chay sat his horses with easy authority; Sorin became one with his mount.
Masul approached the sharp, dangerous turn at the cliff with rocks flying from beneath his bay’s white-feathered hooves. He had to haul the animal’s head cruelly around to avoid plunging over into the sea. Sorin judged the angle better, slowing Joscenel for an easier turn, and made up ground as Masul’s outraged horse faltered, nearly stumbling, before finding his stride again.
Behind them, one of Velden’s riders miscalculated and his terrified horse pulled up short, skidding to a halt on his haunches a man-length from the cliff edge. His rider went flying and vanished over the jagged rocks. The horse, trembling all over, limped away.
Sioned did not wait to see if the rest negotiated the turn safely. She raced back on the sunlight and saw Ro-han and Tobin staring at her, only now realizing she had not been entirely with them.
“A rider went over the cliff,” she said. “One of Velden’s. He needs help—if he’s still alive.”
Rohan nodded curtly and left them, shouldering his way down to the track. Sioned felt Tobin cling to her hand, but had no time to reassure her. She rethreaded the sunlight and sped along it, hoping to catch Sorin and Masul as they emerged once more from the wood.
But the two horses were even faster than she’d thought. Both were well away from the trees. Masul’s stallion was lathered, ears laid flat, teeth bared; only his rider’s iron grip kept him from giving in to deeper instinct and turning to attack. Blood welled along the bay’s hindquarters where the golden stallion had evidently gotten in a vicious bite. Sioned was astounded that the two warhorses still obeyed their riders.
Sorin was pressed even more tightly to his horse’s neck now, his shirt cut to ribbons by low branches in the wood. His gloved hands held the reins almost at the bit. For three strides the pair hurtled along neck and neck, and then Joscenel began to pull ahead.
Suddenly Fire blossomed before them to the right, directly in Sorin’s path. His horse swerved madly, eyes showing white with terror. Joscenel plowed into Masul’s bay and the big horse stumbled. Recovering in a stride, they still ran so close together that sparks struck by iron-shod hooves on stone flew up simultaneously. Sioned saw the prong end of Masul’s whip flash, and Sorin’s back arched as steel cut into his shoulder. Joscenel struggled to maintain his balance as the young man lurched in the saddle. Masul kept his bay stallion right beside Sorin, riding for the edge of the Fire, forcing Joscenel directly into the chest-high flames.
Sorin righted himself and signaled his horse. Muscle bunched beneath the sweat-darkened hide and Joscenel soared over the Fire, landing a long stride beyond it with his belly singed and his white saddle blanket smoldering. The flames vanished, leaving a thin blackened line in the dirt that was quickly obliterated by the hooves of six other horses.
Sioned gave a violent shudder as she slid back down the sunlight. Staggering to her feet, her vision cleared just in time for her to see the two stallions thunder onto the track toward the first jump. Masul used his whip on his stallion, the shine of the silver prong sullied now with blood. The first jump was cleared, and the second. Sorin was on his heels by the third. One of Lord Kolya’s horses foundered after the first obstacle, his thrown rider rolling quickly out of the way. Nobody seemed to notice.
Had Tobin’s fingers been knives, they would have sliced Sioned’s arm to the bone. Someone cried out in the silence, echoed by another shout from the commoners’ stands, and sound rippled through the crowd—not cheers of encouragement but release of unbearable tension.
Sioned heard a low moan claw up from Tobin’s throat, knowing that the princess’ control was nearly gone.
Bay stallion and golden stallion cleared the last jump together. The former’s ribs and mouth were coated with blood-red foam; still the whip dug into his sides. Under its assault he used up the last of his great heart and crossed the finish-half a stride in the lead.
Tobin dragged Sioned down through the crowd to the railings, and Sioned finally succeeded in getting in front of her tiny sister-by-marriage to protect her from the wildly screaming throng.
“Make way!” she shouted. “Let me pass! Make way for the High Princess!”
“Sioned!” came a familiar bellow. “Over here!”
She shouldered her way to Ostvel, gripping Tobin’s hand. He was at the rails, keeping a place clear for them to duck through. “Get everyone to the paddock, quick, or there’ll be trouble. Chay’s got murder on his face.”
“Can you blame him?” Tobin snapped before climbing through the rails.
Rohan was already on the track, waiting for Sorin to canter his blown and trembling stallion back to calm. He grasped his sister by the shoulders when she would have hurried to her son. “No! You’ll get trampled. Tobin, stay here.”
“I’ll pull that lying bastard off his horse and feed him to the dragons!” she hissed. “Let me go!”
He bore with her struggles for a moment, then rapped out, “Stop it! Do you want everyone to see you?”
It was not something that would have mattered to Sioned, but Tobin, born and bred to princely station, had been trained to present a certain face to the outside world. She shook her brother off and smoothed back her hair. “No need to rattle my bones loose,” she said acidly.
Rightly interpreting this as a sign of recovery, Rohan nodded. Sorin was riding closer now, and Sioned feared for a moment that Tobin would explode anew. She could tell the difference between marks left by slashing branches and the torn and bloodied shoulder caused by the lash of a whip. But though rage burned even hotter in her long-lidded eyes, she said nothing.
Sioned felt someone pluck at her sleeve, and looked around. Alasen stood at her side, ashen-faced. “Is Sorin all right?” the girl whispered, and Sioned recalled that the two had grown up together at Volog’s court.
“He’ll be fine, with only a scar to show for his trouble.”
Sorin rode up then, Joscenel having settled down. He gave Alasen a tight smile. “I’m not hurt, Allie. Just get me the hell out of here before I kill that pig. I don’t trust myself nearer to him than a measure.”
“You or your father,” Rohan said mildly, though his eyes flashed. “But I see no need to insult pigs, Sorin. They’re certainly much better bred than Masul. Let’s get your horse to the paddock and cared for, shall we?”
Tobin turned on him with a look of furious betrayal, still wanting nothing more than to confront Masul with what he had done. But she obeyed Sioned’s warning look and took Joscenel’s bridle in one shaking hand. “Let’s get out of here,” she muttered, leading them to where Ostvel had waylaid the livid Chaynal.
Rohan was looking at Alasen. “With those green eyes, there’s only one person you could be. Princess, would you be so kind as to stay here and watch certain people forme?”
She understood instantly. “Of course, your grace. It’ll be a real pleasure.”
Sorin gave a short laugh over his shoulder. “Go flirt with Masul. He’ll be so dazzled he won’t see that what you really want is to scratch his eyes out.”
“If I decided to soil my hands by touching him, Fd aim a good deal lower down,” she retorted, and set off toward the group clustered around the victor.
Rohan blinked in startlement, then grinned, and then scowled as Chay finally eluded Ostvel and stormed up. “Not here,” he ordered sharply before Chay could do more than open his mouth. “This horse needs attention.”
Chay turned scarlet and for a moment Sioned thought he would defy Rohan. But then he swallowed hard, nodding.
“Just as you say, my prince.” He ran his fingers gently over the stallion’s singed belly and legs, then met his son’s gaze. “You’ll have to explain this. I trust you can. “
“Not here,” Rohan repeated, and they started for the paddocks.
They were joined along the way by Pol, Maarken, and Andry. Sioned searched the brothers’ faces, but saw only anger. Unable to convince herself that it had been one of them she had sensed on the sunlight, she drew Maarken to her with a glance.
“Did you watch the race?” she whispered. “By fara-dhi means?” When he looked surprised and shook his head, she called Andry over and received the same answer.
“Did you?” Maarken demanded. “What did you see?”
“I want to talk to Sorin first.”
She appropriated him from his father once they had reached the paddock. Rohan distracted Chay by asking what treatment they would give the injured horse, and they led Joscenel away. Sorin submitted to his mother’s inspection of his back and shoulder, wincing as she cleaned the scrapes with fresh water brought by a groom. As Tobin worked, Sioned glanced at Ostvel. He nodded and led the unwilling Pol off to help Riyan get ready for the next race.
“Sorin,” she said at last, “tell me exactly what hap-oened from your point of view.”
He was seated on an overturned bucket as his mother dressed his wounds. He regarded Sioned thoughtfully, blue eyes narrowing beneath the untidy shock of brown hair. After a moment he nodded. “My point of view means you had one as well. I should’ve guessed. It was a clean ride until we got out of the wood on the way back. All at once flames shot up in front of me. Joscenel was startled and slammed into Masul’s horse. That’s when he got me with his whip.”
“Andry,” Tobin said through gritted teeth, “make a bandage from what’s left of Sorin’s shirt.”
Red and white silk ripped as Sorin went on, “Masul went around the Fire, but I had to jump right over it. The bastard maneuvered me right into it. That’s how Joscenel was burned. Then I just kept riding—and lost, damn it to all hells!”
“It could have been your life you lost,” Maarken said.
Then, with an effort at easing the grimness, he added, “Or your looks, if he’d laid your face open with that whip.”
“Fire,” Andry murmured, holding the makeshift bandage to his twin’s shoulder while Tobin tied it. “Sunrun-ner’s Fire?”
Sioned nodded. “That’s why I asked if you or Maarken had been watching. I felt someone else. If it wasn’t either of you—“
Tobin looked up, her voice dangerously soft. “Do you mean a faradhi, one of our own, is responsible for this?”
Andry held Sioned’s gaze as he answered his mother. “We aren’t the only ones who can call Fire. It you don’t need me, Mother, then I’d better go tell Andrade about this.”
“I’ll go with you,” Maarken said. “Sorin, not a word to anyone.”
He nodded unhappily. “But you’d better explain this to me, Andry.”
“I’m just glad you’re still here to explain it to,” his twin replied, and left with Maarken.
“And just what is it that needs explaining—and to me, I might add?” Tobin demanded.
“Whatever it is,” Sorin said as he got to his feet, “we can’t talk about it now. Look.” He nodded to the new arrivals in the paddocks: Lyell, Kiele, and Masul, the latter leading his exhausted stallion. “If Father safely occupied? “
“Yes. And I’m leaving,” Tobin said. “Sioned, deal with them. I don’t trust myself.” She turned on her heel and stalked off, a deliberate snub to those now approaching.
“Follow my lead,” Sioned whispered, and Sorin frowned. “I mean it. You already know they’re dangerous. Let me handle this.”
Kiele got to them first, polite concern the thinnest of masks over her triumphant excitement. “Your grace—my lord, what a relief to find you unhurt! How is your horse?”
“Recovering,” Sioned observed, “as that one obviously needs to do. Lord Lyell, should you not be seeing to the comfort of your horse?”
“How did you know he’s mine?” Lyell asked, then tacked on a hasty, “—your grace.”
“Your colors edge his saddle blanket—and this young man can hardly possess the funds to purchase such an animal.” Nor does he know how to treat his prize, her eyes added as she gestured to the stallion’s hanging head, the blood at ribs and mouth.
“An excellent race, my lord,” Masul told Sorin with a condescending smile.
Sorin nodded curtly. “Interesting, certainly.” Masul turned to Lyell. “You ought to take the High Princess’ suggestion and see to the horse. I’m sure you’ll want to go with him, sweet sister.”
Kiele’s smile was strained around the edges, her eyes hinting at harsh words for Masul later on for commanding them like common servants. But she turned the moment to advantage by saying, “Of course. We’ll meet you back at the royal enclosure for the final contests, your grace.”
A corner of Sioned’s mouth lifted in a mocking smile as Kiele gave Masul the title he did not merit, but she said nothing as Kiele and Lyell led the horse away. Masul was direct about his attack, as she had expected; if nothing else, his lack of subtlety marked him as someone else’s son, not Roelstra’s.
“I thought you might like to know, Lord Sorin,” he said, “that I have no intention of filing a complaint for what happened on the course.”
Sioned had been expecting something of the sort. Sorin had not. Thick dark brows slanted down. “A complaint? Against me?”
Masul shrugged. “Your reputation as a horseman suggested you could control your mount. I’ll have bruises for days after being slammed into like that, and it’s a wonder we both weren’t thrown. Had it occurred on the track where the judges could have seen it, I would’ve had no choice but to lodge a formal protest. But since no one else saw. ...”
Sioned knew how close Masul was to losing several teeth from the temper Sorin had inherited from both volatile parents. She said, “I’m sure Lord Sorin is similarly inclined to generosity, though I would say he’ll bear the scar on his shoulder long after your bruises have healed. But I’m pleased to see you young men in agreement. We wouldn’t want any difficulties to arise over the race, would we? Such things have a tendency to flare like Sunrunner’s Fire.”
Masul could not hide his reaction. Green eyes—nearly the color of Roelstra’s, she noted now that she was staring directly into them—narrowed and a muscle in his cheek twitched. His voice came from a clenched throat. “I have no experience with faradhi matters. No offense meant to yourself, High Princess, but I have no wish to learn about them, either.”
“I am neither offended nor surprised. Fire of any kind is dangerous, don’t you agree? One so often burns one’s fingers.” She gave him a small, chill smile. “You have my permission to withdraw.”
Masul froze for a heartbeat, then inclined his head an insulting fraction and strode off. Sorin spat into the dirt where he’d stood.
“My sentiments exactly,” Sioned murmured. “But he took the hint, which is what I wanted.”
“What hint?” Sorin exclaimed. “That slimy son of a—he had the balls to accuse me of riding into him on purpose!”
“And did not mention the real source of the incident,” Sioned pointed out. “Sorin, I only want to tell this once. Tonight, after the prizes are given, we’ll all meet in An-drade’s pavilion and talk this out. But for now, say nothing. And smile—there are some pretty girls coming to comfort you.”
“The only thing that could comfort me is redoing Masul ‘s face with my fists,” he muttered. “His features please me very little,”
“Yours seem to be in favor,” she told him. “Relax until tonight, Sorin—and if you don’t end this afternoon with at least five of those girls in love with you, then you’re not your father’s son.” She winked at him.
He gave a short laugh in spite of himself, and turned his attention to the young ladies—reluctantly at first, then with more enthusiasm as he realized that being a good= looking young lord with a romantically wounded shoulder could be a most entertaining experience.