At Pol’s age, being bored was bad enough. But when combined with the certainty that strange things were brewing, important things that concerned him but that no one bothered to tell him about, boredom became a grim determination to do something. Almost anything.
His Aunt Tobin always gave a breakfast party on the fourth morning of the Rialla. Absolutely everyone was there, feeding like half-starved dragons. Pol wandered from group to group spread out between tents in the new sunshine, sulkily chewing on a biscuit stuffed with sausage and fruit preserves. All the princes and athr’im and ladies and squires bowed when he passed, but they were caught up in their own converstional pursuits. They were, in fact, ignoring him. Even his own family was too busy to do more than smile in his direction. His father was in deep consultation with Lleyn and Chadric; his mother chatted with Miyon while Tobin gradually maneuvered Chiana over to them and left her there; Chay and Sorin talked horses with Lord Kolya; Andry stood tongue-tied and grave near Volog and Alasen of Kierst; and Maarken hurried back and forth from the trestle tables to where Hollis sat with Andrade and that intense black-haired youth, trying to find delicacies to tempt her appetite. Pol looked on them all with a sense of betrayal. He wasn’t stupid, he wouldn’t have blurted out any secrets, and he would be High Prince one day—and yet none of them had thought to include him in the great doings and schemes hatching around him like dragon eggs. He would even have welcomed Sionell’s irritating company right now; at least she paid him some attention.
He strayed over to where Ostvel crouched before the central firepit, where still more food was being cooked. Lord of Skybowl though he was, still he took upon himself his old duties of chief steward of Stronghold while at the Rialla, and swore softly as he built up the fire. New wood had been stacked to replenish the flames, but the logs were slow in lighting. Pol had a sudden, perverse idea, and gestured casually with one hand. Flames surged up, immolating the wood and startling Ostvel into another curse.
Pol suddenly knew that people were staring; some even backed away from him, wide-eyed. He gave everyone his sunniest smile. Let them ignore that, he told himself.
“Does that help any?” Pol asked Ostvel in his most innocent tones.
The Lord of Skybowl rose, scowling at him. “Don’t you ever dare do that again,” he said through gritted teeth.
Any pleasure in his trick evaporated. Ostvel had never used that tone of voice to him in his life, let alone looked at him with such dark disapproval. Pol tried to shrug off his discomfort, and turned to go back to the main party. But whispers had run through the gathering, and now everyone was looking at him—including his parents, whose eyes shone cold green and even icier blue. Abruptly Pol was the cynosure of all attention, and he felt his cheeks grow hot as first his father and then his mother turned away.
But then he happened to see Masul, over by a tree with Kiele and Lyell and Cabar of Gilad. The pretender’s complexion had gone as white as Pol’s was now crimson. The boy slid his gaze around the rest of the assembly as people resumed their former conversations or, more likely, spoke of him in hushed tones. The stinging blush faded from his cheeks and he realized that whatever his parents might think, he had succeeded in reminding Masul that it was more than a prince he challenged; it was a Sun-runner.
Pandsala came over to him then, and for the first time he felt a glimmer of real liking for her as she rescued him from solitude and silence. She talked quietly about the weather, and gradually Pol relaxed. Then she led him over to where Gemma stood beside old Prince Chale, who was barely tolerating the presence of Pol’s cousins Kostas and Tilal. The latter grinned at him while Chale said something conventional about the excellence of the meal. Then, with a bow to Gemma, Tilal took Pol’s arm and coaxed him off for a private talk.
“Not the wisest thing you ever did, cousin,” the young man told him. “But I don’t think your mother will complain too much.”
“Did you see Masul’s face?”
“No, I was watching Clutha.” Tilal snatched up a pastry from a tray borne by a passing servant, and munched on the tidbit as he went on, “He’s got an easy face to read, you know. Riyan tells me Halian’s been after Clutha to commit to your side, because he wants to marry Chiana—Goddess help him! But the old man’s balking. I think what you just did was remind him what manner of prince you’re going to be. If Masul gets hold of Prince-march, Meadowlord’s right in the middle again. And the last thing Clutha wants is to provide your battleground— especially with a Sunrunner prince on one side of him!”
Pol sighed softly in relief. “Thanks. I’ll use that information when Mother and Father start yelling at me.”
“Oh, they’ll have forgotten all about it by this afternoon.”
“Only if I disappear for a while. Listen, do you want to go over to the Fair? I have a couple of things I have to check on. Do you have time?”
“Ask permission first. I don’t know if my sword is enough in their eyes to protect you.”
“I’m sick of asking permission, and I’m sick of not being told anything!”
Tilal grinned again, and it was impossible to sustain resentment in the vicinity of those merry green eyes.
“I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I?” Pol asked diffidently.
“You sound like every boy who’s coming up fast on being a man. You should’ve heard me until I really got to govern River Run. I’ll meet you outside my tent after this party breaks up, all right? I’ll go ask your parents right now for permission—that way you won’t have to go near them until this afternoon, if you’re lucky.”
Pol nodded grateful thanks. He found a convenient tree and leaned against it, watching the highborns and thinking how fond he was of Tilal. He had known his mother’s nephew since birth, when the young man had been Ro-han’s squire. Tilal had been knighted during the celebrations of Pol’s eighth birthday, and giving Tilal the traditional loaf, salt, and gold belt buckle was one of the best memories of Pol’s childhood. Tilal had left Stronghold that next spring to live with his parents at High Kirat, the Syrene seat, and a year later had taken possession of the combined holdings of River Run and River View. The former was his birthplace, and Davvi and Sioned’s as well; the latter had become part of River Run through Davvi’s marriage to its heiress. Thus Tilal ruled a considerable stretch of land along the Catha River, some of the best farming and grazing country in the princedoms.
At the Syrene enclave, Tilal’s pennant of green and black fluttered above his small turquoise tent. A squire younger than Pol bowed nearly to the ground on seeing him. Tilal, emerging from the tent with a large leather purse jingling in his hand, smiled a greeting and waved the squire away.
“I think Aunt Sioned is glad to give you something to do today,” he confided. “She’s not all that pleased with you, but I don’t think there’ll be any punishment. All her time and imagination are busy elsewhere.” He tied the purse to his belt, checked his sword, and said, “All right then, we’re off. If we hurry we can get to the Fair before the crowds.”
“But I’ll bet the girls still follow you, all the way over there,” Pol teased. “I was watching at breakfast this morning, before you and Kostas started talking with Chale.”
“Oh, most of the girls will be staying here today, planning their finery for the next few days. I’ll let the other men have a chance,” Tilal replied, a breezy note in his voice, his eyes self-mocking. “There’s a Cunaxan vendor Kostas told me about yesterday who makes the most amazing swords. I want to get one for my father.”
“Do you think Sorin and Riyan would like something from him?” Pol asked as they walked. “I want to get them each a present, and I brought a lot of money. Oh, and I have to stop by a certain silk merchant’s, and I need the best Fironese crystaller.”
The Cunaxan proved to be a true artist. The sword Tilal purchased from him was a marvel of gleaming steel decorated with engravings of apple trees heavy with fruit. He etched Syr’s emblem while the cousins watched. The grip was adjusted to Tilal’s specifications to make it comfortable for his father, and while Pol selected two fine knives for Sorin and Riyan in celebration of their knighthood, Tilal produced a handful of small garnets to be set in spaces left by the crafter for the purpose.
The work took a long time, but the result was magnificent. Noon sun slid down the long blade and smoldered in the dark jewels, found its echo in the gold-chased hilt. Tilal wrapped the sword carefully in a length of softest wool, paid for his prize, and sighed happily as they walked away from the booth.
“Were those the garnets you won in the race?” Pol asked. “Aren’t you going to have the rest of them set into a necklet?”
“Perhaps.”
The boy eyed his cousin sidelong. “Oh. I see. No lady has struck your fancy to make a bridal necklet for.”
To his astonishment, Tilal’s jaw hardened and his eyes were fierce as he said, “Prince you may be, but that’s none of your business.”
Pol nearly stumbled over his own feet. It seemed to be his day for provoking furious looks from family and friends; he kept his mouth shut as they searched the aisles of booths and finally stopped before a collection of crystal that seemed blown of soap bubbles, all soft pink and green and blue iridescence in the sun.
Tilal relented, becoming once again the cousin and good companion. “Who’s this for? Your mother?”
“No. Another lady.” Pol laughed as Tilal’s black brows shot up in surprise. “As everybody keeps telling me, I’m too young for that yet! I broke a glass belonging to an innkeeper’s wife in Dorval, and I need to replace it.” He pointed to a fragile goblet in the shape of a fan- tastical yellow flower, footed in green leaves and rising on a stem where tiny crystal pearls imitated dewdrops. “I think I’d like that one, please.”
“A wise and brilliant choice, exalted lord,” the merchant enthused.
“How’re you going to get it all the way back to Gray-pearl in one piece?” Tilal asked.
The merchant snorted. “I’ll wrap it so fine and safe that the worst winter storms couldn’t even make it tremble. A moment only, most gracious lord.”
When the wooden case was readied—twice the size of the goblet and packed with lamb’s wool—Pol asked that it be sent on to his father’s pavilion. On realizing who his customer was, the merchant blanched, abased himself, and with reckless speed snatched up another goblet and presented it to Pol. This one was a gorgeous creation of purple glass shading into blue at the rim, darkening down the stem to a foot of opaque black. The whole of it was supported by three thin wires of gold that swirled up and around to circle the rim.
“My prince,” the merchant said humbly, and bowed again.
Pol blushed, and wondered if his complexion would learn to behave itself with age. “I really can’t—“
“Please,” the Fironese said. “I speak for my guild and for all my people when I say that we eagerly anticipate coming under the benevolent governance of so noble and powerful a prince.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—“
“Please, your grace.” The man’s dark eyes met his, and Pol remembered Lady Eneida’s fears of being invaded by Miyon of Cunaxa. It seemed the Fironese really wanted him as their prince. He’d have to tell his father that.
“I accept, with great thanks,” Pol said. The goblet was wrapped and added to the first one, to be sent along with it to the High Prince’s pavilion.
“Well, well,” Tilal murmured as they left the Fironese.
“I can’t help it,” Pol replied, shrugging. “They’re determined to give us their princedom. Better us than the
Cunaxans.” He stopped abruptly, aware that Tilal had a claim to Firon, too.
His cousin was grinning at him. “Better you than me!”
“Really? You don’t want it?”
Tilal gave an exaggerated shudder. “Me, up there in all that snow? Do you want to kill me off?”
“It doesn’t snow all the time,” Pol reminded him.
“It snows enough. I don’t want Firon, Pol. I’ve told my father so. It’s too far from—from everything.”
What Firon was too far from had been amended, but Pol didn’t press for a correction. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it ... but I don’t know too many men who’d turn up their noses at a princedom. Come on, let’s get something to eat and then visit the hawks. Mother says she bought me one, and I haven’t had the chance to see him yet.”
They selected various snacks and ate as they walked up the hill to the wood. Pol wanted to explore—out from under the stern eyes of Maarken and Ostvel—and so before turning for the caged and hooded birds, the pair slid through the trees and underbrush. Tilal made a game of it, teaching Pol some of the tricks necessary for hunting in a forest, which this son of the open Desert had yet to learn.
“You’ll have to come to River Run some autumn and I’ll show you what real hunting is,” Tilal chuckled after Pol had stepped on yet another twig, its loud crack startling him.
“My lord Chadric lets us come with him sometimes, but it’s always on horseback, hunting deer. Show me again how to walk without any noise.”
Tilal obliged, and Pol imitated him with growing skill. Each foot was placed softly, carefully; every muscle in the body controlled; all senses aware of scents and textures and breezes and sounds—
“Come any closer and I’ll scream,” a woman said quietly.
Tilal grabbed Pol’s elbow and they both froze. The voice had come from beyond a stand of berry brambles, its owner invisible and unknown to Pol—but the tense anger on Tilal’s face revealed that he knew the woman’s identity. .
“I mean it, Kostas! I’ll scream and bring everyone running to witness this shameful—“
“No, Gemma. You won’t scream. Above the noise of the hawks and the noise of the Fair, who would hear you? Besides, I mean you no harm, my lady. Only come to me, be with me—“
“No!”
Tilal’s fingers put bruises onto Pol’s arm to stop the boy’s intended rush into the woods. “No,” he breathed. “Wait.”
“But he’s going to—“
“Not even Kostas would do that.”
Pol considered. Rape was a heinous crime. If found guilty, the accused man was deprived of the physical equipment that would enable him to repeat the offense. If the woman made a false accusation, however, her dowry was forfeit to the man and her overlord had to pay a hefty fine for her lies. Kostas and Gemma both knew the law; neither would be so foolish as to risk rape or an accusation of it.
Gemma was stating this very fact to Kostas as Pol and Tilal listened. “I’m sure you eventually want children! But be assured, my lord, that they will not come from me!”
‘ ‘If you accuse me I can prove my innocence—and then you would lose Ossetia, for that’s your dowry. I would be Prince of Ossetia with or without you, my lady. I would much rather it be with you at my side, in honor.”
“Honor!” she spat. “And how would you prove your innocence? What makes you think my uncle Prince Chale would even let it come to trial? I have only to accuse you, and he’ll kill you!”
“With my uncle High Prince Rohan standing by? I think not, my lady. There are four witnesses of impeccable repute ready to swear I was with them all day. Come, Gemma,” he said, his voice softening. “Stop this nonsense. We have always been intended for each other, even before you became Chale’s heir. Accept me, and I’ll make you happy, I swear it, and be a good and wise-prince for both our lands—“
By now Tilal’s hand was white around the wrapped sword. He had heard enough. He let go of Pol and slipped through an opening in the bushes. Pol followed, trembling with fury, and stood watching as the brothers confronted each other in the little glade.
“Four witnesses more impeccable than your own brother and the High Prince’s son?” His voice was a swordthrust into Kostas’ spine; the elder brother whirled, rage blazing in his eyes. “How dare you?” Tilal hissed. “Damn you, Kostas, leave her alone and before I forget you’re my brother!”
Kostas’ answer was to unsheathe his sword. Tilal tore at the wrappings of the weapon he’d bought for his father. Gemma had the good sense not to scream; instead she flung herself between the pair, a courageous move that nonetheless irritated Pol. He went forward, grasped her arm, and hauled her out of the way.
“They won’t fight, my lady,” he told her in a clear voice meant not so much for her as for his cousins. “If they do, everyone in all the princedoms will hear about this from me. Put up your weapon, Kostas. Now. Tilal, if you untie one more of those knots—“
Enraged, the brothers turned on him with snarls. Pol found that his shaking had retreated deep within his body. His hands and voice were steady, his knees secure. He felt at once powerful and vulnerable: his will and personality battered strongly at their anger, but he was vulnerable to his own strange inner trembling, a warning he could not understand. Did his father ever feel this way? Was this what it was to experience the power of being High Prince?
Power he had, and it was exhilarating as well as frightening. Kostas slammed his sword back into its sheath. Tilal’s fighting stance relaxed a fraction. Gemma was the one trembling now, her breath coming in little gasps.
“Do you wish to charge this man with rape, my lady?” Pol asked coldly.
She shook her head, bright auburn hair straggling down her neck and cheeks. “No, your grace. I do not.”
“A wise decision, my lady.” He eased his grip on her and looked at the brothers. There was nothing more pathetic than two otherwise rational men fighting over the same woman. “You both want her.”
Tilal glared at him, then turned away. Kostas looked as if he would draw his sword again and use it on Pol. The heady feeling of pitting his will against theirs grew— along with an equivalent fear of what might happen if he failed to dominate them.
“Did either of you ask Gemma what she wants? Gentle Goddess, what a pair!” Pol snorted. “My lady, do you want either of these fools?”
She freed her hand from his and pushed the hair from her face, pulling herself straight and proud. “The truth, your grace? Yes. And it is not Kostas I want for my husband.”
“And Prince of Ossetia,” Pol reminded her. “Tilal, are you listening? Face me. Ask her.”
“No!” Kostas shouted. “I won’t allow it!”
Pol sighed. “Tilal, I’m waiting.”
The young Lord of River Run swung around, still furious. “I hope you’re enjoying this, your grace!” he said viciously. “Yes, I want her! I’ve always loved her—but I wouldn’t marry her now if—“
Why were supposedly grown men so colossally stupid? “You’re about to lose your chance, Tilal. Ask her now or not at all.”
Kostas gave an inarticulate bellow and lunged for his brother. The pair rolled on the ground, not even remembering swords and knives, intent on the more direct satisfaction of pummeling fists, broken bones, and smashed jaws.
Pol watched for a moment, thoroughly disgusted. They probably would not do each other any serious damage, being evenly matched physically and too furious to be really effective in their battle. But as Kostas got in a decent kick, Gemma cried out Tilal’s name, clinging to Pol’s shoulder.
He shook her off and concentrated, calling Fire. Not much—just enough to get their attention. A respectable gout of red-gold flames rose from a stone to the height of the nearest bush. Gemma gave a little choked scream. Tilal and Kostas reacted more violently, breaking apart from each other and scrambling to their feet. The tense knot of power inside Pol uncurled, sending tendrils of excitement through him—still countered by the apprehension. He was beginning to cherish that chill little warn- ing, and to understand it as an essential part of wielding power.
“Now,” he said softly, in the way he thought his father would, “shall we behave like civilized people? Good. Tilal, the princess and I are still waiting.”
* * *
After Tobin’s breakfast party—which had left Sioned satisfied with Cniana’s progress in claiming Miyon’s attention, if not with her son’s little performance—she returned to her pavilion intending to spend a few quiet moments alone in her private quarters. But Andrade and Pandsala had arrived before her.
“Please don’t start,” Sioned warned as she sank into a deep chair. “Rohan didn’t sleep very well last night, which means I didn’t either. And I’m trying to think up a really good excuse to avoid blistering Pol’s behind for him.”
“Oh, that.” Andrade waved away the boy’s lapse with one hand. “I was impressed by his control, actually. Sioned, we have things to discuss that can’t wait.”
“I’m sorry, your grace,” Pandsala put in quietly.
“Apologize some other time,” Andrade interrupted. “Sioned, over the years you’ve reasoned out most of my plans. But now the time is perfect for the culmination of everything I’ve worked for—and everything you and Rohan have wanted as well.”
Sioned felt herself go rigid with suspicion, and tried to relax. “The two are not necessarily the same,” she commented warily.
“Nonsense. We all want the same thing in the end. And there’ll never be a better chance for it. You can’t consolidate everything under your own banner this year, of course, but the makings of it are right under your nose. Rohan started it himself when he encouraged Kierst and Isel to join in marriage. When Volog and Saumer are dead, that boy—what’s his name? Arlis—he’ll inherit both princedoms. And he’s Pol’s kinsman, which makes it perfect. Pol might just as well be ruling Kierst-Isel himself.”
Sioned murmured, “Go on.”
“As for Ossetia—if we marry off Gemma to Kostas, then Ossetia and Syr are united as well under Pol’s kinsman. What could be better?”
“Is there more?” she asked softly.
“Yes, your grace,” Pandsala replied. “There is Firon. If it becomes part of Princemarch, then the crystal trade will be yours, as well as another princedom. And there is Port Adni. Lord Narat has no heir. His holding will revert to Volog on his death, and become part of Arlis’ wealth. And there is Waes, as well. Once this pretender is exposed as a fraud, Kiele and Lyell can be dealt with, and Waes will become Clutha’s.” She hesitated an instant, then went on determinedly. “I suggest the same for all the others who support Masul. If they are allowed to retain their princedoms after opposing Pol’s claim, they will always be enemies and not to be trusted. There are enough loyal young men within your own family and those of your allies to provide princes for Cunaxa, Gilad, Grib, and Fessenden, which look to be the main sources of opposition.”
“Do you agree with this?” Sioned met Andrade’s cool blue eyes.
“I do,” she answered, nodding.
“So,” she said. “If I understand you correctly, our goals should be as follows. First, obliterate Firon to our own profit, no matter what anyone else might say about it. Second, arrange for a marriage that will combine two princedoms under my nephew, no matter what the two young people involved think or feel. Third, oust the Lord of Waes and his wife for the crime of being mistaken, so that Clutha may have the city as a present with our good wishes. Oh—and replace all those others who opposed us with persons of our own choosing. Are these the general ideas? Am I accurate in my interpretation?”
Pandsala compressed her lips for a moment, then said, “Yes, your grace.”
Andrade frowned slightly, then nodded. “Reluctantly, yes.”
“Reluctantly! Sweet Goddess! You, Pandsala, I might excuse, for you know me little for all that you’ve been Pol’s regent so many years. But you, Andrade! You’ve known Rohan and me since we were children! You can propose such things?”
“On behalf of the dream we share—yes!”
“We share nothing!” She stood, fists clenched, glaring at the two women. “How dare you suggest this! As if Rohan would destroy princes and princedoms to create new ones more to his liking! As if you and we shared a dream!”
Andrade sat forward in her chair, white with fury. “And will you let this go on and on—all the petty rivalries, the threats to Pol? What I dream is a consolidation of all princedoms under your son as High Prince!”
“The Sunrunner High Prince!”
“And why not? Rohan started it by taking Princemarch and setting up the unification of Kierst and Isel! What was he aiming at, if not what I ‘ve outlined to you? When will there be a better time to achieve it all? When Masul is seen as the liar he is, all those who supported him must be punished! What cleaner way to rid yourselves of enemies and unite their princedoms under Rohan? Or do you want him to do it in the field, with blood soaking into the lands Pol will rule? Rohan, who long ago put up his sword and swore never to wield it in battle again! You can balk with pretty questions of conscience at this chance to do everything at one stroke?”
Sioned took the few paces that separated them and bent, gripping the arms of Andrade’s chair, until their faces were only a breath apart. “His dream and mine is a union of princedoms under laws agreed to by all, enforced not by the sword but by honor and belief that those laws are better than the sword! Your dream is to arrange the world to your liking, with Rohan as the figurehead!”
“Not him, your grace,” Pandsala said clearly. “Pol.”
She whirled on the regent. “You’d give him a legacy such as this? Lands seized, holdings absorbed, princedoms smashed together without regard to laws or the people those laws were meant to serve, princes thrown out of their castles—or were you planning to kill them all?”
“And what legacy will come otherwise?” she countered. “Opposition from all corners, princedoms up for sale to the strongest sword!” .
“Lands held together by consent!” she snapped. “Not by some unholy patchwork—with a pack of embittered former princes plotting to regain their lands, the Merida multiplied tenfold!”
“Then kill them,” Pandsala said simply. “There will be time for laws later, after your rule is consolidated.”
“After my husband has lost the trust of all princes!”
“They’ll agree with whatever he says, and live by it!”
“You mean they’ll live with his sword at their throats! I won’t live that way, Pandsala—and that’s not the world we’re going to leave our son!”
“But you’re going to take Firon, aren’t you?” Andrade interposed shrewdly.
Sioned drew back. “If the Fironese wish it, and if the other princes agree according to law—“
“A nice salve to Rohan’s tender conscience! You sound more like him than yourself, Sioned. I taught you to be more practical.”
“You taught me many things, Andrade—some of which I know you wish I’d never learned. But my husband has taught me much more. Yes, we’ll take Firon, within the law. Don’t you understand? I know you scorn his need to make all of it legal and proper when he could simply grab what he wants and have done with it. But don’t you see? What would that make of him, and the laws he helped to write? If he doesn’t abide by the law, then who will?”
“I’m trying to show him there’s a chance to extend his rule of law from one end of this continent to the other! He can do it all now, things that would take the rest of his life to accomplish if he plays the honorable and noble-minded prince! Goddess, why can you not see? Zehava had the sword for it, but not the cunning. Rohan—“
“You’d make him into another Roelstra,” Sioned told her icily. “If that’s what you want, give your support to Masul!”
Andrade pushed herself to her feet, white-faced and trembling with fury. “You fool! You told me you still wore your rings! I gave you a world wrapped in a silver ribbon, and you—“
“You gave me nothing but the rings I indeed no longer wear—that are like scars around my fingers and my mind!”
Sioned was trembling, too. It was the old battle be- tween them, Sioned’s heart-deep commitment to Rohan battling Andrade’s adamant demand for obedience. They had thrown the words at each other before, but never this openly, never with Sioned’s defiant disobedience confronting Andrade’s imperious verdict of betrayal.
“You’re like me, Sioned.” The Lady’s voice scathed like a whiplash. “Your schemes are only variations on my own. Yes, I’ve known you and Rohan since you were children. I made you what you are, both of you. And I made your son, too, through you.”
“You’re a spider!” Sioned retorted. “Weaving sunlight and moonlight like a web to trap and poison us all! You want everything to belong to you, because you’ve never belonged to anything! I’m not yours! Neither is Rohan, and neither is Pol!”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand. What can be your goal, if not consolidation of all princedoms under him? As both High Prince and faradhi, trained by me—“
“Never. “
That was the single word that could break Andrade, in this battle she could only lose. Sioned saw it in her eyes, the sudden shattering of her anger, leaving only a pitiable plea; she saw it, and felt vicious satisfaction.
“I will be the one to teach him,” she went on. “Not you. And you’d better hope you made Rohan and me as well as you believe you did, Andrade—for what Pol will be, we will make.”
“No!” she gasped, betrayed into the cry by panic. “You cannot!” But pride flooded back almost at once, flushing color into her ashen cheeks. She swept from the tent in a furious rush of silk skirts. After a moment, Pandsala followed.
Sioned stood alone, quivering, ashamed to realize that Andrade had been right about one thing: the words were Rohan’s, not hers. And she admitted to herself how close she had been to casting aside her husband’s honor and agreeing wholeheartedly with Andrade.
All during childhood and youth she had been taught to obey Andrade without thought or question. Rohan had been raised a prince to rule and to give orders, not to obey as Sioned had been taught. It had been so easy, so safe to do as bidden and not ask why. But the power of a High Prince and his Sunrunner Princess necessitated constant questioning. Sometimes Sioned wished she could simply give over the responsibility and obey the orders of others. But she could not. Rohan had shown her that it was impossible.
Tobin had no such scruples. But then, Tobin had nowhere near the power Sioned possessed. Chay evidenced no conflicts. But however high his station, Chay was a vassal of the High Prince, sworn to obey him in all things. Chay had absolute faith in Rohan. He might question, but he trusted totally, and obeyed.
Sioned did not have the luxury of such obedience. Rohan wanted her to agree with him intelligently or not at all. If she nodded placid acquiescence to everything he said no matter what she really thought, he would despise her for a fool. If he ever dictated that he was right and that was that, and she let him, he would hold her in even greater contempt for abrogating the responsibility inherent in the possession of a mind.
She went into the bedchamber area and stretched out, arms folded behind her head. The difficult times came when her mind agreed with Rohan and her feelings could not. The mind educated by over twenty years of ruling according to law—the mind that had always leaned in that direction anyway—had been horrified at Andrade’s and Pandsala’s proposals. But the feelings for her son, for his safety and his prosperity as High Prince, clamored that the two women were right. Take what was offered, seize the chance to be rid of obstacles like Miyon and Kiele, and leave law to a time when they could afford it.
Sioned could almost see her husband’s elegantly arched brows. “How very expedient of us that would be,” he would say, and smile—for he knew that whatever her emotions, she would no more give in to the demands of the barbarian than he would.
No one disturbed her for a long while, and it was well after noon before she roused herself. Princess Audrite would be coming by soon to discuss the latest rumors of who was on whose side. And then Rohan would come back from the afternoon meeting, tense and restless as he had been ever since the Rialla began. Sioned would not tell him about Andrade and Pandsala. The less he had to worry him, the better.
Going into the main part of the pavilion, she was surprised to see Pol had returned from the Fair. Sioned hadn’t the heart to scold him for the offense of the morning, not when he slouched wearily in his chair like this, arms dangling at his sides.
“So you’re back,” she said. “Have a nice time?”
He looked up at her, his face uncannily like his father’s as the dark blond brows lifted. “Oh, yes. Just lovely.” The tone of voice was Rohan’s, too: sardonic, with a faint edge of bitterness.
“What happened?”
One hand lifted, fell again. “Not now, Mother. Please.”
Sioned stared at him, nonplussed. She was spared the necessity of thinking up a reply by the entrance of three young squires with two enormous wooden boxes and a huge package wrapped in fine silk. Pol directed them to set the parcels on a nearby table.
“I presume you’re not going to tell me what those are,” she said at last.
He glanced up again, as if he was truly seeing her for the first time. A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, the biggest one’s for you,” he said.
“My present?” she asked, feeling strange. He no longer looked anything like the little boy he had been at the beginning of the summer. “May I open it?”
“You’ll have to, to be sure it fits. You didn’t notice being followed the other day when you were at the Fair, did you? The merchant crept along behind you, taking your measurements with his eyes!” Pol laughed, but still the boy made no appearance. “He said today that if it weren’t for your red hair to identify you, he never would have guessed whether you or Alasen was the older!
“Merchants are lying thieves—but do tell me what else he said about me.”
Finally the strained expression left Pol’s eyes, and he was a boy of nearly fifteen again, not a man twice that age. Sioned laughed with relief as she tore open the silk wrapping. Then she gasped.
“Pol!” ,
“Don’t scold,” he pleaded, eyes alight with excitement. “You remember what I told you about the inn below Graypearl? A couple of silk merchants there insisted on rewarding me with enough silk for gowns for you and Aunt Tobin. The red and silver one is hers—they’ve made clothes for her before, so they already knew the size. The other one—“
Sioned held the gown up, listening to the delicious rustle of richly embroidered green silk. “This is absolutely beautiful—and absolutely scandalous! No lady wears anything fitted so tight and cut so low!”
“Not many ladies could,” her son pointed out. “But you can.”
She eyed him narrowly. “Are you learning your father’s ways of sweet-talking me, or did you borrow that from the merchant?”
“Mother! It’s only the truth!”
Sioned disappeared behind the partition and hauled off her plain summer gown. “Goddess, I hope it fits!” A few wriggling moments later she emerged and twirled around on her toes. “Well? What do you think?”
Another voice spoke from the doorway. “I think my son has definitely inherited my exquisite taste,” Rohan said. He came in and ruffled Pol’s hair playfully, smiling. But neither gesture nor smile could disguise the exhaustion and anxiety in his eyes.
“You’re back early,” Sioned ventured.
“And a good thing, too—if I’d seen that for the first time before the banqueting, you’d have to spend half the night reviving me. Is this your design, Pol?”
“It’s like dresses the village girls wear on Dorval. I guess the merchant thought the style would suit Mother.”
“I’d say he was right. Although you’ll never be able to wear it in daytime at Stronghold, Sioned. With that low front you’d get sunburned instantly.”
“Front? Take a look at the back!” She spun around to show him how much of her spine was revealed. “And you can’t tell me that any modest village maiden on Dorval wears anything like this!”
“Well, there’s more material to their dresses, of course,” Pol said, grinning. “But they aren’t princesses, either.”
Sioned smoothed the silk down her ribs, over the dropped waistline and tightly fitted yoke at the hips. “I won’t be able to eat a thing from now until the Lastday banquet or I’ll never get back into this,” she mourned. “And if I eat that night, I’ll pop all the stitches.”
She disappeared to take off the gown and fold it into its silk wrappings again. When she rejoined them, Rohan had lowered himself into a chair with his head leaned back, eyes closed. She exchanged a worried glance with Pol.
“Father, is it true that you helped arrange things between Aunt Tobin and Uncle Chay?”
One blue eye opened to regard Pol. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”
“And Walvis helped you and Mother?”
“Yes.”
Sioned poured cool drinks, asking. “What is all this in aid of?”
“Well ... I think I’ve done something similar, in a way.” Pol’s face was pensive, but there was a telltale gleam dancing in his eyes.
“For whom?” Rohan opened both curious eyes.
“I hope it’s all right—there’s not much anybody can do about it now, anyway. It just sort of happened today.”
“Who are you talking about?” Sioned asked. “We know about Hollis and Maarken, but they’re the only ones of our immediate family who’re—“
“It’s not Hollis and Maarken,” Pol said.
“Then who?” Rohan demanded.
“Tilal and Gemma.” Pol shrugged, keeping an admirably straight face as his parents gaped. “It took a while, but I finally got them to see the obvious. I hope nobody minds too much. I mean, Kostas does, but that’s his problem, not ours, right? And what he really wanted was Ossetia, not her. Tilal was pretty stupid about not wanting to ask her now that she’s Prince Chale’s heir, but I persuaded him to start talking.” Pol sighed. “Once he did, he didn’t shut up. They’ve loved each other all this time, can you believe it? She was too proud to say anything to him, and he wanted to make River Run the richest holding in all Syr before he asked her. And neither said a word about it. But that’s not the problem now. For all
I know, they’re still out there talking each other’s ears off!”
“Tilal?” Sioned managed.
“And Gemma?” Rohan was still staring.
Pol began to laugh. “They were so funny! Promise me that when I fall in love with a girl, if I start acting that stupid you’ll tell me before I make such a fool of myself!”