No one said a word about Tilal and Gemma. No one had to. The couple’s appearance at Clutha’s outdoor feast that evening fairly trumpeted their Choosing of each other. Inseparable, insulated from everything by their own private weave of happiness, it was doubtful they knew anyone else existed.
Davvi looked utterly blissful in his relief. Chale seemed to be getting used to the idea. It was remarked on— quietly—that Kostas was conspicuous in his absence.
The tables were packed with highborns, some of them in nearly Tilal’s and Gemma’s state, for over the last days understandings had been reached between many couples. One pair, however, sat apart from each other, the man’s face grim, the woman’s pale and strained. Beside him were his younger brothers—and beside her was a black-haired youth with eyes the color of new leaves in shadow.
Andry worried about Maarken and Hollis, but someone else took up most of his attention. Princess Alasen was four tables away from him, surrounded by eligible young men whose enthusiasm for her company was strictly observed—and occasionally quelled—by her father. Glimpses of her through flowers and chattering faces did unaccountable things to Andry’s heartbeat and respiration. He did not understand what was wrong with him that he had so little interest in the dishes set before him—not even the gorgeous tower of spun sugar and pastry studded with candied fruits that was presented for dessert. Maarken, deep in his own melancholy thoughts, did not notice, but Sorin did—and found his twin a dull companion indeed.
Chiana’s laughter dominated her table. She had good reason for high spirits. Halian sat on one side of her, Miyon on the other, and Masul was way over on the other side of the gathering, seated with Kiele, Lyell, Velden, Cabar, and Cabar’s disgruntled-looking wife, Kenza.
Presiding over a quiet table of older princes was Lady Andrade, Urival at her side as always, her austere demeanor softened a little by being in relatively undemanding company. Prince Lleyn even made her laugh a few times. Nearby were Ostvel, Riyan, Chay, and Tobin, trading tales of Pol with Audrite and Chadric. The boy himself sat between his parents at a table with Pandsala, Milosh of Fessenden and Lord Kolya; the two young men scarcely dared to breathe in the presence of the High Prince. Other highborns were scattered about, the conversational level rose and fell with innocuous regularity—and no one said anything about what was on all minds.
The whole evening was driving Sioned just the slightest bit mad.
She knew what the faces were hiding. Rohan’s early adjournment of the princes’ meeting had come because Velden had insisted on a vote regarding Masul’s right to Princemarch. It was Saumer of Isel who had proposed another day of waiting. The prince was genuinely troubled, but there was no way of knowing whether he wanted time to be persuaded or if he wished to marshal his arguments. Rohan was distracted with worry that Volog had not been able to convince Saumer—or, worse, that his grace of Kierst had somehow offended his grace of Isel, and the latter would vote for Masul just to spite the lifelong rival he had been forced to work with these last years.
The decision would be rendered the next day. Everyone knew it. And no one said a word about it.
Unbeknownst to her son, who would have stared open-mouthed if he’d realized it, Sioned’s mood was a fair approximation of what had that morning prompted Pol to give his little demonstration of faradhi skills. There was a growing need in her to do something, anything, to take those polite masks off princely faces. She wanted to remind them of the powers she and Rohan held between them, powers that Pol would wield on his own. She craved their widened eyes, their awe, and even their fear of a Sunrunner Princess—and the Sunrunner who would one day be High Prince.
Goddess be thanked, the dinner ended early. After the morning wine-heads that had followed on Rohan’s dinner the night before, no one was willing to repeat the experience—especially not with such an important vote coming on the morrow. Sioned herself wanted nothing more than sleep—a thing she knew would be in vanishingly short supply. So when Tobin asked her company for a cup of hot taze after the meal, they both knew it was really an excuse for staying up all night talking.
Rohan returned alone to the pavilion, leaving Pol under the watchful eyes of Maarken and Ostvel. Along with Riyan, Sorin, and Andry, they had accepted Volog’s invitation to listen to a little music before bedtime, and as Rohan settled in at his desk he could just catch the sweet sound of a flute. He enjoyed music, but counted it no deprivation that his education in the subject was sparse. His mother, loving music, had despaired of her children ever learning a note, and rightly so; neither he nor Tobin could so much as hum on key. Pol, on the other hand, had a real affinity for singing, and after a time Rohan thought he heard his son’s voice doubling Ostvel’s. He glanced up, surprised. Ostvel’s talent was rarely displayed, and never outside Skybowl or Stronghold, and then only after entreaties amounting almost to direct orders from his prince. How odd it was that he had been prevailed upon now.
Rohan was perusing trade agreements when a rider came in with reports from the Desert. Grateful to have his mind distracted from the problems of the Rialla, he attended first to Feylin’s news about the dragons. She had spent the summer watching them and compiling population projections based on the number of hatchlings flown this year, and was pleased to inform the High Prince that the news was heartening. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the dragons would hold steady in their numbers. There remained the problem of finding more caves so that the population could increase, but for now they were safe.
The news from Walvis and Eltanin in Tiglath was just as good. Desert troops were working well with those from Princemarch. Friendly competition in the arts of sword-play, archery, and horsemanship had seen many new tricks learned on both sides. Those of the Desert were better riders, but hunters from the Veresch did things with arrows that Walvis would have sworn were impossible had he not seen them with his own eyes. There was an amusing postscript to the effect that several men and women would be petitioning for a change in residence soon, for close proximity had accomplished the usual. Some twenty or so marriages were in the offing.
Thus it was that Rohan was smiling when Tallain approached him in the private section of the pavilion. “Ah, now, not more dispatches, I hope. Lady Feylin writes a clear hand, your father has the decency to employ a scribe—but Lord Walvis’ scrawl has nearly blinded me!”
Tallain grinned. “No, my lord, no more parchments to read. You have a visitor. He calls himself High Lord Steward to Prince Miyon of Cunaxa.”
Rohan’s brows shot up. “How long have you kept him waiting?”
“The usual, my lord. Shall I admit him now?”
“Do that. When are their graces of Syr and Ossetia due to arrive?”
“Shortly, I believe. If your talk with this steward is overlong, I’ll direct them to the antechamber, my lord.”
“Excellent. Oh, by the way, Tallain, your father sent a note for you with his letter.” He tossed the sealed parchment at the youth, who caught it eagerly. “All’s going very well indeed at Tiglath. A rider will start back tomorrow morning, so you can include a letter to your father if you like.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Tallain tucked the note away in his tunic. “Shall I admit the steward now? And will you want fresh wine?”
Rohan winked. “I think the man is rather more hungry than he is thirsty. Give me a moment, then let him in.”
The squire smoothed the grin from his face, bowed, and left. Rohan relaxed back in his chair. He had a fair idea of the reason for Miyon’s emissary, and was definitely looking forward to it.
Soon he was observing the barely polite bow of a short, chubby gentleman whose heavy beard and long hair all but concealed his face. Only the eyes—dark, shrewd, and watchful—were clearly visible. Many charming sentiments were expressed; wishes were given for the continued good health and happiness of the High Prince, High Princess, and their noble heir; Rohan received it all with a bland smile and did not ask the steward to sit down.
“If I may make so bold, High Prince—my exalted master is curious about the arrangements made for the youngest of Roelstra’s daughters.”
“The Princess Chiana?” Rohan asked, deliberately giving the girl the title to which she had no right. He decided to be obtuse for a while. “I understand she lives with various of her sisters, and at present resides with Lady Kiele here in Waes.”
The steward bowed again, eyes signaling that he comprehended Rohan’s ploy. “Perhaps I should amplify. My master is interested in whatever arrangements have been made for her future.”
“She’s free to go wherever she chooses and live as she likes.”
“Your grace, I find it difficult to communicate with suitable delicacy the true nature of my master’s curiosity.”
“Then perhaps you ought to be indelicate about it,” Rohan suggested affably, enjoying himself.
“Not to wrap it in too fine a silk, your grace—how is she dowered?”
“I am surprised to find Prince Miyon interested in the subject. My own curiosity is now engaged.”
The steward’s bejeweled hand combed nervously through his beard before he remembered himself. He shifted, shrugged, and said, “He is, to be blunt, concerned with what would come to the lady on her marriage.”
“That would depend on her Chosen husband,” Rohan replied smoothly.
“When Princess Naydra married Lord Narat, she re- ceived land around the holding of Port Adni, purchased by your grace from Prince Volog.”
“And a goodly bit it cost me, too,” he admitted in a cheerful voice.
“Might one inquire if similar arrangements would be made for Princess Chiana?”
“One might inquire, certainly. But one might receive a more definite answer if one were Prince Miyon.”
The steward’s plump figure bent in half at the waist. “May I have your gracious permission to withdraw, High Prince?”
Rohan waved him genially out, then called in Tallain and told him that under no circumstances was Prince Miyon to be admitted to his presence before Davvi and Chale had been spotted entering Rohan’s camp. The youth chuckled his understanding, and when Rohan was alone again he filled his time with a letter to Feylin thanking her for her work. He wrote a separate note to Sionell, hinting at a lovely present from the Rialla Fair, and put it aside so Sioned could add a few lines if she liked. He was halfway through another letter, this one to Walvis asking for full details of various maneuvers, to be shared with Chay, when Tallain finally returned.
“My lord High Prince, his grace of Cunaxa desires speech with your royal highness.”
Rohan blinked at all this formality, then realized Tallain was speaking loud enough for Miyon to hear. He kept amusement from his voice and replied, “By all means, send him in. I hope you haven’t kept him waiting.”
The squire bowed, straight-faced, and a few moments later Miyon was admitted. He nodded to Rohan, threw an irritated glance at Tallain, and sat where Rohan indicated.
“I have ministers enough to make pretty speeches for me,” the prince said without preamble. “I shall be direct with you, cousin. What are you willing to give Chiana if she chooses me for her husband?”
“I had not know you were considering the match, cousin.”
Miyon condescended to smile, as one does when believing he holds the key to another’s locked gates in his hands. “I could be persuaded to consider it, if there were profit to be had.”
“My, my,” Rohan murmured. “This younger generation. One would think the lady’s charming person would be your primary motive.”
‘ ‘Romance in marriage is the luxury of a prince with safe anchorage,” Miyon stated flatly. “What bargain can be struck between us, cousin?”
Rohan looked him right in the eyes. Miyon’s were black, like the chips of glassy stone found at Skybowl. “What did you have in mind?”
“My support for your cause, in exchange for shipping rights at Tiglath.”
“With Chiana as the—how did your man put it? Ah, yes: the fine silk wrapping.”
“I would not ally myself with a commoner, naturally. My willingness to marry her would go far toward convincing others of her rights as opposed to Masul’s.”
“So much for romance. Is that all you want?”
“Free access to the harborage at Tiglath isn’t unreasonable as a part of her dowry.”
“A part,” Rohan echoed softly. “What else?”
“Ten square measures of northern land to use as a staging area for my trade.”
“And?”
“The two hundred gold pieces you gave her other sisters who married.”
“And?” Rohan asked again, patiently.
“Your armies the hell away from my border!”
Rohan flicked a glance at the water clock in the corner and smiled. “Don’t tell me a simple little military exercise a full fifty measures from your border has made you nervous? You and your Merida armed with the best Cu-naxan steel?”
“I came here to offer you—“
“You came here to be bribed.” Rohan’s smile did not fade, but his eyes and voice were frigid. “I know you, Miyon. You have three ambitions in life: a port, a rather large slice of my land to get the Merida off your neck, and recognition that you are a man worthy of sitting in conference with princes. The first two depend entirely on me. The third is your problem. I will not be the means through which you reassure yourself of your manhood.”
Miyon sprang to his feet, quivering with insult. “How dare you!”
“Listen to me carefully, princeling. You want Chiana because you think she’ll bring you all three of those things. Shipping rights at Tiglath, a chunk of my land, and accolades from the princes for your cleverness in outwitting me. Is that a fair summation?”
“It’s the best offer you’ll receive!”
“I think not. The day Chiana weds you is the day I cross your borders—all of them—with more troops than you could amass in twenty years. One of you greedy little royals on my northern flank is quite enough, and you and Chiana together would cause me no end of irritation. I know her, too, Miyon. I’ve allowed you to survive thus far-“
“Allowed me!” Mayon shouted.
“Those advisers who kept you chained up during your early youth certainly didn’t teach you any manners. Or perhaps you’ve spent too much time around the Merida. Do you know what they originally were? A brotherhood of trained assassins using razor-sharp glass knives. It’s said they killed almost painlessly.” Rohan leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. “You may find yourself trying to breathe around a glass knife in your throat some night, cousin.”
“They have every right to the Desert! All those lands were theirs before your grandfather—“
“They have no right to it at all, which is why most of the other princes supported my grandfather. Miyon, you don’t care a damn about their rights, except where they might provide an excuse for your own ambitions. And I’ll tell you something else, princeling. I know you’ve been offered certain things by Kiele—but you don’t trust her. And you don’t entirely believe in this pretender, either.”
“How did you—“ Miyon stopped too late, his face crimson with rage.
“You’re trying to build a bridge from the middle of the river, and whoever provides you with the most planks will have you on his side. I offer nothing, Miyon. I have no need of your support, especially not if purchased with my honor and my son’s future. You can fall into the river and drown for all I care. You have my permission to withdraw.”
For an instant Miyon looked as if the killing fury in his eyes would find its outlet in a physical attack on Ro-han. “You and your Sunrunner bitch!” he spat. “Spying, manipulating—do you think the princes will sit still for it forever? We won’t be ruled from Stronghold and Goddess Keep! We’ve endured the faradh ‘im, and we’ve endured a High Prince—but not both together!”
Rohan smiled. “When you repeat this story, Miyon, be sure to tell it truthfully. I see by my timepiece over there that their graces of Ossetia and Syr ought to be in the antechamber right now, listening to every word. It would be terribly embarrassing to be corrected by them in public.”
Tallain, smart boy, chose that moment to step around the partition. “Your royal highness, Prince Chale and Prince Davvi are waiting for your grace.”
“There, you see?” Rohan beamed at Miyon. “I was right. Give them wine, Tallain, and tell them I’ll be with them shortly. Well, Miyon?”
Voice thin with rage, the younger man said, “You have made an enemy today, High Prince.”
Rohan was no longer smiling. “Your house and mine have been enemies since the day the first Merida found welcome at Castle Pine. I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”
Miyon turned on his heel and strode from the pavilion. Chale and Davvi were instantly into the private area, and Rohan stood, greeting them with a comical grimace.
“I was afraid he was going to say something like ‘You’ll be sorry!’ “
“That was murderous,” Davvi remarked. “He’s a vicious bastard, Rohan. Watch out for him.”
Chale, seating himself, fixed Rohan with curious gaze. “I appreciated your point about a marriage between him and Chiana. What wouldn’t the two of them come up with? But tell me, how do you know he talked to Kiele?”
“It has nothing to do with Sunrunners, cousin. Cabar of Gilad has a wife who adores her husband and loathes
Miyon. And my sister had opportunity to speak with her when our ladies spent the afternoon together the other day. . . .”He finished with a shrug.
Chale snorted. “Ah, yes, the redoubtable Princess To-bin. If I’d been twenty years younger, I would have given Chaynal a race for her, let me tell you!” He continued to eye Rohan, but now a faint smile played around his lips. “I was just remembering that innocent-faced young prince who beguiled us all at his first Rialla. Your father would be proud of you, Rohan.”
“Thank you. I treasure that, especially from a man who didn’t always agree with him.” Rohan sank into a chair away from his desk. “Let’s talk of more pleasant things, shall we? How do you like having Gemma with you?”
“Davvi’s done a fine job of her education,” Chale said gruffly. “She’s got a good head on her shoulders, and a good heart to go along with it. She reminds me of her mother, my sister Chalia. But I assume you’re asking how I like this idea of her and Davvi’s boy, Tilal.”
“His grace and I have been discussing it all morning,” Davvi put in, adding with a rueful smile, “We agree that I’ve been an idiot not to have seen it sooner. And he’s been kind enough to suggest that we hold the ceremonies privately, after the Rialla.”
“In respect to my son and grandson, as well as to young Kostas,” Chale nodded.
“Who can’t be at all happy about losing such a prize. My lords, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that at least one thing has turned out well this year!” Rohan gestured to Tallain, who brought fresh goblets of wine. They drank to the young people, perfectly in accord—a rare enough circumstance to put a wry smile on all three faces.
Chale said, “She’s marrying a man who’ll make her happy as well as make Ossetia a good prince when I’m gone.” He paused, then shrugged. “You’re right, I didn’t have much in common with your father, Rohan, and you and I don’t see things the same way, either. It irks me to agree with Miyon on anything, but your boy being a Sun-runner and a prince worries me, too. I like what I’ve seen of him, make no mistake. But he has many years of growing to do and power has ruined good men in the past.”
“I understand your misgivings, cousin. I have them myself. But I also have faith in Pol’s character and the training he’s getting from Lleyn and Chadric and Au-drite.”
“And when he goes to Goddess Keep and finds out what he can do with sunlight and Fire? What then?” Chale cleared his throat and shrugged again. “Well, that’s in the future, and I won’t be around to concern myself with it. Tilal grew up at your court. He’ll understand these things better than I ever could. In any case, I’m on your side in the matter of this pretender, for two reasons.”
Rohan concealed his glee. “I’m grateful for your support, my lord.”
“You ought to be grateful that Roelstra came before you,” Chale pointed out sternly. “Only a fool would prefer another such as he to you. And from what I’ve seen of the boy—the thought of Roelstra’s son at Castle Crag sickens me. That’s my first reason. The second is Gemma. She and Tilal will have to deal with him if he’s proclaimed, and she’s made it quite clear that aside from her Chbsen’s feelings, she’ll consider Masul an enemy all her days, after what Roelstra did to her brother.” The old prince grunted. “Using the boy’s pride to make him bear the worst of the battles! You know I often supported Roelstra—we all did—but that matter opened my eyes.”
Rohan couldn’t help saying, “And yet it was in battle against me that Jastri died.”
“Do you think I’m such a fool as that? He may have been my nephew, my own dead sister’s only son, but I know who put him in the way of his death. It doesn’t make me fond of you that you led the troops that killed him, but I know who was truly responsible for his death.”
Rohan nodded slowly. “Forgive me.”
“Politics is an odd business,” Chale mused. “Look at Saumer and Volog. At each other’s throats for years, and now fussing over their mutual grandson and heir as if they’d never stolen a single sheep from each other. And if you’re counting up real peculiarities, there’s Roelstra’s daughter as your regent in Princemarch.” He sighed and shook his head. “You know, most of us are reasonable people. Princes have to be in order to survive. Miyon hasn’t learned that yet, and that makes him dangerous.”
“As dangerous as my Sunrunner princess of a wife?” Rohan said, smiling.
Chale looked startled, then burst into wheezing laughter. “Oh, your father would have loved that one!”
“Again, I’m complimented,” Rohan said, grinning now. “And may I say in return that my father would have appreciated your reasoning and your support.” * Chale wagged a finger at him. “I’m not saying I’ll agree to anything you say, mind.”
“Cousin, I would be disappointed in you if you did.”
“Then bring me some more of that wine and let’s drink to Gemma and Tilal again. And may your own boy find it easier to win his Chosen lady!”
* * *
Sioned turned the full fury of her green eyes on her husband. “How could you? It was going so well! Miyon could have been ours! Chiana had him on the hook! All you had to do was give her a little help reeling him in!”
With a patient sigh, Rohan said, “And if she had? It would have been his perfect chance to humiliate me. All he’d have to do is tell the other princes in council that I’d agreed to his terms for taking Chiana, making it seem as if I’d begged him to do so in order to win his support.”
“It would have worked!” she fumed.
“It would never have worked. Listen, Sioned—he wanted to outsmart me, prove himself more clever, have something he could hold over me. Instead I’ve put him in his place and let him know he can’t out-think me. Ever. Have you forgotten that he keeps Merida in his princedom and at his court? That they’ve tried to kill Pol? Do you think they could have done that without Miyon’s help, or at least his acquiescence?”
“You’ve made an open enemy. Is that preferable to the veneer of tolerance?”
“I’d rather have him an enemy everyone knows about rather than a pretended friend who might fool my real allies. They’ll beware of him now. And whenever he approaches any of the other princes, they’ll remember that he and I are opposed, and think twice about what he says. And aside from all that, would you really want Chiana on our border, scheming with Miyon against us? A woman whose very name means ‘treason’? There was nothing else I could do. I regret that you disapprove, but it was my decision to make, not yours.”
She was silent for a time, then shook her head. “I understand why you did it, Rohan. But I don’t like it that you used me. And you did, you know—and Tobin as well, having us work Miyon and Chiana to where you wanted them.”
Setting Chiana on Miyon had been Sioned’s idea. Rohan had neither encouraged it nor interfered; he had simply taken advantage of what she had done on her own. A pretty point of distinction, a sop to his conscience, that she would not appreciate. He was wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it. What he said was, “You’ve learned almost everything a prince needs to know in order to govern. But you have yet to learn that sometimes people have to be used.”
“I suppose it’s one of the things I didn’t learn from Andrade,” she said, quietly.
“She does it to perfection, with no regrets. It’s not particularly nice, and it’s certainly not noble or heroic. The difference between Andrade and me is that sometimes, like now, I hate things I’ve had to do. Oh, I admit I had a rollicking good time doing what I did to Roelstra my first Rialla. I enjoy gaming those too stupid to realize their own ambitions have led them along the path I want them to walk. I don’t regret Miyon at all, because he had to learn to bow to me. As for the rest of them—“
Sioned smiled slightly. “Let me guess. You wish they didn’t bow quite so low.”
He nodded. “It’s why I value Chale and Lleyn and Davvi. They bow right along with the rest, but they know why it’s necessary. The others just—do it.” He glanced at the water clock and sighed. “Over half the night gone. And tomorrow isn’t going to be pleasant at all.”
“Rohan ...” She stood beside his chair and he circled her waist with gentle fingers. “Let me help you sleep, love. You need it.” When he smiled and shook his head, she went on, “But you’re exhausted. And so am I,” she added frankly. “I can’t sleep if you don’t.
Just this once, Rohan. Indulge yourfaradhi wife and let her work a little magic on you.”
After a slight pause, he asked, “You will anyway, won’t you?”
“Well. . . .”
“Oh, all right. I’ve had enough for today, I suppose. And the only thing I lack is an argument from my stubborn witch.”
“You’re welcome,” she told him wryly, and he iaughed.
A short while later they lay in each other’s arms beneath a light silk sheet and a loosely woven wool blanket. Sioned curled close to her husband’s side, her face bathed in thin moonlight drifting in through the screened window opening. She closed her eyes and threaded the delicate strands of silver into a soft net, placing it across Rohan. He sighed once, tense muscles relaxed, and in another moment was asleep.
She lay wakeful beside him until morning, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of breath and heartbeat that kept perfect time with her own.
* * *
Rohan looked at Andrade once, seeing her pen poised above the parchment, before he said, “His grace of Cu-naxa.”
Miyon stood, tall and lean and implacable. “I side with Prince Masul.”
Lleyn’s brows arched. The privileges of his great age and long years of rule allowed him to say, “The Lady Chiana will be disappointed.”
Miyon’s cheeks crimsoned. “I vote with my brains, cousin. Not my balls.”
“Indeed,” Lleyn murmured tolerantly.
Andrade made a mark on the parchment.
“His Grace of Ossetia.”
Chale pushed himself to his feet. “I say this young man is mistaken,” he growled, staring straight at Masul, who stood easy and relaxed near the water clock. “He’s no more Roelstra’s son than I am.”
“Brother,” Masul said, and gave Chale a small, mocking bow.
“Be silent,” Andrade snapped as she wrote.
“His grace of Dorval.”
Lleyn took some time about rising, and leaned heavily on his dragon-headed cane. “I have watched and listened most carefully, as befits this weighty matter before us. I have seen no proof that the Lady Andrade and Princess-Regent Pandsala were misled in their perceptions of the night in question. Moreover, I have seen no compelling evidence that this youth is justified in his claims. I regret any pain this might cause him, but I must in all conscience decline to believe him.”
“His grace of Grib,” Rohan said as Lleyn sat down and Andrade’s pen scratched again.
Velden was instantly up, his pose aggressive. “I must disagree with our cousin of Dorval. There is no proof to contradict the claim. He must be given the benefit of any doubts any of us may have. I for one have no doubts. The evidence is certain. I accept him as Roelstra’s son.”
“His grace of Fessenden.”
Long, lanky, lazy-eyed Pimantal unfolded himself from his chair. “Prince Masul,” was all he said, with a slight bow in the young man’s direction.
Rohan wondered what Kiele had offered him as he watched Pimantal resume his seat. “His grace of Syr.”
Davvi got up, leaning slightly forward with his knuckles resting on the table. “I agree with our cousins of Ossetia and Dorval, and for their reasons. But I have another reason. Even if this man were Roelstra’s son, and even if I were convinced of it, Princemarch was long ago won by all the rights of war, confirmed by law. I gained Syr in much the same way. It is true that I was the only male heir left of the Syrene house. But my claim rests on precisely the same rights of war as the claim to Prince-march. If this assembly chooses to violate its own agreement of the spring of 705, that acknowledged High Prince Rohan’s rights of possession, then—“ He swept the gathering with cool green eyes. “—then I assure you that the same principle, or lack of it, will hold true for me.”
As astounded as the rest of them, shock betrayed Rohan into exclaiming, “Davvi!”
Sioned’s brother met his gaze calmly. “I knew you wouldn’t agree with this, Rohan. But believe me when I say that if a princedom won and lawfully confirmed can be so easily taken away and given to another, then I and mine will have no dealings with princes.” He sat down.
It took Rohan a moment to recover. But his voice was firm as he said, “His grace of Kierst.”
Volog levered himself up, cast a piercing glance at Masul, and said, “I’ll take good governance and peace, demonstrated these many years, over this unknown farmhand who hasn’t convinced me of anything but his colossal arrogance.”
Miyon of Cunaxa stiffened with insult. “Have a care, cousin,” he said tightly. “You will be seated at this table with him before the day ends.”
Volog gave a bark of laughter. “Not damned likely, boy!”
“My lord,” Rohan murmured in warning. “His grace of Gilad.”
He wondered for an instant if Princess Kenza had managed to nag her husband into shaking off Miyon’s influence. But Cabar stood, gulped, and mumbled words agreeing with their graces of Cunaxa, Grib, and Fessenden. As he sat and Andrade’s pen rasped on parchment, Rohan turned his gaze momentarily to Saumer of Isel. His was the only vote still in doubt. Some perverse sense of the dramatic within him made him call on Clutha of Meadowland next, and the tension drew out a little finer, a little tauter.
The old man stood. “I say our cousin of Kierst has spoken most wisely of all. But, like our cousin of Syr, I have another reason, too. For longer than I care to recall, my land has been the battleground between the Desert and Princemarch. In the past fifteen years I’ve gotten used to peace. I don’t intend to jeopardize it—because if any of you think that giving Princemarch to this boy will be as easy as all that, you’re sadly mistaken. And who’d pay for it in burned fields and dead people? Me, that’s who! I spent my childhood and youth and middle age watching armies lay waste to my meadows. I’ll not have it in my dotage as well. No, thank you!” He plunked back down into his chair and turned his scowling attention to his hands.
Five against, four in favor. Rohan turned to Saumer. “His grace of Isel.”
Volog’s erstwhile enemy, grandfather with him of their mutual heir, rose reluctantly to his feet. “Cousins,” he said, his voice heavy and strained, “I have considered this matter, as all of you have, with the whole of my mind and my heart. I do not agree with previous statements about evidence. I have seen no evidence one way or the other that convincingly refutes or proves either side. But I ask this. What right does a man have to his lands?
“The High Prince, while still in possession only of the Desert, quite rightly and wisely stated that in order to rule effectively, he had to know what he was prince of. We spent much time and effort uncovering precedent for holding our lands, and the treaties drawn up were of great satisfaction to all.
“And yet—if precedent and traditional right to what we hold is the highest law, where does that leave possession by right of war? If that is the paramount law, then we would all be at each other’s throats—as in the past.” He flicked a glance at Volog, who gave him stare for stare.
“If a man has the right to his lands, then he has the right to give them to his son. Usually the eldest, and one born of his wife’s body—but there are several instances in the recent past of a younger son or an illegitimate one inheriting. If we take away that right, and if we decide that war is the more legitimate means of gaining a princedom or a holding, then we announce chaos and we might as well gird ourselves for battle here and now. For none of us will be secure in what we hold, from prince to most obscure athri.”
He paused a long moment, then shook his head. “I do not disbelieve the Lady Andrade and the Princess-Regent. I do not disbelieve this young man before us now. But I do believe in the law, and in my own conscience. And both tell me that Princemarch by rights belongs to the son of the late High Prince Roelstra.” He cast a quick glance around the table again, and sat down.
Rohan held in the long sigh that wanted to escape his chest, kept back the twist of bitter disappointment that threatened his lips. Saumer was not trying to spite Volog or anyone else; he was honest in his misgivings and in his beliefs. Actually, Rohan told himself with grim hu- mor, he ought to be cheering the words that had come from Saumer’s mouth: “I do believe in the law.” He’d been working to instill those words and that belief in his fellow princes for over twenty years. And what a time to succeed!
Andrade broke the silence with a rustle of parchment.
“The count is as follows. Ossetia, Dorval, Syr, Kierst, and Meadowlord against; Cunaxa, Gilad, Grib, Fessen- den, and Isel for.” She lifted her gaze from her notes.
“My lords, it appears we have a deadlock.”
Rohan did not meet her eyes, knowing what he would find in them. Masul was chewing his lip, the fingers of one hand drumming on the carved wooden support of the water clock.
At last Rohan got up, consciously drawing all eyes to him. “My lords, it is as the Lady has said. Both sides lack a majority. Firon being without a prince, and both myself and the Princess-Regent being obviously disqualified, I can see few ways of breaking this deadlock.”
All of them sat up straighter at his implication, but it was Masul who voiced their question. “What do you mean?” When someone sucked in an outraged breath at his peremptory tone, he added, “My lord.”
“I mean there are alternatives. Such proofs as are readily available have been presented, and have failed to convince one way or the other. But ...”
He finally looked at his aunt. She nodded slowly, placing her long hands with their ten rings and gleaming bracelets on the table before her.
“What is it, my Lady?” Lleyn asked, his voice soft.
She answered, ‘”The faradh’im have certain skills not generally known among the populace—or, indeed, among most faradh’im themselves. Some of us are able to catch quite detailed visions of the future, for instance.”
Miyon leaned back in his chair with an angry gesture of one hand. “Your pardon, my Lady, but surely you don’t propose to show us what the world would be like with Prince Masul at Castle Crag? I never heard of anything so—“
Andrade continued as if he had not spoken. “I have done such things myself, my lords. But what is relevant to us at present is something else. The past—and specif- ically that night twenty-one years ago—is in my memory. Using certain . . . techniques ... I will be able to conjure that past for all of you to watch with your own eyes. It is a difficult thing, and possibly a dangerous one. But those of you who do not believe me will, I think, believe the evidence I will present before you.”
“And why should we believe this—or even allow it?” Velden exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of this supposed ability, either! Why should it be trusted?”
“You dare question the Lady’s word?” Lleyn asked, his eyes like thunder.
“Peace, my friend,” Andrade said. “He has every right to question. Would it satisfy you, Prince Velden, if I first conjured a scene from the past that you and I both witnessed?”
Cabar stared slack-jawed; Miyon was anxious and trying to hide it; Masul’s lip curled scornfully. Pimantal looked intrigued, and Saumer, hopeful. He said, “If it will settle our doubts and if it is not too dangerous for you—“
“It probably is,” she said with a shrug. “But I consider this person more so.” She fixed Masul with a sardonic eye. “Well? Are you secure enough in your claim of truth to have the truth revealed to you through Sun-runner arts?”
“In which I have very little faith,” he shot back. “But if their graces wish it, then why not?” He smiled.
“Very well.” She rose and bowed to Rohan. “With your permission, my lord, I will retire to my pavilion and prepare.”
“Will tomorrow serve, my Lady?” He was appalled by her sudden pallor.
“Tonight at sunset will do. I’d like to get this over with.” Again she speared Masul with her gaze. “You’ve taken up quite enough time and energy as it is, and their graces have more important matters to discuss.”
Without another word she walked from the tent, leaving an apprehensive silence behind her. Each prince looked at every other prince, and finally at Rohan. He cleared his throat.
But before he could say anything, Masul spoke-drawling, amused, yet with an undercurrent of hostility seething in his voice. “Well, cousin,” he said to Rohan, “it seems your family witch is your last hope. But I’m not worried. Nothing scares me.”
“Then you are a fool,” Rohan replied tranquilly. “We meet here at sunset, my lords. I trust no one will object to the presences of the High Princess and my son, as well as the Princess-Regent.”
There were no objections; there could be none. In renewed eerie quiet they left Rohan alone. He stood silent “and unseeing for some time after they had gone. Then, sinking down into his chair, he put his face in his hands.
“Gentle Goddess,” he whispered. “What have I done? What am I about to do?”
There was no one to answer.