With the tension over Masul that morning and the nervous speculation about what Andrade would do that evening, nearly everyone had forgotten that the afternoon would bring ceremonies making knights of fifteen young squires. On a knoll overlooking the encampments there gathered the families and sponsors of the young men, but none of the usual gaiety attended on the scene.
“It’s a poor celebration of knighthood for them,” Maarken said to Andry, shaking his head. “I looked forward to this day my whole life.”
Andry, who had not, nevertheless sympathized with Sorin, Riyan, and the others who had worked so hard and so long, only to have the supreme moment of their young lives blighted by the political troubles of their elders.
“It’ll be special for them,” he said, trying to sound confident, “no matter what else is going on. I remember you looked as if you and Lleyn were the only two people in the world at that moment. They’ll feel that way, too— if only for that little bit of time. That’s what’s important.”
“I suppose so.”
Andry hesitated, took a quick look around at the others standing in little groups nearby, and decided he would not be overheard. “Maarken, have you talked to Hol-lis?”
Maarken stiffened. “No. Not today.”
“I don’t know why she’s acting this way,” Andry continued unwisely. “All during the time we were working on the scrolls, she talked about you and asked questions about Radzyn and the Desert, and now she won’t even—“
“Do you know what you’re talking about?” Maarken asked in a deadly soft voice.
Andry swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. “I guess not. But, Maarken, it’s just that I—“
Frosty gray eyes the exact color of their father’s glared down the finger’s width that separated them in height. But after a moment Maarken sighed and gripped Andry’s shoulder briefly, “Sorry. I just can’t talk about it now, all right?”
Nodding, relieved that his beloved eldest brother had not seen fit to provide him with a broken jaw in payment for his prying, Andry turned his attention to the crest of the knoll, where the squires had assembled in strict order of precedence.
Fifteen of them stood in the afternoon sunshine, straight and proud in their sponsoring lords’ colors, the hues of their fathers’ holdings seen in the dyed leather of their belts. This made for sometimes garish results—Lord Sabriam’s younger brother, Bosaia, for instance. The yellow and orange of their city of Einar competed to eye-popping effect with the already violent combination of pink and crimson in the tunic of Lower Pyrme, where he had been fostered. Riyan, in Clutha’s light green with Sky bowl’s blue and brown in his belt, was luckier than most. And Sorin’s tunic of Kierstian scarlet was brilliantly set off by Radzyn’s red and white circling his waist.
There were no sons of princes being knighted today but, as a son of the most important lord in the Desert and grandson of a prince, Sorin naturally was first. An-dry and Maarken stood with their parents, watching proudly as Volog slipped the golden buckle onto Sorin’s belt and Alasen gave him one of the small loaves of bread baked especially for the occasion, together with a small silver vial of salt. Tradition also asserted that knights were given other tokens according to which court had fostered them. Kierst always presented the bread on a finely glazed plate, crafted by a master at New Raetia itself and rimmed in gold from the island’s own mines.
Andry felt his heart twist suddenly. It might have been himself standing there, blushing a little as Alasen smiled on him. It could have been him—except that the ambition for knighthood had never burned inside him. All his fire was reserved for faradhi things. And it would be many long years before he had attained the status in his chosen realm that Sorin had achieved today in his. He cast a furtive look at his rings, and once more mentally added those that would bring the number to nine and then ten. Alasen and Volog led Sorin over to his family. In the interval before the next young man was called, they had a few moments for hugs and congratulations. Andry embraced his twin fondly, proud to bursting—and yet when Alasen laughed and gave Sorin what she termed “Your first real kiss from a lady,” he unaccountably turned away, unable to watch.
As the second squire was being made a knight, a quiet voice said at his shoulder, “It might have been you up there, you know.” •
Andry looked up at his father, startled and embarrassed that somehow his thoughts had been guessed. And for an instant he was afraid that he had indeed deeply disappointed this man he revered and loved, who had never truly understood his dreams. But Chay was neither dissatisfied with him nor angry. The gray eyes were loving, and the hand resting on his back was warm with affection.
„ Still, Andry could not help murmuring, “You’re not sorry, are you?”
“I would be if you were. But if you’re content, then so am I.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Listen to how mellow I’ve become in my old age!” Then, seriously, he added, “Andry, I’m proud of all my sons.”
He bit his lip and nodded blindly.
Younger sons and younger brothers came forward with their sponsors, and received gold buckles, bread, salt, and each athri’s special gift. From nearby, Rohan and Sioned and Pol presided over the whole, and the honor of being knighted in front of the High Prince, High Princess, and their heir was not lost on any of the young men so elevated. After making their bows to their lords, they turned, marched a few paces to the left, and bowed even lower to the royal trio. Smiles greeted each new-made knight: approving from Rohan, kind from Sioned, and a trifle envious from Pol.
Riyan made ftis appearance toward the end of the ceremonies, being the son of a relatively minor athri without important blood-bond to any royal house. He accepted the usual gifts from Prince Clutha and his eldest daughter, a statuesque lady of great dignity and a sudden mischievous smile as she gave the young man Meadowlord’s traditional gift: a flask carved from the horn of a stag. The proportions of the animal who had contributed the horn must have been truly awesome, for the flask held enough wine to make a man blind drunk.
“I hope you won’t mind if I share this first one with you in celebration,” said Princess Gennadi. Riyan returned her grin as she undid the stopper, bright with silver and a circle of tiny sapphires, and expertly tilted the flask to spray a stream of crimson wine into her throat. Righting the horn, she gave it to Riyan. He offered it first to Clutha—who was shaking so hard with repressed laughter that he nearly missed his open jaws—and then took a large mouthful for himself.
“My lord, my lady,”- Riyan said to them as he re-corked the flask and hung it around his shoulder by its silver chain, “I wish for you what you’ve so graciously made sure of for me—may you never, ever thirst!”
Everyone was more than glad of the chance to laugh. Clay slapped Ostvel on the back and announced, “That boy’s got style!” as Riyan made his bow to Clutha and Gennadi. Rohan, Sioned, and Pol were grinning broadly as the young knight approached and bent low before them.
Ostvel, rigid with nerves during Riyan’s presentation, nearly wilted with relief as his son walked over to him. But he quickly recovered himself, turned to Chay, and said slyly, “Now, my old friend—are you seriously willing to see anyone with less style riding that beautiful dapple-gray mare?”
Chay might have been proof against Ostvel’s blandishment, but when-Princess Alasen turned the full force of her eyes on him and pleaded Riyan’s case, he was lost. His wife saw it, and laughed.
“Give in, you old miser,” she scolded, nudging him with an ungentle elbow. “You’d never be happy if anybody else rode Dalziel and you know it.”
Chay groaned. But by the time Riyan joined them to collect congratulations and embraces, he was resigned. “Well, it looks as if you’ll be riding off with my prize mare this year, thanks to your father—and a certain pair of big green eyes I should know by now how to resist,” he added in Alasen’s direction. “Sioned has a look just like that!”
Again Andry felt a delicate, exquisite twisting in his chest when Riyan bent over Alasen’s wrist to thank her. When she smiled, the ache was worse. And when she glanced laughingly at him, those green eyes alight, he suddenly knew what was wrong with him.
To hide it, he looked away. It was the worst possible thing he could have done. Alasen was no fool. Only three winters his senior, she had lived at a great palace all her life and not in the relative isolation of Goddess Keep for the last six years, as he had. She had seen his like before, known the adoration of countless young men ever since she could remember. She knew exactly what he felt. And she would laugh, amused to have collected yet another heart, and pity him for giving that heart where it could find no home. Doubtless his feelings, so vital to him, would be to her just the worship of one more callow fool too young to know what love was. Bitterly humiliated, he compelled himself to have the courage to look her in * the face.
What he saw stunned him.
Her eyes were clear and soft and gentle. She was not laughing at him. She did not pity him. She knew what he felt for her. But she did not smile in kind rejection.
Alasen might not love him, but she was shyly pleased that he loved her.
Andry’s world turned to hazy colors, all unfocused around the green of her eyes, the ivory of her skin, the sweet rose of her mouth, the rich gold-lit brown of her hair. Sunlight spun through him seemingly of its own accord, and through it he felt her other colors: glowing moonstone, bright ruby, deep onyx. She gasped softly, feeling the woven light lace its brilliance around and through her. All the colors of late summer swirled around them, sweet and shining in a dance fitted to the music of birds and wind and the coursing of blood in their veins. Andry realized it was Alasen’s first experience of her faradhi gifts, and in soaring joy knew it was something only he could show her.
Delight flushed her cheeks as she gazed up into his eyes, and they were the only people in the world for many shared heartbeats. But all at once there was a world again, its demand harsh and frightening as through their enchantment they both heard the name Masul.
He strode up to the place where all the other squires had been knighted. But his sponsor was not Kiele’s husband Lord Lyell. At his side was Miyon of Cunaxa, whose bright orange tunic Masul wore. The outrageous presumption of the man, the sheer audacity of it, spread shocked silence over the knoll like a cloud. Andry’s gentle glowing haze of color became so sharply focused that he winced. He saw with painful clarity the white fury of
Rohan’s face, the crimson of Chay’s as he fought down terrible rage.
The formula rang out mockingly as Masul knelt before Miyon and the latter said, “I have examined this candidate in all aspects, and found him worthy of my sponsorship for knighthood. Therefore I charge him to serve the Goddess and the truth, to live honorably and courageously in rich times and in bitter. In token of both I give him bread and salt, and in token of his new and honored state I give this golden buckle.”
Loaf and vial were presented, and Masul’s violet belt decorated with a large hollow circle of gold, pierced with gold. Then, grinning slyly, Miyon called one of his squires forward and a startled gasp went through the audience, for with the presentation of the final gift it was remembered that Cunaxa, home of the finest metalsmiths on the continent, traditionally gave as its special gift a sword.
Newly girded with a magnificent blade in a gorgeous scabbard set like the hilt with amethysts, Masul sauntered a few paces and made his brief, mocking bow to Rohan, Sioned, and Pol. The first nodded curtly, rigid with his effort at control. Sioned, equally furious, acknowledged Masul’s salute with a grim stare. But the boy, for all his youth and inexperience, was the one who saved the disaster for them.
With absolute, proud calm, and in a clear voice that carried across the grassy knoll, he said, “Something mars your appearance.”
Masul straightened up and stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Your belt.” The corners of Pol’s mouth lifted in a tiny, cold smile. “Violet with orange—what a painful mistake in color, especially to a Sunrunner’s eyes. And I am certain it was a mistake.”
“Violet is the color of Princemarch,” Masul replied with scant courtesy to this stripling prince he could have broken in half.
“And Princemarch,” Pol informed him pleasantly, “is mine. Be so good as to rectify the mistake, and remove the belt.”
If he refused, there would be pandemonium. If he obeyed—
Miyon hastened forward and whispered something urgent in Masul’s ear. The pretender’s face turned several sequentially darker shades of red. Miyon said something else, and backed away. And Masul, salvaging what he could of a battle he had lost, undid the golden buckle so recently clasped around his waist.
“As you wish—my lord,” he added insultingly. The sight of him juggling loaf, salt, and sword while trying to undo the buckle from the leather brought grins and ‘even a few open titters of laughter. But Pol waited with perfect aplomb while Masul struggled to maintain his dignity and comply with a request he dared not refuse. Pol was in the right. Princemarch still belonged to him. Defiance now would be foolhardy.
The long strip of violet-dyed leather was freed. Masul held it in one fist, as if strangling a poisonous snake. Pol was wise enough not to extend his hands for it, and thus Masul did not have the satisfaction of dropping it into the dirt for Pol to retrieve. Tallain appeared silently at Masul’s side, and before the pretender could even consider throwing it to the ground, took the belt and coiled it nearly as he returned to his post near the royal trio.
Pol nodded graciously. “Now you look much better, and your tunic is much easier on the eyes. You have our permission to withdraw.”
Masul’s green eyes bored into his. “Keep your precious color, princeling,” he sneered.
“I intend to,” Pol replied.
With Miyon in attendance, Masul stalked off down the hill. He was not even out of sight before someone, no one ever knew who, sent up a raucous cheer that was Pol’s name.
Andry, who had watched the whole with his breath caught in his throat, laughed aloud and joined his family in its surge to Rohan, Sioned, and Pol. If there were disgruntled partisans of the pretender on that hillside, they vanished quickly in the wake of Pol’s small, telling triumph.
A little while later, when everyone was heading down the knoll to their camps, Alasen caught up to Andry and asked, “I understand what Prince Pol did—and it was masterful—but why was that man knighted?”
“It wasn’t just to irritate us,” Andry agreed.
“Yes, our young prince did very well today, didn’t he?” Ostvel said from behind them, where he walked with Riyan and Chay. “I thought the pretender would have a seizure! Pol’s definitely his father’s son, Chay.”
“A fact Masul is currently cursing,” Andry’s father replied with a tight grin. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to hurry back to camp. I want to be the one to tell old Lleyn about this.”
“Do it carefully!” Ostvel called after him. “He’s likely to laugh himself into a fit!”
“My lord,” Alasen said to Ostvel, “I still don’t understand why—“
“Just for spite, my lady,” Riyan said quickly. “Father, Tallain says we’re to meet their graces immediately after this. We’d best hurry.”
“Of course. Andry, will you see Princess Alasen safe to her father’s care? We seem to have been separated from his grace in the crowd.”
Andry would have kept her safe even if a thousand mounted knights suddenly thundered down on them. He suspected his face showed it as he said, “Of course, my lord.”
“Good. I leave you in his capable hands, then, my lady.” Ostvel smiled again at Alasen, and she smiled back.
“They didn’t answer us,” she said when they had gone.
“No.” Andry couldn’t bring himself to care. “My lady—Alasen—“
She blushed and his heart turned over. It was a very long time before either remembered that they were supposed to be going to her father’s tents.
* * *
Andrade glanced up. Ostvel was holding her cloak over one arm, his face in shadow. No lamps had been lit, and the setting sun had turned the white tent to gray mist around them. She rose, smoothed her hair, and allowed him to drape the cloak around her shoulders.
“My Lady—“
“No.” She heard her voice sharp with nervous tension, and clenched her fists beneath the* concealing folds of material. “No,” she said again, more softly. “All will be well.”
“There’s nothing I can say to dissuade you.”
“Of course not. Hurry up. This must be done before moonrise. Is everyone assembled?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get this over with. I’ve had enough of this Masul person.”
“As have we all,” he muttered.
The late sun hovered in a sky washed pale yellow. Andrade mounted the knoll where knighting ceremonies had been held that afternoon. She smelled rain in the air, and fear not her own, as she stood outside the circle assembled on the hill. Twenty-five people stood around an empty firepit, a necklace of princely power threaded by faradh’im. When Andrade and Urival joined them, they would number twenty-seven—one of the multiples of three strictly prescribed for what she was about to do. Andrade found the mystical significance of three absurd, and suspected Lady Merisel had, too. But she did not dare flout traditions she knew nothing about.
Andrade had carefully planned the balance of powers, both political and faradhi, around the circle. There was nothing in the Star Scroll that demanded it, but her own sense of balance had focused the two conflicting sides directly opposite each other. Sioned acted as the Desert’s Sunrunner, as usual; Rohan stood to her right, his eyes dark with guilt. Pol had insisted on his privilege as titular ruler of Princemarch—and Pandsala could not have joined the circle in any case, for the presence of persons who could appear in this kind of conjure was forbidden. To-bin, despite her mere three honorary rings and her lack of formal training at Goddess Keep, was acting as Pol’s Sunrunner. On the other side of the circle were Miyon of Cunaxa and the four other princes who supported Ma-sul’s claim. Faradh’im, including Hollis, stood between them. Chale had selected Riyan as his Sunrunner. Andry had asked for and received permission to stand with Volog as his faradhi link in the circle. On his other side was Lleyn, with Maarken at his side. Lady Eneida represented Firon; Urival would stand with her. Young Se- jast had volunteered to act as Davvi’s faradhi. They completed the circle next to Sioned.
They were all looking at her with differing mixtures of wary apprehension, worry, and simple curiosity. Urival took her cloak at a gesture of her fingers, and she spared a glance for the swords and knives laid neatly out on a blanket on the grass. Ostvel would watch over them—and over Chiana and Masul, who also could not be part of the circle. Others stood outside, as well: Chay and Sorin with Alasen, Tilal and Kostas beside Gemma and Dan-ladi. Pandsala stayed apart, seeming calm and confident until one saw her deep, shadow-bruised eyes.
Kiele had the temerity to approach Andrade, but one cold look kept her from speaking. She returned to Mask’s side. The pretender arched a sardonic brow at the Lady of Goddess Keep, but if the expression reminded her of Roelstra, she did not allow herself to think it.
She nodded Urival to his place in the circle and entered it herself, standing before the firepit. Logs had been stacked in a heavy triangle, kindling piled beneath them, ready for Sunrunner’s Fire. Andrade watched as the sun dipped lower, the sky gradually darkening. She had only a short wait before the moons would rise; this conjuring could take place only beneath stars. When the first of them winked into view in the east, she lifted one be-ringed hand. Urival stepped forward with a small flask. He opened it for her, took a small golden cup from his pocket, and poured out dranath-laced wine.
Andrade drank it quickly. Almost at once her head began to throb. She drank more; the ache faded to a glow of well-being, an almost sexual pleasure in the flow of blood through her veins and air through her lungs. Heat spread along her body, a slow uncurling of power that nothing in the Star Scroll had prepared her for. The sky went dark while she drank again. And it seemed to her that the stars exploded into being simultaneously, made of a million different colors that she could weave into the fabric of her memories.
She was startled when the logs burst into flame. She could not remember having consciously willed it, yet there the Fire was, flaring up toward the light-dazzled night sky. Someone gasped; perhaps” it was herself. She did not know and certainly did not care. This was power beyond anything she had ever felt. It sang through her, promised delights of mind and flesh and spirit that enchanted her. Sweet, clean, omnipotent, acting on the already extraordinary strengths that had made her Lady of Goddess Keep, the dranath rushed through her and she nearly laughed aloud.
Andrade reached for the energies of the Sunrunners circled around her, wove their varying colors into a taut, •shining fabric disciplined by her strong mind. It was a cloak she wore for only an instant before it melted into her flesh and became part of her augmented powers. So this was a sorcerer’s way, she thought, this was what she had been so afraid of. How foolish! The ascent was dazzling. She had no thought for the fall.
Turning her face to the flames that leaped higher, higher with her every thought, she effortlessly caused the scenes of her memory to play out in smoky patterns superimposed on the red-gold heat. If there were gasps of fearful surprise, she did not hear them. She knew only the soaring glory of power.
The sailing barge swayed with the gentle motion of the Faolain River, the night sky bright overhead with stars. Palila lay in bed, straining in labor. lanthe appeared, lips moving soundlessly, and as Andrade left the cabin she saw the princess sit beside Roelstra’s mistress, stroking her hand. A staircase, steep and dark; a cramped, dim room, where two other women struggled to give birth, presided over by Pandsala. A third clutched her newborn fiercely to her breast. Andrade helped the other two as best she could, then left for the upstairs cabin once more. The night whirled dizzily, sickeningly around her as she stood on deck. The star-dappled water seemed to rise up, trying to claim a Sunrunner. When the world stopped spinning, she was given a swallow from a sailor’s pocket flask.
Memories overlapped skittishly for a moment, the face of the kind sailor superimposed on that of a green-eyed corpse: Mosul’s real father.
Palila ‘s door was locked. Women clustered in the passage, women who were supposed to assist at the birth. Andrade pounded on the carved wood, her rings shim- mering in the light from a nearby lamp. Abruptly the door was flung open, lanthe stood there smiling, a violet-wrapped bundle in her arms.
Palila lay spent against the white pillows now, a triumphant smile on her face. When Andrade turned, lanthe was gone. She hurried into the passageway, where the princess stood with the child, and pushed the blanket from the tiny face. And suddenly Pandsala was there, holding another baby wrapped in gold-embroidered violet. Her face froze in horror at the sight of Andrade.
Roelstra’s presence filled the narrow passage—tall, heavy through the shoulders, green eyes blazing. And while Andrade stared at him, lanthe and Pandsala—and the children in their arms—were out of her view.
And then there were the five of them and the two violet-wrapped children alone in the cabin and Andrade took one of the babies and Palila screamed and Roelstra held a candleflame to his mistress’ hair and she became a living torch and the child in Andrade’s arms reached glittering claws for her eyes.
The power had hold of her now, dragon talons around her mind. No more did she control the visions that swirled and broke and coalesced again in the flames. She cried out at the agony ripping through her skull. It was the touch of an alien thing, a malignant fiery grasping thing tearing at her mind, clawing the faradhi colors away, that soft cloak of additional power gone now. There was only Andrade, her blood afire with dranath, her eyes blinded by a flash of starlight come to earth.
Clever Andrade, said a mocking voice in her mind. So very clever! Daring to use my kind of power! Learn now that this is a sorcerer’s way!
She screamed, fell to her knees with her fire-filled head clutched in both hands, screamed until she had no voice left.
* * *
The circle shattered with Andrade’s first cry. The Sun-runners lurched, some of them slumping to the grass, others held up by the terrified princes. Maarken stumbled over to Hollis, who lay senseless at Miyon’s feet. Pol clung wild-eyed to Tobin as she moaned softly with pain. Barely catching Sioned when she began to crumple, Ro- nan shouted for Chay and Ostvel. The fire and its hideous visions raged on, its roar punctuated by terrible screams.
Urival, with the knowledge and strength of his nine rings that had circled his fingers like fire since the first of Andrade’s working, wrenched his own colors back from the tangled weave. Let Sioned sort the others out; let her worry about them. He flung himself to his knees beside Andrade, rocking her in his arms, his head nearly bursting and his stricken face contorted in the harsh red glow of the flames. He wrapped Andrade in his own colors, vainly attempting to shield her from encroaching darkness. The others were in danger, but he had no time for them. Not now, not when Andrade’s cries were growing weaker. Hanging onto her, his rings burning his flesh, he sobbed and cursed into her silver-gilt hair.
Riyan, Andry—even Pandsala and Alasen outside the circle—all the faradh ‘im were nearly senseless with sudden agony no one not of their kind could understand. The unraveling of Andrade’s power-filled weaving created a chaos of colors. Sioned struggled in Rohan’s arms, her face sheened in sweat as she tried to sort through a blinding whirlwind of patterns that the ungifted could not see. Pol, giving Tobin over to Chay’s strong arms, managed a few steps toward his mother and flung his arms around her waist. She cried out and held his bright head close, separating his glowing colors first. When he was whole again he slid to the ground, shocked and trembling still, but safe.
Sioned worked desperately as the shadows threatened, surged close to darken faradhi minds. She beat back the black mist in a frenzy, reformed the elegant shining patterns of Sunrunners nearly lost. At last she gave a great shudder and collapsed in Rohan’s arms.
The fire died very suddenly, almost as if a gigantic fist had strangled it. No one saw Segev fall to the grass, seemingly in the same reaction as the other Sunrunners. Only he knew that his collapse came because Mireva had at last released him and the fire she had created through him. He lay in a forgotten heap, breathing heavily around a heartbeat so rapid that it slurred in his chest.
Prince Lleyn limped over to where Andrade was cra died in Urival’s arms. He lowered himself to his knees, picked up one of her hands. His proud old face twisted with grief.
Chadric and Audrite approached Rohan where he bent over his wife and son. He shrugged oif their compassionate hands, terrified by Sioned’s spent face, Pol’s uncontrolled shivering. Audrite murmured reassurance with a serenity not reflected in her eyes; Chadric gripped Rohan’s shoulder and said, “They’ll be all right. There’s another who needs you now.”
Rohan looked up, followed Chadric’s gaze to where Andrade lay. He squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head in negation of what he had seen. But when he looked again. . . . Tenderly he touched his son’s hair, his wife’s scarred cheek. Then he went to Andrade.
Alasen was sobbing in a strangled, helpless way in Ost-vel’s arms. Davvi was supporting Clutha, whose ashen face and glazed eyes betokened shock nearly as severe as the Sunrunners’. Some-part of Rohan automatically took note of them all, a warrior keeping track of friend and enemy alike in battle. Sorin bent over his twin brother; Lyell and Kiele shrank back as Rohan passed; Chiana clung to Kalian’s arm, gasping with imminent hysteria. Pandsala huddled on the ground, hugging her knees. To-bin was gathered up into her husband’s arms; Kostas and Chale had Riyan on his feet and coherent by now. Velden and Cabar and Pimantal stood in a little knot of fear.
Masul spoke suddenly, sounds that grated in the cold. “I don’t think anything was proved,” the pretender observed to Miyon, “except that they can prove nothing.”
Tilal answered him, his voice low and harsh. “Close your mouth before I carve another hole in you to keep it company!”
Masul sounded vastly amused. “Is that a threat?”
Gemma straightened within the shelter of Tilal’s arm. “Bastard,” she hissed furiously. “Lying bastard! It’s not only a threat, but I’ll hand him his sword to do it!”
Rohan crouched beside Lleyn. His throat was too tight to ask what he feared to have answered. The old man met his gaze, tears running down withered parchment cheeks, and shook his head.
Impossible. Andrade could not die. Rohan gripped Urival’s shoulder and the bent head lifted for a moment.
There was no accusation in the golden-brown eyes. There was only agony.
Andrade stirred slightly, her eyes opening, colorless and hazy. She saw Rohan and her lips curved in a tiny, rueful smile. “Pol,” she breathed. “Safe?”
He nodded wordlessly.
“Sioned?”
Again he nodded, and the tension left her features. She said his name very softly, with love that was a knife in -his heart. “No blame,” she murmured, her voice thready now. “Forgive me—“
Forgive her? He choked and touched her face. The skin was so cold. “Please—Andrade, please. ...”
“Sorry ... I couldn’t . . . prove . . .” All at once her gaze hardened. “Kill him,” she said very distinctly.
Once more Rohan nodded. Andrade found Lleyn with her gaze and the old imperious command was in her face.
“He will die,” Lleyn told her. “Fare you well, dear friend.”
She relaxed back into Urival’s embrace, looking up at him. Another small, gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. When the light left her eyes, she was still gazing at him.
* * *
He would not allow anyone else to touch her. He himself carried her back down the hill, half-blinded by tears thai were rivulets of ice down his cheeks in the cold night air. They followed behind: princes and faradh ‘im, enemies, friends, blood of her blood, people of Roelstra’s making and of hers. He held her closer, saw the breeze wisp strands of silvery hair about her forehead, saw the rising moons glitter off the ten rings and the chains and the bracelets. Soon enough he would remove them, all but the tenth on her marriage finger, and distribute them amongst her blood kin. And one of them would go to Sioned, as a reminder. But the tenth ring he would leave on her hand, where he would have put his own ring had not Goddess Keep claimed her long before he could, and the delicate chains he would keep for himself.
He heard the others disperse as they neared the torchlit encampment. A few were crying softly; some murmured of comfort or grief or political implication. He carried her into the white pavilion and placed her carefully on her bed.
The High Prince was the only one who dared follow him in. Rohan took a light blanket from the foot of the bed and drew it gently up around her waist.
“She and my mother were twins, but never much alike,” he said quietly. “But right now their faces are the same.”
Urival understood. Milar had always been the pretty one, the bright and lovely one. Yet Andrade’s face in death was smooth, beautiful, its calm giving the lie to the restless impatient spirit that had been freed tonight. He folded her arms atop the blanket, fingertips touching each ring in turn.
“Forgive me,” Rohan whispered.
Urival shook his head, glanced at the tormented eyes. “You of all people should know that she never did anything she didn’t want to do.”
“If I hadn’t—“
He sighed impatiently, wishing Rohan would take his guilt somewhere else and leave him in peace with her. “And if there hadn’t been the Star Scroll, and if lanthe hadn’t been a scheming bitch and Pandsala with her, and if Andrade hadn’t brought Sioned to Goddess Keep—how long must I go on? There’s nothing to forgive.” He paused, then shrugged. “Perhaps someday you’ll believe that.”
“Perhaps.”
They sat in silence for a long time. At last Urival said, “You have to know it now. Andry will follow her and wear the rings.”
“Andry?”
Blue eyes almost the color of Andrade’s narrowed in almost the same calculating way. Urival realized there would be echoes of her around him for the rest of his life. But never the same. Never.
“He’s no more than a child,” Rohan said.
“He’s the age you were when you became a ruling prince. He was her choice. The only choice she could make. Not just for Pol’s future, but for all faradh’im. You don’t understand his power—and neither does he, yet.” And Goddess help us when he does, he told himself.
“If Andrade willed it, then. ...” Rohan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for his sake, Urival.”
Another silence followed, thick and heavy, like storm-clouds that would not break with rain.
“I heard no dragons,” Urival said suddenly.
“Dragons before dawn, death before dawn,” Rohan quoted, low-voiced. “Yes, I would have expected that, too.”
A soft limping step sounded, and both men turned to find Prince Lleyn making his slow way into the pavilion.
“Your wife is asking for you,” he said to Rohan, who rose at once. “Don’t panic, boy, she’s quite all right. Chadric and Audrite have been looking after her and Pol both.” He took the chair Rohan had vacated and folded his hands atop his dragon-headed cane. “But you go to them now. We’ll watch over her.”
When Rohan was gone, Lleyn sighed and shook his head. “I always thought the wind would take my ashes to her at Goddess Keep—not that I’d watch her Sunrun-ners call up Fire for her.”
Urival nodded. “You loved her as I did.”
“No, not as you did. I spent all I possessed of that on my wife. Forty-six winters ago it was that she died, I see her in her son and her grandsons, but it’s not the same.”
“No, never the same.”
“Masul will die for this, of course,” Lleyn went on. “If I were younger, I’d do it with my own hands. But listen to me, Sunrunner. Don’t you do it with yours.”
He had never killed using the gifts; he wondered how Lleyn knew that this was precisely what was going through his mind now.
“She’d breathe down my neck the rest of my days if I allowed it—stubborn woman, your Andrade.”
Yes, Urival thought, she was his alone, now that she was dead.
“I hope you don’t mind if I wait with you. It’s going to be a very long night.”
“No, I don’t mind at all. I think she’d want you here.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Lleyn bowed his head as if
Urival had been born royal. “I’ll stay here, then. We’ll wait together.”