“ Instinct, of course,” Sioned remarked with a casu-lalness she was far from feeling. Rohan gave her a long, slow look that meant her tone hadn’t fooled him a bit.
They had just seen Pol tucked up in bed, exhausted and swaying on his feet. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, sunbleached hair bright in the dawn light filtering through the tent. Rohan had then taken Sioned in to their own section of the pavilion, made her lie down, and had then begun pacing the carpet.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she went on. “He just did it. I can’t describe how it felt to have him suddenly there, all that raw young strength meeting and blending with Andry’s, yet both of them separate. They simply threw the rest of us out of the conjuring, they were that intent on doing it all themselves. Young and very strong, both of them.”
“I saw Andry’s face afterward,” Rohan said quietly.
Sioned sat up, hugging a pillow to her chest. “So did I,” she was compelled to admit.
“I can see where he’d be angry, in a way. His first big moment as Lord of Goddess Keep, and his cousin who’s going to be High Prince shares it with him, his cousin who’s even younger than he is. But I didn’t like what I saw in his face, Sioned. It reminded me of the Fire-dragon you conjured at Stronghold, the one that flew across the Great Hall and melted into the tapestry.”
She shrugged. “Flashy, but effective.”
“You know what I mean, damn it. Andrade was furious and suspicious. Andry looked at Pol the same way.”
“They’re both young, Rohan,” she repeated.
“Young and very strong, you said,” he corrected grimly.
She sunk her chin into the silk-covered softness, and was silent.
“He’s my nephew, my own sister’s son. This is insane.”
Still she said nothing.
“Why should they come into conflict with each other? Their areas of power and influence will be totally different.” He stopped his pacing and rubbed his hands over his face. “Goddess. If Andrade made a mistake in him-“
Sioned bit her lip, then said slowly, “Do you remember that athri from up near the Cunaxan border who asked you what to do about his sons?”
“He had a legitimate one and a bastard, and they both wanted to succeed him. As I recall, the Plague settled the question by taking both of them, and the holdings reverted to Tiglath.”
“Yes. But when he told us about them, and their characteristics, it became clear that both were able enough to hold the manors very well. We talked about it all afternoon. Do you remember what I asked him at the last?”
Rohan nodded tiredly. “Which one, if he gave his lands to the other, would make war against the decision until he could take what he wanted?”
Again she was silent for a long time, and finally said, “Come to bed, my love. At least lie down for a little while, even if you can’t sleep.”
“It’ll be noon before we know it.”
“Yes.”
“Sioned—“
“I know.” She looked up at him. “I’m frightened, too.”
* * *
Pol woke quite suddenly to a queer grayish light like dusk through the wire mesh window beside his bed. He leaped up, horrified lest he had slept past noon. But the haze was only clouds that had blown up since dawn. The sun made a hesitant appearance, then shied back behind a billow of slate-colored clouds. Pol tiptoed around the partition, saw that his parents sat with their backs to him, talking in low voices, and estimated his chances of sneaking out. Returning to his bed, he gathered up boots and a fresh shirt. He paused before leaving the pavilion; his parents were quiet now, and his mother’s hand reached over the brief space between them to grip his father’s hand, tightly. Pol could not distinguish the words she used, but the pain in her voice was achingly clear. He bit his lip and slid from the pavilion.
Tallain was nowhere in evidence, and Tallain was the “only one who might have ordered him back into bed with impunity. The guards merely bowed as he paused to haul on boots and shirt. He ran his fingers back through his hair and hurried to the nearby tent where he suddenly knew Tallain would be.
His instincts proved correct. Not only Tallain but So-rin, Riyan, and Tilal were there, each with a section of Maarken’s battle harness in his hands. They glanced up as Pol entered, and identical small, grim smiles came to all four faces.
“My brother is fortunate in his squires,” Sorin remarked. “Here—your fingers are nimbler than mine, Pol.” He gave his young cousin a vambrace. “Scour the inner part of that, will you? I can’t get at the smaller bits.”
Together they polished steel fastenings and silver decorations until one metal’s shine was indistinguishable from the other. Leather was oiled to suppleness where needed, and inspected for stiffened strength where essential. None of them spoke unless to ask for a fresh cloth or to request an opinion about the readiness of a particular piece—opinions that always expressed satisfaction, but that were only spurs to more polishing, more oiling, more making sure that Maarken’s equipment would be nothing less than perfect.
After a time, Tobin came in with her son’s clothing. Her black eyes acknowledged Pol with a quick gleam. She laid out trousers, shirt, and tunic on a chair, smoothing them, her fingers tender on silk and velvet and butter-soft leather.
The colors dazzled. The shirt was Radzyn’s white, with a red collar and yoke. Sky-blue for his Desert ancestors and pale blue for Lleyn who had knighted him were sub- tly. worked into the thin embroidered bands sewn down the sides of the white leather trousers. But his own Whitecliff’s red and orange dominated the tunic, whisper-light velvet that showed either color depending on which way the nap was rubbed. In it, as his muscles moved beneath the rich cloth, he would look like a living flame.
“If he dares get any holes in this, I’ll take him over my knee,” she said suddenly. And only then did Pol realize how afraid she was.
“I’ll remember that, Mother.”
Maarken entered the tent, his skin sun-bronzed and his hair gold-lit after a summer spent in Princemarch, gray eyes bright as quicksilver. He smiled easily at them all before sliding an arm around his mother’s waist.
“I mean it,” she insisted, looking smaller than ever next to her tall son. “This velvet cost me a fortune. If you so much as loosen a single thread in a single seam, I’ll-“
“I know,” he interrupted. “Stop worrying. And thank you for the clothes. They’re magnificent.”
“Damned right, they are.” She gazed up at him a moment, then reached up and took him gently by the ears to pull his face down to hers. She kissed him quickly and let him go. “I’ll go find your father. Not that you need any help in arming,” she added with a fond glance at the others.
“The only thing lacking is a sword, my lady,” Tilal said, rising. He went to a corner and pulled out a scabbard, presenting it to Maarken with a low bow. “I bought this for my father, and he sends it to you with his love. We’d both be honored if you’d use it today.”
Maarken ran marveling fingers over the garnets embedded in the hilt, then tested the grip. “It’s perfect. I— Tilal, I don’t know what to say.”
“Just tell me you’ll use it. I know you have your own, but—my father also said that at his age, he’s not likely to use this for the purpose its crafter intended. And a sword this fine shouldn’t sit idle in an old man’s feeble hand.” Tilal smiled. “His opinion of himself, not mine!”
“I’ve been to war with Prince Davvi,” Maarken said softly, meeting Tilal’s green eyes. “I’ve seen what he and a sword can accomplish. Thank you—and thank him for me, as well. I’m just sorry it won’t drink anything better than that bastard’s blood.”
Tobin made a soft sound, but instantly recovered and said tartly, “You’ll wield that sword for your kinsman and your prince—and the Sunrunners, too, for that matter. I can’t think of a more honorable first blooding for a sword than that.”
“You’re right, Mother, as always.” He glanced around the^tent. “And I can’t think of more honor than to have princes and lords help me to arm. But it’s getting late. We’d best get started.”
Tobin touched his cheek briefly, then hurried from the tent. Pol stepped back and watched as Maarken first got into his clothes, then stood still in the middle of the tent while Sorin, Tilal, and Riyan buckled him into his battle harness. Pol knew the theory, of course, and had assisted in arming Prince Chadric and his sons on ceremonial occasions. But he had never helped anyone don the accoutrements of war in earnest before, and hung back shyly, wide-eyed.
The red-orange tunic all but vanished beneath the chest- and spine-guards that were buckled securely at shoulders and ribs. The stiffened leather had been dyed the dark red of Radzyn and Whitecliff, and was studded with steel and silver across the breast. Maarken would be fighting afoot, not on horseback, so his clothes and armor were designed to permit as much freedom of movement as possible. When he was almost ready, he waved the three young men away and turned to Pol.
“My prince,” he said quietly.
Pol looked up in awe at this cousin he idolized. Surely there was no finer young man in the world, no nobler young knight, no more admirable Sunrunner. And yet— Maarken smiled slightly, his eyes conveying understanding. Pol wanted to be the one to defend his own princedom, and cursed his youth and lack of experience in battle. He knew it must be wrong to want to prove himself in fighting, when his parents had worked so hard all their lives to spare him from living by the sword. But, coming up on his fifteenth year, and in the presence of the champion who would fight for him today, he realized that it would have been unnatural if he hadn ‘t wanted to be in Maar- ken’s place. He smiled wry assent to the look in his cousin’s eyes, and shrugged one shoulder slightly.
Sorin came forward then with the belt, gave it to Pol. He fastened its white length around his cousin’s waist, fingers nimble on the golden buckle given by Prince Lleyn. Then he accepted the sword from Tilal and presented it. As it was strapped on, he looked at Sorin and Riyan.
“Do you have what I gave you?” They understood at once, and handed Pol the knives he’d purchased for them at the Fair. He showed them to Maarken. “They’re only eating-knives,” he apologized, “not really suited for throwing. But Father always says that you should have at least one in reserve where your enemies won’t think to look for it. Father keeps his in his boots.”
“I know. I have a couple hidden—but these are quite welcome, believe me.” Maarken slipped the knives into his belt.
Sorin asked, “Will you want the helm?”
“No. Nor leather coif, either. I plan to watch this bastard’s face crumple, and hoods and helms only get in the way.” He grinned suddenly. “Besides, it’s damned hot out there.”
Suddenly they were all silent, unwilling to acknowledge that it was nearly noon and Masul would be waiting. Pol gazed long and hard at his cousin, wishing he had words to explain his feelings—wishing he knew what those feelings were. They tumbled in him so quickly that he didn’t know if fear or pride or love or hate or grim anticipation dominated. He touched Maarken’s wrist briefly, saw the gray eyes smile down at him.
“Stay safe, Maarken,” was all he could think of to mumble around a sudden lump in his throat.
“I will, my prince.”
An unexpected visitor came in then—unexpected only by Pol, and respectfully welcomed by all but him. He felt guilty for the distance he wanted to put between himself and Andry, yet the wariness was stronger than ever.
Andry didn’t seem to notice, however. He embraced his eldest brother and said, “Don’t take this as an insult, please—but you must end this quickly. I don’t want the stars shining on your battle. If these sorcerers could kill
Lady Andrade on the starlight, they’d have no scruple in doing the same to you. Guard yourself, Maarken.”
“You can’t mean Masul has them on his side knowingly!” Riyan exclaimed.
“I don’t know what I mean,” Andry snapped. “I only know that this has to be done before nightfall. I don’t know enough about the Star Scroll yet to be able to counter whatever they might attempt.”
^Maarken nodded slowly. “There are clouds enough to keep out the sunlight, Andry. And it’s not even noon yet! I wouldn’t be too concerned about the stars.”
“Well, I am,” his brother said in curt tones.
“Maarken knows what he’s doing,” Pol heard himself say.
Andry glanced at him. “He fights for my honor as well as yours.”
Pol nodded. “I think we’d better get there first, by the way. If Maarken’s late, Masul will only taunt him.” He made an effort at Maarken’s nonchalance, and shrugged. “If for no other reason, he needs killing for the foulness of his mouth.”
Approval shone briefly in Maarken’s eyes. He clapped Pol on one shoulder and said, “Let’s see an end to this, then. I’m stifling in here, and—“
Pol saw his face freeze, and turned. Hollis stood in the doorway, her long tawny hair wild around her shoulders, falling in tangled strands to her hips. Blue eyes, huge and dark in her pallid face, saw only Maarken. Pol’s astonishment and devouring curiosity yielded to tact for the first time in his life; he collected the others with a gesture and led the way from the tent.
Whatever Pol had hoped they might say to each other to mend the breach that had been only too obvious since her arrival at Waes, Maarken’s expression as he joined them plainly signaled that such things had not been said. Pol was suddenly furious with Hollis. Anyone with any sense knew that no man or woman should be sent into battle with the memory of fear-filled eyes. He’d watched and learned from the leavetakings at Stronghold this spring; even though no war was anticipated, a season spent on the Cunaxan border was always dangerous. Especially had he noticed the manner in which Lady Feylin had bid farewell to Lord Walvis. She had embraced and kissed him, then berated him for polishing his damned harness so bright that it pained her eyes to look at him. They had parted with teasing—much the same technique Tobin had employed a little while ago with her son. He’d seen men and women at Stronghold use the same cover for emotion as they said good-bye to warrior wives and husbands and lovers. Hollis would have to learn.
Andry was in the process of making things worse. “Maarken—she does love you, she’s just been ill this summer and—“
Pol fixed Andry with what he hoped was an adequate approximation of his father’s coldest look. Evidently it was more than adequate; the new Lord of Goddess Keep flushed like a schoolboy and looked away. But in the next instant the man who made Pol so uneasy had returned, and gave him a glance of equal iciness. They had met by faradhi means, they two, learned things about each other’s strengths that had not yet been fully analyzed. And Pol had the sudden, sick feeling that whereas he would never come to open battle with Andry, neither would they ever be completely at peace with each other. There was too much power on both sides.
Gentle Goddess, why power? he thought suddenly as they started walking to the High Prince’s pavilion where the rest of their family would be waiting. What did it gain? Roelstra had enjoyed setting princes against each other and reaping the spoils. Andrade had wanted to reorder the continent under Sunrunner rule. Pol’s father wanted to form a fabric of law as wide-ranging as the fabric of light the faradh “im had spun last night. But what did Andry want?
More to the point, what did Pol himself want?
Troublesome questions flew entirely out of his head as he met his parents and the others outside the huge tent. Urival stood stiff and straight, as one who feared that relaxing any muscle would mean collapse of his elaborate defensive structure against grief. Chay was just as straight-backed, but without tension. He moved easily to embrace his son, confidence and pride in every line of him.
“Pol.”
He started at the sound of his mother’s voice, tight and clipped, totally lacking its usual music. He went forward automatically and she held out a plain, thin silver circlet. Only then did he notice that both his parents were wearing narrow bands across their foreheads, coronets carved so that the gold seemed faceted like a jewel. He smoothed his hair and set the circlet in place, feeling its chill quickly warm at contact with his skin. Rare were the times he had worn this symbol of his rank; the last time had been his farewell banquet at Radzyn, just before leaving for Graypearl to become Lleyn’s squire. But today of all days he knew he had to remind everyone of his royal status—as if, standing beside his sternly regal parents, anyone would need reminding.
Rohan was inspecting Maarken’s battle harness, tugging at a leather fastening here, checking a steel buckle there. Pol stiffened slightly, then realized that it wasn’t that his father didn’t trust the young men who had armed Maarken; he only needed something to do.
Finally Rohan nodded satisfaction and stepped back. In the interim they had been joined by Davvi and Kostas, Volog, Alasen, and Ostvel. The latter led Maarken’s sleek and glossy stallion, caparisoned in Whitecliff colors. As if Ostvel were still chief steward of Stronghold and not an important lord in his own right, he bowed low to Rohan and said, “Your grace, all is in readiness.”
Rohan inclined his head once. To Maarken he said, “As it is forbidden to engage in such things within the precincts of the Rialla, we’ve found a field across the river. It’s perfectly flat, with no dips or hillocks to make things difficult. You’ll wait on horseback until you’re called, then ride up and make the usual salutes to me and Pol and Andry. Dismount then, and when Andry gives the signal, begin.” He paused, then said, “Goddess blessing, Maarken.”
As they started off, Andry tried to keep his gaze from Alasen, but could not. She wore a plain gown of pale gray, the color of a cloud come to earth. Her long hair spilled down her back in shining waves of gold-washed brown. The green eyes that were very like Sioned’s refused to look at him; but she often glanced through the veil of her lashes at Maarken where he walked beside
Ostvel and the magnificent horse. Jealousy stirred in him, then vanished. What he had shared with her in the manner of faradh’im could not be rivaled by the sight of his warrior brother in all his brave finery. Andry had held the essence of her, shown her the joy of her gifts. He had restructured her bright glowing colors when she might have been shadow-lost. He had kept her safe. Only let this be over soon, he petitioned the Goddess, and let me have the time to talk with her alone. Alasen would understand and come with him to Goddess Keep, and he would teach her the wonders of being faradhi. They would be Lord and Lady together, with children to come after them, and—
He was brought up short by the sight of the crowds lining their way to the bridge. A strange rainbow fluttered below the gray sky as people waved ribbons of Desert blue and Radzyn red-and-white and Whitecliff red-and-orange—and Princemarch’s violet. He wondered bitterly if they flung that color aloft for Pol or for Masul.
Pandsala joined them at last, empty-eyed. She bent her head to Andry and her knees to Pol, and took a place at the very end of their small procession. Andry frowned slightly. There was one he would have to bring back into the discipline of Goddess Keep. Princess-Regent or not, she was a Sunrunner; Andrade had loathed her and chosen to ignore her existence as much as possible, but Andry was not so sanguine about allowing her free use of the rings she wore. Andrade had been lax with Sioned, too—but whereas Andry trusted his aunt implicitly, he did not trust Pandsala at all. It would be an interesting knife-edge to walk, he told himself: keeping hold of the duty and loyalty all Sunrunners owed to Goddess Keep when some of those Sunruners were ruling princes. He glanced sideways at Pol. Andrade had thought to have the training of him; now it would be Andry who taught him faradhi arts. Along with them, he would instill in Pol a spirit of cooperation with Goddess Keep. He did not delude himself that it would be easy. But Andrade had broken the rule that faradh’im did not become princes; she had hatched the egg, and now it was up to Andry to teach the hatchling where and how he would fly.
But first they had to rid themselves of this pretender who had dared murder a Sunrunner.
The stallion’s hooves rang loudly against the wooden bridge, echoing the thud of Maarken’s heart in his chest. He was disgusted with himself for the apprehension. He had a fine sword; knives enough to back him up in the unlikely circumstance that he lost the greater blade; strength, youth, and the right on his side. For his princes and for his fellow Sunrunners he would kill Masul. He spared a tiny smile for the perfect harmony that mocked his fears of having the two parts of himself come into conflict. If being athri and faradhi both was always this easy, he had nothing to worry about.
But the future was precisely what was on his mind: the day’s work before him and all the days that would follow. Would Hollis share them or not?
She had been frightened, distraught, wild-eyed when she’d come to him in his tent. Fever had swirled in her dark blue eyes, turning them nearly black with pinpoints of silver like lightning flashes through her soul. Folding her to his heart, elated that she was unresisting, he had felt the tremors shake her body that was almost frail in his arms.
“Beloved, beloved,” he had whispered, “don’t be afraid. I won’t come to any hurt, I swear it.”
“How can you know? How can either of us be sure?”
It was he who had drawn away from her, angry and desperately hurt. “If you have no faith in me—“
“I have every faith in you. It’s them I don’t trust.”
“Who? What are you talking about, Hollis?”
“The ones who want all faradh’im dead. The sorcerers. I’ve read about their ways, Maarken, I’ve helped translate the scrolls. Even if Masul doesn’t know about them or want their help, they’ll give it to him. He’s their challenge against us. Not only against the High Prince and his son, but all of us, all Sunrunners!”
Maarken told himself now that he should be reassured by her fear, for it meant she loved him still. Her pleas to be careful surely indicated a heart that was his alone. But just as suddenly her lips had turned cold under his comforting kisses, and she had extricated herself from his embrace with a terse reminder that the others were waiting for him.
As he had walked through the crowds to the bridge, he had seen her standing with the other Sunrunners. Hollis had been holding tight to Sejast’s hand.
His family went on ahead of him when they reached the field. Ostvel stayed behind, holding the stallion’s head while Maarken mounted. Gathering the reins, he looked down at his old friend’s face.
“Remember he’s larger than you are,” Ostvel said. “Test him out. If he’s slow with his size, use that against him. But if he’s quick and strong—“ Ostvel suddenly snorted. “Listen to me, advising you as if you hadn’t been in your first battle at the age of eleven! And as if someone like me knew anything about the arts of war!”
Maarken smiled. “You know more than most, even if you never use it. I remember my lessons at your hands, before I went to Graypearl. You and Maeta used to drill me in swordplay until—“ He broke off, wincing at her name.
“She’d be so proud of you right now,” Ostvel told him. “She always was.”
He nodded wordlessly.
“I’d better go take my place with the others.”
“Don’t worry, Ostvel. A quick victory for me, a slow death for him. I promised.”
“To hell with your promise! Kill him however you can, as soon as you can.” He hesitated. “I’ll keep an eye on your lady for you.”
“Thanks,” Maarken replied awkwardly, not wanting to think about her. He must think of nothing but Masul’s death.
The field was encircled with people now, half a measure away from where Maarken sat his horse. The high-borns were strictly divided between the opposing parties. The common folk filled in between, everyone silent beneath the slate clouds. Maarken looked up, thinking that the sky seemed made of the gray ashes scattered at dawn, as if Andrade’s spirit lingered to witness the pretender’s defeat.
At the direction of Rohan’s guards, an opening appeared on either side of the circle, one of them directly in front of Maarken. The crowd parted on the other side, giving him a clear view of Masul. He wore Princemarch’s violet, damn him, and rode the horse he’d nearly killed in the race. It would be Maarken’s pleasure to claim that horse for his own and treat it as so fine an animal deserved.
Despite the cloud cover it was still a warm day, muggy with a confusion of late summer and early autumn, as if neither season yet had dominion. Maarken felt sweat dampen his back underneath the leather and steel of his harness, and resisted the urge to twitch his shoulder blades against the trickle of moisture between them. At last he heard his brother’s voice, indistinct at this distance in the open air, but he knew what Andry would be saying.
First, the identification of claims. Then the statement of Masul’s crime. The pretender rode forward and halted before the High Prince, making no bow—not that anyone had expected him to. His head was at an arrogant angle as he made formal challenge. Andry heard him out, then turned slightly and spoke again. Maarken distinguished his own name and titles, touched his heels to his stallion’s sides, and reined in neatly half a length from Masul. He bent his head to his uncle and his cousin.
“Be then our champion, Lord Maarken,” Rohan was saying in long-established formula. “As this man seeks to prove his claim on his body, so you will prove ours on your own.”
“I will, my prince,” he replied.
Andry signaled both men to dismount. But Masul had one more thing to say.
“I demand assurance that he’ll use no Sunrunner witcheries in this battle.”
“Given,” Maarken snapped before anyone could do more than stiffen with insult.
“Then remove your rings, faradhi. “
Maarken stared at him. Surely Masul didn’t believe that old tale that a Sunrunner deprived of the rings was powerless. Sioned was proof enough of that; she had worn no ring but her husband’s for fifteen years, and all here had seen ample demonstration of her continuing power. He glanced at Andry, who wore a scornful smile.
“Permission is given,” said the Lord of Goddess Keep, “for we would not want the pretender distracted by his superstitions.”
Maarken nearly laughed. Young as he was, Andry had a definite flair for this kind of thing. He bowed to his brother and stripped off his red leather gloves. One by one he removed the rings he had worked so hard to earn. As he did so, his urge to laugh died away. The six small circles in his palm, silver and gold with small rubies, and one more crowned with a garnet, were integral to his pride. They were part of what he was. He hesitated, then walked over and with a low bow gave them to Pol for safekeeping.
He saw a flicker on Andry’s face, gone in an instant. “My prince,” he said to his cousin, “I’ll reclaim them soon.”
“But they’re still on your fingers, Maarken. Look.”
There were thin bands of paler skin where the rings had been. If Andry had a flair, Pol had a positive genius. He smiled at the boy and Pol’s eyes brightened in reply.
Chay came forward then, leading away Maarken’s stallion. Miyon did the same for Masul’s horse. Maarken put his gloves back on, flexing his fingers within thin, supple leather that would keep his grip on his sword firm and sure, and gestured for Masul to precede him out to the center of the field.
As he followed the pretender, he could sense Hollis’ presence all along his skin. But he did not make the mistake of looking at her.
* * *
Segev shifted nervously at Hollis’ side. He was on his own now, and he knew it. Mireva could do nothing, not in working her will through him nor in telling him what he ought to do. Starlight was her weapon; it was day. She was competent with sunlight, but the clouds blotted out the sun. He should have felt exhilarated by the freedom. He felt nothing but apprehension.
Swiftly he surveyed the crowd. Many for and many against Masul—but none of them with power to do what he could if he chose. If he had the courage. If he was willing to risk all for a man Mireva would eventually kill anyway.
No—not for Masul. For himself. Segev explored possibilities, projecting actions and their probable consequences. If he succeeded in killing Maarken with no one the wiser, then Mireva would have to favor him over Ru-val when it came time to challenge Pol openly. But with the Star Scroll his, he would not need Mireva at all.
Who was likely to be trouble? he wondered, scanning the faces. No Sunrunner would dare any weavings—no usable sunlight shafted through the clouds, nothing to work with. He smiled in contempt at their weakness. But which of them might sense his own working? Pandsala was the obvious danger; her mother had been lanthe’s mother, gifted with the powers of the diarmadh ‘im. Sun-runner she might think herself, but Segev knew better. Urival was a strong possibility. Segev did not forget that he had sensed Mireva’s starlit observations that night in spring.
But only Andry knew and understood enough of the Star Scroll to be a real threat. And that would only happen if Segev was careless.
He watched intently as Maarken and Masul faced off. The first clash of steel sent a spasm through Hollis. Segev had nearly forgotten her. She had escaped him for a time this morning, probably to go see Maarken. As if either of them would glean any comfort from the encounter. He glanced at her white, strained face with its huge eyes, and squeezed her hand reassuringly.
Maarken was perhaps a finger’s width taller than Masul, but the latter was heavier through the shoulders. Still, they seemed evenly matched. Segev cast a quick glance at the water clock that had been brought here from Ro-han’s tent to measure the length of the battle. When the level in the lower sphere had risen one mark, Segev would act. Weariness would assail the combatants by then, and tension would draw nerves to the breaking point in everyone else. No one would pay any attention to the obscure “Sunrunner” youth who would decide the outcome of the challenge.
He hid a grin and pulled in a deep, satisfied lungful of the muggy air. He could wait.