“She’ll be all right now. She’s sleeping.” Volog sat down heavily in a chair near his daughter’s bed. His hands came up to cover his face, and for a moment Davvi thought he might weep in his relief and weariness. But then Volog rubbed his cheeks briskly and raked his fingers through his graying hair.
“It seems I’m forever thanking someone else for taking better care of my daughter than I can. And the thing of it is, she’s always taken splendid care of herself. Until now.”
“It’s the shock of her faradhi gifts, cousin, no more than that. Although I admit that’s quite enough,” Davvi added.
“Yes. But the question is, should she go to Goddess Keep and learn how to use such gifts, or try to forget that she even has them? They’ve brought her nothing but pain that I can see, ever since she set foot on board ship to come here.”
Davvi did not answer. Volog gave him a speculative glance, then pushed himself from the chair.
“I know,” Volog said. “It’s not something I can decide for her.” He led the way into the main part of the tent, gestured Davvi to a chair, and beckoned a squire to pour wine. “I’m curious, cousin,” he went on. “How did Sioned happen to leave River Run for Goddess Keep?”
Davvi waited until the squire had bowed his way out and they were alone, then said slowly, “Sioned was only a little girl when our parents died. I suddenly had a keep to oversee. I was too busy to take much notice of her, and she went pretty much her own way. But when I married Wisla, she was quick to see it—‘a strange way with the wind,’ she called it. One winter night as we sat in the solar, the fire went out and Sioned coaxed it back into being without touching it, without moving more than her fingers. Our grandmother and yours was faradhi. But it never occurred to me before that night that Sioned might be, too.”
“I’ve been just as blind with Alasen,” Volog admitted. “You know, I often wondered what it might be like—I’ve even envied Sioned.” He glanced at the partition behind which his daughter slept. “But not anymore.”
“Sioned has found great joy and fulfillment in being a Sunrunner.”
“Alasen has not.” Volog sipped at his wine. “Ah, well. As I said, it’s her choice to make.” He looked up as the squire came back in. “Yes? What is it?”
“A message from his grace of Isel, my lord.” The boy handed over a folded and sealed square of parchment, and again bowed himself out.
Davvi snorted. “Let me guess. Saumer has experienced a revelation.”
“No bet.” Volog tore open the letter and scanned its contents. “Ha! It seems that not only Saumer but Pi-mantal of Fessenden has had a change of heart. Kiele is confessing to anyone who’ll listen. She had word of Ma-sul, brought him to Waes, believed his story, and taught him Roelstra’s mannerisms to heighten the chance resemblance. She begged him not to kill the Sunrunner, and so forth and so on. I doubt any of it will weigh much with Lord Andry. But I find this very politic of Saumer and Pimantal, I must say.”
“Especially in Pimantal’s case, now that rumors about Lleyn’s grandson and Firon are all over the camps. Volog, I need a favor. When Pimantal makes his conversion public, kick me when I laugh in his face.”
Volog grinned. “Agreed, if you’ll do the same for me. Rohan has his majority now, at any rate.”
“Cold comfort.”
“Indeed.” He hesitated, then asked, “Davvi, what do you know of the Lord of Skybowl?”
If Davvi was surprised, he did not show it. “A good man, the best. He spent his early youth at Goddess Keep with Sioned—married a Sunrunner, in fact, though he’s not one himself. You saw how fine a son he raised.”
“Mmm. Lord Ostvel was of great help to me with Ala-sen. I’d like to do something for him, if he’ll allow it.”
“I doubt he will. But if you approach Rohan and Sioned, they’ll find a way around him.”
“Advice I shall take, cousin.” * * *
By sheer force of will and a flat refusal to let the staggering pain in his head get the better of him, Urival got out of bed, dressed, left his tent, and started walking.
It was still early, the moons just visible between clouds. But it felt more like the deep black time before dawn. The last days had been an unrelieved horror and anyone with any sense was resting. But he had long ago acknowledged that sometimes he had very little sense indeed. So he crossed the bridge and skirted the silent Fair, heading for the field of battle.
He was more or less certain he knew what had happened. The two deaths besides Masul’s, and the burning of his own rings, had told him much. He paused for a moment when the field stretched out before him, thinking about how he had found them: Pandsala, her dark eyes staring sightlessly up at the clouds; Sejast, prone with a knife stuck in his back. Hollis was sprawled nearby, propped on one hand with her head hanging, bright hair tangled around her face. Urival had looked swiftly around him. But no one watched; all eyes had fixed on the little knot of people around Maarken. Quickly he yanked the knife from Sejast’s corpse. Hollis had lifted her head. There was blood all over her.
“He’s dead, then, isn’t he?” she said quite calmly.
“By your hand,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Pandsala tried and failed.” Suddenly tears rained down her cheeks. “Ah, Goddess, the Star Scroll—he knew, he knew, he was one of them, he wanted Maarken dead! Give me back the knife, he needs killing-“
“He’s dead. And Maarken’s alive. Hollis, listen to me!”
But she drew her knees to her chin, arms wrapped around them, and rocked back and forth, weeping, murmuring of dranath and the Star Scroll and sorcery.
Urival shouted Sorin’s name. The young man glanced around, left Andry to Lleyn’s care, and hurried over. At Urival’s direction, he gathered Hollis up to carry her. She burietl her face in his neck for a moment. Then, looking at Urival again, she whispered, “Tell my lord I’m sorry. I beg his forgiveness.”
“He’ll understand.”
“Do you?” Her eyes narrowed.
Urival nodded. “Take her back to the encampment, Sorin.”
Hollis shivered, her gaze wild again, tears streaking through the blood on her face. “But there’ll be no Sejast, and I’ll die—you know that I’ll die without him!”
Sorin stared at her. “My lady—“
“Hush,” Urival whispered. “She’s not responsible for what she says right now. Rest easy, Hollis. You won’t die, I promise you.”
Her hand reached out piteously. “Do you swear? I don’t want to die. Maarken—I want Maarken, where is he?”
Urival placed his fingertips on her forehead and spun sleep around her. As long lashes descended to hide the anguish in her eyes, he told Sorin, “Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”
“If you say so, my lord,” came the dubious reply.
Urival flinched in the darkness now as his boots crunched on glass. The remains of Rohan’s water clock were underfoot, trampled and forgotten. He poked around, careful not to slice his fingers, and eventually found what he was looking for: the golden dragon that had decorated the upper sphere’s lid. He turned it from side to side, rubbed his thumb over the proudly uplifted wings, then pocketed the emerald-eyed token and walked on.
He stopped when he saw the dark bloodstains soaked into the soil. Only a little of it was Pandsala’s, spilled from a wound that should not have killed her. He had taken Sejast’s body from the wash of blood on the ground and hidden it in the nearby trees. He went there now. Insects had not yet begun on the flesh, gorged as they were on the blood. For a moment Urival considered throwing the body in the river. There would be no cleansing Fire for this one. But he rejected the impulse; Rohan would want to look on the dead face, the other princes would need proof that there had been a sorcerer present— and Andry required a vivid demonstration of Sunrunner fallibility.
He picked up the corpse and carried it from the trees. Like Andrade, he had seen and frowned on the boy’s arrogant delight in his growing powers. But that was gone now, leaving only this light, limp body, dark head tucked to Urival’s shoulder like a sleeping child. Who was this boy who would never become a man?
With the compelling eyes hidden, Urival saw softness that lingered around the lines of cheeks and brow, the curl of the mouth. A boy arriving out of nowhere, speaking in the accents of the Veresch, fixing unerringly on the two Sunrunners with the closest ties to the Desert, knowing snatches of the old language. Knowing, too, the uses of dranath and sorcery.
This “child” had lied his way into Goddess Keep, addicted Hollis to dranath that might yet kill her, cozened her and Andry into letting him work on the scrolls. He had spun sorceries hoping to kill Maarken. He had killed Pandsala. Every Sunrunner present had felt his power. He was an heir of the Old Blood, enemy of the far-adh ‘im. And yet he seemed so young, so innocent.
Urival searched for reasons. Sejast’s people had been hidden for hundreds of years. Why now? Why him? What was special about this boy? He had sought to aid Masul, who claimed to be of Roelstra’s blood. How could his victory have benefited the sorcerers? What could possibly connect sorcery and Castle Crag?
The first anyone had ever heard of dranath was when Roelstra used it to enslave a Sunrunner. Alone of her sisters, Pandsala had proven gifted—but no one had ever tested the others. And she did not share the Sunrunner aversion to water. “My mother came from a place known only as The Mountain.” The mountains of the Veresch— whence Sejast had come to Goddess Keep.
Urival stifled a curse as the boy’s head rolled back against his arm. He’d forgotten in his haste earlier to slide the lids closed—and the eyes were wide open to the starlight. Glazed. Staring. He’d seen eyes like that long ago, dead green eyes lit by stars and framed by black hair.
Rohan’s sword had gouged his throat, but still the face had smiled in death, as this face smiled now.
Nose, brow, mouth, jaw—not the mimickry of color and movement Kiele had heightened in Masul, but a likeness, the way a sapling is the young, half-formed version of the parent tree. lanthe had borne three sons before her death, sons everyone thought had died with her—and the mysterious fourth son—at Feruche. Urival had long known their names. And that all of them were alive.
One was dead now. Not “Sejast,” but Segev. Segev, who had killed Andrade.
Urival carried lanthe’s son to the bridge. Aching with exhaustion, he paused in the center of the span. The Fa-olain was dark and deceptively quiet below him. Upriver the water thundered, but from here to the sea all was swift, powerful silence. Desirable silence.
The muscles of his shoulders and back tore as he hefted Segev’s body over the rails and let it drop into the current. The gray-clad corpse surfaced once, then vanished forever.
* * *
“Urival came in just before midnight to tell us the boy, Sejast, was responsible. Sorcerer’s get, living all this time at Goddess Keep. It doesn’t bear thinking about, Meath.”
“It can’t become common knowledge, Sioned. Andry’s going to have trouble enough convincing everyone he’s as strong as Andrade was—if this was known, no one would have confidence in him at all. He let Sejast work with him on the scrolls.” Meath downed his third cup of wine in two swallows. “Goddess! Andrade’s death, and now this!”
Rohan pushed the flask across the table to him. “With no body to hand, we can say that the boy died the same way Pandsala did. The problem is, we don’t really know why she died.”
‘ ‘I can tell you that.” He glanced up suddenly, and set both cup and pitcher down hard on the table, spilling some of the wine. “Pol!”
“What are you doing up?” Sioned asked sharply. But Meath was already rising to give the boy a rough hug.
“Goddess, but I’m glad to see you! Sioned, don’t make him go back to bed. He wouldn’t sleep, anyway.”
She shrugged. “Oh, very well. As long as you’re up, you probably ought to listen so we don’t have to repeat ourselves. Sit here by me, Pol.”
He did so, settling into a place between her and Rohan. “You look tired to death,” he told Meath.
The Sunrunner dropped back into his chair. “I’ve been on horseback ever since word came about Andrade. And you don’t look so great, yourself.”
‘ ‘Why did Pandsala die?” Pol asked softly.
“Sioned was in charge of a powerful conjure, right? Every faradhi in the place dragged into it.”
“And we were winning, too,” Pol muttered.
“Of course,” Meath said, surprised that he would even mention it. “You’ve got a lot to learn about your mother, y’know. From what’s been described to me, all of a sudden you felt like the whole world was shattering around you. I’m not surprised—and I know exactly what it feels like. The same thing happened to me. I was in the middle of a conjuring and got a knife in me. And do you know why I didn’t die?” He paused for another swallow. “I pulled it out.”
If he’d had the energy left, Rohan would have been pacing the carpet. “You faradh’im are forbidden to use your arts to kill. Are you saying—“
“I’ve been reading Andry’s translations,” Meath interrupted. “The precise wording is that we’re forbidden to use our skills in battle. And this is why. A working Sunrunner hit by arrow or sword or knife is dead.”
“But why?” Sioned exclaimed. “There’s no reason for it! Why should a minor wound taken during a conjure kill us?”
“I don’t know. But think about this for a moment. There’s a mention in the scrolls of the Merida and their glass knives. They worked for the sorcerers. Glass was said to be sacred. It became a matter of pride to use glass, almost a religion. It was their hallmark, their signature on a murder. But why glass?”
“Iron,” Pol said abruptly and succinctly. Then he seemed to hear what he’d said, and his face changed. He reached across the table, poured wine for himself, gulped it down.
Meath nodded. “My reading exactly. The knife that hit me and the one that stabbed Pandsala were steel. And I’m betting that Kleve’s wounds weren’t ones to kill him, either. He was trying to use the gifts, and the knife—“
“But the steel was removed,” Rohan pointed out. “It had to be, for Masul to sever more than one finger.” He saw the Sunrunners look a little ill at that, their hands clenched instinctively into fists, and added, “Forgive me. But I don’t see how your theory works here, Meath.”
“I’m guessing that even though the knife wasn’t in him all the time, each successive cut acted the same way, shocking his mind until he died of it. You told me Pandsala had only the one wound on her leg. And yet she’s dead. You also said that just as suddenly as the pain began for the rest of you, it stopped. That must have been when Hollis removed the knife. The iron was no longer disrupting the linked conjuring. But Pandsala was already too far gone. Think of it like blood going to the brain through the big arteries in the neck. If they’re severed, the brain dies. There must be something that happens inside us when we weave light or conjure Fire—something that iron breaks. Thank the Goddess that Sejast was not part of the Sunrunner conjuring when Hollis stabbed him.”
“And if the sorcerers formed the Merida,” Rohan said, “they’d make them use glass because they didn’t trust them not to turn those knives on their masters. Meath, I’ll even bet that the sorcerers forbade iron weapons in their presence. They knew why, but nobody else did. For someone ungifted, glass or steel wouldn’t matter. Both kill.”
Sioned laced her fingers together. “So here’s another reason we must keep this quiet. If anyone knew how vulnerable we are to iron and to sorcerers pretending to be faradh’im—“
“We’d all be dead before next summer,” Meath finished for her.
Rohan leaned back in his chair. He felt a million years old. “Very well. Try this. Pandsala and Sejast died because they weren’t strong enough for the power of Sioned’s conjuring. This adds to her already substantial reputation as a faradhi, a nice bonus. Everyone around the two of them and Hollis was a Sunrunner and in no condition to see, let alone remember, exactly what went on. Sejast’s body is gone—hmm, that’s a problem. How about this: Urival, as chief steward of Goddess Keep, dealt with the corpse in private. That’s only the truth, after all. We can tell Naydra the knife was poisoned. Urival has it right now, and he’ll have to get rid of it. What have I forgotten?”
“Nothing that I can think of,” Meath said. “You’ve a gift of your own, your grace.”
Rohan smiled faintly. “I thought you cured of that ‘my grace’ nonsense.”
“Certainly—your royal highness.” Meath grinned at him.
Sioned rubbed the nape of her neck. “I think we can expect Chiana to be utterly loathsome tomorrow. Goddess give me the patience not to slap her.”
“Are the rumors true, that Halian’s going to marry her?” Meath asked.
“I wish him much joy of her,” Rohan said. “And I pity Clutha more than I can say.”
“The one I feel sorry for is Alasen,” Pol said. He got up and stood behind his mother’s chair to massage her shoulders. “Better?”
“Thank you, hatchling.” She smiled and leaned back into his careful, soothing hands. “Why Alasen?”
“Didn’t you feel it? She was caught up in it, too. And it terrified her.”
“Alasen?” Meath asked. “Volog’s youngest girl?”
“Sunrunner,” Rohan confirmed. “But once she learns to use her gifts—“
“I don’t know that she wants to,” Sioned mused. “She doesn’t much like the idea of being faradhi, Rohan. We had a talk about it—Goddess, only six days ago? Is it really the last day of summer?”
“By dawn, the first of autumn.” Meath pushed himself to his feet. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’d suggest that all of you do the same, if I thought suggesting would do any good. And even I hesitate to give a direct order to the High Princess.”
“She doesn’t obey me, “Rohan said. “Why should she listen to you?”
“Stubborn as ever.” Meath went to kiss Sioned’s cheek. “I can hardly wait to get back to Graypearl, where I do have the authority to order Pol around.” He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Eolie and I have a lot of work to do with you. And none of it has any bearing on being a squire.”
“You mean you’re going to teach me faradhi things?” He stared at Rohan. “But I thought Andry would be the one to—“
“Eventually,” Sioned interposed. “But they’ll teach you certain things you need to know.”
“Good,” Pol stated. “I’m not all that comfortable with the idea of going to Goddesss Keep not knowing any more than the usual new people there. I’m not usual; I’m a prince.” He smiled as Rohan’s brows shot up. “I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that my position makes me unique. And I don’t think Andry is going to relish having the ruler of Princemarch underfoot.”
So Pol senses it, too. The unspoken words darted between Rohan and Sioned.
Meath stretched, bones cracking, and yawned. “I find you rather pesky, myself,” he said amiably. “May I commandeer a bed in one of your tents, my lord prince?”
“Anything not already occupied by one of my female retainers,” Rohan replied equably, and Meath grinned before bowing a good night.
“I think sleep is a very good idea,” Sioned murmured after Meath was gone. “We’ve princes to face tomorrow and a very long ride back home to rest up for.”
“Father, will we be going north to Castle Crag?”
“No.” He elaborated on the harsh monosyllable with, “We couldn’t be sure of getting back to the Desert before the rains begin. And you have to take ship for Graypearl. Lleyn’s letting me borrow you for a little while longer, but has need of his squire—however clumsy and unlearned.”
“Father!” Pol, who knew he was being teased and who also knew why, smiled. “I never get the chance to get arrogant about being a prince. Nobody lets me!”
“And a very good thing, too.” Sioned rose, planted a kiss on her son’s brow and said, “Back to bed. Rohan, leave orders with the guards not to disturb us, please? Urival and Meath were necessary, but—“
“Of course. Sleep well, Pol.”
The boy paused at the partition. “Father ... I know we won, but why doesn’t it feel like winning?”
“I know what you mean,” he said quietly, not attempting a glib answer that Pol wouldn’t have believed anyway. “It didn’t feel like it when I killed Roelstra, either. I don’t know that it ever does, not when people have to die in order for us to win.”
Pol nodded. “I understand. Try to sleep, Father.” “You, too.”
Sioned was in bed when he finished instructing the guards and went into their quarters. Rohan stripped and lay beside her, flat on his back, staring at the blue ceiling.
“And what have we won?” he asked softly. “Pol’s right to Princemarch. Freedom from Pandsala—though not from her crimes. Tilal as Prince of Ossetia one day. Lleyn’s grandson in Firon. Look at what we’ve won, Sioned. And look at what all this winning cost.”
She put her arms around him, shifting so his head could rest on her shoulder. She said nothing, and he was grateful.
“I love you,” he told her. “You and Pol are the only victories that ever mattered to me.”
* * *
Rohan had decided to summon all the highborns, not just the princes. The thirteen chairs and the huge table were taken outside into the weak morning sun. Each prince sat in his usual place, with wife, heir, and vassals, if present, standing behind him. The Sunrunners were grouped at a table nearby, where Andry sat to witness and seal any documents signed that day.
Lady Eneida of Firon had given over her seat at the princes’ table to Chadric on his son’s behalf, and looked relieved that somehow in all the chaos the problems of her people had not been forgotten. A private discussion with her before the general conclave had been most satisfactory; Laric would be welcomed with open arms by a thankful populace when he arrived in Firon sometime before winter began. And after the formal acceptance and acclamation of Lark’s new position, a foregone conclusion, there would be one more vote against Masul. Cold comfort, indeed.
Chiana was, as Sioned had predicted, intolerable. She had taken possession of Halian’s arm and was wearing her most elaborate gown and a brilliant smile, behaving as if she was already Princess of Meadowlord. Her sister Kiele- looked on her with dull loathing; Maarken, still slightly groggy with the effects of battle wounds and the draught given him to ease the pain of his wrist, pushed her rudely aside when she attempted to embrace him in thanks for her deliverance. Rohan regretted the necessity for her presence, and again pitied poor old Clutha his declining years in her company.
Rohan took his time about the business of the extraordinary meeting. First there were several treaties to be signed—not many, as few had been willing to agree to proposals without knowing who would be ruling Prince-march. But now Rohan found them eager to accept the continuance of prior treaties for another three years. They could do little else when the High Prince made the suggestion—in polite tones but with ice in his blue eyes.
With the treaties out of the way, Rohan turned to Laric’s confirmation as Prince of Firon. Lady Eneida detailed the twists and turns of ancestry that made him eligible, and affirmed that she and the Fironese people were more than willing to have him. To Prince Chadric she gave a diamond ring, gem of Firon, in trust and token for his son. Laric’s acclamation was unanimous; again, it could scarcely have been anything else, not when the High Prince speared possible dissenters with his frigid gaze.
The vote was then taken that confirmed Pol’s possession of Princemarch. A mere formality, of course, but one that Urival had been oddly adamant about the night before. It was his view that all princes should agree that he and he alone was the rightful ruler there. Not that anyone had dared say a word when Pol took the seat Pandsala had occupied during the last four Riall ‘im.
Ostvel was then presented to the assembly as Regent of Princemarch. A parchment was presented for his signature—Rohan’s, Sioned’s, and Pol’s already being appended—that gave him Castle Crag outright. He was also given a new seal, the wreath of Princemarch circling a depiction of the keep itself. There was not a whisper of reaction as he signed and affixed his seal, gave over the ring betokening his lordship over Skybowl, and accepted the one Pandsala had worn. He stood behind Pol’s chair, silent and solemn.
Rohan then called Riyan forward and gave him Sky-bowl, but in a different manner than his father had held it. A document similar to that making Castle Crag Ost-vel’s created Riyan Lord of Skybowl; no longer was either holding the property of the Desert or Princemarch. Riyan hesitated, looking at his father, asking silently if he should sign this instrument that would make him an athri in his own right and found their hitherto obscure family in the lands of two princedoms. Ostvel nodded once in assent. There had been a brief discussion with him, too, before the larger meeting, with Rohan and Sioned stating flatly that this was the way things had to be. Ostvel would hold Castle Crag and Riyan would have Skybowl, both keeps theirs by law. The elevation of a pair of landless nobodies—even though one of them was a Sunrunner—shocked more than a few people. But as Riyan signed the document and his father’s ring was placed on his finger, no one breathed a syllable of protest.
It was Sioned’s turn then, presenting a plan of her own that Rohan refused to have anything to do with. He listened stony-faced as she called Sorin forward and named him Lord of Feruche Castle.
Tobin straightened abruptly at her husband’s side, startled. Chay took her hand and squeezed it hard, warning her to silence.
Sioned informed the assembly, “We are grateful to his grace of Cunaxa for offering to supply some of the materials needed to rebuild this important keep so that trade among northern princedoms may be protected in future as it was in the past.” Miyon looked a little sour at this— all he dared show of his fury that Sioned had called him on their wager. Their bet had been on the battle’s outcome, not the manner of its fighting. She sent a brief glance in his direction and went on, “Our beloved nephew will work assiduously, we are certain, for the safety of trade caravans as he supervises the building of his new castle. We confidently expect that by the time of the next Rialla, Feruche will be well on its way to completion.”
Sorin bowed deeply, his eyes alight with excitement at this unexpected honor. Sioned gave him a fond smile along- with a beautiful topaz ring in token of his new status. The look she gave her husband was one of veiled defiance; his objection was not to giving Sorin a castle, but that that castle was Feruche. To the end of his life he would have nothing more to do with the place.
He nodded to Prince Clutha then, who rose and cleared his throat noisily before ordering Kiele and Lyell brought forward to face him. “I’ve never held with this idea of the High Prince’s, that athr’im should own their keeps. All mine hold their lands for me. Waes is mine to do with as I please. And it is my pleasure to reward this pair for their treachery, conspiracy, and lies by taking Waes from them.”
Lyell turned sickly green; Kiele, white.
Clutha planted his gnarled fists on the table before him. “Years ago you were spared just punishment for your unlawful actions against Goddess Keep during the conflict with Roelstra. Penning in Lady Andrade and her Sunrunners with the excuse of ‘protecting’ them—bah! I didn’t condemn you then because she and Rohan dissuaded me. But this time—this time no one has even tried to talk of mercy. I reclaim Waes. You are rejected, homeless, and landless. And I thank the Goddess that your father, the noble and loyal Lord Jervis, is dead and cannot learn of the shame you have brought on his house.”
The old man paused for breath, fixing Kiele with a furious gaze. “You are truly your father’s daughter. It seems I shall be accepting another such as my daughter-by-marriage. But I’ll not have a second in my princedom, especially not in a place where I cannot watch her at all times.”
Chiana lost her triumphant smile at that, looked daggers at Clutha. He ignored her, and Halian’s outraged stare.
“But I don’t believe in punishing innocent children for what their parents have done,” Clutha continued gruffly. “Until such time as young Geir proves his loyalty and fitness to govern, my daughter Gennadi will hold Waes for me. As for Lyela, she’ll be dowered well. No one will hold the children’s ancestry against them, or, by the
Goddess, I’ll have their heads.” He glared around the table to reinforce his point. Then he addressed Lyell. “That is all you may expect from me. Some would say it’s too much.”
Rohan would not meet the old man’s gaze. He wanted nothing to do with this, either, with Kiele’s judicious and legal and necessary execution.
Andry rose from his seat at the small table. “You have indeed been most generous, your grace. May I assume that Lord Lyell and Lady Kiele are no longer under the protection accorded athr’im by their princes?”
Clutha set his jaw, shaking his head. “No. Do as you like.”
Lyell’s eyes closed and his lips moved, presumably a plea to the Goddess for mercy. There was none in Andry’s eyes. Kiele sank to her knees as the Lord of Goddess Keep approached, her tear-swollen face lifted in stark terror.
“My Lord! I beg you—it was all a mistake!”
Andry gave her an ironic little nod. “Yes. And you’ll pay for it, my lady.”
Lyell swallowed hard, then pulled his wife to her feet, holding her up when she would have fallen. “I understand, my Lord,” he whispered. “May I be allowed to speak to his grace?”
Andry nodded again, and Lyell turned to Clutha. “I am sorry for what has happened, your grace. And I thank you for your compassion for my children. I know that Princess Gennadi will treat them gently.”
The princess, visibly moved, opened her mouth to make reassurances. Her father silenced her with a look before she could draw breath.
Kiele stumbled, got her feet under her, and glanced wildly around the assembly for anyone who might help her. “What about the rest of them?” she demanded. “What about Miyon, who believed in Masul as I did? Why aren’t they to be punished, too? Why not take their lands, High Prince?”
Andry answered her. “Your support of the pretender is not my concern. Your murder of a Sunrunner is.”
Scorn curled her lips. “Liar! This is all because of Masul and you know it!”
He shrugged. “Believe what you like. It won’t help you.”
Kiete sucked in a breath, her hand lifting. Lyell grabbed it before she could strike Andry. She shook him off and whirled to face Rohan. But her eye was caught by Tallain, who stood behind Rohan’s chair, and she blurted, “You! You’re kin to my husband, you’re his dead sister’s son! Make them stop this!”
Tallain stiffened and took a step back.
“Sweet Goddess, you’re cousin to my children! Would you see their mother destroyed? In the name of your mother Antalya, don’t let them do this!” she shrieked.
Rohan didn’t glance over his shoulder but he could feel Tallain’s anguish, hear the tension in his voice as he replied, “I agree with his grace of Meadowlord. I’m glad my mother isn’t alive to witness this. You are no kin of mine, but I will do my best for your children.”
“How can that help me?” Kiele screamed. “Damn you, damn all of you—“
“Be silent!” Clutha roared.
Andry lifted one finger, and two faradh ‘im came forward—reluctantly, Rohan noted, no more convinced than Kiele that this was about to happen. One of them put a hand on her arm; she wrenched away from him, slapped his face.
“How dare you touch me!” she raged. “I’m a daughter of the High Prince! I’ll have your rings severed from your hands—“
It was most unwise of her to remind Andry what had happened to Kleve. He nodded curtly at the Sunrunner, who took Kiele’s elbows and held them behind her back. She thrashed and spat, screamed in her husband’s face as he tried to calm her.
“Take her to where Masul’s body awaits burning,” Andry said quietly.
Kiele turned to stone. “Burning?” she echoed, as if she had not heard correctly.
“My brother, Lord Maarken, has asked that the late pretender be accorded battle honors,” Andry explained—not to her, but to the others. “He is more generous than I.”
She looked up at Lyell. “Burned?” she asked incredulously. “He’s going to honor that lying bastard by Fire?”
Her husband gripped her shoulders, all his quiet fortitude gone in a gush of bitterness. “The lying bastard you swore to me was your brother! And it won’t be just him, Kiele. It’ll be us, too. Be grateful it’s not Geir and Lyela along with us!”
Andry lost some of his composure. “Lord Lyell, you had nothing to do with the Sunrunner Kleve’s death. You have been punished by your overlord. I do not seek—I have no reason—“
Lyell met him stare for stare. “She is my wife. I helped her, supported her in forwarding Masul’s claim. I’ve shared her life and her bed. I intend to share her death.”
He loves her—the idiot, Rohan thought. But he couldn’t fault Lyell for his unexpected courage.
“I’d rather die with her, my Lord,” he was saying to Andry, pleading a little now. “I was only concerned for my children. Now that I know they’ll be unharmed. . . .” He shrugged. “I’m as guilty as she, in my own way. I knew what she was doing and I didn’t stop her.”
“But you—“ Andry was truly flustered now.
Lyell almost smiled. His pallid face acquired a dignity as he faced death that it had never had in life. “I’ll die one way or another. Let it be in the Fire, my Lord.”
Andry looked to Rohan for help. Rohan returned his gaze expressionlessly, thinking, I’m sorry, Andry, This decision is yours. This is Sunrunner’s business, not prince’s. And may you remember in years to come that there is a difference.
The young man nodded slowly, whether in understanding of Rohan’s silence or in assent to Lyell’s request, Rohan had no way of knowing. But Lyell took it as acquiescence, and bowed.
After a moment Andry regained his self-possession and said, “I call on all princes and lords here present to witness the just punishment for murder of afaradhi: death by Sunrunner’s Fire.”
Kiele screamed then and did not stop. Lyell gestured the Sunrunners away. He caught his wife in his arms, one hand over her mouth to clamp her jaws shut, and half- carried her as he followed the Sunrunners toward the river.
Rohan saw something puzzling as the rest of the gathering moved to follow. Andry walked apart for a few paces, but all at once Alasen was at his side. She clung to his arm, speaking rapidly in a voice too low for Rohan to hear. Her green eyes blazed with intensity in her white face, but her attitude was more beseeching than commanding despite the fury of emotion in her eyes. Andry looked down at her in sudden anguish, the proud confidence of a Lord of Goddess Keep gone. All at once Rohan understood something that surprised him.
Sioned had seen it, too. She clutched Rohan’s fingers and he felt in her body the urge to go to them, to stop this from tearing them apart. He put his arm around her waist.
“No,” he whispered. “Let them be.”
“But—“
“No,” he repeated.
She pulled in a shaky breath and nodded unwillingly. Andry lifted a hand to brush Alasen’s long, loose hair from her cheek; she flinched back from him. In those two gestures was finality, Rohan thought sadly. He wondered if either of them realized it.
Masul’s body lay on the sand beside the Faolain. The wounds Maarken had given him and the gashes left by Rohan’s knives were concealed by a black cloak that reached from neck to boots. Sunrunners formed a half-circle around him as Andry pointed to the place near the corpse where Lyell and Kiele would stand and die. Ala-sen had gone to her father now, openly pleading with him. They were close enough for Rohan to hear Volog’s reply.
“No. It is the business of Goddess Keep, and none of ours. I understand your compassion and I love you for it, my dearest, but no one can interfere. Mercy is not shown to such as they—else where would the treachery end?”
Rohan saw the tears glistening in her eyes—so much like Sioned’s in color and shape, but without Sioned’s wisdom. Perhaps twenty years ago, Sioned would have begged as Alasen did now. But between that time and this had come long years of ruling and governing, mak- ing hard choices, fighting for the right to make those choices. He glanced at his wife and amended his analysis. Sioned would never have begged. There was a streak of cold practicality in her and she had always understood political reality. If she had not, she would never have been the right woman for him. If Alasen could not, then she was not the right woman for Andry.
The highborns grouped around the Sunrunners to witness the burnings. No ritual of Air, Earth, Water, and Fire would be followed here; no fragrant oil would disguise the stench of burning flesh. The flames called up by faradhi gifts would immolate one corpse and two living beings almost instantly. No one would wait in vigil while they burned, and no Sunrunner-called breeze would waft their ashes across the land. Few would have said they deserved even the honor of the Fire. But though Andry had protested, Maarken had insisted. And the new Lord of Goddess Keep had never gone against his eldest brother’s wishes in his life.
Having failed with her father, Alasen now approached Rohan and Pol. She bowed deeply and without raising her eyes whispered, “Your grace, please don’t let this happen.”
Rohan said nothing, wanting to hear what Pol would reply. The boy did not disappoint him. He frowned and asked, “Don’t you think they merit this, after what they’ve done?”
“They have to die, I know that. And I agree with it. But—“ Her fingers twisted together. “Cousin, I beg you not to let their deaths be on Andry’s hands.”
“Ah!” Pol breathed, glancing briefly up at Rohan, who lifted a brow. “And what do you suggest, my lady?”
“Surely it wouldn’t be too much to ask that they be-that death come before the Fire, so they’re spared that. It would make no difference, would it? They’d still be dead. But mercifully. Without feeling the flames.”
“Mercifully for Andry’s sake, too?” he asked softly.
She nodded, still staring down at the sand. “For his sake more than theirs. Please, cousin.”
Rohan found himself looking into blue-green eyes that asked him what he should do—if there was anything he could do. But it was too late. Andry was lifting his hands and any instant the Fire would blaze up. Rohan said nothing, hoping that events would take the decision from them. For if Pol challenged Andry’s new power this soon, Andry would never forgive or forget. He explored the thought, saddened anew that he took it so much for granted that they would indeed challenge each other.
“My lady,” Pol was saying, “I—“
Ostvel moved beside them, his wrist snapping forward to release a shining silver knife. It sank into the damp sand at Lyell’s feet. He looked down, startled, then swiftly bent to pick it up. As the first flames billowed from Masul’s corpse and reached out to engulf him and Kiele, he thrust the blade into his wife’s heart. As she crumpled, he dragged the knife from her breast and plunged it into his own. They were dead before their clothing singed.
Andry swung around, glaring at Ostvel in blind fury. But Rohan, close enough to read his old friend’s eyes, understood another surprising thing. Just as Ostvel had been lanthe’s death to spare her blood on Sioned’s hands, so he had been the deaths of Lyell and Kiele to spare Andry—and Alasen.