Sunrunner's Fire

1 719: Stronghold

The immense emerald caught and concentrated the fire of the setting sun into a fierce glow alive with green-gold light. Sunrunner though High Princess Sioned was, and skilled in the arts of the faradh’im, the other rings that would signify her rank among them were missing from her hands. For many years she had worn only her husband’s ring, the emerald he had given her half their lifetimes ago. But tonight she could feel the rest still on her hands, as she’d told Lady Andrade: like scars.

There were others with her in the evening hush who wore faradhi rings. The three circling the fingers of her sister-by-marriage, Princess Tobin, were honorary; nonetheless they betokened considerable if informally trained power. Tobin’s eldest son Maarken and his wife Hollis each wore six rings; Riyan, only son of Sioned’s old friend Ostvel, had four. Had Sioned still worn hers, they would have numbered seven—but she knew quite honestly that her talents and her powers would have merited eighth and ninth rings by now. That she chose not to claim them was indication enough of where her loyalties lay.

She lifted her head and met her husband’s solemn expression. He knelt directly across from her on a broad blue carpet flung over dry grass. A golden brazier rested in the center of the rug. Its wide, empty dish, supported by four carved dragon claws, was polished to a mirror’s gleam. Before Sioned was a golden pitcher and a small matching wine cup. She did not look at the latter very long; she gazed into Rohan’s face and, as always, drew strength from what she saw there.

Rohan was flanked by Maarken and Riyan; Hollis and Ostvel sat on Sioned’s right, Tobin and her husband Chaynal to her left. She thought of the absent others, and the reasons why they were not here. Her son, Pol, was back at Graypearl, safe on Prince Lleyn’s island under the watchful guardianship of another Sunrunner and old friend, Meath. Alasen, Sioned’s kinswoman and Ostvel’s young wife, was at Stronghold, but she would have nothing to do with faradhi ways. Although she possessed gifts in generous measure, Sunrunner workings terrified her. Sorin, Chay and Tobin’s third son, was far away, the only family witness to ceremonies that would tonight create his twin brother Lord of Goddess Keep in Andrade’s place.

The gardens of Stronghold were silent. Princess Milar’s fountain ran dry in autumn. Servants and retainers were within the great keep or the courtyards, making ready for departures on the morrow. Tobin and Chay were going home to Radzyn, Maarken and Hollis to their manor at Whitecliff. Ostvel and Alasen would stay the winter with Riyan at Skybowl to the north before traveling to Castle Crag, where Ostvel would assume his duties as new regent of Princemarch. By tomorrow evening Rohan and Sioned would again be alone at Stronghold, linked to family and friends only by her weavings of light.

A glance at the shadows told her it was time. She rested her open hands on her knees, staring down at the emerald. “According to ritual, Andry will call Fire in front of the senior Sunrunners, and Urival will give him the first ring. Then Air, and the second ring. They’ll pause while Water and Earth are honored, and then he’ll have to prove that he can conjure in Fire. At that point he’ll receive the third ring. Just before dusk he’ll weave sunlight to summon the faradh’im resident at Goddess Keep who wear fewer than seven rings. Once he’s done that, the fourth and fifth will be given. With moonrise he’ll demonstrate his ability to weave moonlight, and that will be the sixth ring. Up until that time, the ritual will be as it has always been.”

Chay shifted and frowned, knowing what she was about to say and unable to hide his disapproval of his son’s plans. Sioned gave him a sympathetic look. They had gotten over the initial shock of Andry’s departure from tradition, but acceptance was something else again. It had been several days since Urival had spoken with Sioned on sunlight, his colors flaring with outrage at Andry’s presumption. Certain other important Sunrunners, who would also be watching tonight from great distances, had been similarly informed so their startlement would not disrupt the proceedings. But Sioned wondered what the reaction would be at Goddess Keep itself when the resident faradh’im actually participated in the new ceremony.

“It won’t be sunset there for a little while,” Rohan said. “Chay, you’ve obviously got something on your mind. Say it.”

The Lord of Radzyn shrugged, an attempt at casualness. “Maybe I’m just getting conservative in my old age. Change isn’t necessarily a bad thing. And he seems to have his reasons.”

“But why couldn’t he have waited?” Tobin burst out. “He’s moving too fast. The tradition of hundreds of years can’t be wiped out in a single night!”

Rohan looked pensive. “You’re both right, of course. But consider Andry’s motives. He needs to do something to indicate how different his rule will be from Andrade’s.”

“She’s been dead forty days,” Sioned murmured. “Why does it seem so much longer?”

Ostvel used one finger to smooth a ripple in the carpet. “You’ve told me she was uneasy about Andry. But Urival is there, and knows him well. Urival will guide him.”

“But not control him,” Sioned replied.

“And did Andrade ever really control you?” Ostvel smiled faintly. “Andry’s not a fool, Sioned, nor is he venal or grasping. He’s a very young man thrust into a position of great power before being prepared for it. I think there are those among us who can understand his feelings and his needs.”

Rohan nodded. “Oh, yes. I understand him very well. I’ve been the architect of a few departures from tradition myself, many of them in my first year as a ruling prince. And this is Andry we’re talking about here—a boy you and I played dragons with, Ostvel. Nephew, son, and brother.” His gaze moved around the circle.

Sioned cleared her throat and looked down at the wine cup. Slowly she filled it from the golden pitcher. Then she reached into a pocket and took out a small cloth pouch.

“Sioned—is that truly needed?” Tobin asked worriedly. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do. But Urival was quite specific. And it will only be a little bit. Not enough to do me any harm.” Loosening the drawstrings, she took out a pinch of powdery gray-green substance. “Enough to fit inside a thumb ring,” she murmured, quoting Urival. “The Star Scroll advises caution, but this amount is safe enough.”

“According to a half-translated book hundreds of years old!” Maarken shook his head and glanced at his wife. Hollis did not shrink back from the sight of the dranath in Sioned’s fingers, but her eyes were haunted. She had spent the journey from Waes to Stronghold freeing herself of addiction to the drug; even though she no longer craved it, the anguish of withdrawal was still evident in her pale lips and bruised eyelids.

“The conjure I’m working tonight is difficult enough to sustain under ordinary circumstances,” Sioned reminded them. “This one will take all night. Urival says dranath can increase powers. And he sanctioned its use.”

Before anyone could say anything else, she sifted dranath into the wine and swirled the cup to mix it in before drinking off half the contents.

“I remember how it felt,” she murmured into the silence. “Dizziness for a moment, then warmth. ...” Her cheeks flushed. There was another effect of dranath: sexual desire. Or perhaps, she thought suddenly as she sensed her gifts expand within her, perhaps the power was all-inclusive, and every aspect of body and mind was touched by the drug. She began to sway gently back and forth in response to the humming sensuality compounded of physical and faradhi power. There was a hunger in her, not only for the touch of her husband’s flesh but for the unleashing of her talents. She understood the seduction of the drug. She had always been too afraid of it to analyze its effect, but this time she was going to work with the dranath, not against it—glorious and terrifying and impossible to resist. The demands of her body slowly faded, subsumed into an urge to ride the last sunlight and dare the shadows, to summon a torrent of Air, to call down Fire and in it conjure fateful visions. Sioned told herself she chose to succumb. Her disciplined Sunrunner mind brought forth a gout of Fire into the empty brazier. The polished bowl seemed to ignite. And in cool flames half the height of a man there formed clear, detailed pictures.

Andry, too, had just called Fire. He stood in the courtyard of Goddess Keep, hands bare of rings. All the senior Sunrunners in residence stood in a circle around the bonfire he had just lit. Urival came forward and gave him the first ring. An instant later a whirlwind circled the courtyard, plucking at clothes and hair, blowing Andry’s white cloak taut against his slim body. Urival bestowed the second ring.

Sioned’s view of her old friend and teacher’s face cleared as he faced the Fire. She frowned. Urival’s stern features were set in flinty impassivity, all light gone from his golden-brown eyes. Duty and position compelled him to preside over this ritual; obedience to Andrade forced him to adhere to her choice for Lord of Goddess Keep. He was not happy with Andry’s departure from that ritual. Sioned wished she could reassure him as those around her tonight had reassured themselves. But of them all—including Andry who stood apart—Urival was the most alone.

Sioned heard Hollis catch her breath as Andry made his first change in the proceedings, one that no one had been warned about. As Air continued to spin around him, he upended a pouch of loose, dry soil onto the stones. From his belt he took a glass flask full of Water. He unstoppered it and tossed it high into the air. A few glistening droplets escaped on its upward flight; as it fell it revolved and a stream of liquid raced the glass toward the ground.

Andry spread his arms wide. The spilled Earth was caught by a new whirlwind and rose in tightening spirals. Not a drop of Water reached the stones; the Air seized it, too. Shards of shattered glass glittered like small knives within the vortex as it narrowed. The bonfire swirled in wild patterns, and Earth, Air, and Water were consumed into its red-gold heart.

Andry had brought all Elements into play in a demonstration of power meant to dazzle. Or, Sioned thought, to warn.

He gestured at the flames and within them a conjuring appeared, a vision of Goddess Keep itself, sheathed in light. But it was not the golden glow of sunshine that danced over the walls and towers, nor the cool silvery gleam of the three moons. Icy white starfire frosted the conjured stones in sharp shadows and angles, making of the great castle a citadel of silent power.

Urival stepped forward, his face still expressionless, and slid the third ring onto Andry’s finger. The young man allowed the conjuring to fade, and in his fine blue eyes was a sudden flare of anticipation.

Sunset light gilded the courtyard. Andry used it to weave a summons to the less-senior faradh’im waiting for his call. Dozens of them filed into the courtyard, bowing to Andry and nodding confirmation when Urival asked if they had felt his colors on the sunlight. The fourth ring was given.

At Stronghold, Sioned lifted her face from her Fire-conjuring to the last rays seeping over the western walls. As the fragile, rosy warmth touched her brow, she abruptly knew what Andry would do next, who he would speak to in proving his ability to ride the sunlight at great distances.

So. You’re watching.

How could I not? Sioned replied, not allowing Andry’s colors to drench hers in brilliant light. Goddess greeting to you, my Lord.

And to you, my lady. I see Mother there, and Hollis, and Riyan.

It was a very odd thing to be seeing Andry’s face in the brazier Fire while hearing his voice at the same time in her thoughts. Yes. And Rohan, Ostvel, and your father. All very proud of you, Andry.

And very worried. Just look at Maarken’s face! Don’t be afraid of this, Sioned. I know what I’m doing. Andry hesitated. Is—is Alasen—

No. I’m sorry, Andry. She saw his face change slightly.

I should have expected it. Sioned, please help her to not be so afraid of what she is. She’ll never find any peace otherwise.

She chose her life, Sioned reminded him gently, and you chose yours.

Yes. Of course. A brief pause. A line furrowed his smooth forehead and something close to suspicion vibrated through his colors. Sioned—what is it about your colors tonight? I sense something, I can feel—

The sunlight fades here, my Lord, she replied. You’d best return.

You—dranath! Sioned, are you insane?

With a mannered fillip she disengaged from the contact and nudged him back down the weakening rays of light. She sensed his anger at her use of the drug, and a deeper resentment that she could rid herself of him so effortlessly. She caught a glimpse of Pol in his thoughts and the unguarded hope that the son would not be as powerful as the mother. With the drug singing in her blood she could have followed him while maintaining the Fire-conjure simultaneously. It was an intriguing thought, not the least bit frightening. But she had the distinct impression that she ought to be frightened.

Andry had moved closer to the bonfire. No voices or other sounds carried through Sioned’s Fire, but she knew Urival had asked him to tell what he had done, who he had spoken with. As the sun went down and they waited for the moons to rise—early tonight, which was the reason for holding the ritual now—Andry replied, then went round the circle of faradh’im and touched hands with each.

Sioned remembered the day she had done the same. With Camigwen at her side, joined in this achievement as they had been in almost all other aspects of their training, she had stood before each Sunrunner to receive greetings and smiles as she became one of them.

“Sioned. . . .” Ostvel’s half-strangled voice brought her back to Stronghold.

She looked in bewilderment at his pain-clouded gray eyes, then at the Fire in the brazier. Within, called forth from her memory by her dranath-enhanced senses, stood not the present circle of faradh’im at Goddess Keep but a group of people in full sunlight, herself and Camigwen clasping hands with each. Amazed and fascinated, she let the conjured memory last a while longer, feeling not a bit of strain at maintaining it. She looked for the first time in eighteen winters at her beloved friend’s face, the exquisite dark eyes and the delicate features, watched Camigwen complete the circle and stand waiting with her, practically dancing with excitement as Andrade came forward to give them their fifth rings.

“Sioned—please,” Ostvel whispered, the words raw with emotion.

She gave a start and the Fire vanished. “Ostvel—I’m so sorry, I didn’t think—”

Riyan was biting his lip, as heart-caught as his father but for a different reason: he had few memories of the mother who had died before he was two winters old.

“Forgive me,” Sioned murmured, ashamed.

Ostvel shook his head. “It’s all right. Just—a shock. Seeing her again.”

Sioned thanked the Goddess that Alasen was not present, and returned her attention to what she was supposed to be doing. The Fire leaped up again in response to her call, just in time for those watching to see Andry finish the circle and rejoin Urival by the bonfire.

She felt the latter’s colors as she had known she would, his moonlight weaving necessary to confirm Andry’s Sunrunning. Again it was eerie to see his face as his voice spoke on skeins of moonrays.

He’s a little miffed at you for using dranath, you know.

He’ll get over it.

Why did he go to you, I wonder?

A rhetorical question, I assume. Ah, dear old friend, I feel your sadness tonight. It grieves me.

Don’t worry. I have a very large flask of your brother’s best wine waiting for me in my rooms. I intend to get good and drunk tonight in Andrade’s memory.

To blot out the memories, Sioned corrected gently. I wish I could be there with you.

No, you don’t. You have quite enough to occupy you, High Princess. Well, on with the festivities.

And he was too suddenly gone. Sioned ached for him, watching his face in the Fire as he announced that Andry had indeed completed a Sunrunning to Stronghold. The fifth ring went onto his right thumb, a circle of the special reddish-gold used only by faradh’im.

It was a ring Andry had never before worn. Up until that moment, he had only been reconfirming skills already betokened by the four rings he had earned before this night. But now he was a full Sunrunner, with all the rings, the honors, and the responsibilities this implied.

And there would be more to come, too quickly.

The scene in the brazier continued, showing Andry as he proved his skills at weaving moonlight, attested to shortly thereafter by Urival. Sioned did not know to whom Andry spoke; she suspected it would be someone approximately as far away from Goddess Keep as she herself was at Stronghold. The faradhi at Balarat in Firon, perhaps, or Meath at Graypearl. The idea was for Andry to prove his strength; from the expressions of respect on Sunrunner faces as confirmation came from Urival, he had succeeded admirably.

And here came the next departure from tradition. Instead of the silver ring, the sixth, given for the right little finger, Andry had directed Urival to present him with that plus another silver for his left middle finger. This reflected the change Andry had made in the order of things: now, the sixth would be for an apprentice, and the seventh for full abilities as a Moonrunner. Formerly, the seventh had been for the ability to conjure without Fire. Andry had not yet learned that skill from Urival. Rather than show himself lacking, he had altered the rules.

Sioned tensed as she stared into the flames. She knew what was to come next. The eighth had always been for the teachers, those skilled and subtle enough to instruct others in the faradhi arts. Andry conformed to ritual by calling forward a student of one ring and showing the boy, only a little younger than he, how to call Air. But rather than silver for the left thumb, Urival placed there another gold and pronounced Andry a Master—a distinction formerly reserved for the ninth ring.

Andry had other plans for that ninth ring.

As for the fifth, the Sunrunner’s ring, Andry as a Master was now required to make the circuit of faradh’im. Sioned’s apprehensions betrayed her. As she watched, the Fire flickered and she felt Hollis’ hand on her arm to steady her. But the flames died out, leaving them all in the silvery darkness of moonlight.

“Sioned?” Rohan asked in a low voice, concerned.

“It’s nothing.” She reached for the cup of wine.

Hollis put her fingers over it, frowning. “You must rest. Please, Sioned. I know what dranath can do.”

“I’m not tired. Not exactly, anyway.” She smiled at her nephew’s wife. “I’m all right, I promise.”

“Hollis is right,” Rohan said briskly. “We’ve seen enough. And you’ve certainly had enough.”

“We have to see what he’ll do,” Sioned replied stubbornly. “I’ll take a few moments to rest, but I’ve got to renew the conjure.”

Maarken, leaning around Ostvel and Hollis, plucked up the wine. “I’ll do it.”

“No!” Hollis exclaimed.

“Don’t be a fool!” Chay rasped.

“I want to know,” Maarken said simply, and drained the cup to the dregs.

Sioned tightened her lips over a furious protest. She met Rohan’s gaze. He said, “ ‘I want to know.’ That’s probably the most dangerous sentence in any language. More than one of us here tonight has succumbed to it.” She shifted uneasily. “Including you,” she pointed out. “Of course.” And you, my Sunrunner witch of a High Princess, his eyes said.

Turning to Maarken, she asked, “Well? What’s it like for you?”

“Just as Hollis described it. Dizziness, and spreading warmth. . . ..” He looked startled, then smiled slightly. “And the most amazing need to be alone with my wife—and not just because we’re so short a time married.”

Hollis blushed in the dimness. “That will pass,” she told him.

“Goddess, I hope not!” But his laugh was strained. “This is the damnedest feeling! Like I could use my thoughts to change the tides!”

“Don’t try it,” Sioned warned. “Maarken, be careful.”

“I’m not saying I want to. I just feel as if I could.” He rubbed one hand over his face; the other was immobilized in layers of bandages, wrist broken in his battle against the pretender. “So this is what it’s like to be a sorcerer.”

“Partly, I suppose. But you haven’t the gift for it.” She glanced at Riyan, who did. “Don’t you go getting any ideas.”

“Not if the moons fell out of the sky.” The young man eyed the empty wine cup warily, his right hand worrying at the rings on his left. Then he shook himself and looked across the carpet at Ostvel. “Father . . . I’m glad I got to see Mother tonight. I didn’t know she was so beautiful.”

Ostvel stared down at his hands. “Her face and her spirit.”

Chay’s eyes were fixed on his eldest son and heir, dark brows shading his gray eyes nearly black. When the young man’s gaze lost focus and he turned pale, Chay demanded, “Maarken—what is it? Tell me!”

Rohan gripped Maarken’s elbow. “What are you watching?”

He gave a start at the touch, gulping in a great lungful of air. “I—I think somebody’s watching us!”

Riyan held both hands out before him. They were trembling. His eyes—Camigwen’s eyes, dark velvet brown with bronze glints—were glazed with pain. “My rings,” he whispered, staring at Maarken. “Just like when you were fighting Masul and sorcery was used—”

Ostvel jumped to his feet and hauled his son up. They stumbled toward the silent fountain, where Ostvel plunged Riyan’s hands into the shallow pool of brackish water. Maarken was gasping for breath, supported by Rohan and Hollis. Sioned wove moonlight with desperate speed, but could sense nothing and no one along it.

Then she looked straight up at the stars.

Beautiful, aren’t they? a voice said in her mind, rich with mocking laughter. And you know how to use them, High Princess. Why not use them now to find me? You’ve already made an excellent start by drinking that wine. You’re beginning to understand power—the kind your son will have once he’s grown. Oh, yes, we know all about him, your Sunrunner child who also has the Old Blood flowing through his veins. Someday I’ll figure out whether he got it from you or his princely father.

Wh-who are you? Sioned didn’t dare think. She drew into herself, knowing that to accept the invitation and weave starlight was to court disaster.

Who? You’ll have to wait some years before you find that out. Or perhaps you meant “what.” That’s something you know very well, Sunrunner.

What do you want?

I’ll let you puzzle that one out too for some little while. We’re not quite ready yet, you see. Masul was an interesting beginning, but only a feint. The real battle is before you, High Princess. Do you think you’re up to it? Do you honestly think you can prevail against the ones you call sorcerers?

And the last thing she heard was gleeful laughter on a breath of starlit wind.

Morning sunlight spilled across the floor as Ostvel gratefully accepted a winecup from Alasen, who settled uneasily on a chair near him. “Can you tell me about it now?”

“As much as I know.” He took a long swallow and closed his eyes. “Which isn’t much.”

“But everyone’s all right.”

“Yes. Still stunned, I think, but not from anything Andry did.” He looked at Alasen, touched her free-flowing hair. It was an unusual shade of gold-lit brown, straight and fine as silk thread. Her cheeks were pallid with worry and her green eyes, the same shape and color as Sioned’s, were strained. He made himself smile at her. “Don’t look so grim. There’s plenty of power among us to use against these sorcerers, you know.”

“Riyan doesn’t much like the idea of being of their blood.”

“But we learned something very useful last night.” He explained his son’s experience with his rings. “So at least we can know when they’re working their spells.”

Alasen shivered. “I can understand why they’d be watching tonight, with Andry’s ritual taking place. But why here? Why not Goddess Keep?”

“Perhaps they consider what happens here more important. I don’t know. Sioned says there was no contact, no communication. Besides, can we be sure they weren’t watching Goddess Keep as well?” He drank again and set the cup aside. “We missed the last part of it,” he added idly. “I would have liked to see him conjure with light from the stars.”

“With knowledge gained from the Star Scroll?” Alasen shook her head. “He’s doing dangerous things, Ostvel. And there will be more.” She rose and went to the windows, where dawnlight seeped across the Desert far below Stronghold.

Ostvel gazed at her for a long, silent time. It would be difficult to find a woman more different from his first wife in either looks or character; where Camigwen’s personality had been all angles and bright light, Alasen was made of intriguing spirals and a more subdued glow hinting at shadows. In Camigwen there had been no fear, but Alasen had that summer discovered absolute terror. What for Cami had been joyous and exhilarating gifts were to Alasen things to flee from as fast as she could. Both Sunrunners, one trained and one who would never be trained. That he loved both women was no surprise. That both loved him was a blessing from the Goddess. And he knew that Alasen’s love for Andry had nothing and everything to do with the fact that she had Chosen him instead.

He rose and stretched, then went to slip an arm around her slender waist. “I do love you, you know,” he murmured.

She tilted her head back and smiled up at him. “And I love you. So no more chatter about how scandalous it is that I’m half your age, hmm?”

He laughed. “Well, it is a scandal. A little one, anyway. But I’m feeling younger all the time.”

Alasen pressed closer to him. “Rohan left orders that no one was to be disturbed until noon at the earliest. Are you feeling that young, my lord?”

“My lady, by the time we get to Skybowl for the winter, you’ll have made me eighteen years old again.” The sunlight rippled along her hair and he buried his lips in its silken thickness. Alasen’s hands skimmed up and down his back, lingering over the muscles of his shoulder. Ostvel smiled into her hair and bent his head to take her mouth with his own.

All at once she broke away from him and cried out. Sun flooded her white face and sank its light deep into her green eyes. “No,” she whispered. “Andry, please—no!”

Ostvel caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Once out of the direct glare of the morning sun, she stopped trembling. He smoothed back her hair and waited for the terror to fade from her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “It was Andry—he—”

Ostvel cursed himself. He ought to have remembered, and kept Alasen out of the sunlight. At dawn after the ritual, the new ruler of Goddess Keep wove the colors of all faradh’im present into one vast fabric of light, spreading it across the continent and as far away as the islands of Kierst-Isel and Dorval. With Andry dominant, directing the flow, every Sunrunner everywhere was touched. Through the weaving it was announced that a new Lord of Goddess Keep had been accepted, having demonstrated his worthiness to wear the ten rings. Ostvel ought to have realized that of all faradhi-gifted people, Andry would have singled out Alasen in particular for his touch.

“I should have known,” he told her now. “He loves you. And it’s the only way he can touch you.”

“Sioned must tell him never to do it again.” She raked her hair back from her brow and sat up. “Ostvel, I don’t want him intruding in our lives!”

Ostvel spoke very softly. “He’ll always love you, my dear. And I know that you’ll always love him—just as you know I’ll always love Cami.” He took both her hands in his. “Both of us must undertake not to be jealous.”

“I Chose you, not him. He’ll have to accept that.” Ostvel pressed a kiss into the warm hollow of each palm, and smiled.

Sioned did not tell Rohan about the words exchanged on starlight. She told no one but Urival. And he promised that as soon as he could, he would come to Stronghold—with a translated copy of the Star Scroll.

2 721: Castle Crag

On taking possession of Castle Crag in the spring of 720, Ostvel had set about several formidable tasks—the most immediate of which was to learn his way around the labyrinthine keep.

After spending much of his youth at Goddess Keep, an imposing and logical structure, he had become chief steward of Stronghold, a castle built for defense with a correspondingly efficient design. Skybowl, his holding for fourteen winters, was a small place without need or opportunity for eccentricities. But his new home was something else again.

Cut into the side of cliffs above the Faolain River and built out from those cliffs in cantilevered overhangs, Castle Crag was a maze of rooms, halls, suites, staircases, and the most exquisite oratory in all thirteen princedoms. Ostvel had taken his first tour of the place guided by a small battalion of functionaries, all eager to point out the wonders of his or her own domain within the keep. Their chatter had prevented him from gaining any reliable knowledge of where he was, let alone where he was being led.

That night he had frowned over his problem, knowing that the next day would show him as ignorant of the castle’s environs as he had been at the moment he’d arrived. The servants, he knew, would be watching for mistakes; that afternoon Alasen had lost her way after what she suspected was purposeful misdirection on the part of a page. At midnight therefore he had enlisted her and their Sunrunner, an old friend of his named Donato, in a secret expedition through the twisting corridors. Each of them chose an essential location. Armed with a collection of trinkets—bronze, gold, silver, copper, blue ceramic—privately color-coded to each destination, they spent the rest of the night seeking out the best routes and at all important junctures left behind a vase, a candlestick, a figurine, a dish on convenient tables and shelves. “Copper to the kitchens,” Alasen had recited as they finally fell into bed, exhausted but well-pleased with their trick. “Gold to your library, silver to mine, bronze to the great hall, blue to the gardens. But, Ostvel, what if somebody moves everything tomorrow morning?”

“You forget, my princess, that when you began rearranging our suite you ordered that anything we changed or added be touched only to clean it.”

“Did I?” She chuckled. “That was clever of me.” The next morning all their signposts were still in position. With supreme confidence they strode through their new home. The servants were astounded. Donato even waited three whole days before rearranging the entire system. But the joke had been on the Sunrunner; he was the one who had forgotten the direct route to the back gardens.

Now, a year and a half later, Ostvel rarely needed a glance at the trinkets to remind him where he was. Still, every so often he found himself in an unfamiliar corridor without the faintest idea which hallway led where. On one of these confused wanderings, too embarrassed to ask directions from servants, he had discovered the archives.

He never ceased being grateful to the impulse from the Goddesss that had made him go through the archives himself rather than send them untouched to Stronghold or Dragon’s Rest. The records of five High Princes—Roelstra and his ancestors—and a Regent of Princemarch were stored at Castle Crag, enough parchment to fill a square measure of bookshelves. He had been working methodically back through them since finding the locked door that led into a series of dark, dry chambers. Into history. At first he had thought to have Alasen help him, but one of his first discoveries had quashed that notion immediately. For in the archives he had found Pandsala’s precise, logical, oh-so-secret list of her murders.

Rohan had told him the bare minimum of facts: that during her regency Pandsala had removed several persons she considered detrimental to Pol’s future as High Prince. The disclosure had been brief and bitter. Ostvel had not pursued the matter despite horrified curiosity about what Pandsala had done and how. But he had at last understood why she was a forbidden topic around Rohan and Sioned, and why they had not gone to Castle Crag for her ritual burning.

Roelstra’s daughters, he told himself, shaking his head as he locked his library door and sat down at the huge slate-topped desk. One of a score of keys unlocked yet another coffer of most-secret records. The lesser archives were being sorted by trusted scribes. Treaties, trade agreements, marriage contracts, the everyday effluvia of running a large and powerful princedom; none that held any dangers. But all that was in the locked coffers Ostvel read himself. Roelstra’s daughters, he thought again; the labeled dates told him that within would be Roelstra’s concealed records about Ianthe, Feruche, and Rohan.

And perhaps what he feared to find: record of Pol’s true ancestry.

He flinched when rusted hinges squealed a protest as he raised the lid. At least it had obviously not been opened in years, probably not since Pandsala received the keys he himself now possessed. He wondered what she had felt on reading this parchment giving Feruche to her hated sister, or this copy of a letter from Roelstra congratulating Ianthe on the birth of her first son, Ruval. Ostvel stared at the name, remembering with terrible clarity the first time he had seen it: on Pandsala’s list of murders.

He had decided to investigate the most recent records first after finding the archives, and chose a coffer bearing Pandsala’s seal and the date 719. The top layer had been her private diary, sporadic entries regarding politics and their implications for Princemarch and the Desert; internal difficulties, how she had dealt with them, and what she suspected motivated them; and, dated in the summer of that year, a heartbreaking series of jotted notes regarding Pol.

I am blessed by the Goddess with the presence of the only two I have ever loved. Pol is all I hoped he would be, and more besides. I love him more than I would have loved the flesh of my own flesh. His mother could not love him more. He ought to have been mine! Rohan is as I remember him: as perfect and golden as his son. They both should have been mine. Instead they belong to Sioned. Why does she have everything and I nothing?

But those words had not given him the shock of the other parchments, drawn up as if formal Acts of her Regency. He had found them at the bottom of the coffer, neatly folded, each penned in her elegant script. Sentences of death. And at last he had learned the how of her murders, and the why.

He could see the documents as clearly as if they were spread out before him, could feel again the horror of first reading and realizing what she had done to her own blood on behalf of a boy she did not know was her own blood.

An induced miscarriage for Naydra, depriving her and her lord of an heir for Port Adni, which would become a Kierstian crown holding after Lord Narat’s death. Slow poison laced through the parchment of various letters sent to Cipris, before the latter could marry Halian of Meadowlord and produce a legitimate princely heir of Roelstra’s blood who might one day challenge Pol. A hunting accident to dispose of Rusalka before her marriage could produce an heir. The same reasoning applied to Pavla; the method, the gift of a necklace whose prongs were tipped with a slow poison. Rabia, wedded to Lord Patwin of Catha Heights, had borne three daughters and died in childbed of the third, who survived her—but there had never been a breath of rumor that the death had been anything other than natural. Yet she was on Pandsala’s lethal list, too, the means of her death delineated in bold pen strokes. Hired assassins in Waes had rid Pandsala of Nayati before she, too, could marry and produce offspring. Of Roelstra’s eighteen daughters, the Plague had taken five; Pandsala had eliminated five more; five still lived. Of the other three, Kiele had been executed for the murder of a Sunrunner and Pandsala was dead of sorcery. Ostvel himself had killed Ianthe.

But Pandsala’s crimes had not been limited to her sisters. An arranged accident for Obram of Isel, Saumer’s only son, had left Arlis, grandson of both Saumer and Volog, heir to both princedoms. Thus the island would eventually be united under Sioned’s kinsman. Reading this, Ostvel had thanked the Goddess he had not asked Alasen to help with the archives; her adored elder sister Birani was Obram’s widow.

There were similar cold-blooded horrors to be found in Pandsala’s records, all of them with justifications that were perfectly reasonable by her standards. None of her murders had ever been suspected, and some had been positively brilliant in their cunning. For example, she had marked Tibayan of Lower Pyrme for death because of his intransigence regarding certain issues. He had been one of those rare people to whom a simple bee sting was poisonous. Pandsala’s notes showed that in the summer of 714, she had arranged for a whole swarm of the insects to be set loose in his private chambers. This was her most creative kill, and even through his nausea at her logical reasoning and matter-of-fact death sentences, Ostvel was compelled to admire the woman’s ingenuity.

Success in another murder had not brought the desired result. Ajit of Firon’s death—a seizure of the heart caused by poison, according to Pandsala’s record—had left that land without a prince. But Firon had not gone to Pol, despite his superior blood claim. Ostvel now understood the reason Rohan had given it instead to Prince Lleyn’s younger grandson. Though he had unwittingly profited by Pandsala’s other political executions, on discovering the reason for Ajit’s death Rohan had refused to take the princedom Pandsala wished to give him and Pol.

Pandsala’s final murders, however, had produced exactly her intended result. The deaths of Prince Inoat and his son Jos had left Chale of Ossetia without a direct heir. His niece, Gemma of Syr, married Sioned’s nephew Tilal, and when the old man died they would become Prince and Princess of Ossetia. Pandsala had thought Gemma would wed Tilal’s brother Kostas, heir of Syr, and thus merge the two princedoms; but her major aim had been to bring yet another princedom under the control of Pol’s kinsmen. Through her efforts, Sioned’s kin would rule Ossetia, Syr, and Kierst-Isel; allies would possess Dorval and Firon; Pol himself would hold the Desert and Princemarch. Eight out of thirteen princedoms: not a bad return for a mere eleven murders, Ostvel thought acidly.

Pandsala had had four more deaths in mind. But Kiele had destroyed herself without any assistance. Ostvel wondered if an earlier attempt had failed—which led him to speculate about other murders she might have attempted that were not listed. But whatever her other vices, stupidity had not been among them. Eleven deaths in fifteen years were enough to fulfill most of her ambitions for Pol. More might have attracted suspicion.

It was the last entry that had given him the most worry. Ruval, Marron, and Segev, bastard sons of Princess Ianthe: locations unknown. They must not be allowed to challenge Pol for possession of Princemarch.

Ostvel had stared long and hard at the names, as if ink on parchment could give him sight of their faces. He knew what everyone else knew: all three had different fathers, young lords of surpassing physical beauty; all three had been born at Feruche—Ruval in 700, Marron in 701, Segev in 703; all three were thought long dead. What he and only a few others knew was that they had escaped the destruction of their mother’s castle in 704, carried off by loyal guards on horses he and Sioned and Tobin had ridden to Feruche, stolen from them in the chaos of Fire and panic that night. And he shared the knowledge with even fewer people that they were Pol’s half-brothers. These three, of all persons living, Pandsala would have killed if she could.

He glanced over to the carved wood paneling where a secret hiding place kept that parchment and certain other dangerous documents safe. Old Myrdal, long-retired commander of Stronghold’s guard, had found that niche and many other interesting things when she’d paid him a visit during the first year of his residence here. She had gone through Castle Crag stone by stone and her expert eye had found not only the sliding panel in Ostvel’s library, but hitherto unknown doors, passages, and stairs.

“I doubt Roelstra knew about any of this,” she had remarked as they explored a concealed corridor one afternoon, her limping steps assisted by a dragon-headed cane. “He killed his father, you know, when he was barely ten. Poison, it’s said. If he’d waited for a natural death, he might have learned Castle Crag’s secrets. But you can see by the dirt and the mess that these haven’t been used in a very long time. Probably over fifty winters.”

Ostvel had personally overseen the walling-up of every concealed passage, staircase, and chamber. The servants followed his orders, agape at the revelation of a world within the world they had known all their lives. But certain things he had left as they were, known only to himself and Alasen. The hiding place in his library was one of them; a similar secret compartment in the walls of her office was another—the reason she had chosen the room, in fact. And he left one passage clear, leading from their private chambers to those reserved for Pol when he was in residence, and thence to a concealed exit from Castle Crag. Myrdal had insisted on the latter. “You never know,” she had reminded him, “when you might need to get in or out in a hurry with no one the wiser.”

Not that Castle Crag had been even remotely threatened in centuries. Ostvel hoped that as he went deeper into the archives he would learn who had built it, when, and why. But for now he was more concerned with recent events, and thus returned his attention to the coffer containing documents from, the years just before Pol’s birth.

Roelstra and Ianthe’s alliance with the Merida was nothing new to him, nor was the record of their difficulties keeping those descendants of ancient assassins in line. He smiled a little as Roelstra’s anger spilled over onto parchment in venomous written accounts of the negotiations. Another congratulatory letter to Ianthe on news that she was pregnant again—with Marron, Ostvel deduced—was followed by a return note from her asking about rumors of Plague.

Ostvel set that page aside, unwilling to relive a spring and summer twenty years past, when he had helplessly watched Camigwen’s agonizing death. The next parchment was a copy of an agreement drawn up by Rohan and Roelstra setting the price for the dranath that had cured the Plague. Through his merchants, Roelstra had demanded and received a colossal sum for the herb that grew only in the Veresch. His following letter to Ianthe had been full of amazement and fury that Rohan had produced the required amount of gold. Neither had ever discussed that it had not come from emptying his treasury, but by using dragon gold.

But the cure had come too late for his Camigwen,

Rohan’s mother Princess Milar, Maarken’s twin Jahni, thousands of others—and Sioned’s unborn child. Ostvel’s jaw muscles tightened. Rohan had always suspected but never been able to prove that Roelstra had withheld the drug until certain of his enemies were dead of Plague. It was the Goddess’ blessing that Rohan had not been among them.

He dug deeper, finding a letter in which Ianthe exulted at the birth of her second son, another asking her father to arrange an attack on a trade caravan—and a copy of his testy reply suggesting she get her pet Merida to do it. He wondered at that, then realized that such an attack would bring out the garrison of Desert troops which had been stationed below Feruche at that time. Anything Ianthe wished Rohan to know could be told to the commander, who would tell his prince. There had been just such a gambit when dragons had flown over Feruche in 704; nothing was more calculated to bring Rohan to a place than the chance to see dragons. And when he had ridden up to Feruche, Ianthe had captured him.

Another several layers of parchment dealt with Segev’s birth, Ianthe’s subsequent ostentatious celibacy, her plan for getting Rohan out of Stronghold to view the dragons. Ostvel nodded; his guess had been correct, then. She obviously intended all at Feruche to know that the child she carried that year was Rohan’s; her smug letters to her father gloated on that very subject. But did anyone know this child was Pol? He held his breath when he came upon her last letter.

It’s rumored that Sioned is pregnant—although I saw no signs of it when she was my guest here. I hope one of my guardsmen fathered the child—did I send you details of how often they entertained her? If I forgot, remind me to tell you in person. You desired her at one time, I believe? So it should be highly satisfying to watch her public disgrace. Whatever she whelps, it will be my son and not hers who is Rohan’s acknowledged heir. Soon I will hold the next High Prince in my arms, and all will know him as your grandson. He’ll rule the Desert after we’ve disposed of Rohan, Maarken, Andry, and Sorin—and anybody else who might claim either land or stand in his way. I’ll write again after delivery of our little shining star. And who knows—he might even inherit the Sunrunner gift that appears in Rohan’s family!

How odd, he mused, that Ianthe had used the word Sioned had chosen as the boy’s name. “Pol” meant “star.” Ostvel reached into the coffer once more. Its final contents consisted of a bit of torn parchment bearing words in Roelstra’s hand: Born to my daughter Ianthe, a son, my grandson, heir to Princemarch and the Desert, the next High Prince. May he live a hundred winters and destroy an enemy during each of them—especially his elder brothers.

Ostvel shivered. What a legacy to leave a child. A legacy Pandsala had sought to fulfill, even to planning the murder of her own nephews, Pol’s half-brothers.

But they still lived. They would have to be found and their threat eliminated. They were too dangerous. With a few exceptions—gentle Danladi, quiet Naydra, cowed Moria and Moswen—Roelstra’s offspring were uniformly ambitious, arrogant, and scheming. Thirteen of the sisters were dead, but one still lived who was definitely her father’s daughter.

Chiana was at last a princess in fact. Her marriage to Halian of Meadowlord had given this formerly powerless (therefore relatively harmless) woman a taste of ruling a whole princedom. Chiana had in two brief years grasped as much of her husband’s power as she could. When Clutha died, she would rule, not Halian. Ostvel suspected she would never rest until her son, born this past spring, was High Prince. Though all Roelstra’s daughters had renounced any claim to Princemarch for themselves and their heirs, Chiana had been only a child at the time and could always say she had not understood what she had signed.

Goddess help them all if she or anyone else ever found out that Pol’s right came from Roelstra’s blood in his veins, not just Rohan’s conquest. Ostvel mentally listed those who knew: himself, Rohan, Sioned, Chay, Tobin, Myrdal, and one servant at Stronghold. Not even Andrade had known. If Sioned had her way, no one would ever know, especially not Pol. He doubted the wisdom of never telling the boy the truth, but it was not his decision to make.

He closed and locked the coffer, storing it with the other dangerous one in the secret space. Sioned might just get away with it, he mused. Nothing in the archives even hinted that Ianthe’s fourth son had not died at Feruche. Everyone knew she had been pregnant; many believed the child had indeed been Rohan’s. Ostvel had been at Stronghold that summer and autumn, when Sioned had emptied the keep of all but three servants and spread word that she was pregnant again. Two of those servants had since died, their knowledge of the secret blown away with their ashes on Desert winds. The one who remained—Tibalia, a young girl at the time and now in charge of all maidservants at Stronghold—was trusted implicitly. At Skybowl, where Sioned and Ostvel and Tobin had fled from Feruche and where Pol had been Named, the story was that Sioned, furious beyond reason at knowing Ianthe carried Rohan’s child, had gone to destroy her rival—and that the strain of the journey had brought Pol’s premature birth. No one had ever questioned this tale, though Ostvel was never able to decide whether it was really believed or not. Still, Skybowl’s people had kept the secret of dragon gold. Whatever they truly believed, they could be trusted. And surely any rumors would have surfaced long ere this.

So Sioned was probably safe in her deception. Goddess knew, she had paid dearly for it. Ianthe’s sniggering reference to multiple rapes had knifed through his heart, and with more than the anguish of knowing proud Sioned had been used thus. For to her, none of it had ever happened. She had never said a word about what had been done to her at Feruche; Ostvel had learned of it from Rohan. Neither did she ever speak of that summer and autumn of waiting, or of the night Feruche had burned. None of it existed for her. Sometimes he wondered if she even had a clear memory of that time. He truly believed she had gone a little mad that year. He knew from experience that agony and terror and grief must be cleansed from the heart. Sioned’s wounds were still open and bleeding. Ostvel had known her since childhood; she could hide very little from him.

He twisted the small carving of gilded elk-hoof that fit cunningly into the wood paneling. Myrdal had noted that other Secret rooms, doors, and passages were opened with a similar carving that depicted a rising star. Ostvel found it intriguing that Pol’s name was the key to Castle Crag’s secrets, and eerie that Ianthe had written words calling him what Sioned had Named him. And, strangest of all, the same stars provided the light used by diarmadh’im.

The word meant “Stoneburners” and came from the manner in which rock cairns glowed during certain ritual sorceries. Urival shared odd bits of Star Scroll knowledge with Sioned on sunlight, and she passed on some of them to Donato, Ostvel’s court Sunrunner and a friend of their youth. Stars were everywhere these days, it seemed: used in sorcery, Pol’s name, indicating Castle Crag’s secrets—could the place have been built by these diarmadh’im?

Ostvel stretched the weariness from his shoulders, reminded by various impudent aches that this would be his forty-eighth winter. A smile formed as he reflected on where those winters had taken him—from obscure retainer at Goddess Keep to Regent of Princemarch. He had a grown son who was faradhi and lord of his own keep, and an infant daughter whose mother was a princess, and—

He gasped. It was two years ago today that he had married that princess. He barely remembered to lock the library door before sprinting to his suite. A frantic search in his wardrobe had him cursing. He’d had the ring made, he knew he had. Alasen had given him his ring last year; by Kierstian tradition, the partner superior in rank had a second year to decide about continuing the marriage. But this year he could claim her and—where was that damned ring?

Finding it at last, he sat back on his heels and sighed his relief—and toppled over in startlement as he heard Alasen laughing softly behind him.

“I was beginning to wonder,” she said, smiling, “if you were expecting me to divorce you. After all, that ring is the only one I ever really wanted.”

3 722: Skybowl

“You’ll be off to Feruche in the morning?” Riyan asked as he and Sorin mounted the steps to the central hall.

“Why don’t you come with me for a few days? I could use your advice. My little army of architects have battled each other until I’ve forgotten what I originally wanted to do with the place!” Sorin winced. “It took a whole year to clean out the ruins and make sure what was left wouldn’t collapse. Then we had to sort out the usable stone and set it aside for when we needed it. And then another year before the new foundation was set.”

“But you have started to build?”

“At last—and if you can call it that. Miyon hasn’t been exactly eager to pay up his bet to Aunt Sioned.”

Riyan sighed involuntarily with relief as they entered the cool dimness of the foyer. A mere fifteen measures away in the Veresch Mountains, autumn had already brought crisp days and chilly nights. But here in the Desert it was still stiflingly hot, even at nearly sunset.

Sorin continued his good-natured complaints. “He stalled on delivering the iron last winter and again in spring. And all this time we’ve been living in excruciatingly close quarters in the old barracks below the castle. I’ve lost track of how many fights I’ve broken up over what tower goes where, which windows should face what direction, and how many rooms there should be. Do you know we’re still arguing over whether it’s to be a defensive keep or not?”

“Considering the proximity of Cunaxa, the thicker the walls, the better.”

“Granted. But building a warrior’s castle isn’t my idea of fun, and it would be a direct challenge to Miyon and his Merida allies to come and try to tear it down.”

“What does Rohan say about it?”

“He grins and tells me to let the Cunaxans watch and fume while my new keep is built with their iron. But they’re more likely to be laughing. Goddess! You don’t know the half of it. Bracing up the old dungeons was a nightmare.”

Riyan chuckled at his friend’s tribulations. “I heard that out of the kindness of his heart, Miyon sent down his best smiths to work the iron.”

“And I packed them all back to Cunaxa,” Sorin replied vigorously. “It seems their mission was to build me a castle whose underpinnings would make it tilt like a drunken merchant. Before it fell down altogether, that is!”

The two young men washed their hands and faces in a large stone bowl set into a wall embrasure and accepted towels from a waiting servant. Then they checked their relative tidiness in a mirror on a nearby wall. Sorin paused to run careful fingers over the delicate frame, carved with intertwined leaves and apples.

“It’s beautiful. As if dark liquid gold was washed over it.”

“It was my mother’s,” Riyan said. “She never lived at Skybowl, but lots of her things are here. Father brought them from Stronghold when Rohan gave him this castle.”

“I remember her a little, I think.”

“I wish I remembered her more.” Then, more easily, he continued, “Well, we’re as clean as we’ll get without baths. Can’t do anything about the horse-stink, but I trust we won’t offend the ladies.”

“Alasen won’t mind and Feylin never notices—and Sionell’s probably as dirty as we are.”

“Now, now! She’s growing up!” Riyan grinned as he gestured to a guard to open the doors to the main hall.

“Mm’m. Pol’s doing the same at Graypearl, I’m told. Your father had a long talk with Chadric at the Rialla, and Sionell’s not been shy about demanding every detail!”

Riyan spotted Sionell immediately. She sat by Alasen at the high table, playing with his half-sister, Camigwen. Small Jeni was two years old, with Ostvel’s dark hair and gray eyes, but in feature was exactly like her mother.

That Alasen had Named her first child after Riyan’s mother was an indication of the serenity of her marriage; Riyan didn’t know many women who would pay gentle tribute to a beloved first wife.

During the winter of 719, when they had lived at Skybowl while Castle Crag was being readied for them, Riyan had had ample opportunity to talk with his father’s new wife. Alasen had never insulted him by sitting him down to an oh-so-sincere little chat; neither had she made the mistake of trying too hard to take on the role of stepmother. That would have been ludicrous, as she was only three winters older than he. Instead, she had merely been herself: witty, intelligent, kind, and very much in love with his father.

Any awkwardness had been Ostvel’s. Riyan smiled as he took his chair at the high table, remembering his father’s bemused happiness—and the inevitable embarrassment that came to a man who, after eighteen years, took a second wife fully half his age. Alasen’s one comment to Riyan about it had been, “I do wish he’d stop being so silly. It’s as if he expects to descend into doddering decrepitude any moment.” Impending fatherhood, casually mentioned by Alasen early that winter, had reduced Ostvel to stunned speechlessness and a foolish grin that had not left his face for days.

“The horses you bought from Chay must be coming along well,” Alasen observed as Riyan sat beside her. “You’re looking very happy.”

“They are, and I am. But I was thinking about the night you told us you were carrying Jeni.”

She took the baby from Sionell and laughed.

“Why?” Sionell asked. “What happened?”

Riyan glanced down the table. His father, Walvis, and Feylin were deep in discussion with Sorin about Feruche; they would not overhear. “Well, he—”

“Riyan!” Alasen scolded, and held her daughter high in the air to make her giggle. “Consider your father’s dignity.”

“He didn’t have any mind for it that night!” Riyan reached over and tickled Jeni’s chin. “Someday I’ll tell you the story, little one. When you can appreciate it.”

“But what happened?” Sionell insisted.

“He was pouring wine for Alasen when she just up and announced it, and he kept on pouring, and pouring, and—”

“All over my best dress!” Alasen finished. “Not to mention Skybowl’s best table silk, and the best Giladan rug, and—”

“And himself, I’ll bet,” Sionell supplied, grinning. “How did he react when he found out about you, Riyan?”

Alasen winked at her. “I’m reliably informed that his knees collapsed and he fell into one of Princess Milar’s little chairs so hard he splintered the poor thing. Sioned’s been trying to get him to pay for it for years.”

“So that’s why she teases him about it!” Riyan hadn’t known that story.

“I wonder what happened when Prince Rohan learned about Pol,” Sionell mused.

Alasen winked again, this time at Riyan so Sionell couldn’t see. “You’ll have to ask Sioned. Is Jahnavi going to serve us our dinner, or is he still primping in his new Skybowl tunic?”

Sionell jumped to her feet. “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.”

“Take Jeni with you. Her nurse will be waiting for her.”

When Sionell had hoisted the child into her arms and left them, Riyan shook his head. “She’s not subtle, is she?”

“About Pol? No. But then, she’s only fourteen. Wait a few more years and she’ll have acquired all the arts. She’s going to be pretty enough to get plenty of chances to use them, too!”

“I hope she doesn’t. There’s something very charming about her directness. I’d hate to see her become one of those simpering idiots who plague the Rialla.”

She nodded, green eyes dancing. “A plague I notice you avoided quite nicely this year by not attending.”

He groaned softly. “Alasen, please don’t try to marry me off!”

“Not at all. Your father and I are much too young to be grandparents.”

Jahnavi appeared then from the side door to the kitchens, trying not to stagger under the weight of a huge white tureen made of Kierstian ceramic. The boy presented the dish for approval, bowed when Riyan nodded permission to serve, and hefted it onto the table. Silver ladle and blue ceramic bowls were waiting; Riyan watched critically as Jahnavi portioned out the soup without spilling a drop. Sionell had returned to her seat next to Alasen, holding her breath as her little brother performed his first duties as Riyan’s new squire. She sighed her relief when he finished without incident, bowed, and returned to the kitchen for bread.

“Very nice,” Riyan commented so Sionell could hear. “A little lacking in polish, but done very smoothly just the same.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the girl replied formally. But then her irrepressible spirits made her grin. “He was so nervous! You were a squire at Swalekeep, and everybody knows what a stickler old Prince Clutha is for decorum!”

“A stick across my backside once when I spilled a tray of pastries,” Riyan reminisced. “But I doubt any such remedies will be necessary with Jahnavi. I was such a clumsy little mess!”

He did not mention that at eleven years old, Jahnavi had not yet entered into the tortures of puberty, with all its insecurities of abruptly long limbs, distressingly large feet, and humiliatingly uncertain voice. It was foolish to punish an adolescent for what he could not help. Riyan was determined to be more understanding than Clutha, who had been of the old school when it came to training his squires. Jahnavi was Riyan’s first foray into such training. Walvis and Feylin had entrusted him with their only son, and he resolved to justify their faith in him. He knew there would not be many young highborn boys given into his care; Skybowl was a small, remote keep, and he was only a minor athri. Both he and his holding were insignificant as far as the rest of the princedoms were concerned. But others’ perceptions troubled him not at all, for Skybowl was vital to the Desert in a way no one had ever guessed.

There was nothing here that would indicate Skybowl’s importance. The hall was a third the size of the one at Stronghold, and much less grandly decorated. The people were well-dressed and well-fed, but sat at trestle tables on benches instead of in individual chairs. Early evening sun shone through windows paned in clear glass, not the colored Fironese crystal of more fashionable keeps.

High on the walls were torch sconces rather than the branches of white candles Rohan had made popular at Stronghold, and the sconces were made of plain bronze, not silver or gold. Those at Skybowl lived in comfort but not luxury, and nowhere was there any indication of the wealth of dragon gold taken from nearby caves and cached in the lowest levels of the keep.

Jahnavi made swift, efficient work of the bread, then poured out wine and stood at the end of the high table, alert to the needs of those seated there. His parents treated him as they would any other squire; no one teased him or attempted to engage him in conversation. Everyone knew how important this first duty at table was to him. But not even his solemn dedication to his new status could survive when Alasen made her announcement.

It came about when Sionell leaned slightly forward and asked, “Lord Ostvel, we’ve been talking about how men react when their wives tell them they’re going to be fathers. How did Prince Rohan take the news about Pol?”

To Riyan’s astonishment, his father’s face went stone still. The smile that appeared soon thereafter was a trifle strained around the edges for a moment, as if it was a bad fit.

“I don’t really know, Sionell. I was at Stronghold, and they were all down in Syr with the army, fighting High Prince Roelstra.”

The girl looked disappointed. Alasen set down her goblet and smiled. “My dear, listen and watch carefully. You’re about to witness a man making a fool of himself.” To her husband she said, “My lord, I have the honor to inform you that you will become a father once more before the New Year Holiday.”

Ostvel performed according to expectation: his soup spoon clattered from his fingers into his bowl, overbalanced, and flipped onto the table, sending a splash onto his tunic. Jahnavi forgot himself and gave a whoop, quickly silenced by Walvis’ attempt at a stern glare. But the Lord of Remagev was soon grinning along with the rest of them as Ostvel struggled valiantly to recover his dignity, forfeit to a soup stain on his clothes.

“Alasen!” he finally bellowed, and silence erupted into laughing congratulations.

Riyan signaled to Jahnavi to refill all the wine cups. The castle folk down the hall, seeing the merriment at the high table, were attentively quiet as Riyan got to his feet and raised his goblet.

“The Princess Alasen!” he announced. “And my father the Lord Regent, who’s to be a father again!”

The echo rang out from more than seventy throats, and cups were emptied down those throats an instant later. Skybowl’s people had been, until three years ago, Ostvel’s people; Riyan knew that in many ways they still were. He saluted his father with his goblet and grinned.

Wearing a You’ll pay for this, boy look, Ostvel cleared his throat, blotted ineffectually at his tunic with his napkin, and rose to make the required response to his son’s toast.

But he had barely drawn breath when a rush of wings filled the hall and the sky trembled with a hundred trumpeting calls. A stunned instant later, everyone scurried for the windows or to get outdoors. The dragons had come to Skybowl.

Sionell and Jahnavi’s mother, Feylin, was the first of those at the high table to escape the hall. Riyan saw her dark red head in the crowded foyer, but she did not join the rush out into the courtyard. She nudged her way clear of the surging throng and turned for the stairs, bounding up them three at a time.

Sionell grabbed Riyan’s hand. Her round cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes brilliant with excitement. “Hurry!” she cried, and pulled him forward.

They found Feylin where Riyan had suspected, in the uppermost chamber of the main tower. She was leaning precariously out an open window. Sionell let go of Riyan’s fingers and joined her mother. He shook his head, smiling, and put an arm around each to keep them from falling.

“Mother, just look at them all!”

“Hush! I’m counting!” Feylin responded almost frantically.

The dragons were swooping in over the lake for a drink. Some plunged directly into the water for playful baths, while others landed almost daintily on shore. Still more flew lazy circles over the bowl of liquid sky from which the keep had taken its name. A few dragonsires drank their fill, then perched on the rocky heights of the ancient crater to guard their flight of hatchlings, females, and dozens of three-year-old immature dragons.

Riyan watched, enchanted. He told himself that even if not for the honor of holding Skybowl and mining dragon gold for his prince, with all the trust this implied, he would gladly have taken the keep for the sheer delight of watching dragons. As bathers left the water, green-bronze and gold and black and russet hides glistening in the sunlight, wings were spread to flick showers of droplets and reveal contrasting underwings. No, Skybowl could have been as barren and rough as those who had never seen it believed it to be, and Riyan would still have counted it a privilege to live here.

The dragons seemed inclined to linger, and Feylin gradually relaxed as she was given time to do a second count and a third. Sionell and Riyan faithfully repeated the numbers she gave them.

“Three memories are better than one,” she said, “especially when one of them is a Sunrunner memory trained by Lady Andrade.” Stepping back from the window, she sighed. “Just the population I expected from prior statistics. But unless they find more caves, the extra females will die at the next mating the way they did this year, and three years ago, and—damn it, we need more caves!”

“There’s Rivenrock,” Sionell said.

“Which they won’t go near, after so many of them died of Plague there. Oh, they fly over it, it’s on their path through the Desert. But if they’d only use the caves, their numbers would increase to a safe level. I won’t feel confident until we see upwards of eight hundred after hatching.” She paused, then pointed and exclaimed, “See that one over there, the russet one with gold underwings? That’s Sioned’s dragon, Elisel!”

“The one she can speak to?” Sionell almost lost her balance and Riyan held on more tightly to her waist.

“Careful!” he said. “She doesn’t really talk to her—more like shares feelings and pictures with her. Although Sioned says Elisel knows her name.”

“You don’t believe she does?” The girl turned her head, brows raised. “You’re a Sunrunner, too—have you ever tried it?”

“Never.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Of course!” Riyan answered. “But Sioned isn’t really sure how she does it, and she’s cautioned the rest of us not to attempt it until she understands what really happens between her and the dragon.”

“A wise precaution,” Feylin added, eyeing her daughter. “It’s a good thing you’re not a Sunrunner, my pest, or you’d be wild to find a dragon of your own!”

“It’d be wonderful,” Sionell murmured, gazing wistfully at the dragons. “It doesn’t seem fair—I know I can’t ever touch one, but the faradh’im can, and Sioned won’t even let them try! Think of all the things we could learn from them, and what we could tell them!”

Riyan blinked and nearly lost his hold on Sionell. There was one thing that dragons needed desperately to know if their population was to increase to a level Feylin considered safe. Could Sioned communicate it to her dragon?

He asked; Feylin shrugged. “She tried. She conjures a picture of hatchlings coming out of the caves—and Elisel whines and trembles, and shows her dragon corpses. Even though she’s not old enough to have seen it for herself. Which indicates,” she added with a pleased glint in her eyes, “that they communicate information to each other from one generation to the next rather neatly.”

The sires keeping watch on the crater’s lip bellowed suddenly, and the hatchlings reacted with a flurry of splashing water and flapping wings. Soon the evening sky was thick with dragons, circling over the lake until all were airborne. The sires trumpeted once more and the group set off for the south, where they would winter in the hidden canyons and valleys of the Catha Hills. Several of the females lingered behind, including Sioned’s russet dragon, to chase the slower hatchlings along. Riyan wondered if Sioned would be waiting at Stronghold for Elisel to fly past, waiting to greet her dragon on the last of the autumn sunlight.

Dinner being perforce over, Riyan ordered Jahnavi to have small cakes and hot taze sent up to each bedchamber, and dismissed his new squire for the evening. He then went to help Camigwen’s nurse put her to bed—not an easy task, for the child had seen the dragons, too, and wanted an instant repeat of the morning’s game with her big brother. To the nurse’s dismay, he obliged. Wearing wings made of a blanket, he swooped around the room while Jeni squealed with laughter and tried to “slay” him with a wooden spoon. At last Alasen came in, calmed the uproar, and had her daughter smartly in bed with the promise of one more game of dragons tomorrow before they left for Stronghold.

“But I thought you were going to stay for a little while,” Riyan protested as they left Jeni to sleep under her nurse’s watchful eyes. “I know Sorin wants Father’s advice about Feruche. I was thinking of riding up there with him and Walvis tomorrow.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You three can go while I visit Sioned.” She gestured him to a chair and seated herself on a couch, leaning forward to pour cups of steaming taze from the pitcher which had been placed on a low table. “Rohan wants us to look in on the work at Dragon’s Rest, so we’ll return to Princemarch through Dragon Gap. Just us and the horses, no baggage wains or anything. Although your father will probably spout some nonsense about having me carried in a litter the whole way. Sioned says he was absurd when your mother was pregnant with you and he was certainly that way before Jeni’s birth.”

Riyan chuckled. “From what I know about my mother, I can’t see her paying any attention!”

“From what I know about her, she probably laughed in his face! I can tell it’s in his head to stay here until spring. But if this child is a boy, he should be born at Castle Crag.”

“Of course,” Riyan agreed.

She shifted and looked down at her elegantly slippered feet. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

He held up a staying hand and smiled. “I know what you’re going to say. Skybowl is all I want, Alasen. I’d be a disaster in a place as grand as Castle Crag. You’re a Princess of Kierst, born to that kind of life, and you’ll teach it to your children. Your son can have Castle Crag with my profound gratitude.”

“Are you sure?” she worried. “It’s the most important keep in Princemarch until Dragon’s Rest is finished. And even after, the whole of the north will be governed from there. And it’s the major trading center in the Veresch. Your talents could be put to excellent use at a busy castle like that. And it is your right as Ostvel’s eldest son.”

Riyan shook his head. “He had absolutely nothing to give me until I was six winters old and Rohan gave him Skybowl. I don’t want anything else, truly. I’m Desert-born and bred. I’ve seen enough of other places to know that this is where I belong.”

“As long as you’re certain. ...”

“I am.”

“This is going to sound awfully sentimental,” she murmured. “But if this baby is a boy, I want him to grow up just like his elder brother.”

Ostvel said from the doorway, “I’m sure he will, though it’ll be none of my doing. My children have remarkable mothers.” He crossed the room and bent to kiss the crown of her braids. “And here I thought you were simply getting fat!”

She assumed a cloyingly sweet expression, her voice all honey-wine as she replied, “At least I have a good excuse.” She prodded him in the stomach.

“My belt’s been in exactly the same notch since I was your age!”

Riyan grinned. Ostvel, realizing he was being teased, growled playfully down at his wife and then kissed her again. He then took the chair beside Riyan’s. “Sorin’s got a little expedition going up to Feruche tomorrow, Alasen. Would you mind traveling down to Stronghold without me?”

“It’s already settled,” Alasen replied, pouring a cup of taze for him. “I’ll have more time with Arlis this way. I wanted Jo give him a while to settle in before I went to see him.” She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t believe my little nephew is old enough to be Rohan’s squire! And I’m so relieved that Saumer agreed with Father about his fostering.”

Ostvel shrugged. “A mutual grandson is no guarantee of mutual agreement on his training.”

“How old is Arlis now?” Riyan asked. “Nearly eleven?”

“Yes.” She poured a cup of taze for Ostvel, then leaned back and sighed. “Father thought that maybe he’d have faradhi gifts like me, but he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash on the sail from Kierst-Isel.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I only experienced it once, but Sunrunner seasickness isn’t something I ever want to go through again.”

Riyan noted with interest that, for the first time in his hearing, she had admitted what she was. She must be feeling easier about it. Three years had passed since the terrifying events of the 719 Rialla, memories that could still give Riyan nightmares of death and sorceries and unspeakable pain.

“That’s why she married me,” Ostvel said. “To avoid another crossing.”

“So Arlis isn’t faradhi,” Riyan mused. “That’ll be a relief to the other princes.”

“The stupid, prejudiced ones,” Alasen said in disgust.

He shrugged. “Look at it from their point of view. I’m no bother to them. They hardly know I exist. But Maarken’s going to inherit Radzyn one day and all his father’s power in the Desert. As for Pol—he makes them so nervous they practically flinch whenever he’s mentioned.”

Ostvel sipped at the hot drink. “There was plenty of hostility three years ago. And he wasn’t even fifteen then, still only a child, completely untrained in the arts. By rights he should have gone to Goddess Keep last year.”

“Sioned won’t ever send him, will she?” Riyan glanced at his father.

“I’d be astounded if she did,” came the frank reply.

Alasen was silent for a moment, then said softly, “How horrible it must be for Andry—Lord of Goddess Keep and not trusted by his own family to train the next High Prince as a Sunrunner.”

Riyan frowned. “You saw him at the Rialla. What was he like?”

“Polite and proper and regal, just as he should be in his position and with his ancestry. And there was no trace of youth about him, Riyan. It hurt Tobin terribly to see it. So many responsibilities—and so many plans kept secret! That’s what they don’t trust. His innovations.”

“I don’t hear much about that, being in the wrong camp for it.” Shaking his head, he added, “I hear myself dividing us up into factions and it scares me.”

Ostvel sat back, sprawling his long legs in a casual posture belied by the tension in his face. “But that’s where we’re all headed, isn’t it? Andry on one side, Pol on another, and suspicious princes on the third. Andrade wanted to unite the continent under a Sunrunner High Prince. Instead, we’re splitting apart. And it’s going to get worse as Pol gets older.”

Gesturing her annoyance, Alasen said, “When Lady Andrade had control over the faradh’im, the princes could at least be assured of her discipline. But the break between Andry and the Desert is obvious, now that Pol is old enough but isn’t at Goddess Keep.”

“You’ve forgotten a fourth faction,” Riyan reminded her. “Sorcerers.”

She got to her feet, pacing, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup. “That’s the worst of all! After hundreds of years they appear out of nowhere, then vanish again. Who can say where they are, what they think, what they’re planning? How will they next challenge Pol and Andry? Because it will be both of them, Riyan. They’ll have to stand together as faradh’im against the threat. And I’m so afraid their pride won’t allow it.”

“Surely it won’t get as bad as all that,” he said, trying to soothe her. “After all, these sorcerers may not emerge again at all.”

Alasen’s lips curled bitterly. “No? You felt their power, Riyan, just as I did, at Lady Andrade’s death and at the combat. Do you think something like that will be content to stay in hiding another few hundred years? If Pol and Andry can’t oppose them together, these sorcerers might win.”

“Yes, I felt their power,” he said quietly. “More so than almost anyone. I’m of their blood, Alasen.”

“And no more like them than your father is,” she emphasized. “Ah, but do we really know what they want?” Ostvel mused.

Alasen leaned against the arm of a chair. “Faradh’im defeated them. They’ll want their revenge. But why now? What is it about now that makes them think they can succeed?”

“They failed with Masul,” Riyan pointed out.

“They weren’t half trying,” she scoffed. “I think he was a means of getting Andrade out of the way.”

“Well, if it ever comes down to finding out who is and who isn’t of the Old Blood, then quite frankly I trust Pol’s protection more than Andry’s.”

“Riyan!” Alasen stared at him. “You’re shadow-fearing, Sunrunner,” she said more calmly.

“Am I? What about it, Father? What’s the easiest way to unite various factions? Give them a mutual enemy—or someone they perceive as an enemy.”

“Alasen’s right,” Ostvel snapped. “You’re starting at shadows.”

“Andry would never even think anything like that!” she added. “Riyan, you’ve known him all your life!”

He had heard things recently to make him wonder if he had ever known Andry at all. He forced an apologetic smile and hid what was in his heart. “Sorry. I’m no politician, and all this playing one side against another confuses me.”

Ostvel’s brows arched in eloquent doubt at this avowal of incomprehension, but he said nothing. While Alasen made a calming little ritual of refilling their cups, Riyan deliberately turned the conversation to Sorin’s plans for Feruche.

But alone in his own chambers that night, he looked pensively at his rings. One way to tell faradhi from diarmadhi was miserable sickness when crossing water. Riyan, like purebred Sunrunners, had that problem—and knew that he also had the Old Blood in his veins, part of his mother’s legacy. His protection was her other heritage as a Sunrunner that gave him the reaction. But what about trained faradh’im whose power came solely from their sorcerer blood? Pandsala had been one of them. Crossing water had never troubled her.

The only sure method of discerning one from the other was response to sorcery, when faradhi rings became fiery circles of pain around the fingers of anyone with diarmadhi blood. He wondered if Andry knew about that—and, if so, whether he would ever use that knowledge in ways that would make Pol’s protection necessary. Riyan thanked the Goddess that Pol was not of the Old Blood. At least Andry would never be able to threaten him on that score.

4 723: Stronghold

The sound of the dragon horn announcing visitors startled Rohan from concentration on his correspondence. A quick mental review of expected guests made him frown. No one was due here until winter. Sioned’s nephew Tilal and his wife Gemma were coming from Ossetia with their children to spend the last half of the season and the New Year Holiday; Maarken and Hollis had promised to bring their year-old twins from Whitecliff. But Rohan had counted on a peaceful autumn in which to catch up on work, and now there were visitors. Sioned was not even in residence, having ridden up to Feruche to see how construction progressed. She had not asked him to accompany her. They both knew he would never set foot near that place again as long as he lived.

A knock sounded at the library door and Rohan called permission to enter. Arlis hovered there, wide-eyed and breathless. “My lord! I ran all the way up from the guardhouse—”

“To tell me who’s here,” Rohan supplied, giving the squire a chance to catch up on his breathing. Arlis nodded, sun-lightened brown hair rumpled by one careless hand. “Someone important, from that blast on the horn, Who?”

“Lord Urival!”

Rohan could not help a start of surprise. No wonder the boy looked impressed. “Well, then, we’d better go greet him, hadn’t we?” He capped the inkwell and put away his pens, glancing once over the parchments littering the huge double desk. There was nothing on the tables that could not have been read by anyone. He trusted his servants down to the last scullery maid, and no one would have dreamed of entering the private office without explicit permission. But Sioned had insisted on extreme caution the last few years. Sunrunners were not the only ones who could weave light and look upon things that perhaps needed to be kept secret.

“Lord Urival isn’t alone, my lord,” Arlis told him, holding out a damp cloth so Rohan could clean his ink-stained fingers. “There’s another Sunrunner with him, a woman, and they have two packhorses loaded from ears to tails.”

“It seems he’s planning a long stay. How many rings has this other Sunrunner?” Rohan scrubbed at a stubborn mark, scowled, and tossed the cloth onto his empty chair.

“Eight.” The squire hesitated. “May I ask a question, my lord?”

“Asking questions is largely what you’re here for, Arlis. Both your grandsires would be very disappointed if you did not. And they’d be even more unhappy with me if I didn’t try to answer.” He smiled and flicked a lock of unruly hair away from the boy’s deep-set eyes.

“Lord Urival and this other faradhi are here with everything they own, it looks like. She’s too old to be of Lord Andry’s new training. Could they have come because Lord Andry threw them out?”

Rohan considered his wife’s kinsman, this princeling who was all earnest face and troubled green eyes and child-soft features. Arlis would one day rule a united Kierst and Isel, a fact he had known almost before he’d learned to walk. Right now he was trying to think like a prince—admirable, but depressing to Rohan, who wanted the boy to stay a boy for at least a few more years.

“Do you think that could be it, my lord?” Arlis said anxiously.

“He’s probably just come for a visit, and has brought someone with him for company.” Or so Rohan devoutly hoped.

Arlis looked relieved. Rohan sent him down to the kitchens to bring refreshment up to the Summer Room, where Rohan then repaired to receive his exalted guests. He had just seated himself in a comfortable chair when a servant scratched on the door, opened it. and announced Lord Urival and Lady Morwenna of Goddess Keep.

Rohan went forward to greet them, hiding his curiosity as best he could. “A most welcome surprise, my lord,” he said. “My lady, please sit down. Something cold to drink will be here shortly.”

“Amenities are so soothing, aren’t they?” Urival observed cynically as he sank wearily into a chair. “Essentially useless, but soothing.”

“Pay him no mind, your grace,” Morwenna said. “He’s saddle sore.”

Arlis hurried in with chilled wine. “I’ve ordered the Tapestry Suite readied, my lord,” he said to Rohan as he served. “Is that all right?”

“As long as. it has a bed and a bathtub,” Morwenna sighed, then grinned. “Actually, I’d settle for just the tub!”

“Three rooms and a beautiful bath, my lady,” Arlis told her shyly.

“Sounds perfect.” She inspected him as he gave her a goblet of wine. “You’d be Latham’s boy, wouldn’t you? Volog and Saumer’s grandson.”

“I have that honor, my lady.”

“Prince Arlis, I’m very pleased to meet you. My mother served as your grandfather Saumer’s court faradhi at Zaldivar for many years.”

“I hope she was happy there, my lady.”

“Very.”

Rohan noticed Urival’s restless frown, and gestured the squire out. “That will be all, Arlis. Make sure the Tapestry Suite is ready quickly, please.”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed his way out and closed the door.

“A fine lad, your grace,” Morwenna said. “I recognize the Kierstian green eyes.”

“Sioned’s eyes,” Urival said. “Where is she, Rohan?”

“With Sorin at Feruche. What brings you to Stronghold?” he asked, too bluntly, he knew, but Urival had never been one for indirection.

The old man shrugged. “Tapestry Suite, eh? I don’t remember that one from my stay here in 698.”

“My mother’s old rooms,” Rohan explained. “Sioned chose the hangings at the last Rialla and we renamed it. I assume your business is with her.”

“It would be, if she were here. Since she’s not, I’ll burden you.” Urival’s smile was more of a grimace. “One of the privileges of your position, High Prince.”

Morwenna, several years Rohan’s junior and with the dark skin, black hair, and tip-tilted brown eyes that marked her as Fironese, gave a derisive snort. “What he means to say, your grace, is that neither of us could bear to stay at Goddess Keep anymore and have come to burden you with superfluous Sunrunners. I knew the High Princess slightly when she was a young girl earning rings faster than Andrade could keep up with. In herself she’s more Sunrunner than you’ll ever need.”

“She’d be pleased to hear you say that. But we’re informal here—if you don’t feel comfortable calling me by my name, then at least deliver me from being ‘my grace.’ ” He smiled, all the while fretting inwardly at Urival’s uncharacteristic slowness in divulging the reason for his presence at Stronghold.

“Charm,” the old Sunrunner mused. “The whole family has it to one degree or another. Andry’s worse—he gets it from Chay as well as Tobin. Charmed all of us into accepting things we’d never have considered in a hundred generations. And by the time we realized where he was going with it. . . .”

“Oh, for the love of the Goddess and all her works, tell him!” Morwenna snapped.

Urival eyed her. “It’s the privilege of my seventy winters and nine rings to speak when and as I please.” He set down his untasted wine and sank back in his chair, looking every one of those seventy winters. His golden-brown eyes, remarkably beautiful in an otherwise unhandsome craggy face, were dark and lackluster. But not from mere tiredness, Rohan thought. There was an older and deeper weariness in him, one of the spirit.

“Andry was never what you’d call biddable,” Urival began. “Brilliant, intelligent, mind-hungry, yes. But as ungovernable as Sioned in his own way. A more dangerous way, it turns out. Had you heard he’s to be a father next spring?”

“Andry’s married? Who to?” Rohan didn’t bother to hide his astonishment. Tobin and Chay, as uninformed on the subject as he, were going to be furious.

“Did I say he’d Chosen a wife?”

Rohan looked at Morwenna, who nodded grimly.

“That’s why we left. Not because he didn’t marry the girl, or even because he’d gotten her with child. But it was the way he did it and the future which it implied that shattered all for us.”

“For me,” Urival corrected. “You wanted to stay and try to talk him out of it. Perhaps that would have been the right way. I don’t know. But I couldn’t stay there any longer. Not when he’s using the first-ring night to sire a son on a girl no older than sixteen!”

Rohan’s wine cup nearly dropped out of his hand. He stared at the faradh’im, too stunned to speak.

“You know about that night, of course,” Urival went on. “The boy or girl calls Fire formally for the first time in front of the Lord or Lady of Goddess Keep. That night they’re virgins no longer.” He glanced briefly at Morwenna. “She has been one of the more enthusiastic initiators of boys into the delights of being men.”

Morwenna tossed her black braid from her shoulder. “And, of course, they had to drag you kicking and screaming to the same duty for more than a few girls!”

A smile flitted across his face. “That’s many, many years ago.”

“But I’ll bet you still rememberl” Her manner was sharp, but her dark eyes danced.

“Memories to warm an old man’s long, cold nights,” he riposted easily. Then he turned to Rohan again. “The guise of the Goddess is used to hide identity from the virgin.”

Rohan nodded. “Sioned . . . spoke of it once or twice, a long time ago. She never knew,” He recalled his own disgraceful behavior of—could it really be twenty-five years ago?—when he’d found out that his Chosen lady would not come virgin to their marriage bed. He looked on the memory from a bemused distance now, amazed to think that it had meant so much to him at the time. Of course, at the time he had been barely twenty-one, unsure of himself both as a prince and as a man, and desperately in love.

“She never knew,” Urival echoed softly, holding Rohan’s gaze with his own.

And the High Prince suddenly realized that one of the sweetest memories to warm the old man’s nights was the initiation of Sioned. He felt blood heat his face, and told himself sternly that at his age he should be long past the curse of a fair complexion. Urival gave another fleeting half-smile.

“Of course she didn’t,” Morwenna said briskly. “None of them do. The point here is that Andry’s changed tradition. At least as far as the girls are concerned. We’ve always been very careful to time that night so no child comes of it. And the duty is parceled out among several men. But Andry’s reserved the right to himself and two others. When I questioned him about Othanes’s pregnancy, he flat out admitted he arranged it so she’d conceive!”

“And then declined to marry her.” Urival was grim-faced again. “Told me that she had agreed to bear his child—was honored, in fact. As what ambitious woman wouldn’t be, to have the child of so powerful a Lord of Goddess Keep, and a close kinsman of the High Prince into the bargain?”

Rohan thought this over for a time. Then he asked, “How many others feel as you do?”

“Quite a few. They stayed.” Morwenna shrugged uncomfortably. “We’re here because of your son—Urival to train him, me to be Urival’s company.”

The old man added, “Ostensibly I’m in retirement. Morwenna’s along to keep an eye on me, as she said. At least she’s not had to lie.”

“Then Andry doesn’t know—”

“He suspects.” Urival shrugged. “His suspicion may be a certainty by now. But officially he can’t take any notice. I go where I like and do as I please. I gave over my keys as Chief Steward to one of his friends. Trained the boy myself, so he knows his work. Sorin met him in 719.”

“The Fironese? The one who had so many fine ideas for rebuilding Feruche?”

“Torien’s his name. And now that I’ve left, he can do to the Keep what Andry’s doing to the Sunrunners themselves—remaking the entire structure of both.” Urival shook his head. “I’m too old for this, Rohan. I don’t like so many changes.”

“And yet,” Morwenna pointed out, “you’re going to change the way the most important Sunrunner alive will be trained.”

Rohan stared at her long and hard. “You’re not here merely for Urival’s sake, are you?”

Her dark skin acquired two blossoms of dusky color across the cheekbones. Then she laughed heartily. “Ah, my lord, you have me there! But from what I hear from Graypearl, I won’t be Pol’s first by any means!” She paused and sighed her regret. “Wish I could be. But I’ll take care of the first-ring night for him, yes. He’ll know it’s me, but that can’t be helped. It’s something he has to experience if his training is to approximate that at Goddess Keep.”

“But it won’t,” Urival said. “That’s the whole point.”

Rohan poured himself a much-needed second cup of wine. “Meath and Eolie have been training him at Graypearl. They keep in close contact with Sioned and she’s pleased with his progress. Andry knows about it.”

“And doesn’t dare say anything,” Morwenna added. “He has to behave as if it’s perfectly all right with him, or people will realize that he doesn’t have the power he claims to have. A good deal of his influence rests in his relationship to you and Pol, my lord.”

“Exactly the way Andrade engineered it when she married her sister to your father,” Urival said, nodding. “She envisioned a Sunrunner Prince connected to her by blood, trained by her to rule with both kinds of power, princely and faradhi. ”

Andrade had been disappointed in the first generation, for Rohan’s sister Tobin had the Sunrunner gifts, not he. So she had arranged for him to marry Sioned, reasoning that their children would be her tools. What she had not known—what only seven people now living knew—was that Pol was not Sioned’s son.

“There’s a third kind of power,” he said in level tones.

Urival met his gaze unblinking. “Which is why I’m here.”

“The Star Scroll has been fully translated, then,” he guessed. “And you have a copy Andry doesn’t know about.”

Morwenna shifted uneasily in her chair. “He’s not afraid of it,” she burst out. “The Star Scroll is only another means of power to him. More knowledge. But it scares me half to death. I’m the one who copied most of it in secret for Urival. Who knows better than I what it contains?”

“Calm yourself,” the old man advised. “If you don’t feel comfortable discussing it, perhaps you’d better go have your bath now.”

“Treat me like a child and I’ll use what I learned from it,” she threatened.

“I do have a small demonstration in mind, actually,” he replied. “Will you do the honors, or shall I?”

Rohan noted with interest that she immediately shook her head. Were the spells so very dangerous? he wondered. Or was it only that they came from ancient enemies of the faradh’im?

Urival gestured, and Morwenna went to lock the door. She drew the window shutters, closing out daylight. Going to the side table, she poured water into a polished bronze bowl and brought it to Urival. He had pulled up another chair to his knees. When the bowl was placed on it, he hunched forward over the water.

“We use Fire as a focus for such things,” he said matter-of-factly, and it startled Rohan to hear his voice so casual when he was about to—to do what? “But they had a technique for working with Water, an element we usually avoid, as you know. Rohan, have you something of Sioned’s? Something small enough to fit into the bowl, preferably a thing she wears or uses frequently.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked, unable to keep suspicion from his voice.

Urival glanced over at him, laughing sardonically. “I presume you miss your wife and would like to see her?”

After a moment’s thought, Rohan got up and crossed to a glass-fronted bookcase. Opening it, he extracted one of a pair of tiny carved cups. “The Isulk’im sent us these a few years back, for rattling dice in. Sioned uses this one when playing Sandsteps.”

“Isulk’im?” Morwenna repeated blankly, then nodded. “Oh—those crazy people who live out on the Long Sand.”

“Go gently with your descriptions,” Urival smiled. “They’re Rohan’s distant kin.”

“But I’m crazy, too. Hadn’t you noticed?” He gave the old man the sand-jade cup. “Will this do?”

“Perfectly.” It disappeared into his palm for a moment, and then he slid it into the water. “Stand close, so you can see.”

He did so. Morwenna stepped back warily. Her skittishness would have been catching had Rohan allowed himself to react to it. Urival cradled the bowl in his long, knotted hands, holding it but not lifting it from the chair. After a moment Rohan heard soft metallic vibrations and realized the Sunrunner’s nine rings were quivering delicately against the bronze.

“Mark this,” Urival breathed. “When others do sorcery while I am nearby, the rings burn. The stronger the magic, the more heat. But when I myself perform a spell, my rings merely tremble. I am of the Old Blood.”

“And so am I,” Morwenna whispered. Rohan stared at her. She was chafing the rings on her hands and the muscles of her face had tightened with pain. “Get on with it, won’t you? This hurts.”

“It’s the one sure way to tell,” Urival said. “I never understood one particular part of fashioning our rings, but now I do. A ... warning ... is set into them. Last year I taught young Torien that part of the Chief Steward’s duty, but I didn’t know what it was for, any more than the rest of us do. Our devious Lady Merisel didn’t mention the why of it in her scrolls—only that it was essential.”

“Urival, please!” Morwenna’s hands had curled into fists. Rohan brought the pitcher of water from the sideboard and she gratefully dipped first one hand and then the other into it. “That helps a little,” she said, but he read no easing of the pain in her eyes.

Rohan’s attention was snatched by the bowl, where the cup had begun to glow softly. His eyes widened as the golden light spread, permeated the water, swirled slowly and coalesced not unlike the way faradh’im used Fire. Water was not the Goddess’ element; Sunrunners were all violently ill when they attempted to cross it. Fire and Earth, these were the children of the Goddess. As for Air and Water—the Father of Storms obviously had dominion over them. Destruction and life were in each, balancing the world, and all four were used in the most somber and powerful of faradhi conjurings.

He saw Sioned, slim and vigorous in pale riding leathers, thick fire gold hair braided around her head. She was speaking to Sorin, who nodded and unrolled a parchment on which architects had sketched and resketched plans for rebuilding Feruche. Beyond them the castle itself rose, fleshed out in stone for its first two floors, a skeleton of steel supports above that. Rohan saw girders for two towers, a balcony running the length of the Desert side of the keep, and a watchspire reaching skyward with steel fingers.

Old Myrdal, long-retired commander of Stronghold’s guard, limped into the vision, leaning heavily on her cane. She pointed to the design parchment, then to the keep, and laughed. Sorin looked startled; Sioned, thoughtful. Myrdal drew patterns in the dirt with her cane, speaking rapidly, then wiped out the sketch with her boot.

Rohan knew what the old woman had proposed—in principle if not detail. She knew every secret of every castle in the Desert—including the gutted ruin that had stood where a new keep was now being built. She had frankly admitted that her reason for accompanying Sioned to Feruche was to remind Sorin to sneak secrets into a design where no one suspected them. Beauty had won over preparedness for war in most of the final plans for the new keep, but Myrdal’s adamant face told Rohan she would insist on precautions just the same. There were ways in and out of Stronghold, Remagev, Radzyn, Tiglath, and Tuath that no one but Myrdal knew of, ways she had imparted to him and Sioned but not, in most cases, to the owners of the keeps. By just such a secret passage, Sioned had entered the old Feruche and taken Pol from his mother, Princess Ianthe.

Urival drew in a shuddering breath and his hands fell away from the bowl. The vision faded as he sagged back in his chair. Rohan forced him to drink some wine, and color gradually returned to the old man’s face.

“It would be easier to sustain if I’d taken dranath first, of course,” he said. “But I assume you understand.”

“I understand that you now can do certain things—which Andry also knows how to do from his copy of the Star Scroll,” Rohan said slowly. “And you propose to teach these things to Pol.”

“And to Sioned. I may not last long enough to teach the boy everything myself. When does he return from Graypearl?”

“He’ll be knighted at the next Rialla, when he’s almost twenty-one. When Sioned feels he knows what he should of faradhi arts, he’ll take over Princemarch from Ostvel and rule from Dragon’s Rest.”

Urival nodded. “How close to completion is the new keep?”

“It’s coming along slowly,” Rohan admitted. “I hope to have one large building and two smaller ones finished by Ihe Rialla.”

Morwenna was startled. “Five years you’ve been working on it, and only three parts done?”

The basics of a small defensive keep could be finished in a year. Upper stories and embellishments—what Sorin was doing now—could take up to two more. The fancy work of towers, spires, and so forth could go on forever, depending on the ambitions, tastes, and funding of the builder. Feruche was taking a long time because it was something of an experiment; techniques used there would be applied to Dragon’s Rest. But the latter was not a keep; it was to be a palace.

Rohan said, “We’re not creating a castle, but an impression. It must be perfect for the first Rialla held there.”

“What you’re saying is that your three parts of Dragon’s Rest will be completely finished, down to the rugs and doorknobs,” Urival mused.

“Yes.” He rose and opened the shutters, letting in light and air.

“I’ll wager Princess Gennadi is relieved not to have the responsibility of the Rialla at Waes anymore,” said Morwenna.

“But young Geir is not,” Rohan reminded her. “He’s sixteen, and that’s a proud age. Gennadi allowed him to preside with her at the Lastday banqueting, when the move to Dragon’s Rest was formally announced. If looks were daggers. ...” He shrugged.

“Taking the Rialla from Waes wasn’t perhaps the smartest thing you ever did,” Urival remarked. “But I can see the necessity. Bring the princes to Pol once every three years and make your—impression. Be that as it may, we will need more than that, his status as your heir, and the Princemarch title to fulfill Andrade’s scheme.”

“And that’s what it’s about for you in the end, isn’t it?” Rohan asked softly. “She chose Andry to succeed her because she could choose none other—and was just as trapped into accepting Pol as her faradhi prince.”

The old Sunrunner got to his feet and said with dignity, “Your own schemes mesh with hers, my lord High Prince.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Lying to yourself was never one of your vices.”

“I have others more interesting,” Rohan said smoothly, “but this is hardly the time to discuss them. I tell you now, my lord, that what Pol learns he will use as he sees fit. Sunrunner arts or sorcery, neither you nor Andrade’s memory nor anything else will rule him in their use.”

“Just like Andry,” Urival snapped.

“With a subtle difference.” He gave the old man a hard smile. “You trust Pol.”

5 725: Dragon’s Rest

“The roses had not performed to expectations. Everything and everyone else had, this first Rialla at the new palace, but not the roses. Pol had been extremely irritated. How dare flowers not bloom precisely when and as he wishes them to? Sionell asked herself acidly as she paced the water garden. Ruler of Princemarch, High Prince’s heir, Sunrunner—thwarted by uncooperative roses. Serves him right—arrogant swine.

Reaching a little hillock at the garden’s edge, she sat with her back to a sapling and began shredding the leaves of an inoffensive bush. It needed a trim anyway, she thought—just like Pol’s conceit. Newly knighted, awash in compliments for the beauty of the Princes Hall—and hip-deep in pretty girls—he’d had a lovely Rialla. Just lovely.

She had seen him at least once a day for the past twenty days. He positively oozed self-confidence for all that this was his first year as a ruling prince, mingling with his highborn guests or striding purposefully to yet another meeting (where he was undoubtedly brilliant, tactful, and wise, she told herself snidely). Everyone’s model of perfection, was Pol of Princemarch.

Who had come to greet his parents riding on the back of a cow.

Sionell felt her mouth defy her mood by twitching upward at the corners, remembering her first sight of him after six years. Any romantic notions about his riding back into her life (or, more accurately, she into his, through the narrow gorge that protected the valley of Dragon’s Rest) on one of those golden horses had crumpled like old parchment. Rohan had blinked in astonishment, Sioned had sighed and rolled her gaze skyward, and Pol had smiled innocently.

“You caught me in the middle of trying her paces! Actually, she’s quite comfortable, once you get seated right. I may start a new fashion. No, really, I’m trying to teach her to take a path that doesn’t involve trampling the crops. Where she goes, the others follow. I thought if we nudged her in the right direction, we wouldn’t have to replant every few days.”

Chay snorted. “One of my best studs and three of my best mares I gave you last year, and you greet us riding a cow.”

“‘Gave’?” Pol laughed. “Sold!”

Sioned fixed her green eyes on her son. “Where’s this glorious set of chambers you’ve been promising?”

He pointed to a fretwork of girders and chimneys. “See that?”

Rohan squinted down the valley to the palace complex. “What happened? I thought the crafters had orders to finish by now.”

“It was a choice between living quarters and the Princes Hall,” Pol said cheerfully. “Mine are up there somewhere, too. Or so my architects tell me.”

Rohan peered at the empty air divided off by stone and steel. “Sleep well at night, do you?”

“Sorry, Father. For now you’ll have to make do with the Guard Tower.”

Sionell knew the plans for Dragon’s Rest as well as she knew the ancient walls of her home castle, Remagev. Her brother Jahnavi was Riyan’s squire at Skybowl; Riyan often visited Sorin at Feruche; Sorin had helped with the design for Dragon’s Rest; Jahnavi had made a copy of the plans for Sionell. She knew what the finished palace would look like down to the last gravel pathway and fountain. Most of it she approved; some of it she would have altered for the sake of comfort, convenience, or charm. As if she had any right to say a single word about Dragon’s Rest, or share in it as anything more than a guest. She’d known that while riding down the valley to the Princes Hall, and the days that followed had made it even more painfully clear.

Well, so what, she thought, digging her bootheels into the soft, damp soil. Who needed him, anyway? She’d been surrounded by young men of wealth and position all during the Rialla, men eager to claim her attention and, if possible, her heart. Not to mention my dowry, she added cynically.

One thing was certain: Pol would never Choose a wife for her wealth. He needed more money the way dragons needed more teeth. Dragon’s Rest was ample proof–built, in fact, to impress within a hair of overawing.

Two buildings had been completed in time for the Rialla. The Guard Tower, five floors high and perfectly round, was constructed of pale silvery-gray stone, its roof of gray-blue Kierstian tiles. It would be matched on the other side of the Princes Hall by a similar tower for the masters of horses and hawks and vines and harvests, with all their assistants and gear. For now, the Masters Tower was only a circle of flagged stakes in the ground, making the whole place look lopsided.

The Princes Hall was a masterpiece of dazzling Fironese crystal windows and graceful proportions, round on the approach side and flat where it faced the water gardens. In time, two more buildings would face each other across the fountains, hollow and curving like halves of a Sunrunner’s ring. One was the iron-and-stone skeleton Pol had pointed out to his parents, and would become his private domain. The other was for servants, guests, reception chambers, and the machinery of Princemarch’s government. Of course the palace would be beautiful; it wouldn’t dare be anything else. It was Pol’s.

Sionell got to her feet, pacing restlessly toward the central fountain. The pool was quiet now. Water had blossomed there during the Lastday banqueting, but she supposed that since there was nobody left here to impress, Pol had ordered it stilled. That night, he’d called and extinguished Fire to racks of torches in sequence, constantly changing the direction of light thrown onto the water. It had been a spectacular show as seen from the dining chamber of the Princes Hall, culminating in his casual gesture that had illuminated hundreds of white candles around the pool at the same time all the torches went out. The glow had spread from candles outward to ignite the torches once more, until the whole of the water garden was ablaze in Sunrunner’s Fire.

And Pol had reveled in it. A season away from his twenty-first winter, he was taller than Rohan by a hand’s span, his hair a darker blond, his eyes green and then blue and then both as he smiled with a not-quite-innocent pleasure in his own skills. Wearing a shirt of Desert blue and a tunic of Princemarch’s violet, his shoulders beginning to broaden toward maturity, he had been a prince to his fingertips.

But no faradhi rings sparkled on his fingers. Nor had Lord Andry offered them. Only the moonstone that had been Lady Andrade’s, reset into a ring sized to his hand, told of his Sunrunner gifts. The unspoken, unacknowledged antagonism between Pol and Andry had not been allowed to spoil the work or the festivities of the Rialla, but everyone knew it was there. Only a matter of time before they clashed, Sionell’s father had muttered one evening, shaking his head. She hoped it wouldn’t happen. But she also knew who would win.

Seating herself on the blue tiles at the fountain’s rim, she trailed her hand through the water to wash leaf-stains from it and smiled grimly at her own unadorned fingers. Like Pol, she would never wear faradhi rings. But, unlike him, she had no choice in the matter.

“What are you doing out here all alone, Ell?”

She glanced around. Pol strode lithely toward her from the shell of his future home, long legs encased in tan riding leathers and tall black boots, white shirt open at his throat. His waist was circled by a belt dyed blue and violet, decorated with the gold buckle of his new knighthood and by a dagger set with amethysts that had been Chay and Tobin’s gift. Energy and power rippled from him; sunlight crowned his sun-bleached head with bright gold.

How can I want him and hate him at the same time? Then, chiding herself disgustedly, Oh, grow up! You’ve always known it was hopeless—

“It’s quiet here,” she said aloud. “After all the fuss, I was enjoying the silence.”

“If it’s quiet you want, why are you staying to watch the dragons? Goddess, the racket they make! You will stay until they get here, won’t you?”

“Of course. My mother wouldn’t miss them.”

Pol chuckled and propped one boot on the fountain rim. “Feylin’s almost as scared of dragons as she is fascinated by them. But they don’t frighten you, do they? Remember years ago at Skybowl, when you nearly fell out a window trying to fly after them?”

Sionell laughed easily. “As if you never wanted to do the same thing!”

Grinning wry agreement, he gestured to the Princes Hall. “I haven’t had the chance to ask you how you like my two-fifths of a palace.”

“It’s magnificent—as you don’t need me to tell you. Now that everybody’s gone, I suppose you can get back to work on the rest of it.”

“Only until the rains. That was our big mistake—we never considered how much time we lose to winter. But no snow, thank the Goddess.”

“Better to thank the Storm God. But I’d like to see it snow someday. I’m told it’s beautiful.”

“I’ve ridden through it, walked on it, and even slept on top of it, but I’ve never seen it fall, either.”

“From what Princess Iliena says, it’s rather like a freezing sandstorm—only it blows down, not across.”

“Down, if you’re lucky,” Pol corrected. “Across, with a vengeance if you get stuck in a blizzard.”

Such polite, social conversation; they might have been friendly strangers. “Iliena must find Graypearl a nice change after Snowcoves.”

“Strange, isn’t it? That she and her sister married brothers.” He hesitated, then shrugged and went on, “And that Ludhil and Laric visited Snowcoves and fell in love at exactly the same time.”

He sounded wistful. Perhaps his parents were hinting that with Dragon’s Rest livable, if not finished, he ought to start looking for a wife. If she steered the talk away from love, he might suspect—no, he had never suspected a damned thing. Arrogant, insufferable, and blind.

“I think Iliena got the better geographical bargain by marrying Chadric’s heir,” she replied lightly. “Lisiel may be Princess of Firon now as Lane’s wife, but she’s still in blizzard country.”

“Do you know what Firon means in the old language? ‘Silent hoof.’ A tribute to the snow, no doubt.” He paused again. “I’m supposed to go find myself a princess, you know,” he finished irritably.

So he wasn’t ready yet. Interesting. “In your position, they’ll come looking for you.”

“Don’t I know it. In a way, I’d like it to happen quickly—it’d save me years of nonsense. Trying to find the right person must be awful. I haven’t even started yet.”

“But they have,” she said before thinking, remembering all the highborn maidens who had clustered around him during the Rialla. Sionell had removed herself from the vicinity as often as possible, accompanied by her own clutch of admirers—who for some reason only annoyed her.

“I just hope she’ll be somebody I can talk to the way I can to you. It’s wonderful, Ell, finding out you’ve grown up sensible!”

She smiled wryly at the backhanded compliment.

“I mean it. The girls here, the ones at Graypearl—gigglers and gawkers, all of them. I can talk to you like I’d talk to Riyan or Maarken or Sorin. It’s a relief to find there’s at least one intelligent woman my own age in the world.”

How nice of him to categorize her as one of the boys.

He had fixed his gaze on the delinquent flowers nearby. “Damned roses,” he muttered.

Sionell laughed at him. “As if all you had to do was wave your hand for them to appear! Prince and Sunrunner you may be, but not magician.”

“But I wanted them to be spectacular. My grandmother Milar loved messing about with gardens, too, you know. I think I inherited it from her.” Glancing down at her and then away, he asked, “Ell, what do you think of Tallain?”

“I think very highly of him,” she responded. “He’s very capable, as he’s shown since his father died last winter.”

“He’s determined to keep the Cunaxans and the Merida pent up in the north so we won’t have to worry about them ever again.”

Sionell nodded, wondering why he’d mentioned the young lord of Tiglath. An additional honor for him, perhaps? Tuath Castle had no direct male heir; perhaps Pol and Rohan were considering a union of the two holdings.

“Tallain’s a fine man—he was my father’s squire for years,” Pol went on.

“I know.”

“I like him a lot. A prince is only as good as the people who support him, the athr’im who’re loyal to him. Tallain’s one of the best.”

“I like him, too,” she said, a trifle impatiently, wishing he’d either tell her why he wanted to discuss Tallain of Tiglath or go away and leave her alone.

Pol did not enlighten her. She did, however, receive her second wish. From the Princes Hall came a young maidservant, black-haired and slender; she paused just long enough in the sunshine to make sure Pol had seen her, then stretched her arms wide, as if she’d just slipped out for some fresh air. Pol excused himself a few moments later—not even having the grace to enter the Hall by a different door.

Sionell watched him disappear, stunned. Right in front of my face, too! All the subtlety of a rutting dragonsire!

Then: Fool! Idiot! He’s the High Prince’s heir, the great Sunrunner Prince—he can do as he likes and—damn him! I am not going to cry!

And, finally: Very well, then. If that’s the way the wind sets, so be it. I’m not twelve anymore. If he doesn’t want me, lots of others do. He can find a convenient Hell and rot in it for all I care.

The next afternoon the High Princess enlisted her namesake’s help in packing presents for Andry’s son and daughter. He had not brought them to the Rialla. Rumor had it that this neglect earned him an interview with his parents that acquainted him intimately with their blistering views on the subject. Their anger was not that the children existed; they were furious and hurt that Andry had left them behind at Goddess Keep. Sionell and everyone else knew why. He intended little Andrev and Tobren to be raised as faradh’im only, with no ties and thus no second loyalties to the Desert. She could just imagine what Lord Chaynal—not to mention Princess Tobin—had said to that.

The latter had indulged her thwarted grandmotherly instincts with a buying spree at the Rialla Fair. It was this collection of toys, clothes, and trinkets that Sionell helped wrap and label for the children—while Tobin fretted at not having had them ready for Andry’s departure two days earlier.

“He would ride out in a hurry, wanting to make good time back to Goddess Keep, when he knew I had things for the babies! I swear that one of these days I’m going to skin that boy alive.”

Surveying the piles of packages—and the things yet to be wrapped—Sioned laughed. “Smart of him to escape while he had the chance. Honestly, Tobin, it’s going to take two wagons and four pack horses to get all this to Goddess Keep.”

Sionell said innocently, “The pony cart she bought them ought to hold quite a bit.”

“Goddess in glory, don’t remind her!” Sioned begged. “She’ll go after the departing merchants and load that up, too!”

“Go on, tease me,” Tobin invited, making a face. “You just wait until you become a grandmother, High Princess!”

Sionell prudently did not comment that if Pol kept putting off marriage while doing what he was doing with the maidservants, Sioned would have grandchildren long before she had a daughter-by-marriage. His bedchamber exploits were no one’s business but his—not even his mother’s. And certainly not any of my concern—the graceless swine—

She glanced up from folding a stack of shirts to find that both Tobin and Sioned had run to the windows. An instant later the whole tower seemed to shake as an arrogant roar shattered the morning stillness.

Dragons.

Sionell was first down the stairs. She arrived breathless outside the tower and stared up at the flight of dragons heading for the lake. Training her mother had given her in the intellectual study of the beasts warred briefly with the sheer delight of watching them. Emotion won, as ever. The day it didn’t, she’d order up her funeral pyre—for surely she would be near death.

“I never get over it,” Sioned murmured at her side, as if she’d heard Sionell’s thoughts. “All these years, watching them everywhere from Remagev to Waes, and I’ve never gotten used to their beauty.”

Others joined them on the grassy slope in front of the Princes Hall—Sionell’s parents, Maarken, Hollis, Arlis, and the High Prince himself. He was shirtless and barefoot, his damp fair hair indicating he’d leaped from a bath and barely remembered to pull on trousers. He looked his son’s age as he turned his face skyward, rapt and ecstatic.

“Sionell!”

Turning, she saw Pol ride up on one of his golden horses. He reined in, eyes brilliant, and gestured. She grabbed his hand and used his booted foot as a stirrup to swing up behind his saddle.

“Faster!” she urged as he kicked the mare to a gallop, and laughed into the wind.

Some of the dragons were already at play along the lakeshore. Others, hungry after a long flight, pounced on the terrified sheep kept penned for their refreshment. A three-year-old gray female with gorgeous black under-wings swept down in a controlled glide, plucked up a woolly lump with one hind foot, snapped its neck with a twist of front talons, and landed neatly on the opposite shore. She snarled at a sibling who attempted to steal her lunch and settled down to devour the sheep with dainty greed. The entire operation took less than twenty heartbeats.

Sionell slid to the ground before Pol brought the mare to a full halt. He was right beside her after slapping the horse back toward the stables—having no wish to see one of his prizes become dragon fodder.

“Start counting!” Sionell cried. “My mother will kill us if we don’t!”

“Five russet hatchlings, seven green-bronze, ten black—Ell, just look at them! As alike as if they’d shared the same egg!”

“Four grays, three more black—I don’t see the gray-blue sire who was at Skybowl. He must’ve died in mating battle—but there’s the black one, and the worse for wear! How does he fly with that scab on his wing?”

“Where’s Elisel? Can you see her?”

They searched the lake and the skies, but could find no trace of Sioned’s russet dragon.

“She has to be here,” Sionell fretted.

“Maybe she went to Skybowl.” Pol tried to be soothing, but his face betrayed his worry.

Sioned ran up, winded. In silence she scanned the shore, biting her lip. At last she whispered, “She’s not here.”

If anything had happened to Elisel—the only dragon any of the Sunrunners had been able to talk to. ... But Elisel might have been one of the females who died each mating year. There were insufficient caves for all the she-dragons; if they did not mate and lay their eggs, they died.

Sionell glanced up at Pol, seeing the same worry in his eyes. He muttered, “We have to coax them back to Rivenrock. We have to tell them it’s safe there.”

“How?” she asked bleakly. “If we’ve lost Elisel, then—” She broke off, mindful of Sioned nearby.

“Maybe Maarken and Hollis just chose the wrong dragons to touch,” he mused.

“Trying it had them unconscious for a whole afternoon,” she reminded him. His lips twisted as he gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his eyes narrowing as he focused on a single dragon. She knew what he was going to do as surely as if they’d thought it at the same time—and didn’t say a word to stop him.

The others had arrived at the lake by now, occupied with the count or speculating on Elisel’s absence or simply staring awestruck at the dragons. Only Sionell saw Pol take a deep breath to steady himself, fix his gaze on a large blue-gray three-year-old with silvery underwings, and close his eyes.

The young dragon stood with wings spread out to dry after his swim. Well-grown for his age, as an adult he would be a sire of formidable size. His head with its long face and huge eyes turned toward Pol, then away, then shook as if insects irritated him. Shuffling to one side, he bumped into another youngling who growled at him.

Sionell held her breath, willing Pol to succeed. How could he not? Nothing had ever been denied him; the world and all its dragons were his by right.

But not today.

The dragon shrieked, head lashing toward the sky. Pol cried out at the same time, a terrible groan that shuddered his whole frame. Sionell flung her arms around him to keep him upright, calling his name.

“Pol! You idiot!” Rohan gathered him from her and lowered him to the grass. His eyes were open and he mumbled incoherently, the muscles of his legs and arms quivering. Sionell knelt, shifting Pol’s head to her lap. Rohan framed his son’s face with his hands and called his name.

The dragon howled again and took wing, circling the lake in panicked flight. All at once Pol’s eyes opened startled and wide. He gave a great sigh and went bonelessly unconscious.

“Idiot,” Rohan said again, but in a relieved tone this time. “Maarken, Tallain, get him out of here and put him to bed.”

The young Lord of Tiglath gently assisted Sionell to her feet. “He’ll be all right now, my lady. Let us take care of him.”

She nodded numbly, grateful for his strong supporting arm as he gave her over to Arlis. Pol was slung between the two young men and carried away, utterly oblivious.

“Whatever possessed him to try such a thing?” Hollis asked. “He knows how difficult it is—”

“You just answered your own question,” said the High Princess. “If he’d gotten tangled in that dragon’s colors—”

“He wanted to ask about Elisel,” Sionell murmured.

“Perhaps,” Sioned conceded. “But what he really wanted, what he’s always wanted, is to touch a dragon himself.”

Rohan rubbed a hand over his face. “If he wasn’t already to be punished by a sore brain for the next two days, I’d take him over my knee.”

“I’d take him by the ears and shake some sense into him—if I could reach up that far,” Sioned countered. “Has that poor dragon settled down yet?”

“Sunning himself and having a snack,” Arlis reported. “Are you all right now, my lady?”

Sionell managed a shaky smile for the future Prince of Kierst-Isel. “Thank you, my lord.”

Pol woke in time for dinner, sat up, moaned, clutched his aching skull, and collapsed back into the pillows. Tallain came downstairs to inform them that the prince had wisely decided to stay in his room.

“How long did it take you to bully him into it?” Rohan asked curiously.

Tallain grinned. “Two tries at standing, one at getting his pants on, and some very creative cursing, my lord. I hardly had to say anything at all.”

“Good man. Let him convince himself. Walvis, I assume Feylin is lost in her statistics again, and won’t be joining us for dinner?”

They were a small group that night, seated around a table in what would one day be the guards mess. Sioned had chosen to stay upstairs and wait for first moonlight to contact Riyan at Skybowl; he would know about Elisel. Chay, Tobin, and Maarken were at the stables tending a mare suspected of colic. So Arlis served Rohan, Walvis, Sionell, Tallain, and Hollis from a cauldron of stew made of leftovers from the Lastday banquet. When sweets and taze were presented at the end of the meal, the young prince was dismissed to his own dinner.

Despite the day’s events, conversation was not of dragons or Sunrunning. Rohan plied Tallain with questions about an agreement signed only days ago with Miyon of Cunaxa regarding the border between princedoms. The gist of the matter was, could Tallain live with the terms?

“Kabil of Tuath and I had a long talk this spring. With Sunrunners at our holdings able to contact Riyan at any time, we both feel fairly secure. And glad to give our people something better to do than patrol.”

“Trust my son to need more iron than even Sioned was able to trick Miyon out of,” Rohan sighed. “And trust Miyon that the only way to get it was a reduction of troops along the border.”

“That’s not quite fair,” Walvis observed. “Sorin learned so much from building Feruche that more iron had to come to Dragon’s Rest—plus it’s so much bigger.”

“And whose fault is that? Again, my son.” The High Prince shrugged. “Ah, well. Reduction of patrols reduces the chance of any little ‘accidents’ like last winter.”

Sionell sipped hot taze, remembering how close they had come to war with Cunaxa. An encounter along the border had led to a disagreement about who had encroached on whose land, ending with several dead on each side before both backed off. A courier had galloped into Tiglath that night; Tallain rode out at once with an escort. His quiet diplomacy—aided by a map drawn by Goddess Keep’s Sunrunners in 705 that strictly defined boundaries—had convinced the Cunaxans that the matter wasn’t worth further bloodshed.

“Yes,” Tallain was saying in response to Rohan’s comment. “But if they’d been led by a Merida, I wouldn’t have let them away so lightly.”

Sionell turned to him with interest. “How did you know it wasn’t?”

“Northerners can smell a Merida at ten measures, my lady,” he answered with a tight little smile. “Ask your mother. She’s from our part of the Desert.” His brown eyes, startling contrast to the sungold hair swept back from his brow, lingered on her. She realized abruptly that he liked looking at her. She fought a blush as his attention returned to the High Prince. “Miyon’s impudent lately, though, which must mean he has a new ally. I suspect Meadowlord.”

“Chiana and her Parchment Prince,” Walvis said sourly. “They’ve a natural affinity with Miyon. I can’t believe Chiana’s insolence in Naming her son after her grandfather—and her daughter for her whore of a mother.”

Hollis blinked large, innocent eyes. “I’m surprised she didn’t Name him Roelstra.”

Rohan grinned and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Now, now, children. We can’t encourage such disrespect for other princes—next, you’ll be insulting us! Tallain, will incidents increase or decrease along the border?”

The thin smile crossed Tallain’s face again. “I couldn’t say, my lord—but for one factor. There’s an advantage to dealing with Prince Miyon. His merchants and crafters. They’ve got him by the throat, as ever. And they constantly try to sneak their shipments into Tiglath. Sometimes I let them.”

“Reaping a substantial profit thereby?” Sionell asked, amused.

“Of course, my lady. I let enough through to keep them trying. The rest I confiscate. You’d be astonished what they’re willing to pay to get their goods back and legally shipped. My father built two schools and a new infirmary on the proceeds. I’m planning to refurbish the market square next year.”

“Oh, I do enjoy the law,” Rohan sighed. “Especially the ones my athr’im ignore to our mutual advantage. But I never heard any of this, Tallain.”

“I never mentioned it, my lord.” The young man was unable to keep a twinkle from his dark eyes.

“It’s not civilized of me, of course,” Rohan went on. “And I really shouldn’t condone this sort of thing, even unofficially.”

Walvis was grinning openly. “But so much fun,” he urged. “And such a comfort to the rest of us to know you’re not perfect after all.”

The High Prince pretended horror. “Sweet Goddess, don’t tell anyone!”

Sionell laughed. Rohan really was so much nicer than Pol. “Your secret is safe with us!”

“My eternal gratitude, my lady,” he responded with an elegant bow. “To return to the matter of the Cunaxans—Sorin feels they may start to use the trade route over the Veresch again, now that Feruche is there for protection. I hope you’ll forgive me, Tallain, if I make the passage fees low enough to encourage them.”

Sionell answered, “He can hardly object, can he?”

Tallain gave her a long look, then grinned. “Hardly,” he said in dry tones.

“You’ll still make a profit,” Rohan added. “But if Miyon feels too bottled up, he’ll get nervous and start thinking about war again.”

“I don’t think he’s fond of you, Rohan,” Walvis said blandly.

Hollis was frowning. “He asked a lot of questions about Pol this year. And he was usually close by wherever Pol was. He might simply have been taking his measure, of course. ...” She trailed off doubtfully.

“Did you get that impression?” Sionell asked. “His half-sister sat next to me at the races, being subtle.” She snorted. “She practically asked which boot Pol puts on first. As if I’d know anything, not having seen him for so long.”

“Audrite and I got the same treatment,” Hollis said, nodding. “And she knows him much better, his having been a squire at Graypearl.”

“None of you ladies said anything to the point,” said Tallain. Reverting in Arlis’ absence to the squire’s role he had held at Stronghold for many years, he rose to refill everyone’s cups.

“No, but—thank you, Tallain—but why would Miyon’s sister ask such questions?” Hollis dipped a spoonful of honey into her taze. “Not political, personal. Private things.”

“She’s only a few years older than Pol,” Walvis offered. “Maybe his grace of Cunaxa sees a match?”

Sionell stared. “With a bow-legged, thick-ankled, witless shatter-skull?”

“I agree, Ell. Pol has better taste,” Rohan said. “But maybe you’ve got something, Walvis. Which of Miyon’s allies have daughters, sisters, or cousins around Pol’s age? Pretty ones, I mean. An interesting idea.” Rising, he stretched and yawned. “That’s all for this evening’s meeting of the informal High Prince’s Council,” he smiled. “Hollis, with your permission I’ll join you in tucking Chayla and Rohannon into bed—again.”

“You’re welcome to try.” She grimaced. “Thank the Goddess dragons don’t fly over Whitecliff more often. It took both their nurses plus Pol’s poor steward to catch my twin terrors today.”

Sionell went upstairs to her room, escorted partway by Tallain. She had finished unplaiting her hair and was brushing it out for the night when her father came in, looking very thoughtful. After asking permission to be seated—even in a room he himself inhabited, the good manners learned as Rohan’s squire stayed with him—he settled in a chair and meditatively stroked his beard.

“What is it, Papa?” she asked at last.

“I don’t quite know how to begin,” he said with a bemused smile. His blue eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her tease tangles with the brush. He had given her those eyes, but she more closely resembled her mother and had Feylin’s dark red hair. “You’ve spent more time at Radzyn and Stronghold than at home these last couple of years. I suppose I haven’t really noticed that you’ve grown up.”

“Surprise,” she smiled.

“Rather! I like the way you’ve turned out—though I miss my pudgy little pest,” he added, his smile becoming a grin.

Until last winter, Sionell had despaired of ever acquiring a waistline. Desert dwellers tended to be vain about their slim figures. In Gilad, a comfortably rounded woman was much preferred over a slender one—but Sionell no longer had to wish she lived in Gilad.

“I suppose there’s no way to get around it,” her father sighed. “I wanted to talk to you about Pol.”

She felt her cheeks burn. “A childish habit I’ve grown out of.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She’d have to, sooner or later.

“You’re very young, darling. I thought this might be the case. It would hurt your mother and me to see you dream after a man who can marry whom he chooses—as long as his Choice is highborn and faradhi.”

“I know.”

“I needed to be sure because of something that happened tonight.”

He was watching her in a way that made her want to squirm. Thinking over the conversation at dinner and afterward, she remembered her outburst regarding Miyon’s half-sister and blushed again.

Walvis was quick to see it. “So you have an idea about it already. I’m glad. He’s a worthy man, and a good friend. He quite rightly asked permission to begin a formal courtship. But I told him I’d have to consult you first. As fine a man as he is, and as good a husband as he’d make you, I wouldn’t give my consent even to Tallain if you were still—”

The brush dropped to the rug.

“So you didn’t know.”

Her wits reeled like hatchling dragons darting through the sky. Tallain?

“He admires you and would like to know you better. Give you the chance to know him. If you both like what you see, and can love each other, then your mother and I would be very happy with the Choice.”

Humiliating that her first coherent thought was: I could have him if I wanted—that’d show Pol!

“He wants to spend part of the winter at Stronghold so he can visit Remagev every so often. He won’t rush you, love. He knows you’re only seventeen, and certainly by next Rialla you’ll have an even wider choice of young men than you did this year.”

And there had been plenty—but Tallain had not been among them. He had danced with her only once. Shyness? She doubted it. Fear of competition? Not with those eyes and that hair and that face—not to mention all that money. Abruptly his words about the riches to be obtained from Cunaxan merchants took on new meaning, and she almost giggled. Subtle of him, to indicate he didn’t need her dowry. More seriously, she realized that he didn’t need her family’s connection to the High Prince, either. If he Chose her, it would be for herself alone. Sionell was forced to admire his tactics. And his wits. And his sense of humor. And his looks.

He wasn’t Pol—but no man could be. And Pol would never be hers.

With a suddenness that stopped her breath for a moment she recalled the previous afternoon’s conversation with Pol. He knows—that’s why he said all those things about Tallain—trying to get me married off!

Her father was talking again, a bit nervously as she stayed silent. “Think it over for now, Ell. You don’t have to decide yet. There’s plenty of time.”

“I don’t need any time,” she heard herself say. “Tallain can come visit me if he likes.” After a brief pause, her lips curving slightly, she added, “But we don’t need to tell him that just yet.”

Walvis blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’d keep him guessing until the moment you accept him, wouldn’t you?”

Sionell answered only with a shrug, but she was thinking, Yes, and if he thinks he has to work harder to win me, we’ll probably both fall in love. Nothing so interesting as someone unattainable, as I well know. But if I do marry Tallain, it’ll be because I can make a life with him. She had a brief vision of Pol hurrying to join the flirtatious maidservant. He’d look at every woman in the world but her. She’d known that since childhood. But now she believed it.

Walvis rose and ruffled her hair as if she were still ten, saying she was too clever for her own good. Then he went back downstairs to persuade Feylin to leave her musings about the dragon population and come up to bed.

Sionell smoothed and rebraided her hair with automatic movements. If not Tallain, then someone else. But she did like him. And it was soothing to be admired by a handsome, wealthy young lord.

“Lady Sionell of Tiglath,” she whispered. Then, even more softly: “High Princess Sionell.”

No decisions tonight, except the one allowing Tallain to try. But if he was as she believed him to be, then it wouldn’t be difficult to love him. Not as she loved—had loved—Pol, of course. Tallain would know that. But he would never say anything about it, no more than Ostvel ever said anything to Alasen about Andry.

And it was very nice to be wanted. Very nice indeed.

6 726: Swalekeep

Autumn was breathlessly hot in Meadowlord. Nothing moved. Swollen gray clouds neither blew away nor rained nor seemed able to do anything but loiter. Even the mighty Faolain River lay sluggish just outside the city walls, as if reluctant to flow. The stillness would break soon. But until it did, even walking through the stifling air was an effort.

If autumn affected Swalekeep’s population, who were used to it this way, it was even worse for visitors. Two such, longing for the Veresch Mountains where they made their home, dragged themselves from their beds at the Green Feather Inn, hoping for some vague coolness in the dawn.

“Hideous climate,” the old woman muttered. “How do these people bear it?”

Her companion, a tall young man with copper-threaded brown hair and intensely blue eyes, bent a sardonic glance on her and made no comment.

“And so many of them,” she went on. “All jammed together—it’s not natural to live like this, Ruval.”

Still he said nothing, knowing as well as she the history of Swalekeep. The warrior who had originally set himself up as lord of the general vicinity had built the first part of a defensive castle, to which his heirs had added as need or whimsy prompted. Swalekeep’s population had swelled periodically as Meadowlord’s powerful neighbors treated the princedom as their private battlefield and refugees swarmed in. Eventually a Prince of Meadowlord, weary and impoverished by the sporadic influx of mouths to feed, decreed that enough was enough and built a wall higher than a dragon’s wingspan around his holding. During High Prince Roelstra’s last war with Prince Zehava, that wall had kept Swalekeep safe.

During the twenty-one years since Rohan had taken Roelstra’s princedom and title, the wall had been unnecessary. When bits of it were spirited away to become foundation stones for new homes and shops, no one did anything but shrug. Swalekeep’s inhabitants had eventually knocked down whole sections of wall, and all over the city blocks of gray-veined granite did duty as everything from mounting blocks to entire first floors. And the words of Eltanin of Tiglath, that Rohan would build walls stronger than any stone to keep peace among the princedoms, were in Swalekeep attributed to their late prince, Clutha.

The old man had never had half so abstract a thought in his life. But it made a good story—except in Princess Chiana’s hearing.

“I wonder how Marron likes it here,” the old woman asked suddenly.

“Servitude is hardly his style—but he’ll have to get used to it. Only one of us is going to be the next High Prince, after all. And it won’t be him.”

She chuckled low in her throat. They paced off the neat cobbled streets, past shops with living quarters above, the elegant homes of rich merchants and court functionaries, and finally neared the old castle itself. Of the more than five thousand who lived in Swalekeep, perhaps a hundred were out and about in the muggy morning heat.

“He’s probably become quite civilized these last two winters. Let him rub some polish onto you, Ruval.” She stopped outside a shop where a fine Cunaxan rug was displayed. A rathiv—“carpet of flowers”—done in brilliant colors, it was perfect for her purposes. “I want that. Come back later and acquire it for me.”

“With money or persuasion, Mireva?”

As she glanced up to return his grin, by the soft light she suddenly seemed half her nearly sixty-seven winters. The fine lines raying out from her fierce gray-green eyes vanished, as did the slight fleshiness along her jaw as her lifted head tightened the skin.

“None of that,” she chided, though she shared his glee at the possibilities open to them in placid Swalekeep, where diarmadh’im were unknown and faradh’im barely tolerated by proud Chiana of the long and grudge-filled memory.

They continued down the street to the appointed meeting place just outside the low brick wall surrounding the castle gardens. They lingered for some time, pretending to admire the late roses.

“I can’t help wondering how much he’s changed,” Ruval said as they waited for his half-brother.

“Do you really think he has? He’ll be just the same as ever: stubborn, jealous, and ambitious.”

“But he’s bound to have picked up a few ideas of his own. Like Segev.”

They both paused to recall the youngest of Ianthe’s brood, dead these seven summers by a faradhi hand. Segev’s failure to steal the Star Scroll had been a setback; his scheming to take its power for himself had been a shock; his death had been a blessing. But the manner of his death—stabbed by Lady Hollis—earned Mireva’s vow to avenge him. Killing her—and her husband and children—would be almost as satisfying as killing Pol and Rohan.

And Sioned, who had captured Rohan before Ianthe had even met him, thus fouling one path back to power for Mireva’s people. Sioned had protected Rohan from Roelstra’s treachery during their single combat by constructing a dome of glistening starfire at an impossible distance—stars forbidden to Sunrunners by Lady Merisel of abhorrent memory—after she had ordered Feruche razed and Ianthe slaughtered in her bed.

But only one of Ianthe’s sons had died with his mother: the boy who was Rohan’s get. Ruval, Marron, and Segev had escaped on Sioned’s own Radzyn-bred horses and been brought to Mireva. Ruval wanted the High Princess dead in payment for his mother; Marron, always more direct, simply wanted her dead. Mireva’s reasons were more complex. She had, after all, touched the woman’s powerful mind.

Addressing Ruval’s last remark, she said, “Segev was a fool as only a sixteen-year-old boy can be a fool. Marron is older, and one hopes he’s wise enough to know that you two can’t fight it out until there’s something to fight over. Until we have the Desert and Princemarch, he’ll go where he’s reined.”

“I’ll be riding him with a pronged bit and spurs just the same.”

Mireva paced a little way down the low wall, pausing to inhale the heavy spice of a flowering bush. Ruval followed, and together they gazed up at the castle. An eccentric structure, befitting its long history and the varying tastes of its owners, it exuded towers, extra wings, and additional floors with no regard for any architectural grace. Vines climbed thick and close up gray stone, softening some of the more awkward angles, but taken as a whole it was a rather ugly place. Dragon’s Rest, on the other hand, was reported to be an exquisite blend of beauty, strength, and power. How nice of Pol, Mireva thought with a sudden almost girlish smile, to make a palace fit for the Sorcerer High Prince who stood at her side.

She must be sure to thank Pol before she killed him.

“At last,” Ruval muttered. Mireva turned and saw a familiar young man dressed in the light green of service to Meadowlord’s rulers. Similar in feature and build to his eldest brother, Marron’s coloring was ruddier; even in the muted gray light his hair was a dark red mane. His eyes were brown, like Ianthe’s. Ruval was the taller by two fingers’ width, but Marron was the heavier and more physically imposing. They were unmistakable as brothers, especially when they smiled—sly, mocking, and shrewd.

Marron nodded pleasantly as he approached, as he had done to the one or two others he passed along the wall. When he was abreast of them, he whispered, “The Crown and Castle.” And walked on.

Mireva was irritated, but understood his need for caution. Had there been more people about, they could have met with complete unconcern right outside Chiana’s windows. But the sultry heat kept most of Swalekeep indoors. Thus they had to meet there, too.

The inn was situated at the end of a street that itself ended at the lofty outer wall. This was one of those places where the granite had been stolen away for more prosaic uses; the gap was big enough to ride through without ducking. Not that Ruval would have cared to try it—those upper stones looked a little tentative, deprived of their underpinnings.

One side of the Crown and Castle abutted on an ironmonger’s. The other was Swalekeep’s main wall itself. Over the hearth fire hung a cauldron from which patrons dipped their own stew. A smaller pot held mulled wine, also on a self-serve basis. Ruval showed a gold coin to a girl who sat near the hearth and ordered chilled wine. She left off petting the fat orange cat in her lap long enough to point to a nearby table—and to take the coin from his fingers.

Mireva joined him in a corner and they made slow drinking of the wine, trying to ignore the incessant hammering of the smith next door. How anyone could find the energy to work in this weather—let alone over a furnace—was utterly beyond him. Eventually, full but not particularly refreshed, Ruval got up, stretched, and made his way out the back door as if to relieve himself. Marron was waiting for him, fuming.

“You knew where I’d be! Why did you make me wait?”

“Because I was thirsty. Because it amused me.” He assessed his brother with a scathing glance. “You’ve fed well, these last few winters.”

“And you still look like a half-starved wolf who doesn’t know how to hunt for himself,” Marron shot back.

“Why should I, when I have a little brother to do my hunting for me?” Ruval grinned and walked toward the watering trough, seating himself casually on its edge. “Well? What news of our darling Aunt Chiana?”

“Keep your voice down!” Marron hissed.

“Are your senses grown as soft as your belly? There’s no one in hearing distance but those cats.” He gestured to the gray striped cat and kittens nearby. “And I doubt they’re interested.”

Marron sighed and shook his head. “I hate being closed in like this. You don’t know what it’s been like. The Veresch forests are walls you can walk through.”

Ruval felt unwilling sympathy. He hadn’t considered until arriving in Swalekeep how difficult it must be to adapt to life inside stone. “Come sit down, brother.”

Marron perched on the far rim of the trough. “You know my position in Swalekeep. It’s taken me two years to get into the chamberlain’s confidence, even using bits of power here and there. Chiana’s a bitch up one side and down the other—our grandfather’s daughter, no doubt about that! She wants all done to perfection, then finds fault and makes you do it again.”

“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

Dark eyes widened. “You can’t!”

“No?” Ruval laughed. “Go on.”

Marron looked as if he might argue, then subsided with a glower. “Mireva was right about Chiana’s ambition. She wants Rinhoel to have Princemarch as well as Meadowlord, even though all the sisters renounced it for themselves and their heirs—”

“All the sisters except Mother. Dead—at Sioned’s order.” A fragrance, a silken rustle, a throaty laugh, a sharp scowl when he played too rough—the meager memories darted through his mind, always escaping too quickly.

“I saw Sioned at last year’s Rialla. Toured Dragon’s Rest, too, but we’ll talk of that another time. She’s fifty next year, and looks thirty-five. Rohan’s the same.” Marron hesitated. “He’s not even a Sunrunner, Ruval—yet I could almost see the aleva around him. Sioned’s is almost painful to look at. And as for Pol—!”

Ruval frowned. The aleva was literally a “circle of fire” that the truly sensitive, especially among diarmadh’im, could glimpse around the highly powerful. That Sioned possessed such an aura was taken for granted; that Pol’s would also be visible was expected, too. But Rohan, whose Sunrunner blood was so thin—

Still, it was the Dragon’s Son and not the Dragon Prince who concerned him now. “Tell me about Pol.”

“I didn’t catch more than a few glimpses of him. I had to spell Chiana to get her to take me at all. And she’s not easy to work on, believe me. They’re building Dragon’s Rest out of stone and steel—she’s made just the same, only of ambition and hate.”

“My, how poetic.”

Marron looked as though he wanted to take a swing at him. “If you want to try getting through all that, go right ahead.”

“Pol,” Ruval said.

“No Sunrunner’s rings, but he’s been well-trained, wager on it. Tall, blond, good-looking—the women were all after him. He’s got an eye for the prettier ones.”

“Hmm.” Ruval smiled. “That’s interesting news for a little project of Mireva’s. But never mind that now.” He glanced at the inn’s back door, where a boy had just thrown scraps to the cats. “You must have more to tell, and Mireva wants to talk at length. And in private.”

“There’s a musical evening tonight—Chiana likes to present herself as cultured and sophisticated,” he added sourly. “Another thing about Pol, he’s got an absolute passion for music. I’ll meet you in the garden near the Pearifisher Inn after dusk.”

“I’ll find it. But why not here? The wine’s good.”

“The wine is terrible. You’ve a lot to learn about the finer things available to a prince,” Marron jeered. Before Ruval could put him in his place with a sharp answer, he strode off.

Mireva hissed with annoyance when Ruval entered their small chamber at the Green Feather. She intended the precious rathiv to be part of her performance for Chiana, and he had lumped it together as if it was a horse blanket.

“Wait,” he grinned, correctly interpreting her angry look. Unfolding the rug, he revealed a torso-sized gleam of silver and glass that took her breath away. “I thought you might like this.”

“By the Nameless One—!” she breathed, taking the mirror from him. Kneeling with it set before her on the wooden planks, she ran reverent fingers over decorative wires that swirled and twisted in a pattern as old as her people. “What is this doing out of the Veresch?”

“The shopkeeper didn’t know what he had, of course. I actually paid money for it—though not for the rathiv—the price was that low.” Ruval crouched beside her. “Do you have any idea what to do with it?”

“See this?” She pointed to an intricate knot woven in silver wire at the top of the frame. “Recognize it?”

“I’m not blind,” he replied impatiently. “Can you get it to work?”

“Yes. Oh, yes!” She laughed and threw her arms around him. “My clever High Prince!” His hands ran eagerly over her back and hips, but she pushed him away. “Later. Leave me alone with it for now. Come back when it’s time to meet Marron. I need to set the spell within it.”

“And you won’t let me watch.” His handsome face with its cruel, curling mouth went dark. “After all these years, you still don’t trust me.”

“If you knew what I do about this mirror, you wouldn’t trust your own mother.”

“Considering who my mother was, you’re quite naturally right.” Rising, he cast one last hungry glance at the mirror and left her.

Mireva rocked back and forth, hugging her breasts. The mirror rested in mute impotence on the floor, its strange dusky gold surface like a stormy sky at sunset. The silver frame was old and tarnished, the wires broken in some places and missing in others. But she knew it for what it was—and gave thanks that Ruval had seen and identified the crowning knotwork.

Her old, gnarled fingers caressed the flat face as a maiden might her lover’s cheek. The small hand mirror she’d planned to give Chiana had been a risk. This was a certainty.

It took her some time to find the right words—she initially misjudged the age of the mirror, and had to restructure her accent and phrasing to awaken it. But when it finally brightened in the gloom of her chamber, it was with a sure and steady glow.

Marron opened all his windows to the evening rain. The heat had finally broken with a sweep of icy air that from its feel had come all the way from Firon’s early snows. The trees outside bent in the wind and he nodded in satisfaction. It was plenty cold enough to justify the heavy hooded cloak he wore to disguise his distinctive hair.

Descending the stairs, he heard the faint echoes of strings and drums from the hall where Chiana was perpetuating her “great lady” image. Several times a season she invited influential merchants and their wives to spend the evening in her presence. She did not go so far as to give them dinner; she broke bread with no one under the rank of athr’im. But a summons to the castle was a social distinction no one refused, no matter how deeply Chiana was loathed.

On his way out he encountered the chamberlain in a back corridor. A doddering holdover from Clutha’s time, the old man drank himself stuporous most nights and whined about the good old days to anyone who would listen. Marron found himself caught by a wizened claw, unable to escape without being rude. The role of humble servant did not sit easily on a man descended from High Princes and diarmadh’im, but Marron had little choice.

At last he claimed a pressing appointment with a young lady who did not like to be kept waiting, and slipped away while the chamberlain mumbled about ancient loves of his own.

Swalekeep was patchworked by little public parks, islands of trees and bushes and flowering plants connected by meandering streets. Chiana had appropriated the largest of them for one of her oddest self-indulgences: an animal garden. In it roamed several deer and elk, and an eagle with its flight feathers regularly plucked to keep it earthbound. In large cages were a wolf pair that had produced nothing but dead pups in the five years of their captivity, and a female mountain cat, her claws torn out. Chiana had offered a substantial reward for anyone who could bring her a mate for the cat; it was said she would have paid half Meadowlord’s yearly income for a dragon, but no one had taken her up on that, either.

Marron paused outside this sad little place, watching the wolves pace endlessly behind steel mesh. A strong kinship welled up in him for his fellow captive exiles. But he could afford no weakening sentiment right now. He was about to meet Mireva for the first time in two long winters.

Chafing his cold hands beneath the cloak, he hurried to the enclosure opposite the Pearlfisher and entered, snicking the gate shut behind him. The hand on his arm startled him into a curse.

“Your senses have dulled,” she murmured. “But they’re lost in a good cause.”

Ruval’s cause, he wanted to say, but held his tongue. Time enough to deal with his brother and leave Mireva with only one of Ianthe’s sons to work with.

“I’ve missed you,” she said abruptly. “I didn’t think I would.”

The words surprised him, but he was still wary. “Where’s Ruval?”

“Standing watch. Come and sit with me.” It was fully dark now. The rain had eased to a fine mist that veiled her graying hair as she pushed back her hood. He could see every line on her face in the lamplight across the narrow street; she had aged with the tension of waiting. He knew how that felt.

“It is time to prove your brother’s legitimacy,” Mireva began without preamble.

Marron had known this was coming. Bastardy was not a stigma as such—illegitimate offspring shared inheritances with trueborn—but Roelstra had sired such an embarrassing number of bastard daughters that the custom of fathering children outside marriage had gone out of fashion. In practice these days, legitimate heirs had the edge. Rohan’s father had in many ways begun the trend by being scandalously faithful to his adored wife. It was a foolish practice, for most women bore only three or four children. Those who conceived five times and lived to tell of it were uncommon; no one had ever heard of any who had borne more than six. Prolific bloodlines were sought after, and those who produced twins, like Princess Tobin, were most desirable of all. It was only sensible to get as many heirs as possible—possession of a single son was dangerous, as Prince Chale of Ossetia had learned years ago when his had died.

“Chiana’s son is legitimate, a prince,” Mireva went on. “But she was quite spectacularly born a bastard.” A smile gleamed around her lips for a moment. “Imagine it—being utterly frantic to prove herself a bastard! Ianthe, on the other hand, was the daughter of Roelstra’s wife. If we can provide evidence from Lord Chelan’s own mouth that he and Ianthe were wed—”

“I made inquiries when you asked last winter,” he interrupted. “He lived at a manor on the Syrene border.”

Her eyes lit with silvery sparks. “‘Lived’?”

“And died, and burned there this summer. A wasting sickness, it’s said.”

“Damn him! Damn him for dying!”

Before she could get what she wanted and then kill him herself, Marron thought. But he said nothing.

Mireva inhaled deeply, struggling for calm. “It’s my own fault for not taking care of this sooner.”

“If you had, attention would have fallen on him—and he would have been around our necks.”

“That’s true.” She sighed.

“Ruval will just have to do without,” he said, a trifle more acidly than intended. She fixed an icy gaze on him. “I know, I should’ve told you on starlight. But you’ve both been traveling so much—Cunaxa and all over Princemarch—it was impossible to find you.”

“And you’ve never been very good at that sort of thing,” she snapped. “Are you sufficiently good at palace politics to get me in to see Chiana? Tonight?”

“Tonight—” He swallowed hard. “What do you plan to do to her?”

“What do you think?” she countered.

“You don’t understand about Chiana. She’s—hard.” He explained how he’d been able to nudge her in directions she already favored—such as removing Halian’s sister Gennadi as regent of Waes and reinstating Lord Geir. Though the young man hated Halian’s father for the execution of his parents, he was alive to the advantages of working with Chiana. This had become one more thread of power in his aunt’s grasping little hands. “But she has to think things are all her own idea. Even a hint that you’re trying to influence her, and—”

“Give me credit for being subtle, boy.”

“Well, she’s not,” he said frankly. “She covets Castle Crag the way some covet wine. She’s the only one of Roelstra’s daughters not born there, and she’s never set foot in the place. Pandsala forbade it and Ostvel won’t let her within a hundred measures. But she wants it and would die to possess it even for a day. It’s the symbol of royalty to her.”

Mireva nodded slowly. “After six winters at Goddess Keep, and fifteen more living with whichever half-sister would tolerate her for a while, and finally having her birth publicly doubted—I can understand her. That’s helpful, Marron. But she can’t be allowed to interfere with our right to Princemarch.”

“We need her. We’ll have to give her something.”

“Miyon alone is not enough,” she mused. “He sits atop the Desert, but I need Chiana’s armies to take Princemarch.”

“You mean you’ve allied with that Cunaxan snake?” he gasped.

“Remind me one day to tell you about it.” She grinned at him, then sobered. “So Castle Crag is the key to opening Chiana. Thank you for that, Marron.” Rising, she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll meet you outside the gates later. I’m anxious to meet this Princess of Meadowlord.”

“I’m not sure I can arrange it—”

Her gaze and her fingers grasped at him. “If you wish to live long enough to battle your brother for Princemarch and the Desert, I suggest you find a way. I only need Ruval, you know.”

“And he needs me,” he stated, trying to hide his fright.

She only laughed.

Marron kept his steps firm and even as he left the enclosed garden. But he was shaking by the time he got back to his chamber at the castle. Even in privacy he dared not weaken, however—it was as if he could feel two pairs of eyes, one piercing gray-green and the other fiercely blue, watching him, could hear laughter aimed at him.

A large cup of wine and a memory calmed him. The dranath was less responsible for his renewed confidence than the recollection that Mireva had not caught him in his almost-lie. It was true enough that Ruval’s father was dead, but not of a wasting sickness—unless one included slow poison in that category. Marron might not know the complete range of diarmadhi spells, but he knew very well how to create death in a bottle of wine.

“It’s late. I’m tired.”

“I thought her prattle might amuse your grace,” Marron said diffidently. Chiana shrugged. “There are many such women in the Veresch where I grew up. Harmless, of course, or I would never have brought this one to your grace’s attention. But sometimes one is entertained by their tricks.”

The scowling princess tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. It had not been an entirely successful evening, Marron had heard. Strings repeatedly snapped in the chill night air, putting an early end to the music, and Chiana had been forced to converse with her lowborn guests.

He waited for her decision, playing humble and anxious servitor. At last she shrugged again and nodded.

“Oh, very well, Mirris. Send her to me. Wait—is she clean?”

“I took the liberty, your grace, . . .” He trailed off delicately.

“Fetch her, then. If she amuses me, have her fed and paid afterward.”

“Very good, your grace.”

He stepped out of the chamber, soothing his eyes with the cool length of white-and-gold corridor. A relief after the hundreds of different greens in the private reception room, colors Chiana surrounded herself with in the belief that any and all shades of green suited her auburn looks. Diarmadh’im were as sensitive to color as any Sunrunner; the juxtaposition of hues no forest or meadow would ever know was as acutely painful as a score of lutes playing different tunes, all off-key.

Mireva waited at a back door. She had dressed her part as mountain witch in a many-patched rag of a gown, an old black shawl, and thin wool gloves missing three fingers and a thumb. Stooped, bedraggled, with quivering hands and aimless gestures, if he had not known her, he would not have known her. He hid a grin on recalling Chiana’s fastidious query about her cleanliness, and ordered her to follow him.

“And no begging for money, mind,” he snapped as they paused outside Chiana’s suite. “Amuse her grace and you may see a few coins. Displease her, and you’ll be lucky to leave with your tongue still between your teeth.”

The gray-green gaze twisted up at him, sardonically acknowledging his enjoyment of the role played for the benefit of the young servant who carried the rathiv-wrapped mirror.

Marron scratched at the door, opened it, and announced, “The . . . person, your grace.”

Chiana, magnificent in a yellow-green gown that clashed with the pillows of her chair, waved a languid hand. “A witch, eh?” she said as Mireva approached and bowed several times. “The only witch whom I know to be a witch is the High Princess Sioned.”

“I’ve heard it said that Lady Andrade was, too, Your Splendor.”

“And who would know it better than I?” Chiana laughed mirthlessly. “Very well. Mirris, bring a chair.”

Mireva shook her head and bowed again. “No need, Your Radiance. The floor is good enough for me, especially in such a presence.”

The rug was spread across polished stone, the mirror set on it almost as an afterthought. As the servant bowed and left, Chiana began to look interested.

“If Your Graciousness would be so kind as to show me her pretty hands, perhaps I can read something of her future.”

“Perhaps?” But Chiana stuck out both slim, white, beringed hands. Her lip curled as Mireva touched her fingertips. “Well?”

“If I might look into those lovely eyes?”

Marron bit back a grin, wondering if Mireva intended to inspect Chiana’s teeth. Hazel eyes stared unblinking into gray-green. Mireva made a few noises low in her throat, then settled back on her heels, nodding sagely.

“Speak!” Chiana ordered.

“I am overwhelmed by the brilliance of your future. To be sure, I must look into a flame lit by Your Grandeur’s own hand.”

“Mirris, bring a candle.”

Chiana struck steel to flint and the wick sprang to life. Mireva peered into the flame—giving it all she had, Marron thought, greatly amused—muttering to herself while the princess fidgeted. At length a wide smile broke across her face, revealing artfully blackened teeth.

“Your Greatness will be granted her dearest wish: to enter Castle Crag as a princess.”

Chiana sat forward, snared. “Have you seen it? What else? Will I rule there? Will my son?”

“Slowly, gently! I have seen many things. Deaths. ...”

“Whose?”

“Two men. Fair-haired, much alike, from a land that burns.”

“Rohan and Pol!” Chiana laughed. “But what of Sioned? Does she die, too?”

Mireva’s face twitched slightly. “Her death ... is written.”

Marron kept his face smooth—not that either paid him any mind. Sioned frightened Mireva. She would have denied it if asked, but he knew the High Princess was her target even more than Pol.

Chiana burbled with glee. “Wonderful! When? Tell me when!”

“Before the next Rialla. Your Worshipfulness must prepare herself for a long, difficult fight—I see soldiers, horses—”

“What?” the princess exclaimed angrily, the candle flame almost guttering with her breath. “There won’t be any war. The Desert and Pricemarch have us on two sides, and Syr is on a third. Kostas would come to his Aunt Sioned’s aid in an instant.”

“It will be difficult, Your Mightiness. But there is no other way to win Castle Crag.”

The words had the desired effect. Chiana’s eyes sharpened with the look of a starving woman shown a banquet through a window.

“I will have it. Rinhoel will rule all Princemarch from Castle Crag—”

“No.” Mireva let the word fall like a stone. “I see a name, but it is not that of your son. A kinsman. Close. Very close to you.”

“I have no brother and my father is dead. Who else could claim Princemarch, once Pol is—” She paled suddenly. “No! Not Kostas’ son by Danladi! My son will inherit! My son!”

“No,” the old woman repeated. “The one who will rule Princemarch is Ruval.”

Only for as long as it takes me to kill him, Marron thought.

“Ianthe’s son,” Mireva whispered. Chiana’s delicate knuckles whitened around the candle, “Ianthe—!”

“Ruval, Your Wisdom’s nephew, will reclaim—”

“Not if I can help it,” was the grim reply.

“If Your Magnificence will indulge an old woman—please, look into this mirror. It will help me see more clearly.”

Marron reminded himself to ask how long it had taken to think up all the honorifics—and then lost all impulse toward humor as the mirror was turned, angled at the princess. Chiana slid to the floor on her knees with the candle barely secure in lax fingers, lost.

Shaken, he locked his own knees and clenched his jaw shut. He knew about the mirror hidden in the back room of Mireva’s hillside dwelling; this one looked older still and was undoubtedly even more powerful. They had really known how to make mirrors back then, had his diarmadhi ancestors. . . .

The reflected candlelight illumined Chiana’s face in smoky gold. Mireva’s voice crooned to her, soft and unthreatening.

“Your son will never rule Princemarch. That is reserved for those of the oldest blood. But there is a way to gain Castle Crag. Support Prince Ruval in all he does. If you wish to see Sioned burn in her own Fire, obey me. If you wish vengeance on the Sunrunners who jailed you in childhood, you will obey. If you wish to enter Castle Crag as a princess. ...”

“I—will obey,” Chiana whispered, her voice like death.

“And when you do, you will be strong. I will give you this mirror to remind you. Keep it with you always. Look into it by starshine every evening. If you wish to live. ...”

“I will obey.”

“Leave us,” Mireva said over her shoulder in a completely different voice. Marron gave a start. “Now,” she added sharply. And he fled.

7 727: Goddess Keep

Andry came from a family whose members had no difficulty expressing themselves. In fact, Chay had observed more than once that Tobin never shut up, even in her sleep. But it was a long time since Andry had spoken to any of his relations with complete honesty, saying precisely what was on his mind—or in his heart—without hesitation. Time and titles had come between them and him. But today he would change that. He had to, if they were to survive.

Everything was ready in the long room above the gates—the goblets, the Sunrunner at his side, even the clothes Andry wore—all of it exactly as Andry had planned, and as Lady Merisel mentioned in her writings. Though she warned against symbols rather than endorsing them. “Symbols stand for power. But don’t mistake one for the other—as my enemies often did, poor things. And don’t allow the symbols to make you forget what they should help you remember. The rings are only as strong as the hands wearing them.”

Two of his chosen symbols—the goblets—waited to be filled with wine and dranath. Actually, he’d taken a lesson from Rohan in this: Rohan who knew how to use expensive things to impress and, if he wished, to awe. Look at Dragon’s Rest, Andry thought, or even Stronghold’s Great Hall. Or even the High Prince himself when he wanted to remind certain people of exactly who he was—clad in rich silk and gleaming gems and that ultimate symbol of his authority, his coronet. But Rohan could show up bareheaded, barefoot, in peasant woolens, and still dominate everyone—with the living symbol that was Sioned at his side.

Andry had not yet reached a time when he could dispense with the props. But he could wait. The goblets were for himself and Nialdan, the clothes for the Sunrunners assembling now in the courtyard. Nialdan himself was a symbol of sorts, though the young man would have gaped at the very notion. Though Andry was a tall man, well-made and muscular, Nialdan was built like a tree. He topped Andry by a head and outspanned him in the shoulders by two hands. Brown eyes regarded the world patiently from a brown face below reddish-brown hair. Nialdan wore six rings that had not come from the coffer Andry inherited with his position here—the Waesian’s smallest finger was as thick as any other man’s thumb. He didn’t just knock on a door; he dealt it a mortal blow, and his rings had to be specially made.

For him, too, a special goblet had been fashioned, shaded with the browns and russets and greens of his mind. Colors were symbols, too, and the gems that Sunrunners used to define them. The Star Scroll was rife with jewel symbology. A faint prickling of irritation stung Andry when he thought of the scroll.

He’d invited Maarken to look at the illuminated final copy just that morning. His brother had more comments for the delicate drawings than for the text—because he had seen the copy Urival had made in secret and taken with him to Stronghold three years ago. The copy Andry wasn’t supposed to know about.

Maarken inspected the painted capitals, the tiny marginal sketches of various plants mentioned in recipes, and the star clusters that headed each division of topics. That he did not read more than a few words here and there was indication enough that he had no need to. Andry wondered if his brother knew how completely he had given himself away.

Not that reading would have done anyone any good. This was a direct translation, exactly as Lady Merisel had dictated it—but lacking the little markers that indicated lies. Anyone attempting to cast a spell or concoct a potion using this version of the Star Scroll would be sadly disappointed.

The accurate copy resided in Andry’s chambers. He supposed Maarken knew about that one, as well. Today Andry would show him the uses to which he had put it.

He knew how Urival had used the other copy—an accurate one, Goddess damn the old man. When he’d died late last winter, Andry had almost asked for its return along with the few things of Andrade’s sent back to the archives after Urival’s death.

What he’d really wanted, though, were the rest of her rings—or what remained of them. Maarken had reset the chunk of amber into his wedding necklet; Sioned sometimes wore the emerald on a chain around her neck; the ruby now graced Tobin’s coronet. Chadric had inherited the sapphire, given to old Prince Lleyn who had been Andrade’s friend. Chay, Rohan, and Pol had the other stones—the last being the most irksome to Andry. Pol wore the moonstone as unsubtle reminder that he was a Sunrunner, even though he hadn’t been trained at Goddess Keep.

Andry sometimes took out the garnet Urival had given him after Andrade’s death, but had never quite been able to bring himself to wear it. The old man had left the tenth ring on Andrade’s finger, token of the wedding ring he would have put there himself if they had been ordinary folk. But the chains that had connected all the rings to bracelets on Andrade’s wrists had been fashioned into a delicate, unobtrusive necklet worn for the rest of Urival’s life, and burned with him in the Desert.

Andry wanted those rings back. Years of studying the Star Scroll and the histories unearthed with it on Dorval had convinced him that there was more to the symbolism of gemstones than pretty tradition. But to ask for them would alert Pol to their possible significance, and this he refused to do.

And then there were the mirrors, the most frustrating of all Merisel’s enigmatic little hints. “If you find a sorcerer who possesses a mirror, exile the sorcerer—but shatter the mirror.” Just that one sentence. No explanation, no elaboration. Andry, who had fallen a little in love with Merisel through her vivid writings, had long since decided that at several hundred years’ remove, she was fascinating—but that face-to-face she must have been several hundred different kinds of Hell to deal with.

Nialdan waited placidly beside him for Torien to come up and announce that everyone was assembled and all was in readiness. Anyone else would have been fidgeting by now; Nialdan merely planted both big feet on the floor and stood as motionless and patient as a pine. Andry found the man’s solidity soothing, especially after the long night behind him and in view of the tough work ahead.

Valeda had given him a daughter just before dawn. Hollis, here with Maarken on a visit all hoped would help heal the troubles no one ever talked about, had assisted in the birthing room. Andry had seen her holding the new baby earlier today, and his heart filled with compassion. One of her reasons for coming to Goddess Keep was to consult the Mother Tree. Her twins, Chayla and Rohannon, were five winters old and there were no signs of more children. But, judging by her determinedly cheerful expression after a brief disappearance the other day, the tree circle had not shown her what she wished to see. Andry still remembered being shown what he wished to forget.

He shut his eyes and let the visions form behind his lids, dyed red with the sunlight streaming onto his face, awash in the color of blood.

The day of the ceremony that would make him Lord of Goddess Keep (Oh, Sweet Lady, let me be strong and worthy—), he went to the tree circle. Naked, shivering a little in the crisp autumn air, he knelt before the pool below the rock cairn and plucked a hair from his head to float on the Water, symbol of the Earth of which he was made. He’d always considered this a gentle, harmless ritual—a minor use of power, a quaint little ceremony reminding him of his origins in and kinship with the Elements. He called Air and the Water ruffled; he summoned a fingerflame and set it dancing atop the rocks. Lovely in the morning sun, warm and bright–First the children—faces in rapid succession, vanishing too quickly for him to receive more than the vague impression that they all had his blue eyes.

Then the chaos. Swords, steel-tipped arrows, horses gutted and dying, men and women warriors scythed down like harvested wheat. Battle. Blood. Radzyn demolished, Stronghold in ruins. His parents and brothers and all his family destroyed. Goddess Keep a smoldering wreck of shattered stone clinging to the sea cliffs, Sunrunners never to ride the light again.

And finally the stars. Uncounted pinpricks of blinding light, like daggers thrusting straight up from the bottom of a deadfall. He hurtled toward them in an endless plunge into darkness punctuated by stars. The sorcerers’ stars.

It was Sorin who woke him, running headlong into the circle where no one not faradhi was allowed. “Andry! Andry, wake up!” He was shaken roughly, opened his eyes, and saw his brother’s fear-paled face. He clung to Sorin, grateful for the warm strong arms around him and the presence that, but for the one vital gift, was twin to his own.

How Sorin had felt it was a mystery to them both. They had heard of how Maarken, after his own twin died of Plague, wandered Radzyn lost and haunted, calling for the second self always there and now gone. But what they shared was stronger—perhaps because they were older, or because Andry was a Sunrunner even more powerful than Maarken.

Since then, Andry dreamed occasionally of what the Goddess had shown him. Once it happened while Sorin was at Goddess Keep, on a quick visit before sailing for Kierst to supervise the making of tiles for Feruche. Andry had been shaken from the dream as he’d been from the vision, his brother’s hands frantic on his shoulders and his brother’s voice crying out his name.

“What does it feel like?” Andry had asked as they waited for dawn beside the hearth, wrapped in blankets and gulping mulled wine.

“Like when we were little, and one of us had a bad dream.” Sorin’s brows arched speculatively. “You never told me the details then—”

“Neither did you. We were a prideful little pair, weren’t we? Never could admit to being that scared.” Andry smiled.

“—and I don’t suppose you’re going to talk about it now, are you?” Sorin finished as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

“No. Sorry. It’s bad enough that I see—what I see. If I told you, you might start dreaming the same thing. And it might bounce between us all the way to Feruche and back—and neither of us would ever get any sleep.”

Andrade had always emphasized that the Goddess showed what might come to pass. “Nothing is written in stone—and even if it were, stones can be broken.” He wondered sometimes what she had seen of the future. Did the Goddess tell her to marry her sister off to Zehava? Or was that to change a future she didn’t happen to like? Did she ever see Pol? Or me? Did she realize what work I have in front of me? Is that why she chose me as her successor? Or did she see someone else, and pick me by default?

Not what he ought to be thinking right now. As for what everyone else would think—he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of them but Maarken and Hollis. They had to understand. The Sunrunners here could be frightened, horrified, shocked, or awestruck. It didn’t much matter which. His brother had to understand and explain it to Rohan and Sioned and Pol.

But he admitted to himself that he didn’t much care what they thought, either. If Rohan considered him power-hungry, and Sioned was affronted by his uses of power, and Pol felt threatened—too bad. They can look on this as they like, so long as they don’t hinder me. I can keep that vision from becoming real. This is my work to do, my warning from the Goddess. Only—please, Gentle Lady, let Maarken understand.

He gave a violent start when Nialdan cleared his throat. The big man shrugged an apology. “Sorry, my Lord.”

Andry smiled thinly. “Uproot yourself from the floor and go see what’s keeping Torien.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

With Nialdan gone, Andry could give in to nerves and pace. He was used to circling a room; the gatehouse was long and narrow, and the change in pattern unsettled him even more. He stopped by the table again and poured wine into the goblets for something to do with his hands. The dranath sifted down from his rubbing palms, fine powder vanishing instantly into the green-gold wine.

“My Lord?” Nialdan came back in, leaving the staircase door open behind him. “Torien says they’re about ready. He’ll be up in a moment. Oclel’s making doubly sure about the swords and arrows.”

Oclel was Nialdan’s good friend and the only man at Goddess Keep big enough to give him a decent workout with a sword. Born in Princemarch of a huntsman’s daughter and a soldier who had fought for Roelstra in 704, Oclel had married the mother of Andry’s elder daughter. Andry preferred it so. Rusina had not wanted the child he’d given her on her first-ring night. Already in love with Oclel, she bore Tobren grudgingly and had wanted nothing to do with her from the day of her birth. Another woman had nursed the child, and Valeda took care of Tobren’s need for affection.

Othanel, mother of his only son, was another matter entirely. Triumphant in her pregnancy, she kept little Andrev close and barely allowed him to play with other children, as if fearing contamination. She was possessive and jealous, barely able to hide her fury when first Rusina and then Valeda bore Andry’s children, and not bothering to hide her glee when both women birthed daughters. Contemplation of Rusina’s anger and Othanel’s ambition brought an uncomfortable memory of his mother’s stinging rebuke at the last Rialla. When he’d tried to explain that both babies were too young to travel, Tobin had exploded like heat lightning across the Desert sky.

“What are you afraid we’ll see? Children conceived not because you care a damn about their mothers—which you don’t—but because you want your own little brood of Sunrunners? Not even Andrade went that far!”

“Didn’t she? What are you and Rohan but her experiments in faradhi royalty? Not to mention Pol!”

Maarken had come by later that night. Man-to-man reasoning left Andry unmoved, but when Maarken’s temper flared he capitulated. He had never gone against his adored eldest brother’s wishes in his life.

And, truthfully, he didn’t regret the meeting last summer in Syr. Time spent with Andrev and Tobren had softened his mother’s wrath. Sorin made the journey from Feruche to High Kirat, Maarken came with his family from Whitecliff, and Tilal from Athmyr. Kostas, a father now himself, presided over the whole noisy crowd with a sardonic grin. The eight children—Andry’s, Maarken’s, Kostas’, and Tilal’s—had seemed bent on demolishing anything that got within reach of their fists, including, on occasion, each other. For ten days it was almost as if they were any ordinary big family.

Rohan, Sioned, and Pol had sent their regrets. Andry understood perfectly. They would let the others make the initial moves toward peace. Thus this current visit by Maarken and Hollis.

It fit in perfectly with Andry’s own plans. He knew now the method by which he would change that future of horror and blood.

Maarken had to understand.

Torien appeared at last, visibly annoyed by the delay. “But everything’s ready now, my Lord. They’re waiting for you to begin.”

He nodded and gestured to Nialdan, who emptied his goblet in two large gulps. Andry took a little longer at it, savoring the slow pulse of the drug in his body. He had been careful to use only enough for an increase of power—he’d heard from Maarken how Hollis had suffered after her addiction to dranath. He didn’t want that for any of his people, and certainly not for himself. But the augmentation of gifts was too important to reject dranath completely.

When he could feel its effects—soft heat in his cheeks, a tingling in his groin, a flush of energy through his body—he straightened his clothing and went to the balcony that overlooked the courtyard. Taking another lesson from Rohan, he had chosen his clothes carefully: wool trousers dyed red, white shirt and short white tunic. Radzyn’s colors, meant to remind Maarken that whatever he might witness today, they were of the same place, the same heritage.

“Your cloak, my Lord?” Torien murmured behind him, and he shook his head. A breeze off the sea quickened the air, but he wasn’t cold. He never was, except in the depths of winter. The joke around Goddess Keep was that he’d soaked up so much Desert sun in childhood that he’d never feel anything but the worst blizzard the Father of Storms exhaled from the icy heart of the Veresch.

Many of those below him were in warm woolen gowns and tunics, with cloaks against the wind. Several wore the hoods pulled up—perhaps to keep their ears warm, and perhaps to hide their reaction to whatever shocking innovation Andry was about to present. He shrugged, but made mental note of them anyway. They could be sent elsewhere for duty and cease to trouble him. Again he thought of Urival, whose removal from Goddess Keep had been no guarantee of lack of trouble. Whatever Pol now knew of faradhi arts, it was too much—because Andry had not been the one to teach him.

This wasn’t the time to think about that, either. He rested his hands lightly on the smooth balcony rail and surveyed the assembly with justifiable pride. The Sunrunners, students, and servants of Goddess Keep numbered over four hundred—two-thirds of them faradh’im at various levels of expertise.

In Andrade’s time there had been as many non-gifteds here as Sunrunners. The reason was not talent, but money. Prior to Andry’s rule here, students were required to give to Goddess Keep that share of their parents’ wealth that would have dowered them. No prejudice was attached to the gift’s size; the price of a few sheep, all Nialdan had brought, weighed equally with the substantial slice of Radzyn’s wealth that had been Andry’s portion. Indeed, it was this princely sum that had allowed him to cancel the dowry custom. Parents loath to sell off goods for the stipulated cash were now perfectly happy to send gifted sons and daughters to become Sunrunners; the other children benefited through increased dowries. Andry had brought with him more than enough to make up for any loss of income. It afforded him a certain grim amusement to wonder how Rohan would have worked it out if Pol had come here; he was dowered with all Princemarch.

They probably would have done what Chay and Tobin did with Maarken—told Andrade that if she wanted Whitecliff (his dowry while his father lived), she could come collect it lock, stock, and paddock.

But Andry had insisted on giving the whole of his fortune to Goddess Keep. He could have had almost any place he wanted in the Desert, a manor or castle and honors befitting the son of the Battle Commander and the grandson of a prince. But this keep was all he had ever wanted. Now it was his. And, thanks to him, wealthier and more populous than Andrade had ever dared hope.

And all of them looked to him for guidance. No one, not even those chosen for this demonstration, knew of his terrible vision and the dreams that haunted his sleep. Caution told him they must trust him for himself, not out of fright of a dreaded future. They must follow him because they believed in him, give him loyalty, dedicate themselves to him so that when he finally revealed his reasons, faith would conquer fear. They must be certain to their bones that he would teach them how to use their gifts against the coming battle and blood.

He could not glimpse his brother’s head in the crowd, and so looked for Hollis’ distinctive tawny hair. Where she was, Maarken would be. At last he located them by the well. He murmured to Torien, “Take my brother and his lady closer to the gates. I want them to have an unobstructed view.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Andry drew in a deep breath and addressed his people. “Since faradh’im left Dorval to end the sorcerers’ control of the princedoms, we have been forbidden to use our gifts to kill. This is a wise law. Without it, we might have become hired assassins like the Merida, our honor the price of a wineskin—or worse.

“But in reading the scrolls left by Lady Merisel, who led the Sunrunners with her husband Lord Gerik and their friend Lord Rosseyn, I discovered something. They and their faradh’im went into battle alongside their allies—and they used their gifts to protect.”

He waited for this to sink in, then continued. “The concept of warrior faradh’im was as astonishing to me as I know it is to you. But the fact remains that they were. And it was only after the so-called Stoneburners had been defeated that the law was made forbidding us to kill with our gifts.”

Torien had reached Maarken by now, and was urging him politely toward the main gate. Andry ignored the little rustling they made through the crowd. He also did himself the favor of ignoring the many faces eloquent with suspicion that he was about to unmake that particular law.

“Lady Merisel was wise,” he said quietly. “We are so made as Sunrunners that we cannot conceive of causing death with our art. This is as it should be. We are here to work with and for the princedoms, not to terrorize them with our power as the diarmadh’im did.

“But I have come to believe that we must learn to do what our ancestors did. Not to kill in battle, but to protect. Many of you were at Goddess Keep in 704, when Lyell of Waes camped outside our gates—ostensibly to protect us against the war between Roelstra and Prince Rohan. You who were here remember how helpless you were against only fifty or sixty armed soldiers.

“You may rightly say that times are peaceful now, with no need for learning what I propose we learn. But consider the possible results of a single death: that of Prince Pol.”

Hollis’ dark golden head jerked up at that. He met her gaze calmly, knowing he need not spell it out in words of one syllable or less. But he explained it anyway. They had to understand. This was a thing dire enough to convince them, while leaving the real threat unrevealed. The prospect he detailed was real enough in any case, and frankly made him sick to his stomach.

“My cousin is heir to two princedoms, and to the High Prince. He is the only heir. He is a strong young man in excellent health—but so was Inoat of Ossetia, who died very suddenly with his only son, leaving Chale without an heir. Had there been no Princess Gemma to inherit Ossetia, war would have come—and in the very princedom Goddess Keep inhabits.

“My cousin’s life has been threatened before, by the Merida. I don’t need to number Roelstra’s grandchildren for you—enough to make life interesting, certainly, should the Merida or mere accident claim Pol’s life, Goddess keep it from happening. Which of Roelstra’s get have parents powerful enough to back a claim to Princemarch? Don’t remind me that their mothers signed away all right—what would that signify, with a princedom at stake?

“My brother Maarken would inherit the Desert, of course.” He nodded at the tall, composed man in their midst—Sunrunner, able warrior, Radzyn’s heir—and his heart gave a skip of sheer pride. There was no finer man alive. “But there would be war over Princemarch. We all know it.”

He paused again, gathering all his determination. “I don’t believe any of this will happen. But it could. And who can say what else might occur that none of us could ever d-dream of?” The stumble was almost unnoticeable; he had a sudden vision of Sorin’s worried eyes. “One day we may be called upon to defend ourselves. Quite frankly, I don’t intend to be trapped within Goddess Keep as Lady Andrade was. Beside this, it is unfortunate but true that my kinships excite the suspicions of certain princes. If war comes, for whatever reason, Goddess Keep is the first place they would attempt to capture. And how easy it would be to do it!”

Andry gestured to Nialdan. The tall Sunrunner stepped forward and with one lifted hand called a flame to a torch pole set just outside the open gates. A moment later the crowd was startled by the quiet thunder of hoofbeats. All eyes fixed on the forty riders, led by Oclel, galloping across the fallow fields. Andry knew what they were imagining: not men and women they knew, wielding blunted swords and cloth-wrapped arrows, but soldiers under enemy banners. He slipped down the inner stair, deliberately unobtrusive, but few marked his passage in any case. He nodded his satisfaction. Let them see danger, he thought; let them see their own helplessness.

Oclel raised his sword, and arrows thickened the sky. They thudded to the ground, hopelessly out of range. But the next volley hit the walls—away from the open gates, yet close enough to emphasize the threat. There were gasps, and a few cries of protest or outrage. Andry repressed a smile.

“What in all Hells do you think you’re doing?” demanded a familiar voice at his side, anger echoed in the strong grip on his arm.

“Hush,” Hollis murmured to her husband. “We’re about to find out, I think. Let him work, Maarken.”

Andry gave her a sharp glance, surprised that she knew his mind better than his own brother. He shook Maarken off and strode to the gates. Standing in the center of the wide gap, he lifted both arms. Jeweled rings and wristbands flared in the sunlight—and in the glow of a wall of Fire that sprang up fifty paces from the castle.

Nialdan was nearby, arms similarly raised, rugged features clenched with the strain of calling another barrier of Fire just this side of Andry’s. What no one but the two men knew was that whereas Nialdan worked with the sun, Andry had mastered the diarmadhi technique of constructing the wall without it.

The riders slowed when Fire appeared. Oclel bellowed an order and they abandoned their frenzied horses to approach on foot. Andry whispered a silent apology to his friend; Oclel had no idea what he was letting himself and his people in for.

Sunrunners approached Fire—and began to scream.

Andry silently counted to twenty, then lowered his arms. He spoke Nialdan’s name into the horrified stillness of the courtyard and the smaller Fire sputtered out. Oclel led his weak-kneed troop through the gates, pausing only to fling an order to the grooms to gather the horses.

“Sorry,” Nialdan muttered to Oclel, who gulped and shook his head.

Andry said nothing. The testimony of those who had felt the spell would be enough. He watched solemn-faced as furtive glances slid to him and then away.

The shaken “attackers” had recovered their voices. Andry listened to scraps of conversation and once more had to keep his lips from curving in a grim smile.

“—dragon-sized wolf with eyes of flame and claws bigger than my fingers—”

“—came right at me, I tell you—”

“—one of those rock lizards like the ones on Dorval, only with teeth—”

“Wolf? Lizard? I saw dragons, all black and breathing fire—”

“Dragons I’ll grant you, but blood-red, and dripping it from talons and jaws—”

“My Lord?”

Andry looked around. Oclel stood there, expressionless. A wave of sympathy nearly swamped Andry’s glee over how well his ploy had worked. “Rough, hmm?”

“Indescribable.”

“It had to be done this way the first time.”

“I understand, my Lord. May I tell the others that?”

“It should be common knowledge by dinner tonight.”

Oclel nodded. “As you wish. I think—”

What he thought would have to wait. Maarken strode up, coldly furious.

“Andry,” was all he said.

“In a moment, Maarken—”

“Now.”

Oclel bristled; no one spoke to the Lord of Goddess Keep in that tone, not even the Lord’s own brother. Andry gave brief consideration to asserting rank over a man who was, after all, a Sunrunner, then discarded the notion. He wanted understanding and cooperation, not resentment. And Maarken, though in general even-tempered and gently-spoken, was proud as a dragon—and the son of their fiery mother.

“Very well. Let’s go upstairs to the gatehouse. We can be private there.” He sent a caustic message with his eyes that acknowledged Maarken’s need to express his rage. A gaze like gray winter ice met his, and for the first time he wondered if he’d miscalculated.

Hollis followed them. She shut the door and leaned on it, trembling a little. Before Maarken could say anything she gave a choked gasp. “Andry! The wine—you didn’t—”

He went to the table and picked up the piece of folded parchment Sioned had given Andrade eight years earlier. “I did. And I’d like you to ask Pol if he’d send some more. This is the last.”

She flattened her spine against the door, eyes wide. “Don’t you understand? Don’t you know the risk?”

“Calm yourself,” he said, biting back impatience. “There’s no danger in small amounts, rarely taken. Besides, it’s necessary.”

Maarken’s voice was silk-soft now. “You can’t work a diarmadhi spell without it?”

“It works better with the added power. We’re not here to discuss dranath.”

“No.”

The brothers squared off with the table between them. Andry knew he should stay silent until he could judge what form Maarken’s fury would take, but he had to make him see, had to convince him.

“Everything I said was true. You know how helpless we’d be here if it came to war. I’m kin to the High Prince and his heir—and I’m the Lord of Radzyn’s son. Somebody like Miyon or Chiana or even Pimantal of Fessenden would know exactly how to paralyze you in the field with a threat to Goddess Keep.”

“Go on.”

Andry realized abruptly that he’d been wrong about Maarken’s anger. It wasn’t Tobin’s—volatile, incandescent. This was Chay at his cold, hard, implacable worst.

“We must be able to defend ourselves. Not just against the threats we can anticipate, but—” He broke off and eased his stance, taking his hands from the table and extending them palms up to his brother. “I’ve seen things, Maarken—”

“Oh, yes.” Dismissively. “Sorin says you have odd dreams.”

Andry felt his own temper begin to ignite. “Not just dreams—visions. Of a future that terrifies me. Maarken, you don’t have any idea of the blood—”

“I saw none today,” the older man said quietly. “What I saw was terror. And what I would have seen was madness, if that wall hadn’t collapsed.”

“That was the damned idea!” Andry exclaimed, frustrated. “The ros’salath doesn’t kill—not in this form, anyway—”

Hollis caught her breath. “ ‘In this form’? Andry, what have you done?”

“Broken more rules,” Maarken snapped. “Taken the traditions and laws of Goddess Keep and thrown them into the middens!”

He made a last try. “Andrade saw things. Sweet Goddess, Maarken, you and I exist because of what she saw—and what she did about it! I’m telling you that what I’ve seen is destruction you can’t imagine! I can’t let it happen—and the only weapon I have against it—”

“Is Sunrunners learning the ways of sorcerers! Why haven’t you said anything about these visions before, Andry? Why keep them such a secret? You have an uncle and a cousin who are princes with armies to command—why do you need an army of your own?”

“You mean the uncle who trusts me so much he sent his faradhi son to me for training? The cousin who sees me as a threat to his own Sunrunner powers? Is that who you’re talking about, Maarken?”

“Andry—” Hollis came forward, still trembling. “Andry, please, you don’t see what you’re doing. Will they trust you more when they learn of this?”

“I’ve seen death,” he snapped. “What’s more important, Hollis? Pol’s conceit or hundreds and hundreds of people? Rohan’s trust or R—” He choked off the name of his birthplace, the ravaged waste of it swirling in his mind.

Maarken slammed his hands flat on the table. “What’s more important, Andry—your might-be vision or the reality of Sunrunners learning how to kill?”

There would be no understanding. He had been a fool to expect it. His brother belonged to Rohan. To Pol.

Andry pulled his clenched fists in to his sides. “I ought to have known. You’re a Sunrunner, trained at Goddess Keep, owing duty to Goddess Keep—and to me. But you’re also an athri, loyal to your prince. One day they might not live so comfortably together within you. One day you might have to choose.”

The skin around those gray eyes tightened just a little, and he knew he’d struck home.

“But not today,” Andry finished softly. “Not today, my brother. Go back to the Desert. Tell Rohan what you like. It won’t make any difference. If war comes—any war—then it will come. But I’ll be ready for it, Maarken. Tell Rohan that, too.”

“Andry, wait—”

He left the room feeling incredibly old, incredibly tired. Not even the lingering dranath could warm his blood.

Torien waited for him outside near the well, dark Fironese face creased with worry. Andry summoned up a tiny smile.

“Order my brother’s horses made ready for him tomorrow morning.”

The Chief Steward was rubbing his fingers absently, as if a chill had seeped into them. “I thought they’d be staying another eight or ten days.”

“No. And I don’t think they’ll be staying here again.”