by Melanie Rawn
“But they don’t understand her flesh,” Maarken replied, surprising himself with the imagery. Kazander was contagious.
The young man grinned beneath his mustache. “May they sink into her soft golden arms like eager lovers—and die of her caress.”
He couldn’t help grinning back.
They passed Feylin and Chayla, dozing fitfully in the part of the barracks sectioned off for the wounded. Maarken paused to stroke his daughter’s hair. She murmured in her sleep and awakened, blinking at the tiny flame that followed her father through the night.
“What—? Oh. Papa. Is it time yet?”
“No. Go back to sleep.”
Shaking her head, she stood, stretched, and grimaced as a clatter hit the roof again. “The sooner we get out of here, the better!”
“Absolutely,” he agreed, and smiled before walking away, the fingerflame tagging dutifully beside him.
Kazander accompanied Chayla to the well just outside, drawing water while she waited in the safety of the arcade. Neither of them said a word until he returned to her, blithely ignoring the rain of large stones ten paces away.
“I suppose it’s too late for music.” She gave him a rueful sidelong glance.
He did not pretend to misunderstand her meaning; she was not talking about the time of night. “Never, my lady. At Stronghold, I promise to make you forget all this.”
“For the length of a song, anyway.” She smiled, and his heart turned to water.
Rohan and Sioned actually lay down between blankets for a while at midnight. She mimed sleep better than he did. As he slid from under the covers and reached for his clothes, her soft question about where he thought he was going startled him into a muffled curse. He accused her of faking sleep to her own purposes; she replied that her purposes and his were pretty much the same. He admitted it ruefully, they smiled a little, and got dressed to go downstairs again—he to the stables for a conversation with the grooms, she to help Hollis with the packing before preparing a trick of her own.
Chay, Betheyn, and Walvis sat in the latter’s study, poring over drawings of the keep. Sioned had earlier made a list relayed from Myrdal through Morwenna. Beth, daughter of an architect, carefully marked the little secrets and explained to the astounded men why each was not only plausible but logical, even elegant.
“I knew about the room off the main stairs, of course,” Walvis said. “But there can’t be a second room just behind it. Where would it fit?”
“Here.” Betheyn chuckled as she pointed to the plans. “Oh, I wish I’d met whoever designed this castle! See how this room tucks in neat as you please? I like the passage under the gatehouse, too. All those tiles set at intervals in the ceiling, with matching ones on the floor above—but they’re not on the floor, they are the floor, with empty air between them! All we need do is smash through and rain hot oil or water or whatever we like down on them.”
“But we can’t leave someone behind to work it,” Walvis objected. “What use it is if—” Suddenly he gave a whoop of laughter. “When the inner gate opens, a bell rings up in the gatehouse! Connected by wires! Set hot oil in pots beside the holes, wire them through the bell-hole down to the gate—and when the gate opens, the wire pulls the pots instead of the bell, and they’re drenched!”
“I like it,” Chay announced. “What else have we got, Beth?”
“There’s another series of ceiling holes in the long arcade between the postern gate and the barracks. Supposedly, they let in light.” She chuckled.
Walvis looked more shocked than ever. “Feylin and I have been trying to get rid of the noise for years! We almost tore it all down once to rebuild it!”
Beth nodded gleefully. “The stones shift. If we move enough of them out of position ourselves, when the postern opens, half the arcade ceiling falls in.”
Chay grinned broadly. “You’ve got a flair for this kind of thing, my dear.”
She looked startled for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s just that I remember when Sorin was finalizing the plans for Feruche, Myrdal put in the same kind of deadfall—just in case. We laughed over it all night.”
“All night?” Chay asked.
Betheyn turned a delightful shade of pink. He winked at her. She became even more flustered and took refuge in Sioned’s notes. “Myrdal says there’s an underground room here—”
“There can’t possibly—” Walvis sighed. “Ignore me. Go on.”
She smiled her sympathy. “I know—it’s rather unsettling, isn’t it? Anyway, the granary floor can be rigged to collapse. She’s not sure how. But it’d be very useful because below it is solid knives.”
“Stronghold’s supposed to have one like it,” Chay mused. “We’ll make an inspection tomorrow morning and think it over. What else?”
“A passage and a stairwell that go nowhere. I’m not sure how to use them.”
Rohan came in then and was apprised of Remagev’s hitherto unsuspected deadfalls. Having spent five years here as squire to his kinsman Hadaan, and having had a hand in the refurbishing, he was as startled as Walvis.
“You’ve got to admire these people,” he said. “Sunrunners and sorcerers traded castles back and forth as their fortunes rose and fell—and left little surprises for each other. Must’ve made life interesting. I know how the knife chamber works at Stronghold, but it’s all in stone. You say the granary floor is wood. That may be a problem.”
“Well, there’s enough else here to keep them busy,” Walvis replied.
“Rohan, where have you been that you stink of horse?” Chay asked suddenly.
He grinned. “I’ve been playing physician.”
The older man drew himself up. “What have you done?”
“We’re splitting up into four groups when we leave. That doesn’t do us much good unless they split up to follow. Sand doesn’t hold hoofprints. So I’m giving them something to track.”
Chay gave him an awful glare. “Sacrifice even one of my horses, and I’ll leave a trail to follow—in your blood!”
Betheyn’s eyes widened, although years at Radzyn had accustomed her to its lord’s sense of humor. Rohan, who had known him roughly seven times as long as she, pretended outrage.
“Chay! Not horse blood, and certainly not horse bodies! Horse shit!”
Walvis shook with laughter. Beth frowned as she tried to puzzle it out. Chay let out an explosive breath and nearly took a swing at his prince.
“The ones we’re riding to Stronghold will be cleaned out by morning,” Rohan explained blithely.
Betheyn hesitated. “But won’t they know the difference in the—the—”
“Texture?” Walvis supplied helpfully.
“I thought of that. The others won’t be dosed. They’ll be fed as usual—and enough fodder taken along to keep them nice and regular along the way.”
“Rohan, only you would think of such a thing.” Chay grimaced. “My poor sweethearts and their ruined digestion!”
“Better theirs with a dose of salts than yours with a sword in your guts.”
• • •
Pol and the two squires, Dannar and Daniv, spent part of the night helping pack various instruments of war that must not fall into enemy hands. The armory was denuded of extra swords, shields, spears, knives, and battle harness. Some were parceled out to those leaving Remagev that night, after careful wrapping to ensure silence.
Occasionally Pol paused to stroke the hilt of a fine Cunaxan sword, wondering when his fury would find outlet in its use. He didn’t know who was its primary object: his father, for prohibiting the battle that sense demanded; his father-by-marriage, from whose lands these swords came and whom he had to protect whether he liked it or not; or the Vellant’im responsible for all this.
After he sent the boys upstairs to see to the personal possessions of those they served, he sat on a bench near Sionell’s cactus garden and finally admitted that the only person he could rightfully be furious with was himself.
Lived soft
and fat at Dragon’s Rest, had he? Literally as well as figuratively; he’d lost flesh these hectic days of autumn, but his belt was still a bit tight. In battle he’d not moved as swiftly as he’d expected, and was sore in places he shouldn’t have been. But at least he’d done something. At least he’d fought. Rohan was too old to join in the actual battle, of course—but his was the power to order battles fought. A thing he refused to do.
What angered Pol more than anything was the anger itself. What was wrong with him? He felt all unbalanced, every nerve raw, every emotion magnified as if by one of those pretty, useless lenses his father enjoyed peering through. His mind snagged on the image, and he realized that part of his trouble was that he felt as if he were on the wrong end of that lens, being inspected for flaws. Rohan found plenty, Goddess knew; Pol had seen it in his eyes.
Well, perhaps it was time he did a little examining of his own. Perhaps the problem wasn’t with him. Perhaps it was Rohan. The tough question was whether he still trusted his father. He rubbed his aching shoulder and frowned.
He knew how Rohan’s mind worked. But he wondered if his father understood why he did what he did—or, more to the point, didn’t do. Forcing events put one in control of them. That was power. Rohan was wary of using his power. Pol even understood why. There had been times when it scared him, too. But to fear its necessary use . . . was he calling his father a coward?
He bent over, elbows on knees and face in his hands. Do something, he begged silently. Win this war or give me leave to win it for you. Make me believe in you and trust you again.
The moons had risen late, three pale glowing discs behind the haze. Pol gave a start as he felt light break over him, free of clouds. Straightening, he wondered if it would last long enough to weave. But where would he go? Radzyn, Whitecliff, Riverport, Graypearl—and torture himself with sight of the destruction. Syr or Ossetia, where armies fought battles he wasn’t allowed to. Goddess Keep, where Andry slept—or Dragon’s Rest, where Meggie probably could not sleep. Guilt stung him. She hadn’t been in his thoughts more than an instant in the last days. She must be terrified, poor darling. But Dragon’s Rest was remote and secure. Laric and Edrel were there. He had nothing to worry about regarding his family and his palace. He had more immediate concerns.
He plaited moonlight automatically, not knowing where he would fling the strands, not caring. It was blessed escape, exercise of well-loved skill. Clouds had blown northeast, and no new ones billowed up from Dorval, so he could take his time and enjoy his creation. The power he was allowed to use.
Faolain Lowland was surrounded by the enemy. He left it quickly behind and avoided Riverport, seeking High Kirat instead. The immense keep sat its hilltop like a prince his throne. Sentries walked the torchlit walls, and there was a light behind the fine glass windows of Princess Danladi’s chambers. Light, too, shone from the court Sunrunner’s windows, but thin pale curtains were drawn and Pol could not pass through them.
He moved on to Catha Heights, wanting to see how Patwin’s splendid castle did now that its traitorous athri was dead. The place crawled with Vellant’im—walls, courtyards, battlements, even the famous gardens Pol had despaired of bettering when planning his own at Dragon’s Rest. He left, still sickened by Patwin’s betrayal. Too bad Mirsath was such a good shot with a bow—the death should have been slower.
Through the Catha Hills, small lakes shone like silver coins sewn together by bright ribbons of rivers. Thick forest hollowed into meadows that always rippled with flowers. Pol felt his spirit ease as he hovered above the land. Half his heart belonged to the Desert’s stark, sere beauty, but the rest of him breathed of green woods and broad meadows and water.
And dragons—ah, dragons. He saw them emerge for a night’s hunt from hidden caves. These were their wintering grounds, where deer and elk stayed fat and storms were soft. He drew back, not wishing to collide with a dragon by accident as his mother had long ago. But then he recognized a blue-gray sire silvered by moonlight and smiled, following Azhdeen back over High Kirat to the mouth of the Faolain.
The dragon’s purpose was instantly known to Pol. A certain kind of fish lived only in the deep, broad estuary where salt water met fresh. Pol had experimented with stocking a pond at Dragon’s Rest, but all the fish had died. Evidently Azhdeen had a craving for it tonight. Pol grinned as five huge dragons soared high, plummeted down, and time and again came up gulping.
It took them quite a while to eat their fill. Pol had always wondered how they avoided swallowing half an ocean of water along with their meal, but surmised they used their teeth as a strainer. Azhdeen finally flew to a large boulder above the sand, belched his satiation, and shook his wings dry.
It frustrated Pol that he wasn’t near enough to conjure the pictures by which they communicated. He needed to touch Azhdeen’s riot of rainbow colors, feel the dragon’s pride of possession as he conversed with his human, siphon off some of the dragon’s supreme confidence to bolster his own. It was better than dranath, that feeling—he’d taken it once in wine just so he’d know what it did, and concluded that time with his dragon was infinitely more sustaining.
Azhdeen rose from his rock into the air. Pol skittered back from him too late. They were caught in each other, tangled like yarn in the wake of a playful kitten.
The dragon missed a wingbeat, recovered, and opened his jaws in a roar. The other dragons instantly fled into the night. Pol retreated from the clash of colors, sliding back along his woven moonlight.
Azhdeen followed.
The empty husk of Riverport lay below. Azhdeen circled it, jaws open in a long, keening howl. And Pol heard him. He saw the blackened ruin down below and he saw the dragon flying above it and as Azhdeen bellowed again he heard his own voice cry out softly at the same time.
Reeling, he tried to unthread himself from the dragon. But they were still chaotically entwined, perceptions and emotions spun together. Azhdeen was the stronger; Pol struggled to keep himself from being wrapped in the dragon’s powerful colors—and feelings.
The tense skeins loosened a little. His own emotions welled up. He had failed at Radzyn, and at Remagev; he no longer fully trusted his father; he had no plan for certain victory over the enemy. At last he realized that the reason he was so furious was that he was ashamed.
Azhdeen shook his head in confusion. Humiliation was unknown to him. No other sire had ever bested him in combat; none of his chosen females had ever escaped him. His throat pulsed in a series of short, sharp cries and the whirl of colors intensified, skimmed nearer to Pol’s own. He was more ashamed than ever that he had burdened the dragon with his uniquely human emotion.
Azhdeen took exception to what Pol was feeling. He spread his wings wide, baring his teeth in fury. Any attempt to soothe him was foredoomed to failure. Dragons had complex colors but very simple emotions, and were utterly single-minded. What they felt, they felt with every nerve.
Pol concentrated on unsnarling the delicate moonlight. With every link lost between them, Azhdeen grew more upset. Pol cursed himself and ripped away from the dragon, to the accompaniment of what felt like a dagger-thrust in his skull. He fled back to Remagev as fast as he could.
Azhdeen followed. Not with his wings, but with his colors.
Shock gushed from them both in waves of blinding light. Pol held his head between his hands as if to keep his skull together. He could hear-taste-smell-touch-see the dragon’s voice, just like a Sunrunner’s voice, but the dragon had no words. Cries and shrieks and deep-throated growls filled his brain and drowned his senses.
Please! Don’t! Azhdeen, it HURTS!
The abruptness of the dragon’s leave-taking hurt even worse. Pol gasped in air, blood pounding acidly along every nerve. It took forever for his vision to clear, and longer still before he dared lift his head.
He’d toppled from the bench to the fine gravel path. The moons shone cold on Sionell’s little garden, white-frosted the twisting shapes and the walls and towers of the keep. Pol shiv
ered and rose carefully, aching to his bones. Once he regained the bench he could move no more, and sat hunched and shaking until the moons fell.
• • •
It was Dannar’s very bad luck that morning that the outer door of Lord Chaynal’s rooms was open. He took it as invitation to enter. Two paces into the antechamber he stopped in his tracks, the errand to fetch his lordship for the High Prince flying clean out of his head.
“Get back in bed, you stubborn bitch!”
The inner door was open, too. Princess Tobin was standing—surprise enough. But the sight of her fiery black eyes reminded him of a conversation between his brother Riyan and their father about the princess’ marriage contract. Dannar reflected that she didn’t need a knife; she looked perfectly capable of running Lord Chaynal through with one of her canes.
“Senile—old—fool!” she hissed. “Get . . . Sioned!”
“No!”
She was facing the door and saw Dannar. Pointing the cane at him, she grated, “Sioned. Now.”
The boy scurried from the room. By the time he returned with the High Princess, Tobin was seated by the windows, weak morning sun on her face. Chay was hauling on his boots. Rising, he stomped each foot to fit the boots more securely and flung a fulminating look at his wife.
“Shriek yourself into another seizure, then!” he snarled on his way out. “Shatter the sunlight for all I care!”
Sioned gave a low whistle. “What did he do that you deserved that?”
Dannar blinked. What Lord Chaynal had done that made Princess Tobin deserve a tongue-lashing? In all his eleven years, he had heard his own parents shout at each other exactly once. When Alasen and Ostvel fought, they did so in a silence colder than icicles dripping off Castle Crag in winter.
“Idiot,” Tobin snorted. “Sunlight. Please.”
“Wait outside, Dannar. I need you to help me later.”
He stood in the corridor and listened to the sudden silence, not understanding why a man like his lordship put up with such rages. When he married, his wife would be quiet and respectful and never raise her voice or glare at him or—
