by Melanie Rawn
“And you swore never again.”
“But Pol isn’t like me, Sioned. Perhaps Roelstra might win after all. Or Andrade.”
“Never. Pol is ours, Rohan. Not theirs. He’ll learn on his own, the way you did—slowly and infuriatingly!—but he will learn.”
He twisted slightly to look at her. “Even if we have to beat him over the head with it?”
“Even if.” She kissed his upturned brow. “Now that I think about it, parts of that Rialla weren’t so bad. Remember sitting under the bridge steps in the rain?”
“I remember the willow tree better.”
“I thought you might.”
• • •
Andry suffered Valeda to drape a magnificent white velvet cloak over his shoulders, but refused the jeweled clasp. “Absolutely not. I’m not a prince dressing for a banquet.”
“This morning that’s exactly what you are,” she commented tartly. “Only you’re also the feast. They expect to be served up with a powerful protector. You have to look the part.”
“And be eaten alive? Thank you, no. I’ll meet them as what I am. Lord of Goddess Keep is quite enough.”
“As you wish.” Shrugging, she slipped the ruby clasp into her pocket.
“Enough!” he snapped.
“I suppose you won’t take this, either,” Torien said with a rueful smile, twirling a slim wooden cane in his fingers.
“My leg is fine. I am fine. Will you two stop? You’re not my mother.”
“More’s the pity,” the steward commented. “Her, you’d obey.”
Andry wished briefly that pride allowed him the support of the cane on his way downstairs. His muscles were stiff after enforced bedrest, and his left leg was still wrapped tightly. Getting into the saddle was torture. But once mounted and riding with Torien through the main gates, anticipation warmed him.
Andry schooled his expression to impassivity, determined not to show astonishment at the size of the still growing township of tents and lean-to shelters covering the fallow fields. From across Ossetia and Gilad and Grib and even as far away as Meadowlord and Syr the people had come to him—to him, not Rohan or Pol—for protection. They were camped nearly to the walls of the keep and merged with the village down the road, braving winter rain and cold to stay here, near him. He wished Andrade could have seen it; he knew Sioned would.
The really remarkable thing was that they kept coming, and asked for nothing, not even food. In leaving their homes they had taken everything they owned, from clothes and cookpots and bedding to their animals—goats, sheep, cattle, plow-elk. Small herds pastured to the south swelled daily. Valeda’s latest estimate was that over three thousand people had arrived, and a foray on morning sunlight had shown her a thousand more on their way. Coming to him, to the protection he could give them. They had heard of his defense of Goddess Keep. They trusted in his power. They left their tents now to cheer him, call out blessings on him, welcome him as if he was indeed their rightful prince.
Andry’s horse skittered to one side as a gray striped cat slunk past. He calmed the stallion and rode on, picking his way among the tents, looking for one in particular. Torien had spoken yesterday with a merchant from Waes, a dealer in foodstuffs who had become the refugees’ leader on the long journey. Andry sought the craft mark in Waesian colors described by his steward, and finally spied a red apple and yellow wheat sheaf. Painted on crates and on wooden signs outside shops or warehouses, a merchant’s stencil was as prized a possession as a crafter’s hallmark die or a prince’s official seal. Most of the Waesian tents had similar markings, painted on scraps of cloth; a few merchants had actually taken the trouble to save their shop signs as well and tacked them onto rickety poles outside their new homes.
Andry was relieved that someone who understood food supplies had turned up to lead; though these people had asked for nothing from him, it was still his responsibility to see that they were decently sheltered, clothed, and fed. But the obligations of an athri, bred into him through generations, could not take precedence over his more essential duties as Lord of Goddess Keep. It was just as well he could delegate the problem to someone else. It would be unseemly and a waste of his time to worry over whether some peasant had enough to eat. Or, worse, to mediate between two fanners claiming the same cow from the herd grazing his pastures, or similar foolishness.
The merchant came from the tent to meet Andry. Black-haired, sturdily made, straight-eyed, and about his own age, she bowed and gestured at a small boy, obviously her son, to hold Andry’s horse.
“Please, my Lord, accept what small hospitality I can offer you.”
“Thank you, Master Jayachin.” Dismounting, he nodded at Torien, who undid the thongs securing his saddlebags. “Perhaps I can add a few comforts to your exile.”
“You are most gracious, my Lord.” Bowing again, she held aside the tent flap and he entered, trying not to limp. “Please sit down.”
He settled on the single cross-legged stool. A quick glance confirmed that Jayachin possessed tidy habits of person and of mind. The dirt floor had been packed down to lessen the dust; blankets enough for three beds were neatly rolled in a corner; and, most telling and most admirable in a merchant, thick account books bound in red leather rested on the upended apple crate that was the only other furniture. Her home, her possessions, her warehouses, her inventory, everything she owned might be forfeit to the war, but once it was all over she could resume her business if she still had the precious records. Andry liked that. It spoke of foresight and stubbornness.
Jayachin saw the direction of his gaze. “I packed my books the moment I heard the order to leave. This won’t last forever, my Lord. If I’m to regain my family’s fortune, the High Prince will want accurate account of what was lost.”
“Lost at his command,” Andry murmured. He knew why Waes had been abandoned. “You’re a wise woman, Master Jayachin. But young to hold that title.”
“I was an only child, my Lord, and not inclined to account books. When I married, my husband took the title and duties with my permission. But he was a thief. I divorced him. For the sake of my son, I learned my father’s trade. But then I discovered I enjoyed it, as I had not in my girlhood.”
“We all learn as we grow older. You’re fortunate to like what you do. And I hope you’ll use your skills to the benefit of your fellows here. You’ll report to my chief steward, of course. But I expect you to keep order here.”
She nodded once. “To that end, my Lord, I have a proposal.”
Andry stifled a sigh. Entanglement in these people’s concerns was the last thing he wanted. But at least he must listen.
“When someone moves from one princedom to another, for marriage or new opportunity or purchase of land or crafthold, former oaths are canceled and new ones sworn. Those who’ve come here will return to their homes and holdings. But until then, I think they ought to have an immediate loyalty. To you.”
His brows crept up his forehead. “Only the farmers and herders who live in the vicinity are sworn to Goddess Keep. Your people all have other homes.”
“That’s exactly the point, my Lord. They’re not ‘mine’ and they don’t have homes. They have nothing but the soil their shelters are built on—and that belongs to you. If they swear to you, then they’ll have a place again in the order of things. When people know their place, they keep to it.”
“And by swearing to me, they also swear to you as my . . . athri.”
“If you choose to think of it that way, my Lord—yes.”
That straight, calm gaze met his without the slightest hint of ambition. He nearly grinned. He knew desire for power even when discreetly hidden. He liked that about her, too. As long as she understood her place.
“Very well. Arrange it. Tomorrow will do.”
“Perfectly, my Lord.” Once more she bent her head to him.
“And for you, too—my lady?” He allowed amusement to tinge his voice as he gave her the new title. “I believe we understand each ot
her.”
The corners of her mouth tucked into a demure little smile. “I’m certain of it, my Lord.” She hesitated. “Only—there is one more thing.”
“Yes?” he asked blandly, suspecting a trap.
“The Medr’im who accompanied you here.” This least helpless of women gave a helpless little shrug. “Lord Gerwen sees to the High Prince’s Writ, as is his duty . . . .”
They did understand each other perfectly. “I believe it’s time I released him to defend his own lands—don’t you?”
“My Lord is wise.”
“Incidentally, later today something will happen that I would like you and your people to see,” he said.
“Will you send a page for me, my Lord?”
In formal courtesy, as if you were a real athri? Not likely. He smiled. “You’ll know when to come to the walls. Good day, Master Jayachin.”
Outside, Andry swung up into his saddle after thanking the boy who’d held his horse. A servant stood nearby with wrapped cloth bundles from Torien’s saddlebags. “What did I give her, anyway?” Andry whispered as Torien mounted.
“Tokens of your appreciation—taze, spices, a silver hairbrush—”
“Good. Jayachin’s the type of woman who likes the status shown by small luxuries. When we get back, have the goldsmith design her a badge of office.”
They guided their horses through the maze of tents. “She accepted, then.”
“Torien, she suggested it all herself.” He grinned. “In the humblest and least offensive terms, of course, concealing the fact that she’s power-hungry with a yearning to call herself athri.” He nodded at the folk who’d come to see the Lord of Goddess Keep in person; word had spread through the whole of the encampment by now, and the crowd was even larger. “How’s our Vellanti prisoner holding up?”
“Valeda kept her word about keeping him breathing, anyway. It’s too bad his jaw was broken and his cheek crushed—he might have told us something.”
Andry nodded, idly fingering the little ceramic dragon token inside his tunic pocket. It would have been nice to learn exactly what this meant to the Vellanti, but it wasn’t entirely necessary. “He’s not a high-ranking warrior, obviously. I doubt he knows much that’s really important. All he really needs to know is how to die.”
The sudden bright glaze over the blue eyes warned Torien instantly that someone had touched Andry on sunlight. He grabbed the Lord’s reins so his horse would not bolt and waved people back with an impatient hand.
“He speaks with the Goddess,” someone breathed, and between one heartbeat and the next the crowd around them doubled. Torien eyed them nervously, but they kept their distance and a reverent silence. Farmers, herders, merchants, crafters, laborers—none of them had ever seen a Sunrunner at work before. Sunrunner magic.
At last Andry blinked and met Torien’s gaze. “My mother,” he said—and gave a start as a man nearby called out, “He has spoken with the Goddess!”
“Tell us her words, my Lord!”
“Will she protect us? Has she given you a sign?”
Torien met Andry’s gaze, sharing his thought. To correct the mistake would be a bigger mistake. Not that these people would believe any explanation. They wanted to believe that he communed with the Goddess.
Andry raised one hand for silence. “She—watches over you all,” he said.
Torien hid amusement and admiration. Andry had only spoken the truth—Princess Tobin would certainly keep an eye on things at Goddess Keep—omitting definition of which “she” he referred to.
There were more cheers, more blessings called down upon Andry, but with a different tone. Before, there had been respect. Now there was awe.
They were nearly at the gates before Torien said, “Brilliant, Andry.”
“What else could I do?” Then he chuckled. “Can you imagine the look on my mother’s face if I told her that in speaking to her, I spoke to the Goddess?”
• • •
Rohan had been awakened by Myrdal shortly after dawn. The ancient autocrat thumped her cane on the carpet and told him to gather his wits.
“Wind has blown the skies clear and the Sunrunners are already busy. Get up, boy. It’s time you gave some orders around here.”
“You mean you’re abdicating at last?” he asked as he gulped from the cup of hot taze she gave him.
“Impudent hatchling.”
He hadn’t slept well after Sioned left their bed last night. He suspected that after soothing him the best way she knew how, she had stayed up waiting for a few threads of usable—if forbidden—starshine. If Myrdal was right and the skies were clear, by midday she would be exhausted.
His squires Daniv and Isriam followed close on Myrdal’s heels, working with smooth efficiency to get him shaved and garbed and ready for what promised to be a difficult day. The orders Myrdal referred to would span the continent politically and militarily; on his decisions alliances and battles might turn. And the lives—Goddess, the lives he held in his hands.
Isriam was pale with anxiety; today would bring the first word of his family in Einar. Daniv hid his feelings a little better, though he had more to worry about. His father Kostas was marching through Syr. Rohan took both boys with him to the Summer Room, where Feylin was already waiting to take notes. She greeted him around a mouthful of hairpins, testimony to a hasty awakening.
“They’re already out there, even Tobin,” she said, securing the tag ends of her dark red braids at her nape. “Though how they’ll all keep from running into each other, I’ll never know.”
“Nor I. But Tobin shouldn’t be with them.”
Feylin shrugged. “You try and stop her. Besides, she insists she’s the only one Andry will speak to.”
“Andry,” he said musingly as he sat down.
“Don’t start,” she warned gently. “Save your worry for when it’s needed.”
The first Sunrunner to come to them was Relnaya, assigned to scan the northern Desert. He looked directly at Feylin, and as he met her eyes tears welled in his and dripped down his weather-beaten face.
“My lady—my dear lady, the young lord is dead. Jahnavi is dead.”
Rohan shut his eyes. In darkness he heard Feylin whisper, “Does—does his father know?”
“Not yet. Lady Rabisa and the children are safe at Tiglath—but the young lord—ah, my lady, I would I’d lost myself on shadows rather than bring you such words.”
Rohan glanced up as Feylin’s chair scraped stone. She was dry-eyed and straight-backed, and white as ash. “I must find my husband.” She stumbled once on her way to the door. She took Relnaya’s arm, the Sunrunner weeping openly now, and helped him from the room.
Rohan stared at his hands. It was a very long time before he heard his squires shift uneasily nearby. He looked up—but behind them was another boy, blue-eyed and dark-haired, face alight with anticipation of a game of dragons. And there were other boys, too—Jahni, for whom Feylin had Named her son; Sorin; Maarken; Tallain and Arlis and Riyan and even Andry. And Pol.
Isriam glanced at Daniv and then said, “We could hear the other reports for you, my lord, and then tell you later what they said.”
“If you want to be alone, my lord,” Daniv added.
“No. I’ve heard the worst.” He begged the Goddess that it was the worst.
The boys—young men, really, at sixteen—exchanged glances again. This time Daniv spoke first. “I never thought—that is, at Radzyn and Remagev, it was so different from what I thought.”
“War?” Rohan asked, and the young prince nodded. “In what way?”
“That it would be exciting. It was, at first. Fighting a battle, even as a squire—” Daniv hesitated, searching for words. Rohan recognized that he was indeed nearly a man, that he struggled to define himself. “But I always thought we’d win.”
“We haven’t lost yet, you know.” He loathed himself for the trite lie. This certainly felt like losing.
“We won’t lose,” Isriam said firmly.
“We both know that, my lord. But I think what Daniv’s saying is that war isn’t what stories make it out to be.”
“Proud banners, dragon horns, brave deeds, and glory,” he summarized. “They don’t write about the dirt and blood and death, do they? Even if they did, no one would believe it. No one but those who’ve been there.”
“The warriors tell stories, my lord,” Daniv said, frowning. “But they only talk about the bravery, as you said.”
“And leave out the worst of it. Wouldn’t you?”
Isriam caught his breath softly. “Remembering it, let alone talking about it, is like reliving it.”
“But why don’t they tell people?” Daniv protested.
“How long has it been since the last major war?” Rohan asked.
“Not counting the battle at Dragon’s Rest—” Daniv began.
“—which wasn’t really a battle—” Isriam added.
“—it was in 704. When you fought Roelstra.”
“When Roelstra began a war I had to fight,” Rohan corrected, privately wondering why he still needed to make that distinction. What did it matter, anyway? War was war, no matter who started it.
Isriam was struggling now, defining not himself but the past. “Back then, my father was just a little older than I am now. That’s a whole generation ago. All these people who grew up not really knowing what war is . . . .”
Daniv picked up the thread. “Just like Isriam and me, thinking it’s all riding a fine horse and wearing a sword and glory! Nobody talks about the way it really is, so nobody tries to stop it!”
The other squire nodded vigorously, then made a frustrated gesture with one hand. “But we didn’t start this, my lord—they did. It’s not our fault—it’s not that we want to fight. But we have to.”
“Like you did, with Roelstra,” Daniv added, understanding at last.
Rohan regarded the pair of them, hope stirring even through his grief. “You will make your fathers proud,” he murmured. “You will rule your lands with such wisdom—I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own sons.”
Young men became boys again, embarrassed and gratified by praise from the High Prince. They glanced at each other again, and Daniv cleared his throat.
