by Melanie Rawn
Lisiel, sitting at her side, laughed. “They’re in for a good scrubbing later on! One day you must bring Jihan to Balarat so Tirel can show her how to do the same thing in snow.”
Meiglan smiled. “I don’t think she’ll need lessons. Are you sure you should be away from your rooms?” she added with an envious glance at Lisiel’s placid bulk.
“Quite sure, thank you. He hasn’t kicked all morning—I think he’s taking a nap at last!”
“How do you know you’ll have a son?”
Lisiel’s dark Fironese eyes grew dreamy as she stroked her belly. “I just know.”
“I wish—” Meiglan began incautiously, then compressed her lips.
“The Goddess has been so good to you, Meiglan—she won’t deny you a son. Don’t worry. Have you heard anything else from Pol?”
Shaking her head, she stared at the shorn rose bushes. In the seven days since sunlight had allowed faradhi communication, she had repeated Pol’s words over and over in her mind, but hadn’t been able to imagine him saying them. She couldn’t, not when they had been relayed through Hildreth like that. The phrasing wasn’t even his. “You mustn’t worry or feel anxious, my lady. Soon he’ll be back here at Dragon’s Rest. He misses you and the princesses deeply.” Pol would have said it differently—but she couldn’t frame the words he would use or hear his voice in her head.
Her daughter’s voice, however, was loud and clear as she led the children in a game of tag. It was quite a little tribe that scampered through the gardens. Kierun, abandoning the dignity of his position as squire, became Jihan’s lieutenant in the pursuit of fun as the offspring of court retainers, from the cook’s four-year-old son to the Master of Horse’s thirteen-year-old daughter, swarmed the gravel paths and flower beds. The drizzling rains had let up this morning, allowing the children to play in the soggy sunshine. Catallen, the tutor, had been driven half mad by his restless charges, and compassion dictated that Meiglan free him for the day. Fresh air was good for the children after being cooped up inside; it was good for Lisiel, too, whose waiting had become intolerable.
Meiglan knew how that felt. She knew Pol belonged at Stronghold with his parents, that he had responsibilities to them and the Desert and the other princedoms. Awareness of his duties, however, did not lessen the weight of her own. Her servant, Thanys, constantly reminded her that she was a princess and must retain all authority here. She heard regular reports from all quarters of the vast estates. It didn’t matter that she understood perhaps four words in ten. It was appearances that counted. As usual.
Edrel and Laric saw to military things, but it was Meiglan’s task to make sure the palace was ready for a siege. Having perfected her mimicry of Sioned, Tobin, and Sionell over the years, she did not fear being found out in her ignorance. All she had to do was say “Do everything that needs to be done,” and it was done. But if a crisis came, they would look to her for orders that she was terrified would be the wrong ones.
“I admire you so much,” Lisiel said suddenly, and Meiglan nearly jumped. “Laric has told me how you’re doing everything yourself. I don’t think I’d be able to, separated from my husband.”
Meiglan said nothing. There was nothing she could say.
“I think if it came to it, I’d do what my sister did,” Lisiel went on softly. “She couldn’t bear to be without Ludhil. Of course, neither of us knows anything about war, being raised at Snowcoves. You must have seen your father ordering his troops to punish the Merida when they got too ambitious.”
Miyon had never dared military action against the Merida; the one skirmish she’d seen preparations for had been to seize the property of a vassal who had irritated him. She had also seen the man executed by her father’s own hand.
“I wish I could be more help,” Lisiel sighed. “I wish my son would hurry up and be born, so I can be useful to you.”
Meiglan nodded wordlessly, and tried to think up something to say. But in the next moment the princess gripped her arm and turned ash-white.
“What’s wrong?” she asked—then knew how stupid the question was. Lisiel’s long wait was over. Panic clawed her; the only labor she’d ever attended had been her own—and she had been in no state to learn anything but pain.
“Oh!” Lisiel gasped, bending over with one arm wrapped around her belly. “Meiglan—oh, Goddess, find Laric!”
“Kierun!” she cried, hating the high, thin note of fear in her voice. “Kierun!”
A short while later, Lisiel was back in her rooms. Meiglan was seated near the bed, her lute in her lap and music streaming from her fingers. Master Physician Evarin had asked her to play something soothing. She had doubted that any tune would be heard above Lisiel’s screams, but not a single sound had come from her yet. Meiglan couldn’t decide if the pain was truly nothing, or if the princess was simply prouder and braver than she herself had been. It was different for all women, Thanys had assured her; some suffered terribly, and others barely winced. Pol had not seemed ashamed of her, even though she’d shrieked her throat raw. But after she had lost their sons, he had been too relieved that wife and daughters were safe to have time for any other emotion.
Master Evarin announced himself delighted with Lisiel’s progress and Meiglan’s music, and sat down to take his ease. Laric, riding the perimeter of the valley with Edrel, had not yet been found. So Meiglan played while Evarin and Norian listened, Thanys and another maid hovered, and Lisiel watched Meiglan’s fingers with wide, transfixed eyes.
Meiglan suspected that Evarin’s presence was at Andry’s order. Appearing at Dragon’s Rest eight days after the fall of Radzyn, he had told of outrunning Goddess alone knew how many enemy patrols and was abjectly glad to be safe once more. But she distrusted anything to do with Andry—though the purpose served by setting a spy where Pol was not could not be explained.
She plucked and strummed automatically, her mind disengaged from the skills of her fingers. Laric and Lisiel had been at Dragon’s Rest so long that the chamber bore their personal touches—combs, clothing, cosmetics, purchases from this year’s Rialla Fair, embroidered pillows Lisiel had stitched while waiting for the birth. But the cradle in the corner was Pol’s. Sioned had brought it from Stronghold during Meiglan’s first pregnancy. Big enough to hold triplets, it had been draped with Princemarch’s violet when Jihan and Rislyn were born. But although she willingly lent it to the Fironese couple, Meiglan had replaced the violet silk with its original pale green. No child not hers would sleep under Princemarch’s color—and Firon’s black was obviously unsuitable for a nursery. The ruby-eyed dragon spread painted wings on either side of the cradle, as if to protect the infant soon to sleep there. Meiglan longed to see Pol’s son and heir snuggled into the velvet coverlet. But the other day a tentative hope had been disappointed again. Eight years since the twins. She heard her lute give forth a plaintive melody that echoed her feelings, and stopped to retune the strings for a lighter song.
The palace physician came, was icily polite to the Sunrunner, and left after making sure all knew his resentment at the stranger’s usurpation of his rightful place. Again Meiglan wondered what the faradhi was doing here. Perhaps it was as simple as he’d said, and he wanted to be as far from the Vellant’im as possible. Certainly Dragon’s Rest was removed from the fighting. The Faolain was a long way away.
But so was Pol.
She was in the middle of a lullaby when Lisiel gave a sudden blurt of pain. The other women started. Evarin glanced at the water clock.
“Right on time,” he approved. “Your grace, this child may have been late in making the effort, but now he’s got the idea.”
“I hope you’re right,” Lisiel said between her teeth, panting for breath. “I was starting to think he’d changed his mind. Keep playing, Meiglan, please.”
She did so, faltering only when candles sprang to life around the room with the onset of dusk. The physician hadn’t even moved a finger to light them. By their glow, Meiglan watched the other woman’s pre
tty face distort—lips drawn back, tilted eyes squeezed shut, brown skin flushed. Had she looked like that? she wondered, fascinated and repelled.
Evarin and Thanys suddenly blocked her view. Lisiel gave a single scream, followed the next instant by an affronted wail.
“A fine, big son, your grace,” Evarin said. “Over half a silkweight, and healthy—as your own ears can attest! In possession of all fingers, toes, and rather impressive equipment, I might add.”
Lisiel laughed wearily. “Takes after his father, like my first son. But his eyes are mine.”
Meiglan set down her lute and flexed cramped fingers. Lisiel and the child were transferred from birthing chair to bed, and the servants got to work. Meiglan nearly gagged as bloodied sheets were whisked away. She moved hastily to the bedside and looked at the child: dark-skinned, black-haired, wrinkled, and shrieking.
“Not happy to be out in the bright, chill world, are you?” Lisiel murmured. “It’s all right, little prince. You’ll like it here, I promise.”
Meiglan forced a smile. “He’s lovely.”
“Isn’t he?” was the complacent reply. Then Lisiel glanced up. “But why did Master Evarin think he had to tell me how big this baby is?”
Meiglan couldn’t help a giggle, and it loosened the spasm of envy.
“Lisi? Damn it, let me by! I want to see my wife! Lisi!”
Laric rushed in trailing a mud-spattered cloak, skidded to a stop, and lost his powers of speech. He stared at his wife and son for a moment, lips moving soundlessly. Lisiel laughed at him. Meiglan bit her lip, trying not to imagine Pol’s face in similar circumstances, and fled the room.
Lamps were being lit outside. She hovered at a window to watch the soothing ritual: two servants moving down either side of the water garden in the gathering gloom, lifting lighted wicks to the glass-enclosed lamps. They completed the circle of the inner walk, then turned and worked their way back along the outer arcs to the Princes Hall. Sometimes Pol waited until full dark and then lit all the lamps at once with Sunrunner’s Fire. Meiglan delighted in the sudden appearance of bright twin necklets around the fountain. She didn’t like to think too much about the other aspects of his power, but this was a skill she loved.
The torches ringing the fountain were now ablaze, completing the ordinary nighttime illumination. The Princes Hall stayed in shadow but for the thin rows of lights defining its shape. The towers on either side looked as though covered in quilts made of alternate dark and glowing rectangles. At the New Year, at Riall’im, on festival days, the whole of Dragon’s Rest blazed with colored light like a Sunrunner’s thoughts. Tonight there was only the soft golden gleam of ordinary fire. Peaceful enough, but lonely.
Meiglan turned at the sound of footsteps. A tall, lanky figure appeared at the top of the stairs. The candlelit hallway shimmered dizzily around her and she felt all the blood drain from her face and all the strength from her limbs as a familiar voice—knife wrapped in velvet—called her name.
“Meiglan, my sweet flower! My precious treasure! Come give your adoring papa a kiss!”
• • •
Kostas’ squires, Rihani of Ossetia and Saumer of Kierst-Isel, were more closely involved in the fighting than either Isriam or Daniv. In fact, Kostas had given each command of fifty mounted soldiers—making sure that a seasoned trooper was there at all times to guide the young princes. They had acquitted themselves well on raids across Syr, but had yet to face a pitched battle. And might not for some time yet: the whoreson Vellant’im refused to come out of Catha Heights for an honest fight.
Kostas was getting angry. By this time he ought to be busy reclaiming the river, but Patwin’s betrayal was an offense that could not be overlooked. And if the enemy held onto the castle, they had a base of operations even if Kostas retook the whole length of the Catha River. Having started from High Kirat with an army of five hundred, with minimal losses in the dozen skirmishes along the road, he preferred to gamble on further losses in a decisive battle rather than leave enough of his army to pen the enemy in Catha Heights. Tilal was expecting him, and he did not intend to keep his brother waiting.
The eighth day after a Sunrunner’s eerie beacon had guided Kostas to this admirable field—and he thought he detected his aunt Sioned’s elegant touch there—he sent Saumer and Rihani on yet another raid. It angered him further that the land he scoured so methodically was his own, even though it was necessary to strip the surrounding countryside. The Vellant’im had to run out of food sometime and would then be compelled to forage. But sieges took too damned long. Seated within his tent, maps spread out before him, he had again come to the frustrating conclusion that a direct assault on Catha Heights would mean at least two hundred dead.
His senior captain shoved aside the turquoise wool tent flaps, breathlessly announcing, “My lord, you won’t believe it—your niece Lady Izaea is riding into camp!”
Izaea, Patwin’s eldest daughter, was Kostas’ niece through his wife Danladi, half-sister to the long-dead Rabia. Rather impolitic of the captain to mention the blood connection to a family of traitors. Kostas ordered her brought to him and rolled up his maps.
She was a medium-sized, plumpish woman coming up on her twenty-seventh winter, and looked vaguely like her full aunt, Chiana. Kostas did not invite her to sit down; neither did he offer wine or other refreshment. This was not a reception chamber at High Kirat.
“My lord,” she began, perfectly composed, “I have been sent to offer terms.”
Kostas laughed in her face.
“You’d best listen,” she advised coldly. “The offer will not be repeated.”
“And what offer is that? To surrender my troops for slaughter?”
“No. To return in peace to High Kirat, so that when the Vellant’im win, as they surely will, you and your family will live.”
“Is that what they offered your father in exchange for his treachery?”
She met his gaze levelly and said nothing.
Kostas wanted to know just one more thing. “You like the idea of becoming a princess of Syr, don’t you?”
Her answer was demure and damning. “I could not go against my father’s wishes, my lord.”
“I make you a counteroffer, Izaea. Give me all the information I need on the enemy within your walls, then go back and at midnight tonight open the postern gates to my soldiers. Do this, and I will let you live.”
Izaea smiled. “They can mire you down here forever, Uncle. And you’ll lose. No one will come from Medawari, where Prince Cabar has locked himself in his keep. He will neither help nor hinder either side in this war. But it’s no secret from you, surely, that there are more and more Vellanti warriors ready to come destroy you.”
“Let them try,” said Kostas, shrugging.
Her eyes, brown tinged with green, began to sparkle. “If you care nothing for yourself or young Saumer, Prince Arlis’ brother, I feel sure you’ll withdraw to keep Rihani safe.” After a slight pause, she added, “Princess Gemma’s son.”
Kostas’ face turned to stone.
“And Gemma herself, and her daughter. Did I neglect to mention that? One result of your return to High Kirat will be that Athmyr will be left alone.”
Over the years he had learned to care for pale, gentle Danladi. His youthful desire for Gemma had been comprised of one part lust and four parts ambition, and he knew it. Still, the blow to his pride had been a severe one, and even after so long he could not think of his brother’s wife without a twinge of uncomfortable emotion kept carefully hidden.
Izaea smiled serenely. “However, if you attack Catha Heights, the order will be given at Athmyr. I’ve provided very through descriptions so they’ll know which women to save for—shall we say—their amusement?”
Any man would have reacted the same way to such threats directed at any woman. He surged to his feet, grasped Izaea’s arm, and hauled her outside into the misting rain.
“Assemble the commanders!” he bellowed. Izaea didn’t try to shake off his
bruising grip; she had succeeded in infuriating him, which had been her goal. She did not yet know what a mistake it had been, or what it would cost her.
The leaders of four major and six minor holdings came running. Titled “commanders” only through courtesy and convenience, for Kostas and his senior captain gave the only orders, they ranged from the middle-aged athri of Chalsan Manor to the twenty-three-year-old granddaughter of the ancient crone who ruled Pyrme Landhold. Some of their troops had come with them, and when the crowd swelled to about a hundred men and women, Kostas finally spoke.
“You may not recognize the Lady Izaea—it’s difficult to see a daughter of Syr when she wears traitor’s clothing. She offers me retreat or destruction. I choose neither! But as Prince of Syr, I do choose to judge and sentence her for her betrayal.”
Izaea flinched away from him, beginning to understand her danger. Kostas grabbed her around the waist from behind, pinning her arms as well. Holding her immobile to his side, he drew his knife and rested it against her throat. She screamed and twisted her face away.
“Gently—you’ll cut yourself,” he told her with an almost caressing menace.
“Kill her,” someone said.
To Izaea he whispered, “You have made a serious error, my lady. I am not as civilized as some.” She cringed again and he chuckled. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
“She deserves to die,” said another in the crowd.
Kostas nodded. “But I think I’ll leave her alive to remind others of what happens to those who listen to treachery.”
Deftly, he jerked the knife upward. Izaea shrieked as her left ear was sliced from her skull. Kostas released her and she toppled to the ground, her shrill cries increasing as she saw the blood streaming down her hands. With a flick of his wrist, the knife studded the damp grass beside her.
“Next time,” he said softly, “it will be your heart.” Turning to his captain, he ordered, “Bind the wound and put her on her horse. And when my squires return, send them to me at once. I’ve waited long enough to take back what is mine.”
