by Melanie Rawn
Sionell was quiet for a time, then made a decision and started hauling off his boots. “Hush,” she said when he opened his mouth to protest. “You are going to stay the night.”
“Yes, but—”
“Bedtime, my lord. I’ve ordered the sun to set early.” She tossed his boots into a far corner.
“And it wouldn’t dare refuse you,” he answered whimsically. He grasped lightly at one of her braids that had tumbled loose from its pins during the roughhousing. “And neither would I,” he murmured. “Bedtime it is. Which means you’re going to stay right here and sleep, too.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere.” When he cocked a knowing brow at her, she grimaced. “All right, all right. I was, but now I’m not.” Settling against his chest, she closed her eyes.
Tallain’s voice was barely tinged with humor as he said, “Shall I bring a Merida back for you?”
Her answer was quite serious. “Yes. Make it an important one. That’s the hide I want nailed to my wall.”
“Then if it pleases you, I will provide a very important Merida for you to kill however you like.”
She was about to thank him in all sincerity when it occurred to her that the entire conversation was barbaric. What would flaying a Merida accomplish? Would it bring Jahnavi back? Even if Tallain found the very one who had killed her brother, what good would it do?
Sionell hid her face against her husband’s neck in despair. “I hate this,” she said, her voice quivering.
“It has to be done, you know. The killing. Most people would say that dead is dead, and it doesn’t matter how you feel about how the enemy got that way, so long as it’s done. I think it does matter, Ell. I think it has to matter or there’s nothing to difference us from the Merida or the Vellant’im.”
“Dead is dead,” she repeated softly. “But those of you who have to do the killing have to live with how you did the killing—and why.”
“Most people would also say that Rohan corrupted us at a very tender age with his ridiculous ideas.” There was a smile in his voice, self-mocking and a little sad.
“Do you feel corrupted?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Neither do I. But I don’t feel completely clean, either.”
“None of us are, my love. I don’t know whether I feel sorrier for those who know it—or those who don’t.”
• • •
Though Stronghold had been built to house an entire army—two, with a little cramming—it was no disciplined, orderly host that occupied it now. Whole families, toddlers to grandmothers, crowded the keep. The castle wasn’t quite ready to burst at the seams, even with the addition of people from Radzyn and Remagev and those who had escaped Whitecliff before its capture. But for anyone used to the sparse population of peacetime, the lack of elbow room jangled the nerves.
Meals in the Great Hall weren’t really chaotic—they just seemed that way after years of quiet repasts. Maintaining usual standards of tidiness wasn’t impossible, just more difficult. After the first few days, when the servants were simultaneously run ragged and plagued by well-meaning counterparts from other places who didn’t understand the way things were done at the High Prince’s residence, a routine of sorts was established.
But an army would have been easier to house in good order—and infinitely quieter. Children hurtled through hallways and cried late at night. When they gathered for lessons, their chanted responses could be heard all over the keep. The chatter of crafters and grooms and maids and cooks and Radzyn merchants was constant and maddening.
The only escape from the noise was for the soldiers who rode out every morning on patrol. Maarken went with them gladly—and a little guiltily, at leaving to others the work of keeping Stronghold functional.
As Battle Commander of the Desert, however, it was his duty to go. The forays made him look useful, even if he didn’t feel it; at least they got him out of the keep. And one worry was eased by the long days on horseback: his beauties weren’t fretting themselves sick at being confined to a crowded stable. Actually, he mused, horses and people were in roughly the same pass, but the horses were getting better treatment. None but warriors were allowed outside the walls. Everyone else had to make do with a stroll in the gardens.
Maarken chose to ride with Kazander’s men today rather than his father’s or Rohan’s or Walvis’. His mount was a feisty little bay mare who danced and sidled and wanted a run so badly she practically chewed the steel bit to pieces. Kazander noticed, smiling.
“She’d show them her heels at the Rialla races, my lord, no doubt of it. A true daughter of her sire, Sevol.”
Maarken glanced at him sharply. Sevol was a black Radzyn stallion who had never thrown any but black foals in his whole career at stud. Maarken said so. Kazander grinned.
“Not on your mares, my lord,” was the unrepentant reply.
Maarken felt his own lips curve in a smile. “You’re a sly thief, Kazander, and I ought to reclaim Radzyn stock.”
“Thief!” the young man wailed. “The mighty lord wounds me, my heart is bleeding!”
“Save it for my father—Sevol was his horse.” He tightened the reins a little as they rode into a narrow ravine. Lizards skittered from the path into the shelter of low, sun-baked scrub. There were no birds to take startled wing and no tiny furred creatures to rustle the bushes in warning of approaching riders. The Desert-bred must rely on their own senses and, if the animal was sensitive enough, those of their horses. “Kazander, why don’t you just ask when you need a stud? We’d be happy to provide.”
The korrus considered his answer for some time. Finally he said, “My esteemed sire taught his most unworthy son to respect and honor the dread Lord of Radzyn. How would it look, my lord, if I were to cast aside his teachings and violate generations of understanding between our people?”
“My father would have a lot fewer gray hairs, I can tell you that! When I inherit Radzyn—may it be many years from now—this ‘understanding’ between us is going to change.”
He drew back in shock. “My lord!”
“Yes,” Maarken drawled, enjoying himself. “I haven’t quite figured out how yet, but I’m not going to let you turn me white-haired!”
Kazander looked glum and sighed. “It won’t be any fun anymore!” Then he perked up and gave a sunny smile. “But if my lord makes it more difficult, we will find all the more pleasure in the borrowing! My lord is generous beyond all words to concern himself with our happiness!”
Maarken gave up and laughed, anticipating a delicious battle of wits between himself and this half-mad young man for years to come. Whatever tricks he devised to thwart the Isulk’im, Kazander would puzzle them through and borrow the studs anyway—praising him all the while for providing such excellent sport.
The pair led the way up the ravine, ten of Kazander’s men following. They were about five measures from Stronghold now, and after climbing a hill could see the top of the Flametower. Kazander directed his troops to scour the area by threes, himself taking Maarken and a burly youth called Visian with him to the west. It had been many days since any Vellant’im had been found lurking in the hills, but Maarken did not find that reassuring. The ride out of the castle these days seemed to bore the enemy camped down below, which worried him even more. Putting himself in their heads was easy: make a survey of the surrounding terrain and then pretend not to notice scouting parties—while waiting for reinforcements to arrive from elsewhere. But because Maarken was a Sunrunner, he knew things they did not. No one marched from Radzyn or Remagev. In fact, there was no troop movement in the Desert at all, except for Riyan out of Skybowl. He would meet Tallain soon to battle the Merida.
“Is this place sufficient to your needs, my lord?” Kazander asked.
Maarken glanced around. The bare hillcrest, dotted with low scrub and a few water-hoarding herbs, was dreadfully exposed and made the soldier in him nervous. For a Sunrunner, however, it was perfect.
“It’s fine, Kazander. You and Visian keep watch. Do you
remember what I told you about bringing me back?”
“Gently, firmly, and quickly,” Kazander recited. “We will keep you safe, my lord, or die.”
“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the thought.”
Closing his eyes, he turned his face to the noon sun and listened to the blessed quiet. Ears numbed by Stronghold’s multitude regained their usual sensitivity. He heard the silken whisper of dry leaves and grasses, the faint hoofbeats of the patrols, his own clothes rustling as a breath of wind plucked at them. But it was not his physical hearing that gave him the sound of his son’s voice.
Father—thank the Goddess, I found you at last!
He steadied the weaving skillfully. Rohannon barely knew how to do this; the possible reasons for risking a technique he didn’t fully understand made Maarken’s heart freeze. Are you all right?
Me? Oh, yes, of course. Don’t worry.
Then what’s happened to make you try something you don’t really know how to do?
Rohannon hesitated, and then it all burst from him in a rush that Maarken had some difficulty in sorting out. Searching for him at Stronghold and over half the Vere Hills; Prince Arlis’ arrival at New Raetia; the excursion to Catha Heights and what he’d seen there; the certainty that Prince Saumer was faradhi.
Leave everything to me, Maarken told him briskly, hiding most of his shocked dismay. And don’t try this again without instruction. It’s too risky.
It worked, didn’t it?
Maarken replied severely, You caught me in a fairly tight weaving. Do you have any idea how to disengage from it? I thought not. Then he relented. You did well, Rohannon. But don’t do it again until you really know how.
Wait—don’t take me back yet! What are you going to do?
Tell Rohan. As he guided his rebellious offspring back to New Raetia, he savored the colors of Rohannon’s mind: glowing amethyst, bright diamond, deep garnet, all set in a pattern of elegant clarity. He had always wondered why there was never any family resemblance among faradh’im; he might have expected to see parts of himself and Hollis in their son, the way children took after parents in physical ways. Sometimes there was a similarity of color, but not always. Lady Andrade had spent many puzzled years going through genealogies, but there was no pattern to the patterns. Each Sunrunner was unique.
That reminded him of something. Did you get an idea of Saunter’s colors?
No—sorry. Father, will it be this easy for me someday? It feels like we’re flying!
Maarken smiled. Glad you like it. Learning how is serious business, but the plain truth is that it’s fun! And yes, it’ll be easy for you, too, someday. Have the Sunrunner there teach you.
She’s the type who doesn’t piss unless Andry gives permission.
Since when does the only son of Andry’s only brother need the approval of a court Sunrunner? When Rohannon’s colors sparkled with laughter, Maarken joined in ruefully. Well, all right, I guess I’ve never been any good at arrogance. I’ll have Andry tell her. Will that do?
I hope so. I want to be able to do this on my own. He paused. Please let Daniv know how sorry I am about his father.
Maarken left his son and returned to the Desert. The only explanation he gave Kazander was that all seemed peaceful enough in the hills, but he had received other news he must take back to Stronghold immediately. Visian accompanied him at Kazander’s insistence: “The dread Lord of Radzyn would skewer me on my own sword if his most beloved son so much as scuffed the shine on his boots.”
Maarken let the mare have her head on the ride back. Visian begged him to slow down through the treacherous ravines, but Maarken ignored him. Two horses racing past the Vellanti camp provided a tempting target; he could feel arrows sighted on his back and kicked the mare to greater speed. At last he was in the crowded courtyard, jumping from the saddle, shouting for the High Prince and his father.
But it was Daniv who came forward to conduct him upstairs, and Maarken loathed himself for the silence of sheer cowardice. He didn’t want to be the one to tell the boy that his father was dead, and he was now Prince of Syr.
• • •
Rohannon had missed seeing one essential thing at Catha Heights: the pennant of Meadowlord sagging at the stern of the boat. Sioned saw it and drew the right conclusion with the wrong evidence. Unable to find Saumer, and unconvinced that this would be the best time to reveal his Sunrunner gifts anyway, she made a thorough search of the area to get any clues she could about what had happened. The only thing of any worth was that flag. There was no one who could tell her it had been made and placed there by Kostas’ order.
Not that it mattered; had she seen the Vellant’im welcome the boat’s arrival, as Kostas and Rihani had, she would have known her surmise was the correct one. Chiana was guilty of collaborating with the enemy. It was just that the evidence was false.
Tobren was given strict instructions about what to say to Andrev—and how to say it. Her only question was who was going to tell Andry about all this. Sioned later expressed her amazement to Rohan that the child experienced no conflict in total loyalty to her father while being proud of the brother who was defying him.
“Be glad of it,” he replied. “Once she really thinks it through, or if she gets caught between them, she’ll go through all Hells. She loves them both.”
Andrev ran through half of Waes to find Tilal and Ostvel, who were meeting with their captains at the inn designated as headquarters for the troops. Those seated around the stoked hearth were surprised that a squire should interrupt so discourteously, but Tilal squelched any rebukes with a simple, “Lord Andrev is also our Sunrunner.”
The boy followed Sioned’s cautions as relayed through Tobren, telling his lord as gently as possible that Kostas was dead. Tilal sat very still for some moments, then excused himself and strode quickly for the door. Ostvel watched him go, sorrowing more for his friend’s loss than for Kostas personally; it had been difficult to be fond of him, although his stern but fair rule had inspired respect. But the death of the Prince of Syr concerned Ostvel more than the death of the man who had held the title.
An examination of Andrev’s face told him there was more. Rising, he said to the captains, “We’ll finish this at the residence tonight,” and led Andrev outside. He frowned up at the graying sky, where clouds were sweeping down from the north. “You cut it close,” he observed.
The boy nodded solemnly. “But it was important, my lord. And it’s not just Prince Kostas.” Andrev made short work of what Sioned had seen as evidence against Chiana.
“So,” Ostvel murmured, “we may now attack Swalekeep without compunction. How very convenient.” Rousing himself, he finished, “Thank you for your work, Andrev—and for your courage in daring the clouds.”
“The Goddess watches over her Sunrunners, my lord.”
“I’ve heard it rumored,” he said to himself as the boy ran off. Then he started through the streets, searching for Tilal.
• • •
The little ceremony went smoothly, and Master Jayachin was now an athri without the word’s actually being used. She was canny enough to decline the title “Lady,” which amused Andry. He bet Valeda in private that the woman would subtly encourage use of the title until by midwinter everyone was saying it without thinking twice. Valeda scoffed.
“Midwinter? I give it ten days.”
It was all highly illegal, of course—or would have been if athri had been the term spoken. Only the High Prince could authorize the establishment of a noble title and a new holding. Princes made applications to him and the thing was done in the presence of all the lords of a princedom gathered to acclaim and welcome the new athri to their ranks. But there was no wall for Jayachin to be lord of—excepting those surrounding Goddess Keep, or unless one interpreted a split-stick fence as a real wall—and thus the word was inapplicable. But everyone understood what was really going on here, and in truth, it was a perfect solution to Andry’s problem. He didn’t want his people or hi
s substance involved in this small city growing about Goddess Keep. Now the whole place was Jayachin’s responsibility. He was relieved of the burden but had gained even more stature in the people’s eyes—for who but a prince could create an athri, whether the word was said or not? He was caring for them, honoring one of their own number, allowing them to stay near him where it was safe. The protection of the Goddess had settled around them all, and they were content.
He knew his whole family would be livid at his presumption. He didn’t much care. The network of Sunrunners that formed the power base of Goddess Keep—and which Andrade had used ruthlessly—had now been augmented by something that trod on the High Prince’s toes. But Andrade had done that, too—though she had never dared establish a holding here, as he had done. Then again, she had never been presented with thousands of refugees on her front lawns, either.
Yes, Rohan and Sioned and all the rest were going to be furious. Doubtless it would anger Tilal most, considering that Ossetia was his princedom. Andry owed him for stealing Andrev away from sheer spite. After a moment’s thought, however, he decided Pol’s fury would outstrip Tilal’s. The line between their separate powers and influences was growing ever more smudged. Soon it would be obliterated—and then let Pol writhe as he begged Andry and his devr’im to turn back the Vellanti invaders.
To this end, he had them practice constructing a ros’salath—the non-lethal kind—to encompass the new holding. Torien had tested it, reporting its thinness in spots, as if crocheted wool had stretched and left holes. Not surprising; two of its architects were dead now, and without them the pattern had been disrupted. More drill was needed, more delving into the Star Scroll for refinements of technique—and more devr’im. Still unable to get about easily on his wounded leg, Andry spent his mornings in research, his afternoons discussing his findings with Jolan and Torien, and his evenings sounding out potential replacements for Oclel and Rusina.
Their five-year-old daughter, Surida, had taken to trailing Nialdan about the castle. Andry supposed it was because he was tall and broad-shouldered like her dead father. It was a poignant thing to see the little girl trotting gamely along beside the big Sunrunner, who slowed his strides when she was with him and was as tender of her as if she had been his own. Andry, watching them, wondered if Andrev followed Tilal as assiduously, and if the prince matched his steps to those of another man’s son.
