by Melanie Rawn
When there was safe sunlight or moonlight to work with, his Sunrunners brought him word of what transpired elsewhere. He heard with pride of his nephew Rohannon’s skillful exercise of authority at New Raetia, and with irritation of the refusal of Grib, Gilad, Fessenden, and Meadowlord to involve themselves directly in the war. The fine points of various treaties grounded them in legality—and he spared a sardonic smile that Rohan had so infected them all with his passion for law that even now they used it to cover their cowardly self-interest. But he also took personal offense. It was his signature and seal as Lord of Goddess Keep that appended some of those documents. In tricking Rohan, they grinned at him, too.
The continuing silence from Balarat was one of his primary concerns. He’d lost one Sunrunner already—the one assigned to Waes, who had accompanied Rialt to Swalekeep and died there of unknown causes. Deniker had seen the last ashes being blown away by a dawn breeze, watched over by Rialt, his family, and a few Waesian notables wearing mourning gray. Conjuring the scene for Andry in Fire, Deniker had been surprised when Andry identified young Princess Palila standing near her cousin Cluthine. It was possible that Chiana had sent the youngest and least important member of her family as a token honor for the dead faradhi, but Andry doubted it. The girl’s presence therefore remained a puzzle.
As the days wore on and nothing was heard from Arpali in Firon, even when there was enough light, Andry began to fear that perhaps she was dead, too. Strange things had been observed at Balarat: Lord Yarin’s flag flying where Laric’s standard should be, Lord Yarin’s soldiers riding patrol when snowfall permitted, Lord Yarin himself venturing out for a ride on a sunny morning with a retinue who deferred to him as if he was their prince. Andry wondered if Laric knew of this at Dragon’s Rest. But even if he was aware that his wife’s brother was busily taking over his princedom, what could he do?
More to the point, could Andry do anything about it? Having Laric in his debt would be a very good thing, once this was all over and the inevitable restructuring began. Besides, Firon was rife with diarmadh’im; it had been their main place of exile, especially in the forbidding mountains between Firon and Cunaxa. If Laric owed Andry his princedom, Andry would have the chance to find and execute hundreds of sorcerers. They were on the side of the Vellant’im in this war, and along with their Merida henchmen, they deserved to die.
Life would be a fascinating tangle once the war was over. Everyone—prince, athri, and commoner—would look to Goddess Keep for the reestablishment of order and stability. And the Goddess would provide.
• • •
Kazander sent word back to Stronghold that he would again spend the night in the hills with several of his men. It was to the High Prince’s credit that he had instantly understood Kazander’s reasons. Unused to living within any walls but those of his tent beneath the silent stars, the clamor within Rohan’s keep set his teeth on edge.
Still, that was only part of it. As he lay back, his head cradled on his saddle, he watched the clouds tease the stars and thought of Chayla. It was instinct, not mere impulse, that drew him to her—but what would he do if he won her? By the standards of her people she was yet a child; her birth had made her Lady Chayla of Whitecliff; her breeding had made her a faradhi. She would not share a tent with other wives. She didn’t belong in a tent at all, but in a castle. Isulki blood had been diluted in her. She loved the Desert and understood it as well as anyone whose life did not utterly depend on knowing its every whim, but she didn’t hear its songs. Her music was that of stone and wood and silken sheets, and flowers in her hair.
He knew all that. None of it made any difference. He loved her as simply as he breathed.
“Korrus,” whispered a voice in the darkness.
“My brother,” he replied just as softly.
“Someone comes.”
Disinterested as the Vellant’im appeared to be, Kazander had not made the mistake of choosing his campsite unwisely. The four men who had elected to stay with him moved with swift silence into positions overlooking the trail. Five horses—no, six—were approaching at a fast trot. By the sound of their hoofbeats they had been ridden at a killing pace for some time. Kazander glanced up at the sky, tasted the air, and decided it was well after midnight. Enemy soldiers coming from the Meadowlord side of the Vere Hills, and in such desperate haste that they had not taken the longer, safer route to the south—he didn’t like this at all. With a soft whistle to signal his men, he crouched behind a boulder to wait.
Visian, brother of his youngest wife, had the honor of taking down the first rider. The man roared like an embattled dragonsire, but high above that sound was a woman’s piercing scream.
“Hold!” Kazander yelled, leaping down to stand in the center of the road. His men followed, grabbing the reins of winded horses. The woman screamed again. Visian backed away from his victim, who scrambled to his feet and stalked up to Kazander.
“Are you the cause of this outrage?” he demanded. “How dare you lay hands on her grace’s escort! You’ve frightened the princesses half to death!”
“I’m not scared, Laroshin,” called a small, light voice, bubbling with excitement. “And my mother was just startled, weren’t you, Mama?”
Kazander identified Pol’s wife by the cloud of golden hair for which she was famous. She drooped in the saddle, huddling into a dark cloak, a boy on horseback hovering at her side. He made her a profound reverence in the manner of his people and wondered forlornly if he could charm himself out of this one.
“Your most noble grace, this unworthy fool apologizes from the bottom of his stricken heart. He begs of your highness’ benevolence to allow him to escort your grace in safety to Stronghold, where her mighty lord awaits and in his loneliness will weep for joy at seeing—”
“Who the hell are you, and what the hell are you saying?” the one called Laroshin growled.
Kazander bowed to him, too, and similarly craved forgiveness. He almost managed to finish his speech before he was interrupted again—by the child’s giggles.
“Oh, just listen to him, Rislyn!”
“Shh! It’s not nice to laugh, Jihan!”
Kazander addressed the two little girls. “Your highness’ laughter is as sweet water in the Desert.”
“Laroshin,” quavered their mother, “who is this person?”
The boy beside her snorted. “Just what he said, your grace—an idiot.”
This was too much for Visian. “Gently,” he advised in silken tones. “You speak of the Lord Kazander, korrus of the Isulk’im, honored kinsman of the High Prince.”
Kazander bowed again. The princess was too exhausted to acknowledge him, but her daughters gave him a pair of regal nods marred only by Jihan’s leftover giggles. The other one, Rislyn, hushed her again and spoke quietly to Kazander.
“My lord, please can you take us to Stronghold now? We’ve been riding since last midnight and we’re very tired.”
He wanted to ask why they had nearly killed their horses getting away from Dragon’s Rest, but that was for Pol to know. One thing was certain: the reasons would bring no one comfort.
“If your grace will permit so humble and worthless an escort—”
“Just get us there, and fast,” Laroshin snapped, and then, when Visian gave him a long look, tacked on a “—my lord.”
“Yes, please, just let’s ride on,” the princess said faintly. “Kierun, you take my reins. I’m so tired . . . .”
“I’m not,” Jihan stated—and once they were within the castle, proved it by running up to her grandparents’ chambers as if it was midday instead of the middle of the night. Pol, roused from bed by all the fuss, was halfway down the stairs when Meiglan tottered in the door, leaning on Kierun.
He stopped cold. “Meggie?”
Rohan and Sioned, wrapped in bedrobes and urged along by Jihan, arrived on the upper landing in time to see Meiglan’s head lift at the sound of Pol’s voice. Her huge dark eyes were set in bruises of sleepless worry, th
ere were dirt smudges on her cheeks, and all that kept her upright was the squire’s supporting arm. But when she saw Pol, her tired face lit with a radiance that said home and safety and love and release from all her troubles.
“Meggie—what in all Hells are you doing here?”
Rohan winced; Sioned started forward to do battle. Meiglan solved the whole situation by the simple expedient of slipping to the floor in a dead faint.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Well, that was a nice piece of work,” Sioned commented to her son over breakfast. “After all that poor child went through to get here, you snarl at her. I trust you’ve apologized.”
“Meggie did a stupid thing, leaving Dragon’s Rest where she and the children were safe—”
“I disagree,” Rohan told him quietly. “I think it was very clever of her.”
Pol set down his cup. “Clever? It was absolute insanity!”
“And you’ll thank me to let you manage your own wife, is that it?” Rohan arched a sardonic brow at him. “Before you manage to make her cry by scolding her for doing the only thing she could do, there’s something else you ought to know. Jihan had very interesting things to say last night about Grandfather Miyon at Dragon’s Rest.”
“What?”
Sioned rose from the table, her blue bedrobe swirling around her, and began snatching clothes from the closet. “Yes, just think about that for a moment.”
“In what context?” Pol asked warily. “We know that his Merida bastard has taken over the princedom—naturally he fled.”
“Goddess give me patience!” she cried. “After all this time, don’t you understand him yet? His son has led his armies against Tuath—and is likely to meet up with Tallain and Riyan any day now.” She threw one shirt at Rohan and another onto the bed for herself, giving the impression that if they’d stayed in her hands one more instant she would have shredded them. “Do you think Miyon disapproved? Do you honestly believe that after everything he went through to gain sole rule of Cunaxa that he’d slink away now, when he’s got a chance of grabbing the northern Desert?”
“But he did leave,” Pol pointed out stubbornly.
“And for where? Dragon’s Rest!”
Rohan said, “Meiglan rightly fears her father. And now that she’s removed herself and the children, Miyon has nothing to bargain with. No hostages.”
“Hos—? No. Impossible. Not even he would dare.”
“What would you not do to keep your wife and daughters safe?”
Pol swallowed hard. “So now my palace, instead of my family, is in his hands. What do you suggest I do about it?”
“Nothing.”
Sioned paused on her way into the bathroom with an armful of clothes. “Rohan . . . .”
“Oh, come!” he chided. “What does Miyon have now? Dragon’s Rest—filled with people loyal to Pol, not to mention his former squire who happens to be married to a princess of Grib, and another prince who’s his kinsman. I’m betting our cousin of Cunaxa will be at Swalekeep rather quickly. So you see that Meiglan was very clever in escaping—and I must say that my heart warms when I think of the welcome Chiana will give her empty-handed ally.”
“So once again you counsel no action at all,” Pol said, his voice dangerously soft. “This is my princedom we’re speaking of, Father.”
Rohan shrugged. “Do as you like. My experience tells me one thing. Obviously you trust yours more. But I do insist that you apologize to your princess. Through her bravery and daring, she’s spared you more than you know.”
Meiglan heard all this from the antechamber, ashamed to be listening in secret but unable to help it. Flinching when Pol condemned her action, amazed when Rohan and Sioned attributed her flight to cleverness rather than fear, at last she realized that although fear had been her primary motivation, she had indeed recognized the danger from her father.
She crept from the outer room and hurried back down the hallway to her own chambers. Perhaps she wasn’t hopelessly inadequate after all—hadn’t Rohan called her Pol’s princess instead of just his wife? Pride, pleasure, and sudden confidence flushed through her, and so when Pol appeared a little while later in her room, she told him the whole tale without fearing his reaction. She had done the right thing; Rohan and Sioned had said so. And Pol—his initial anger had only been that she had risked herself and the children. He said as much when he apologized, and then praised her cleverness. It was only later that she remembered how seldom anyone in the High Prince’s circle complimented anyone else on their intelligence; everyone was expected to have wits, and to use them.
• • •
Jihan had slain the dragon—as usual. Remarkable, the way she moved in for the kill, her blue eyes glittering and her sword held defensively close to her body, the way squires were taught. She planted a bare foot on the fallen dragon and laughed aloud, waving her sword in the air.
The dragon suddenly came to life. A hand closed around her ankle and toppled her. Jihan shrieked and fought for possession of her sword, but the dragon tossed it away and grappled with her on the carpet. Rislyn came to her rescue, grabbing up the sword and attacking the roaring dragon. At last they had defeated the beast, and stood on his back yelling their triumph at the top of their lungs.
“Jihan! Rislyn! You should be in bed! Stop all this noise at once!”
The dragon peeked out from under his woolen wing. “I’m afraid you’re too late, Meiglan. They’ve done me in right and proper, and now I expect they’ll make necklets of my teeth and talons. Poor dragon!”
Meiglan gave a little gasp of surprise. “Your grace!”
Rohan shook off his granddaughters, snatched up one under each arm, and groaned to his feet. “Goddess, what do you feed these two? It’s only the first of Autumn since I’ve seen them and already they’ve grown half a silkweight!” He shook the giggling pair, set them on their feet, and discarded the cloak with a flourish. “Your dragon has had enough for one night. He’s not as young as he used to be!”
“No, Grandsir—again!” Jihan demanded.
“Please?” seconded Rislyn.
“Your mama says it’s bedtime, and so it is. Whup, wait a moment—hands and faces washed? Jihan, don’t rub the dirt off on your clean nightgown! Rislyn, I will allow you one glass of water, and then get to bed.”
“And a story,” she suggested slyly, big green eyes dancing.
After a glance at Meiglan, who nodded and smiled, he said, “Very well. A story. No, don’t tell me—you want one about dragons.”
He told them one of the less bloodthirsty tales about a village maiden who outsmarted a dragon by dazzling him with a handful of jewels, although where a peasant girl would get such things or why a dragon would react so to them was beyond him, and the story never elucidated. Unfortunately, Rohan was very good at telling stories; the twins were wide awake and begging for more by the time he finished, and he cast a guilty look at their mother. Meiglan tried to suppress a smile, failed, and moved in to exert some parental discipline.
“You may have another story tomorrow, if you’re good and ask Grandsir politely. And do your lessons well. But it’s long past time you were asleep.”
“Lessons?” Jihan wailed. “But we’re at Stronghold, we never have lessons at Stronghold!”
“This time you do.”
She kissed them and stood back while Rohan tucked in the sheets and then had the breath hugged out of him, which necessitated a retucking. At last the adults left the room, nodding to the maidservant on duty in the outer chamber.
“It’s wise of you to establish a routine for them as quickly as possible,” Rohan commented.
“It’s not wisdom, my lord. It’s certainty of what Jihan would get up to, running around here without six eyes on her at all times.”
He grinned. “I saw poor Kierun and Dannar chasing after her today. Rather wicked of Pol to assign them guard duty.” He slipped an arm around her waist and walked her to the door of her rooms. “I think perhaps it’s time
you got some sleep, too. That was a hard ride, my dear. You still look tired.”
“I slept most of today, my lord.”
Her blush told him that not all of her time in bed had been spent in slumber, but Meiglan was not a girl one teased about such things. “Just the same, why don’t you have a good long bath? I’ll have taze and cakes sent up.”
“That would be lovely, my lord,” she sighed.
After nine years, Rohan had given up trying to get her to call him by his name. It was enough that he no longer frightened her—though he’d never understood what she found so awesome about him. He kissed her cheek lightly and bade her good night, and started down the hall.
“My lord?”
He turned and saw fear in her wide, soft brown eyes. “What is it, Meiglan?”
“Will there be battle?”
“I hope not.” Then, because she needed more reassurance than that, he added with a smile, “That’s the beauty of Stronghold. It’s the Desert they’ll be fighting, not us. Don’t worry, Meggie.”
“I won’t, my lord. Good night.”
He considered going down to the kitchens himself to order Meiglan’s taze, then decided against it and snagged a passing servant. “Nothing elaborate—but she didn’t eat much tonight.”
“At once, my lord. And the High Princess said that if anyone saw you, to tell you she’d be waiting for you in the Summer Room.”
“Mmm. Tell the High Princess—” That no one can find me. “—that I’ll join her in a little while.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Sioned would not think it “very good,” but she would also understand that he needed some time to himself. But where could he be alone in his overpopulated castle? He watched the servant pause to replace a faltering torch in a wall sconce, and as light blazed anew turned resolutely for the stairs.
