by Melanie Rawn
• • •
Meath slouched low in his chair, elbows propped on its arms and fingertips pressed together in front of his face. His forefingers stroked the bridge of his nose with the same steady rhythm as the water dripping through the clock in the corner. Even Sioned had forgotten his existence as she proposed and argued and doubted and approved ideas. Meath didn’t really know why he was here at all, but didn’t mind. This conference gave him the chance to study anew people long familiar to him. People he loved.
Chay had similarly withdrawn, but not into the half-ghostly oblivion Meath had achieved. He still injected the occasional comment, though in general seemed content to let his son lead the discussion. No, not merely content, Meath corrected himself: proud—and for good reason. A leader Maarken certainly was. The leader Chay, Rohan, Lleyn, Chadric, and Meath himself had taught him to be. There was a certain sadness in his having to become Battle Commander at all—but his easy confidence in himself and in those around him fulfilled all their hopes. Meath remembered a young squire at Graypearl, and smiled.
Another former squire sat opposite Meath, another boy he’d guarded and schooled and watched grow from child to man. Pol was on speaking terms with his father again, Goddess be thanked, but the circumstances of it were bittersweet at best. They were so different; though they wanted the same things, believed in the same things, they approached these goals from sometimes opposing directions. He hoped Pol would grow into Rohan’s wisdom with time. Yet events had made Pol question that wisdom—and not in the way he questioned Maarken about tactics, to clarify and understand. He doubted his father, a thing Meath comprehended in no way whatsoever. His own trust in Rohan had never wavered since the day he’d given it, the day he’d watched a prince walk with a Sunrunner across the sand and return to their horses trying to hide how the Goddess had stunned them with each other.
His gaze strayed to that Sunrunner now. The years had paled her hair to make a finer frame for those green eyes, but the flush of color in her cheeks made the crescent scar whiter by contrast. Pol had a similar scar in almost the same place. Meath knew how both had come about. He had seen Sioned stumbling across the Desert with her bleeding cheek forgotten as she held another woman’s child in her arms; he had seen Pol staggering under the attack of another sorcerer’s conjuring. He wondered if Pol, looking into a mirror, saw it as the warning Sioned did: that power was a terrible thing to possess. That Fire—called to raze a castle or blaze across the Long Sand—could scar more than the skin.
Meath was taken from his thoughts as Relnaya came around the table, filling their cups with cool wine. Sitting straighter, he wrapped his hands around his brimming goblet—blue Fironese crystal, one of a set of Goddess knew how many dozen—and saw old Myrdal’s eyes on him. He had the uncomfortable sensation that she knew every thought in his head. Andrade used to do that same thing with that same look; he knew it wasn’t a product of age, because he was living his own sixty-fifth winter and he couldn’t do that.
“So we’re agreed on most things,” Myrdal said, her voice as whispery-brittle as the hands resting flat on the table before her. “Maarken, perhaps you’d care to go over it one last time.”
“Just to clear up a few points,” Morwenna added.
Meath watched Pol glance rapidly at all of them, thinking that one thing he hadn’t inherited from Rohan was that uncanny ability to draw everyone’s immediate attention without effort. That wasn’t an acquisition of age, either; the first time he’d seen it, Rohan had been barely twenty-one.
“I have something to say first.” Pol sat forward, fingers laced in front of him. “It has to do with what will be required of the Sunrunners.”
Here it comes, Meath thought, his gaze flickering to Sioned. She met his eyes, then stared for a moment at the great emerald on her hand. He understood the message: she was Rohan’s, not Andrade’s.
“Those of you who were trained at Goddess Keep face a difficult choice. Maarken glossed over it because it wasn’t the time to talk about it. But we have to discuss it now. Will you be breaking your vow not to use your gifts to kill? Indirectly, yes. You’ll be enabling the soldiers to kill more easily.” He looked each—Hollis, Morwenna, Sioned, Relnaya, and Meath—in the eye and finished quietly, “If any of you has a problem with this, please say so now.”
Sioned spoke first. “What we plan is something I’ve done before. All of you know it. When my lord fought Roelstra . . . .” She gave a soft sigh. “Lady Andrade never said anything, never censured me for it. That was to be expected. It was her dream of a Sunrunner High Prince that I was protecting. But even if she had attempted to punish me, if she’d said a single word—I wouldn’t have listened.
“There’s precedent in the Star Scroll,” she went on. “Lady Merisel recorded several instances of what we plan to do. But it was used as a protection for those who observed from the outside a battle by sorcery. Not for this. It’s a pretty question, and rightly saved for the last, as Pol says.
“But there’s something else.” Sioned looked down at her hands again. “I’ve killed, using my gifts. Most of you know that. For those of you who don’t—”
“Mother, this isn’t necessary,” Pol urged.
“I think it is. It’s been many years—but I have never stopped feeling the weight of those deaths. It could be argued that . . . what I did . . . was the only possible choice to make each time. I believe this to be true. But while I don’t regret what I did, I also know why I did it.” Her head lifted. “I had no thought in my head for Goddess Keep, or its laws, or my oath, or anything else. I did what I did for my husband and my prince. The commitment was easy, but with hard consequences. Any of you who feel unable to make that same kind of commitment will not be blamed. I understand your conflict only too well.”
Meath repressed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t felt the need to confess her kills in specifics. He thought of the Firestorm she’d created at Feruche and all those who died there, knowing it was in her mind and Pol’s, too—though they had no notion that he knew what had happened that night.
Morwenna cleared her throat. “I have this to say. The rule we’ll really be breaking is one none of us swore: Lady Merisel and Lord Gerik’s rule about not using the gifts in battle. This was the original vow. I’ve seen it in the scrolls. We’re vulnerable to iron while conjuring—and a battlefield is a blizzard of arrows and swords, any one of which could kill us. It was a wise rule—prompted by sheer self-preservation. All the best rules are.” Her dark Fironese eyes glittered with irony, then with humor. “But I made my commitment, too—not as long ago as Sioned, and not for her reasons, though one has only to look at the High Prince to—”
“Mind your shameless tongue, Morwenna,” Meath interrupted with a smile. “We all know what duty you most preferred at Goddess Keep!”
She laughed aloud, not even bothering to blush. “I was damned good at it, too, and I miss it!” She sobered. “I have a qualm or two about this. No faradhi with a conscience could not. Especially no faradhi trained by Lady Andrade. But—and forgive me, Chay, Maarken—I broke with Lord Andry a long time ago.”
Pol nodded. Meath noted that he avoided looking at either uncle or cousin. He was startled to find those blue-green eyes regarding him instead. “Meath?”
“What’s asked of me, I’ll do,” he replied simply, hoping he wouldn’t be required to elaborate.
He was not. Pol turned to Hollis, who bit her lip, hesitated a long moment, and finally nodded.
“There are too many lives in the balance,” she whispered.
“I know how difficult this is for you,” Pol told her gently. “Thank you.”
Relnaya was the only one left. Fair hair long since bleached white-blond by the Desert sun was raked back by nervous fingers. At last he burst out, “I know nothing of consequences or balance or qualms, my lord. All I can see is Jahnavi lying dead. He gave his life—my oath means nothing compared to that.”
Meath realized suddenly that this was the f
irst breaking of Goddess Keep’s hold by sworn Sunrunners in a group. It saddened him but he knew there was no alternative. What he found fascinating was that Pol had been wise enough not to mention that Andry himself had broken the vow, and quite spectacularly—surely a powerful argument in favor of doing the same thing without worrying about it. Too, both Pol and Sioned were powerful enough to draw on the other Sunrunners’ gifts and do this with or without their permission. And everybody knew it.
Myrdal tapped one finger on the table. “If you’re quite finished,” she said, evidencing scant patience for the ethical wranglings of the faradh’im, “then I’ll hear Maarken repeat this grand plan in some sort of order. Make it good, child. I’m the least critical audience you’ll face with it. A few more lines up on that infernal device over there—” She waved a hand at the water clock. “—and you’ll have to sell all this to the Dragon.”
• • •
After the others were gone, Maarken and Pol bent over the map of Stronghold and environs one last time.
“It’ll work,” Pol said.
“It had better.” Leaning back in his chair, Maarken regarded him musingly. “You can’t conceive of its not working, can you? Is it lack of imagination or simply confidence in yourself?”
“In you,” Pol smiled.
“But not in him.”
No need for further identification. Shrugging, Pol emptied a wine pitcher into his cup and slouched back to drink.
“You have no idea why he’s done what he’s done,” Maarken went on. “You think he’s failed. I tell you now, Pol, it’s we who’ve failed him.”
“What are you talking about?”
“He trusts in his Sunrunners, his soldiers, and his Desert. Is it his fault that none have lived up to his faith in them?”
Pol was silent for a long while. Then, very slowly: “I know this about him—that he’ll preserve his people’s lives at any cost, including his own pride. That’s why he ran. Why he didn’t fight. But now he must—and don’t think I can’t see how it eats at him. But being High Prince means making hard choices.”
“Sometimes it means not choosing at all.”
“Oh, he’s taught you well, hasn’t he? Maarken, leadership is decisions and risks. An effective leader knows which to take.”
“And successful leadership is knowing which to avoid.”
“I can never make you understand.”
“Pol, I understand you perfectly. Your problem is you’ve never been really hurt. You’ve never known the kind of pain that goes to your heart and makes you think you’re going to die of it. And you’ve never said to yourself, ‘I’m not going to die.’ All that’s ever happened to you is you’ve been wounded enough to make you angry. All you’ve ever said in response is ‘I’m going to win.’”
“I will win.” Pol finished his wine and stood. “And I’m going to take all the rest of you with me.”
Maarken’s brows arched. “I was wrong. Not confidence—arrogance.”
“Don’t confuse me with your brother.”
“In many ways, you’re just like him. Neither of you has any room in his head for thoughts of failure. Neither of you believes that anyone or anything could harm what’s yours. Gentle Goddess, Pol, up until Meiglan and the girls arrived, I heard you mention them four times! It wasn’t your faith in Dragon’s Rest that kept you from worrying—it’s your damned arrogance. Nothing would dare threaten your possessions. Andry doesn’t think I know it, but he lost a girl he loved from just such blindness.”
“And who did I learn it from? My father—who still can’t believe that his Sunrunners and his soldiers and his Desert haven’t won this war for him!” He began to pace, circling the wide table with short, angry strides. “Oh, he lets me play at being High Prince—leading the little dance we princes do at the Rialla to arrange other people’s lives—only because he’s there to make sure I do it right. Has it ever occurred to you that he doesn’t really trust me?”
“Pol!” Maarken sat up straight, gripping the arms of his chair.
“Sorry to shock you,” he replied, not sounding it in the least. “But don’t you see? He’s made a system that can survive just about anyone—even a very bad High Prince.”
“That’s insane.”
“Maarken, you’re my kinsman and my friend and I love you dearly, but you don’t see beyond Whitecliff and Radzyn. Look at those who held Princemarch before me. Goddess, what a collection! Even if I turn out reasonably well, what about my sons and grandsons?”
“All right, then, what if he has created something that will work despite who’s running it? Something that will outlast all of us—” He stopped, gaze narrowing. “That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t stand that you’ll have to fit yourself into what he made. You think everything ought to conform to you.”
“If that’s how you want to see it, go ahead,” Pol responded coldly.
“I really do understand you now,” the older man said quietly. “Some people think they can make room in time for themselves—strangle all the clocks and stop the sun in the sky so they can fulfill their visions. Andrade was like that. So is Andry. So are you. But that’s not how it works, Pol. Time itself makes the room, the space—and for good or ill, somebody fills it. And you’re eager to fill a place still occupied.”
“You’re where your own father used to be, Battle Commander.”
Maarken rose slowly to his feet. “Yes. I am. And the prince I serve is waiting to hear about a battle that’s going to tear his heart out.”
Pol took a few steps toward him. “I didn’t mean that—Maarken, I’m tired and angry—”
“I know what you meant.” He sighed his own exhaustion. “I’m sorry, too. But this doesn’t hurt you the way it does him. You’re not watching your life’s work being destroyed.” He shook his head. “You won’t be the same kind of High Prince he is. You’re different men, with different work to do. But until the same kind of pain shows in your eyes, you’re not going to understand what it is to be High Prince at all.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
At midnight a contingent of Desert warriors filed silently out the grotto passage. They waited behind a northern outcropping of the Vere Hills, calming their restive horses and trying to repress their own fierce anticipation. Radzyn and Remagev had been fought for and lost; Stronghold would be different.
The day broke clear and free of haze, for which grace the Sunrunners thanked the Goddess. They would be able to work with sunlight today, not be forced to the sorcery all had learned but none felt comfortable with.
At dawn, while the Vellant’im were still arming themselves, Kazander’s men rode full tilt in an insane charge from the tunnel, bellowing Isulki war cries and “Azhrei!” Angling for the right flank, they sliced off a section of the startled enemy host. Instantly the hidden troops swept down to attack the isolated Vellant’im, some to engage them, the rest to form an adamant circle around the fighting.
And then a very odd thing happened. Within the protective ring of Desert warriors, springing up between them and the concentrated battle, was cast a thin bright circle of Fire, like a huge and empty crown. It rose, arcing dragon-high, then curved inward to meet in a graceful goldfire dome.
Inside it, Desert warriors grinned—and slaughtered the stupefied Vellant’im.
Outside it, Desert warriors laughed—and protected the faradhi weaving from enemy iron.
Maarken thundered down from Stronghold with the main Desert force to engage the bulk of the Vellant’im in more traditional battle. Kazander again carved off a manageable portion; another squadron, this one secreted by night slightly to the south, rushed forward to attack while the Sunrunners constructed another sunfire dome.
It was gorgeous work, and Tobin was half-mad with wanting to see it for herself.
She had fought in the last battle at Stronghold, tucked in a canyon niche with a bow and full quiver, happily picking off Merida warriors. This time age and infirmity condemned her to the safety of the keep.
She strongly suspected husband and brother of making deliberately certain she couldn’t even vent her frustration in curses; Tobren, Meiglan, and the twins were with her, and the face she presented to the four innocents had to be a serene and confident one.
It might not have been so infuriating if she’d been able to go Sunrunning. But the ground floor room faced west; sunlight wouldn’t touch it before noon. At least Betheyn took pity on her; at mid-morning she slipped away from her duties as physician’s assistant to whisper a report.
“It’s a little like butchering a stag,” Betheyn murmured as she fussed with a tray of taze and fruit, her excuse for coming in to inform Tobin of the battle’s progress. “Lord Kazander makes the main cut and the others do the finer carving.”
“Armies move to the right,” Tobin observed, low-voiced, keeping one eye on the children’s game and the other on Meiglan. She’d heard of a battle in which that instinctive shift to protect the sword arm had ended by reversing the opposing armies’ positions entirely.
“Maarken took that into account. Prince Daniv and Commander Laroshin will charge soon from the tunnel to the enemy’s right flank, to drive them back toward the main battle. The High Prince doesn’t want any of them to get away.”
Tobin grunted her approval.
“Lord Walvis has killed nearly sixty so far,” Beth went on. “Nobody’s ever seen anything like it.”
“Chay?” she asked, knowing that her idiot lord had assigned himself the duty of keeping Walvis alive.
“Trying to equal Lord Walvis.” Beth smiled reassurance. “With Lord Kazander’s brother-by-marriage stuck to him like sap on a pine.”
“Hmph. Old fool.” Tobin wished the sun would hurry its journey across the sky so she could see things for herself. Damn Chay and damn Rohan, caging her with three prattling children and that timid little doe Pol had married.
