by Melanie Rawn
• • •
Rohan had seen the Vellanti warriors hack at the weaving—Whose weaving? he thought, battling panic—and finally fall back in defeat. He had smiled slightly as others tried to the same effect. Archers positioned down the canyon picked off the enemy at leisure. Maarken was ready to close the two halves of his army around the troops obligingly herded into his grasp by Kazander and Sethric and Daniv and Isriam.
But then a rain of small, glittering steel objects impacted on the invisible wall and shattered it. Rohan raised both arms to shield his head, was pummeled by broken knives and shards of swords. Someone behind him screamed. It echoed off the sandstone walls in a sudden, terrible silence.
Rohan swung the mare around and galloped through the tunnel, past Dannar and his stunned troops. “Close the gates!” he roared. “Now!”
The outer ward swarmed with people—servants on hasty errands, litter-carriers with the wounded, those who were injured but able to walk swaying a path toward the barracks infirmary. Rohan stood in his stirrups, frantic for sight of Sioned. But it was Pol’s sun-bleached head he saw coming from the inner courtyard, and he shouted his son’s name.
Pol ran for him and grabbed the mare’s reins as Rohan dismounted. “Mother’s all right,” he said at once. “But the children were caught in it and—I don’t know how she separated all of us. All,” he repeated grimly, “except Morwenna and Relnaya. They’re dead.”
Rohan swallowed convulsively. “The children?”
“Scared half to death, but they’ll be all right. The weaving collapsed. I can’t do any more good as a Sunrunner, so I’m going out to help Maarken. He’s going to need everybody.”
Rohan’s fingers tightened convulsively around his son’s arm. “Pol—” he began. He knew how close he himself had just come to death. It made him even more aware of Pol’s danger. But if he ordered Pol back to safety, the rift between them would open wide and he was afraid they’d never be able to close it again. Besides, what could he do? Physically restrain him? And fundamental honesty forced him to admit that were he still young enough, strong enough, he would do exactly what Pol was going to do. So he swallowed what he’d been about to say and managed a fleeting smile. Then he turned and shouted for Kierun.
It was the work of a few moments for the boy to find battle harness to fit Pol. Rohan gave him his own sword.
“Thirty years and more didn’t even take the edge off it,” he said as Kierun fastened the belt around Pol’s waist. “I found that out earlier this morning.”
Then he heard what he’d said and it took a lifetime of self-discipline to conceal his despair. Yet somehow Pol saw right through him, and compassion shadowed the blue-green eyes. Not a complete understanding, not a sharing of his emotion, but—it was enough.
Pol enveloped him in a quick, hard embrace. “Don’t tell Meggie about this—she’ll have my teeth for shirt buttons.”
“She’ll have to fight your mother for the privilege. Goddess keep you safe, my son.”
And then Pol was jumping onto the Radzyn-bred mare and racing from the courtyard. Rohan looked down at the young squire. Big eyes in a sweaty, dirt-stained face yearned to follow Pol into battle.
“Kierun,” he said, “take me to the High Princess at once.”
Startled from whatever visions of excitement and glory had galloped away with Pol, Kierun blinked. “My lord? Oh—this way, my lord. Last time I looked, she’d woken up.”
From what? he asked himself bleakly, but knew he’d find out soon enough.
• • •
The worry in Meath’s eyes alerted Rohan before Sioned even spoke. Her voice was quiet, if a little too quick, betraying her tension. He heard a brief explanation of what had happened to the Sunrunners—and especially to Morwenna and Relnaya, whose bodies had been removed to the barracks. A large chamber therein was serving as a death room. And there were too many inside it.
“Hollis took Tobin and the children inside,” Meath told him, standing well away from Sioned—farther than a friend’s distance, much farther than even a stranger’s. “Chayla was out of the sunlight. I don’t know that she even felt anything. So she’s all right.”
“And you?” Rohan asked. When the big Sunrunner shrugged, Rohan went on, “Then will you follow the battle for me? Maarken has things in hand, but . . . .”
“Of course, my lord.” He removed himself from their presence and went to stand in a corner of the courtyard, sunlight gleaming on his upturned face.
“Sioned?” Rohan took her arm. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
He met her gaze steadily, waiting her out.
After a moment she gestured impatiently. “Very well, then—everything. Lady Merisel was right. Andrade was right. No matter how we try to work around it, justify it—the gifts can kill. And not just when and if we intend them to.”
“This wasn’t your fault.”
“You weren’t there,” she retorted brutally.
“Forgive me for presuming I understand Sunrunner ways,” he snapped, the tone deliberate. “Or the one I’ve lived with for forty years.”
Annoyance flickered in her eyes. “I’ll never forgive you for knowing me better than I know myself.”
He left it at that. “I need Chay. Where is he?”
“With Tobin, I suppose. Rohan, what’s going on out there? Are we winning?”
“They may outnumber us, but we’ve got Maarken.”
“And Pol. Oh, don’t try for surprise, you’ve never done it with a straight face. You’re not wearing your sword and there’s only one person you’d give it to.”
His turn to be irritated at being understood so well. “Come on, I want to find Chay and—”
“Rohan!” Meath’s hoarse cry swung them around as one. “Riders coming up from Rivenrock—”
“Sweet Goddess, not more of them!” Sioned cried.
The big Sunrunner shook his head. “No, no—only a few dozen. But under a lightning-bolt banner—crowned. And beneath it a man without a beard.”
Rohan’s breath hissed between his teeth. “So. Their warlord at last. I’ve been wondering when I’d meet him.”
“Warlord?” Meath echoed sharply.
“Of course. The man who needs no tokens of his kills or his power.” He turned to Sioned. “Find Maarken. Tell him I don’t care how he does it, but Pol must be seen to lead the charge.” He held her stricken gaze with his own. “I’d do it myself, but it must be Pol. They must look to him now, not me.”
“Rohan—”
“I’m no warrior, Sioned. I’ve failed.”
“No!”
“But I have a son whose very nature won’t allow him to fail. Not in this. Not in battle like this. Find Maarken. Hurry, beloved.” He started away, unable to bear the sight of her anguish.
“My lord?” Meath had caught up to him in two long-legged strides, a hand on his arm. “I’ll keep watch if that’s your order, but—isn’t there anything else I can do?”
“Stay with her,” he murmured, low enough so Sioned wouldn’t hear. “Just—stay with her.”
• • •
Myrdal saw Chay’s broad shoulders sag, his proud head bending to his chest. “No,” he breathed. “Ah, Goddess, not again. This will break him.”
“He’s not as brittle as all that,” the old woman retorted, hoping it was true. “He can’t afford to be.”
“He’ll fight for Stronghold until his last breath.”
“It must be done,” Myrdal insisted, rapping her cane on the tiles. “If I’m wrong, and the castle holds as it’s done countless times, it won’t matter.”
“All right, then,” he said, defeated. “Show me.”
Betheyn came forward from the silent shadows of the Great Hall. “I’ve broken the seal. It must be at least a hundred years old.”
“More,” said the old woman, and did not elaborate. She leaned on Chay’s arm as they walked the length of the blue-and-green tiled floor. Its crystalline sheen was gon
e, worn by the hundreds who had been housed here—folly to wax and buff the tiles during a siege in any case. The one place no one ever walked was to the raised dais, where the high table rested, and the carved chairs, and above them the empty place near the dragon tapestry where Rohan’s sword had hung unused so long.
There was an anteroom between the Great Hall and the kitchens, a place for squires and servants to organize the presentation of courses during a banquet. Beth struggled to pull aside a heavy tapestry from one wall, a floor-to-ceiling depiction of a forest scene.
“Don’t bother, child,” Myrdal said. “Chay, tear it down.”
He did so. The fabric ripped and the thick iron rod holding it came loose from the wall. Beth ducked out of the way and all three of them coughed as dust rose from the crumpled hanging.
There was indeed a seal—a huge circle of plaster as large as a cartwheel. Half of it lay propped against the wall. The other ragged half remained. It had been incised with a few words in the old language that Chay couldn’t read, and there lingered traces of blue and yellow paint.
“It’s said that sorcerers put this seal here, with a spell woven into it so none could break it.” Myrdal snorted. “You aren’t by any chance secretly diarmadhi, are you, Betheyn?”
“So there’s a seal,” Chay said impatiently. “What was it there to protect?”
“Put your shoulder to that stone—third in, fifth up—and find out.”
Dust-thickened air clogged his lungs. He was aching and bathed in sweat by the time the stone finally moved. With it, creaking on ancient mechanisms, went half the wall. Revealed was a passage that descended at a steep slant into absolute darkness.
“It’s almost like the one at Remagev,” Beth said. “Only bigger.”
“And more complicated. The passages go on for a full five measures into the hills.”
Betheyn jumped and gave a little shriek as a family of mice scurried past her feet.
Myrdal continued, “The main one comes out near the road to the Court of the Storm God. Or so my mother led me to believe.”
“Passages? More than one?” Chay asked, shaken.
“I’m not sure where some of them lead,” she answered almost casually. “But the main one is marked.”
“Or so your mother led you to believe,” he said sourly. “Wonderful.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Beth, we’re going to need a lot of torches. And a Sunrunner in front of us. Let’s get busy.”
• • •
Pol yanked his father’s sword from the nape of an enemy neck and glanced around again, trying to find Maarken. His cousin’s banner suddenly sprang up on a little sandy knoll, and Pol made for the spot with a single-minded will, leaving five corpses and three severed sword arms behind him.
Maarken turned as the familiar voice yelled his name. Pol reined in so hard beside him that the mare danced back on her hind legs. Knowing what Maarken needed to hear, he reported that Hollis, Chayla and the others were well—only a partial lie.
“But there’s no working—it’s gone. We’re on our own.”
“Goddess damn these whoresons! Pol, take the Second—the Radzyn and Remagev regulars my father and Walvis were commanding. Swing them around and attack the left flank. Daniv and Laroshin are doing the same on the right. Hurry!”
“Yes, my lord,” he responded automatically, and galloped off.
“So that is how one commands a prince,” Kazander mused at Maarken’s side. Then he saluted and rode down the rise, howling “Azhrei!”
Maarken directed his attention back to the main battle. He longed to be in there with his people, but the collapse of his basic strategy demanded that he separate himself and, as his father would have said, use his imagination.
It was not imagination that gave him the sight of a banner the size of a bedsheet riding on a pole like a naked pine trunk. It was the same lightning-bolt design of the troops they’d battled all day—but its sheer size and its telltale crown signaled that someone special accompanied it. He had the sudden unshakable conviction that beneath that tremendous flag rode the real architect of all this slaughter.
And between that person and the rest of the Vellanti army, exactly where Maarken had told him to be, was Pol.
He flinched with the impact of Sioned’s mind. The techniques of resistance—the mere thought of resistance—never even occurred to him.
Rohan says their warlord has come to lead them—and that Pol must lead us. Do as you think best, but make sure he’s seen. Make sure, Maarken.
And then she was gone. He understood what Rohan meant—Pol was the prince here, not he—but what in the name of the Goddess could he do? If the Vellant’im rallied further, as they had begun to do in earnest with the sight of that banner, the Desert host would go on fighting, would blunt their swords hacking at enemy bones and retrieve arrows from corpses to take aim once more. Would follow Pol as they had always followed Rohan.
But the sky was already paling with sunset, and the glow of the Flametower was brighter, and soon the winter night would darken the battlefield. Could they set the sands ablaze as Pol had years ago, and struggle on until—
Until what?
He couldn’t plan anything without knowing what was going on. He wove sunlight and saw Sethric and Kazander and Daniv and even Walvis—and who had let him back on a horse, anyway?
But mostly he saw Pol. His cousin didn’t need to be told to rally soldiers to his side. He had created a place for himself—pushed time aside, claimed room enough for what he believed must be done. It was the place Rohan had once occupied. But it wasn’t enough.
Sudden shattering pain in his right arm. Leather and steel battle harness digging into Maarken as he slumped in the saddle. Sword dropping from his aching right hand. Agony more fierce than Sunrunner’s Fire—
Surcease.
• • •
“Come on, all of you. There’s nothing down there that will eat you! Just follow each other—it’s simple. Sheep can do this. Take your candle and mind you don’t bump your head!”
Myrdal felt the tray of candles grow lighter in her hands, and interrupted her urgings to call for another supply. Jeni brought them and told her that in a few moments the more seriously wounded would be brought across the courtyard.
“You handle this, child,” Myrdal said, pushing herself from the wall and picking up her cane again to support her. For a moment she watched the girl calmly hand out candles to each person entering the passage. Jeni had them moving with instant efficiency. She smiled reassuringly, encouraged in a soft voice—and lit each candle herself with Sunrunner’s Fire. Myrdal blinked, wondering when she’d learned this—and who had taught her. But then she shrugged off the irrelevancy. Camigwen’s namesake was worthy of her, she told herself with uncharacteristic sentiment, then cleared her throat and limped back into the Great Hall.
Most of Stronghold’s augmented population was out on the battlefield. The able-bodied had already gone down the tunnel; only the wounded who must be carried remained. Soon someone was going to have to ride down and tell Maarken to send groups of his soldiers back to follow through the passage. Myrdal was not sanguine about their following orders.
Meiglan and her daughters sat in one of the window embrasures, all three of them stormy-eyed. But it wasn’t Jihan who was refusing to budge; it was Rislyn.
“No. I won’t leave Papa and Grandsir,” she was saying as Myrdal approached.
“What’s all this, then?” She was furious with Meiglan for not managing her children better. She didn’t have time for this.
Meiglan must have seen the angry disapproval in her eyes. Her spine straightened and her gentle eyes flashed. But the access of energy was brief; she wilted back against the stones and looked an appeal at the old woman, who repressed a sigh.
A fine time for Rislyn to turn stubborn. She was still white-faced and strained after her ordeal; Jihan was eager for another adventure. Lacking time to coax Rislyn to obedience, she decided the three of them wou
ld be close enough to escape here in the Great Hall. But she had to lay the foundation for an order that would be heeded.
So she said, “You know that Lady Betheyn went first and took your cousin Tobren with her to call Fire so everyone could see.” The girls nodded. “Well, the younger you are, the more powerful your magic in the maze. Yes, that’s what’s down there—a magical maze that not even your grandfather has ever seen. Your mother will need you to guide her—but she’s rightly waiting for your father and the High Prince and High Princess. When they come, any of them, you have to be ready to take them through. Will you do that?”
“Somebody will have to teach us how to call Fire—we don’t know how,” Jihan said shrewdly, perking up at the notion of learning this Sunrunner skill.
Meiglan said firmly, “Papa or his mother will do that for you.”
“Yes,” Myrdal said, grateful that she’d gotten them past that sticky point. “But you have to be ready, and not delay. They’re counting on you.”
After due consideration, Rislyn nodded. “But not until they leave. You see, Grandsir made us his athr’im here.” She displayed her little emerald ring of office. Jihan thrust her hand forward too, for her ruby to be admired.
At last Myrdal understood Rislyn’s balkiness. “That’s a very great honor. But it also means you must serve him and obey him.” The girls nodded, and she exchanged a relieved glance with Meiglan before hobbling past the line of castlefolk into the courtyard.
She ran down her mental list of those who must be persuaded to leave Stronghold. Hollis, Chayla, Jeni, and Feylin would accompany the wounded; she anticipated no trouble there. Well, Hollis perhaps, but Myrdal intended to use Chayla’s safety as surety for Hollis’ cooperation. There was nothing she could do about Rohan and Sioned. But she spied her next target over by the stables. Tobin was directing grooms and pages to lead the few horses left within the keep—mares in heavy foal, colts and fillies too young to be ridden—toward the gardens. They would be taken out by the grotto exit. Myrdal shook her head in wonder that even without reliable speech, the princess managed to make herself understood. She started over to where Tobin sat neatly on the edge of a trough, marshaling her arguments.
