by Melanie Rawn
“Mother? What were you talking about?”
In her heightened state of nerves she could not face his direct challenge. Treat me like an adult, his eyes said.
Maarken saved the moment by asking Pol to explain aspects of squire’s training that they both had in common under Chadric’s direction, and gradually the mood in the room eased. Under the interested questioning of his elders, Pol began to chatter like any other boy who had been away from home and learned a great many things. But Sioned mourned the easy manner of his first greeting, lost when she had disappointed him.
When the wine was gone, Chay took Tobin off to their chambers to rest. Rohan still had his parchments to attend to, as Sioned reminded him sweetly, earning herself a disgusted look. She asked Pol if he’d like to help her supervise the spring planting in the gardens, and tried not to be too hurt when he mentioned a previous promise to spend more time with Myrdal at the guardhouse. The retired commander of the stronghold guard, Maeta’s mother was a particular friend of Pol’s, and Sioned could not deny the old woman the pleasure of his company.
Maarken asked if she would mind if he accompanied her instead, and she accepted his offer with a degree of curiosity. He had no interest at all in herbs and flowers. Strictly speaking, neither did she, particularly; it was her duty as Stronghold’s mistress to make sure it bloomed. They walked the gravel paths and crossed the little bridge arching over the garden stream whose dual purpose was irrigation and beauty. The trickle had swollen with spring runoff from the high Vere Hills and culminated in Princess Milar’s fountain. Sioned spoke with the groundskeepers along the way, attending to her duties with one part of her mind while the rest of her chased an elusive memory. When she and Maarken were alone beside the tall, fluted blossom of water, she caught the memory and smiled.
They had walked this path the morning after he had convinced his parents that he should go to Goddess Keep for more than just rudimentary training as a Sunrunner. Tobin had three rings betokening skills taught her by Sioned with Andrade’s approval, but she had never lived the whole cycle of training. Chay had been frankly opposed to the idea of his son’s education in such things; he had never been entirely comfortable with Tobin’s skills, though he valued the advantage they often gave him. But he was concerned that the powers of a faradhi added to those of an important lord would create enmity and suspicion. Sioned had helped Maarken convince Chay that his talents deserved nurturing to their fullest, and the following morning they had strolled the gardens while he tried to find words to express his relief and gratitude.
She sensed that he again needed her support, but waited for him to broach the subject himself. They stood watching his grandmother’s sparkling creation of playful water in the Desert, and at last he spoke.
“About Whitecliff,” he began, then sighed. “It’s not in hopes of finding a wife that I want it made ready. I’ve already found her.”
Sioned nodded slowly, following the dance of tiny crystal drops that plunged into the greater pond and sent out conflicting circles on impact, replaced every instant by another drop and then another. “She’s a Sunrunner.”
“How did you know?”
“If she were not, you would’ve told your parents you had someone specific in mind—perhaps even brought her to Radzyn, or asked that she be invited here for the summer. But because you have not done any of those things, you’re apprehensive about their approval—which points to her rings.”
He kicked at the white gravel around the fountain. “Then you know why I’m telling you this, and not them.”
“You think you need my help.” She faced him, put a hand on his arm. Her emerald caught possessively at the light, glinting its ownership of the sun. “You’ve done everything a young lord is supposed to, Maarken. Lleyn taught you your role as knight and athri, and you’ve been to other princedoms and holdings to see right and wrong ways of governing. But Andrade taught you how to be a faradhi, and that makes you different. I think you believe your choice of a Sunrunner as your wife will set you firmly on one side and not the other.”
Maarken bit his lip. “She and I decided that we’d both have to be fully trained before we could marry. Well, I’m wearing my sixth ring, and I’m still worrying like a dragon at a stag’s bone.”
They sat on the edge of the fountain, and Sioned kept her hand on his arm in comforting encouragement. He extended long legs, boot heels digging into the gravel, and stared at his knees.
“I thought I wanted to wait because at the Rialla they could meet her without prejudice, see what she’s like for themselves. But you’re right, Sioned. I don’t know which is going to be more powerful in my life, being Lord of Radzyn or being a Sunrunner. I don’t know how much they’ll influence each other or how to reconcile them. I always thought I’d serve my lands and my prince and myself better if I was both—but choosing a Sunrunner makes it seem like I’m more one thing than the other. And that brings Andrade into things where she doesn’t belong. Sioned, I can’t let her in, not to the part of me that will be Lord of Radzyn.”
“Maarken.” She waited until he met her gaze, then touched her own cheek where a small crescent scar curved near her eye. “I was burned by my own Fire because I put the needs of my prince and my princedom above all else, including my faradhi oaths. I believed more strongly in my own wisdom and my choices—destiny, if you will—than I did in being guided by Andrade. Don’t ask me what happened or how, because I can’t tell you that. But I used what I am to get what I believed was right.” The authority of a princess had gained her the loyal lies of her people about Pol’s true parentage, but Sunrunner’s Fire had destroyed Feruche and Ianthe’s corpse after Sioned had taken Rohan’s son. It was only through the grace of a friend that she had not actually murdered Pol’s mother with Fire, a thing utterly forbidden Sunrunners. But it would not have been the first time she had killed using her gifts. The faradhi in her writhed in shame, but the princess knew quite coldly that such things were necessary.
She held Maarken’s gray eyes with her own. “It’s a difficult choice to make, and a lonely one. But it teaches you something very important. Fear.”
“How to fear Andrade?”
“No. Your own powers. Maarken, you’re a strong man and you know your strength could kill. You’ve learned to be careful in practice combat for fear of hurting others. Being a Sunrunner is like that—even more so for one who is also a great lord. What you do will set the standard for Pol and Andry and Riyan. There’ll be more in the future. But you’re the first.”
“What about you? You’re Sunrunner and princess both.”
“I’m a half-breed of sorts. I wasn’t born royal, no matter what my family’s connections with Syr and Kierst. I was a faradhi before I was a princess, and that’s always influenced my choices. I sometime react one way as a Sunrunner and quite another as a ruler, and the two aren’t always compatible to my aims.”
“I think I understand,” he said slowly. “I know the kind of power I have as a warrior—and one day I’ll be Pol’s field commander with an army behind me. I also know my influence as my father’s son, and how careful I’ll have to be with that power.” He held out his hands so the rings caught the sunlight. “These are another kind of power. And it might conflict with the other. But you made your choice, Sioned. The only ring you wear is Rohan’s.”
“The others are still there, like scars,” she murmured. Then, more calmly, she went on, “I’m willing to bet your Chosen appeals to everything you are, Maarken. She matches you in gifts, but she’ll also make a fine Lady of Radzyn. Doesn’t that show you’ve already woven the two kinds of power together, whether you realize it or not? What you did at the Faolain years ago proved it.”
She saw the memory in his eyes. At barely twelve winters old, he had recognized the military necessity of destroying bridges across the Faolain River, and used his Sunrunner gifts to do it. Fire-bearing arrows would have been risky, for Roelstra’s troops might have swarmed onto the bridges to put them
out and might have died. But Maarken’s Fire had frightened them into doing nothing. No one had died. Rohan had told Sioned about it, marveling at the boy’s mature decision that had combined duty to his prince and faradhi ethics: it was for this act that Rohan had given Maarken his first ring.
“I’m glad you’re to be the first,” Sioned told him. “Rohan knows the ways of princes, and I know those of Sunrunners. But you’re both. Pol could have no finer example than you.” Pausing for a moment, she waited until he again looked at her, and smiled. “Because of that, you don’t really need any help when it comes to this lady. You have it, of course. But you won’t need it.”
“Maybe not—but I’ll be glad to know you’re there, just the same.”
“You mustn’t tell me her name yet, you know,” she continued in a lighter tone. “I want to see if I can pick her out from among Andrade’s suite. And I’ll wager you whatever jewels she fancies for your wedding necklet that I can pick her out!”
Maarken smiled at last. “Sioned! You don’t need to provide a dowry!”
“Who said anything about her dowry? Haven’t I the right to see my nephew in something magnificent at his marriage? If I lose, then you can have that tapestry you’ve always liked. I always thought it would be most properly displayed in a bedchamber.”
He blushed, then gave up and laughed with her. “All right, done! I win either way—and don’t think I don’t know you planned it like that!”
“There’s something about a Rialla that makes me want to wager. Did I ever tell you that I bet one of Roelstra’s daughters she’d never catch Rohan? This emerald against all the silver she had on—and she was clanking like a wind chime.”
“I know you—you only bet when you’re sure of winning. You’d never have risked that ring otherwise.”
“How very perceptive of you, my lord.” A smug grin on her face, she rose and brushed the dark, sun-warmed hair from his forehead. “It’s getting too hot out here. Can you imagine what summers are like at Remagev? Walvis and Feylin will be here in a few days with the children to escape the heat.”
“Remagev always reminds me of a dragon sleeping in the sand. Do you think I could ride out to see it and come back with them? I hear Walvis has worked miracles with the old place the last few years.”
“You’d hardly recognize it. I—” she broke off as the air around them shimmered with color, patterns of light she could touch with her thoughts. She gripped Maarken’s arm with both hands, seeing that he was as caught as she by the woven rays of sunlight that thickened urgently as a faradhi voice spun down the threads with a brief, frightening message, crying out for help.
It had not taken Meath long to find out that pleasure rides through the hills on Dorval were no proper training for the long journey to Goddess Keep. Each time he began to think that perhaps the misery of a sea voyage would have been preferable to the mutiny of every muscle in his body, he forced himself to think of yesterday’s crossing of the Pyrme River in a tiny, leaky raft. He had been given scant time for recovery; when Lord Chaynal told his people to be somewhere quickly, they obeyed. Meath reminded himself that at least there had been a bridge over the Faolain River and fresh horses at one of Prince Davvi’s holdings, but he was too exhausted to appreciate the fine animal under him. They were out of Syr now, riding the open pastureland between the Pyrme and Kadar Rivers, and as the afternoon wore on Meath began to wonder with a hint of desperation if his escort would ever call a rest stop. A broad-shouldered man of about thirty winters and a slightly older woman, they seemed tireless. Meath had to admit they’d made excellent time, though he suspected that by tomorrow they would have to strap him to his saddle to keep him in it.
Revia rode ahead of him, her companion Jal just behind him. Their swords and bows were augmented by his Sunrunner status that completed their armament. His rings had commandeered the raft ahead of several other passengers, and at manors and villages along the way a glimpse of them had brought swift service. Lady Andrade was known, respected, and generally feared throughout the princedoms, and assisting one of her faradh’im was good politics as well as good manners.
When the first two riders appeared over the low northern hills, Meath felt only vague curiosity. The addition of a third, fourth, and fifth did not concern him. But when they chose an intercepting path and he saw the glint of unsheathed steel, he tensed in every aching muscle. The sluggishness of his body’s responses warned him he would be slow until battle warmed him, for nothing other than battle was indicated by those drawn swords.
The bow came off Revia’s shoulder. She looped her reins around the saddle horn, guiding her mount with knees and heels while she drew her first arrow. The five riders increased their pace and Meath tried to guess when they would be within range of that long, deadly bow. Hitting moving targets from a moving horse would be difficult for even the best archer. But Lord Chaynal had promised him the best—and Meath gasped aloud as Revia’s second arrow was nocked and drawn before the first had even found its target. The red-and-white fletching sprang up like an exotic flower against the green grass just ahead of the galloping horses; a warning only. If they did not turn aside, the next shot would be in earnest.
Jal came up beside him, bow at the ready, saying, “Go on, my lord, ride ahead to those trees. We’ll take them down if necessary, then join you.”
When the lead horse neatly sidestepped the first arrow and the riders kept coming, Revia let fly. Jal kept perfect time with her, shooting as she withdrew another arrow, taking another one himself as she shot.
Meath’s primary urge was to stay and fight alongside his escort. But the scrolls he carried were too important. He was about to follow Jal’s suggestion when another ten riders crested the hill, sun shining on naked swords.
“Quickly, my lord! The trees!” Jal shouted.
“Or Lord Chaynal will have us scrubbing the middens for life,” Revia added calmly, never losing rhythm with her bow.
Rather than obey, Meath reined in so hard that his horse reared back on its haunches. He tied his reins as Revia and Jal had done, freeing his hands. But he did not take up his sword. Instead he lifted both palms so his rings caught the sunlight. He did not do it to warn the attackers that they violated the law by approaching a Sunrunner with swords drawn, for they were clearly intent on assault, laws or no. He instead gathered in skeins of sunlight and sent an urgent message flashing toward Goddess Keep.
The Radzyn soldiers placed their horses ahead of his, protecting him. Meath was dimly aware that one man had fallen and two more had wounds, and the fourth man’s horse shrieked with the pain of an arrow in its neck. But distance had softened the impact of the arrows, and the others kept riding.
Meath raced down the weave of sunlight to the western coast. A chill gray fog stopped him. He cursed the spring weather that shrouded the keep in unpenetrable mist. Instantly he returned and cast the skeins in the other direction, east and north toward Stronghold. Sioned’s emerald and sapphire and onyx and amber were long familiar to him; he wove light around the pattern of her colors and touched them. Briefly he communicated his location, the danger, and that what he carried must not fall into the wrong hands.
Without waiting for any answer, he pulled away from her and kicked his horse forward until he was beside Revia. Then he lifted his hands again. He could call down Fire if he had to, but Fire might kill—or blaze through the grasses if his control was not fine enough. He had no desire to leave behind a conflagration as token of a Sunrunner’s passage.
So he summoned Air. The dust of the fields rose up behind the first group of enemy riders, gathered loose grass and tiny pebbles, swirled into a whirlwind the size of a small dragon. Through its thickness he saw horses rearing in terror and men trying to regain control.
Jal gave a startled curse. Revia kept shooting arrows, but with a grin on her face now that her targets were nearer and she need not worry about the second wave. One man went down screaming, an arrow through his cheek. But another, infuriated
, dug his heels into his stallion and hurtled forward, ignoring the shaft Jal placed in his thigh. He raised and let fly a knife.
Meath grunted with the impact in his shoulder. He lost control of his whirlwind, the shock of the wound devastating. But that should not have been, he told himself fuzzily; it was only a throwing knife stuck in his shoulder, not through his lung or heart. He fumbled for the haft, drew the steel knife from his flesh with agonizing effort. It seemed to him that he toppled very slowly, his bones water. Countless colors shattered all around him; the hues of trees, flowers, meadow, and sky becoming as stained Fironese crystal, losing depth, paintings on glass that splintered with a terrible sound and crashed into jagged shards. He fell onto them, soft blades of spring grass now blades of colored crystal. And then all the colors were gone.
Sioned gasped with the force of Meath’s weaving, and again when he abruptly vanished. “Maarken! Help me find him! Quickly!”
He followed her down the paths of plaited sunlight, seeking the familiar pattern that was Meath. But he had not Sioned’s skills, and so found only the colors, not sight of Meath himself; Sioned saw; Meath conjuring Air, Meath felled by the slick, glittering knife. She saw her friend go down and a sound left her throat that was half sob, half snarl.
The enemy riders regrouped as the whirlwind spluttered to nothingness. They thundered down on the two Radzyn guards and the Sunrunner lying prone in the grass. Sioned knew they would be slaughtered. She did not make the choice consciously; she did what was necessary. With the ruthlessness of need she grasped every mind with faradhi potential she could find nearby. Twirling all the colors together, light bright threads of silk in the hands of a master weaver, she spun the sunlight as she had once spun the glow of the stars, and directed its brilliance to the road immediately in front of the assassins.