by Melanie Rawn
“I’m so glad I can be of help to you, Kiele. It’ll be such fun! But tell me, what have you heard about this person who claims to be our brother?”
Unprepared for the question, Kiele hoped her sudden confusion would be taken as inability to express her outrage at so presumptuous a claim. Lyell filled the breach, and for one of the few times in her marriage Kiele thanked the Goddess for the existence of her husband.
“It’s annoying, of course,” he said. “But none of our concern.”
“They say he’ll appear at the Rialla to claim Princemarch. Could he do that, Lyell?”
He patted her arm. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it.”
But Chiana would, and Kiele knew it. She smiled.
Prince Clutha had spent his youth and middle age worrying about whether or not his beloved Meadowlord would be the battleground for the Desert and Princemarch. Mountains separated the two princedoms all along their mutual border, but Clutha’s broad, gently rolling lands lay smack in the middle between the two; his sire and grandsire had both seen warring armies rage across the wheat fields, leaving burned crops and destroyed villages in their wake. Clutha had never much cared which came out on top, so long as the struggle did not take place on his territory. He had worked assiduously for years to keep first Roelstra and Zehava and then Roelstra and Rohan from coming to blows. But for the fourteen years of Rohan’s rule as High Prince and the union of the two lands, his worries on that score had vanished.
No longer concerned about his princedom’s safety from without, he had turned his mind to its interior security. Of all his athr’im, none had so much potential for both power and mischief as Lyell of Waes. Not that the man was particularly clever, or capable on his own of doing more than running his city with competence; it was Kiele, Roelstra’s daughter, who worried Clutha. Lyell was tied to the Desert through his sister’s marriage to Lord Eltanin of Tiglath. She and their elder son had died of Plague, but the younger, Tallain, survived as the heir. Clutha had countenanced Lyell’s wedding to Roelstra’s daughter because it would neatly balance the Desert commitment. He had not counted on the young lord’s abandoning the Desert to throw in wholeheartedly with Roelstra in his war against Rohan. Ever since then, Clutha had kept a close eye on the rulers of Waes.
Thus it was that he had left his squire behind after his visit that spring. The youth was not a welcome guest in the residence, but neither Kiele nor Lyell could refuse when their prince offered them his services. Clutha went home to Swalekeep well contented, for this squire was more than just a squire.
Riyan was the only son of Lord Ostvel of Skybowl—and a Sunrunner. At the age of twelve he had gone to Swalekeep for training as a knight, staying for two years before journeying to Goddess Keep to learn the faradhi arts. Last summer, at nineteen, Riyan had come back to Meadowlord to prepare for his knighting this year at the Rialla; though he had been in effect Lord Urival’s squire at Goddess Keep, only a knight could make a knight, and Urival was not. So Clutha would be the one to give him the accolade and a new sword, at which point he would return to Lady Andrade for further education as a Sunrunner.
It was a different plan from the one that had earned Lord Maarken his knighthood and his rings. Training young lords who were also faradh’im was a new proposition, and Andrade was frankly experimenting with the best manner of accomplishing it. Soon it would be decided how Prince Pol would be trained. Would he continue at Graypearl with Lleyn and Chadric, or curtail his pursuit of knighthood as Riyan had done in favor of earlier faradhi education than Maarken had had? It was yet to be decided.
Riyan knew very well that he was an experiment, and did not mind in the least. He enjoyed both aspects of his training equally and anticipated being the Sunrunner Lord of Skybowl without the slightest qualm. The difficulties that worried Maarken were things Riyan shrugged off. He understood the older lord’s problem, but did not share it. In the first place, the power he would have as athri of Skybowl was much less than Maarken’s as Lord of Radzyn. True, he would have jurisdiction over the gold caves, but others would see to the politics of the Desert and Princemarch. He also felt easier about his faradhi status than Maarken. Ostvel never expressed reservations about it the way Lord Chaynal sometimes did. Riyan didn’t blame Chay; people who had never lived among Sunrunners often looked on them somewhat askance. But his own father had spent his childhood and youth at Goddess Keep; Ostvel understood faradh’im.
Riyan’s orientation was service to his prince, not rule on his own. Maarken would have to preside over Radzyn’s vast independent holdings, help Pol govern, decide great questions of state, lead armies if necessary. None of that was in Riyan’s future. His mother, Camigwen, had been chatelaine of Stronghold, but she had also been Sioned’s dearest friend, sister rather than servant. Ostvel held Skybowl for Rohan, not for himself. Rohan had attempted to give him the same arrangement that he had with the most powerful of his vassals: outright ownership of the land. But Ostvel had refused. Skybowl belonged to Rohan. Ostvel oversaw it and served his prince well and faithfully. When it came his turn, Riyan would do the same—both as athri and Sunrunner.
These weighty matters were not on his mind, however, as he lounged in his chamber at the Waes residence that night. He was thinking quite prosaically about the chances of getting to know a certain merchant’s daughter a little better. The girl and her father had been his escort around Waes his first few days here as he got to know the port city. Jayachin was possessed of blue-black hair, eyes so blue they were nearly purple, and a skin like moonlight. Riyan had a deep and profound appreciation of the opposite sex, especially its members who laughed at his jokes and resisted his advances up to a point. Her father had made certain he had gotten nowhere near that point yet, but Riyan was aware that the merchant was not insensible to the honor of having his daughter courted by the heir of Skybowl, friend to Prince Pol himself.
Riyan intended asking Jayachin tomorrow if she’d care to ride out with him for a day in the countryside. The weather for the past days had been brisk, with a strong wind off the bay savaging the new flowers in the garden to the despair of the groundskeepers. But tomorrow might be gentler. He rose from his bed and went over to the windows, parting the green silk curtains to take a look at the sky.
Recognizing the cloak-wrapped figure down below was easy; Kiele always wore a large gold ring set with diamonds on her right hand, and the thing grabbed even the faintest light. Riyan’s brows shot up as she slid into the shadow of a tree. Why hide? he thought. He shrugged, let the curtain drop, and went back to the bed.
Sprawling across the coverlet, he tried to think about Jayachin. But the sight of Kiele tonight combined with his observations since Clutha’s departure fit no pattern. Kiele’s volume of private letters, some to her half sister Moswen at Swalekeep, some to a woman in Einar, was of interest. She sometimes disappeared all day into the city, saying afterward that she had been shopping—but she never came home with any packages. Once or twice he had followed her out of idle curiosity and discovered that she was remarkably adept at slipping into back streets, where he lost her. And, most puzzling of all, she had invited Chiana here to Waes for the summer.
Everybody knew how much Kiele hated her youngest sibling. Chiana’s arrival tonight had been Riyan’s cue to vanish upstairs. He knew he ought to have stayed and watched Kiele with her, but Chiana set his teeth on edge. She was beautiful, no doubt about that, and he supposed she could be charming when and if it suited her. But seeing her fawn all over Lyell had been a trifle too stomach-curdling for Riyan’s taste that night.
Finally he admitted that Kiele’s nocturnal stroll in the gardens bewildered him enough to make him haul on his boots and go downstairs. He had more or less learned the eccentric plan of the residence, and only took the wrong corridor one time out of five on average. Tonight he was accurate, and slipped out into the night.
He went to the place where she had stood, then retraced the steps she must have taken. The groundskeepers were in
the process of replacing the white gravel along all the pathways; Riyan was in luck, for the bare dirt had been raked that afternoon. He called up a finger of Fire to give him light enough to see by, and followed her steps. They led directly to the back gate. His brows arched again at that; so it was not an evening meander in the gardens she had been about, but a return from elsewhere in the city. The gate was not fully closed. He opened it, wincing as hinges squeaked softly, and stood in the alley for a few moments, wondering which way she had come and gone. Perhaps this was something Andrade should know about.
Riyan paused, turning his face up to the moons chased by the wind across the sky. He clenched both hands loosely, feeling the four rings that marked him as an apprentice Sunrunner. He could do it on his own, though his technique sometimes left a little to be desired. But these were moons above him now, not the strong and steady light of the sun. The principle was the same; he wondered if he dared it, then smiled.
He closed his eyes, the better to feel the delicate strands of moonlight in his thoughts. With his mind he wove them together, tested them, and was pleased by their easy suppleness and strength. This was simpler than he’d been led to believe.
He threaded his own colors of garnet and pearl and carnelian into the plaited moonlight. They took on a new luster, shimmering subtly as he cast the weaving across dark land and star-sparkled water. Following the shining pathway, he caught his breath at the beauty down below him and nearly forgot to stop at Goddess Keep.
Someone he did not know was on duty tonight in the beautiful chamber with three glass walls where at least one Sunrunner always sat, waiting for any messages that might come on the light. The windows here were kept open except in a downpour, when cloud cover prohibited faradhi communication anyway. Riyan practically danced through one window and brushed against the unknown Sunrunner’s colors.
Goddess blessing! he greeted cheerfully. Riyan of Skybowl, with word for Lady Andrade.
The person’s startlement was almost funny. After a hasty greeting in return there was an apology and a promise to go find the Lady. Riyan hovered in the room, waiting, imagining what must be going on. The duty Sunrunner would be shouting all over the keep; Andrade would demand to know what in the name of all hells was going on. It would take her some time to climb the stairs from her chambers to the room of glass—
In far less time than he imagined, there was a powerful presence on the moonlight that captured his weaving and threaded it through with veritable ropes made of moonlight. What do you think you’re up to, you young idiot?
I’m sorry, my Lady, but I thought—
You thought wrong! Can’t you feel that the strands are too frail to get you back safely to Waes? And what are you doing in Waes, anyway? Why wasn’t I informed?
Prince Clutha left me here to watch Lady Kiele and Lord Lyell. And there’s been quite a lot to watch. Chiana’s here, for one thing.
Andrade’s brilliant colors flared painfully and Riyan winced. All right, tell me the whole of it.
He did so, sensing her astonishment and her suspicions. When he was finished, he heard something like a hissing intake of breath, and wondered if it was only his past experience of her that made him imagine it. You did the right thing by telling me, she admitted. Keep watching Kiele when you can—and Chiana, too. But by the Goddess, the next time you’ll wait for sunlight or I’ll skin you alive and nail your hide to the refectory wall as a caution to all the other young fools who think they know everything!
Yes, my Lady, he replied meekly.
Do you understand me, Riyan? If you’d tried to return, the moonlight would have unraveled like a rotted blanket—and you would have been shadow-lost. Those four rings of yours do not allow you to attempt Moonrunning! Now, let’s get you back where you started, shall we?
The moonlight was like a gigantic bolt of silk flung from Goddess Keep to Waes. He slid along it pell-mell, breathless at the speed and the whirl of colors around him. Back in the alley outside the garden again, he watched with his mind as Andrade effortlessly disentangled him from the weave and vanished back along her silken moonlight.
It took him a few moments to recover. But it took him no time at all to promise himself that he would not try that again until he had been properly instructed. The moons might be nearer than the sun, but the light they gave off was thinner, more delicate. He didn’t want to think about what might have happened if he’d tried to come back on his own.
Andrade had not left her chambers, merely woven the moonlight from her windows. On returning she glanced at Urival and Andry, who had joined her after the evening meal to discuss the scrolls again. “It seems interesting things are happening,” she said, and told them the gist of her conversation with Riyan.
Urival nodded slowly. “ ‘Interesting’ is the right word for now. I only hope these things don’t become ‘fascinating.’ ”
“Or worse,” Andry murmured.
Andrade grimaced her appreciation of their remarks. “Well, I don’t want to give Riyan too much to worry about. I’ll send somebody else to Waes.”
“Who?” Andry asked eagerly.
“Never you mind.” She eyed him sternly. “You’re another one just like him, wanting to know everything, thinking you know it all at your age! Four or five rings, and you believe you understand the universe! Bah!”
Andry stiffened, then bent his head. “Yes, my Lady.”
“I’ve had enough for the night. Leave me.”
When he was gone, Urival replaced the scrolls in their cases and went to the door, where he paused and said, “I understand that he needs reprimanding every so often. But not too often, or he’ll resent you—and be ungovernable.”
“You think he’s governable now? Did you hear him lecturing us tonight about the scrolls, Lady Merisel, and Sunrunner history he’s the first in hundreds of years to know? If he didn’t have such a damned talent for translating, I’d take them from him and let somebody else do it. But he’s got a quick mind and the will to learn.”
“As mind-hungry as Sioned always was, but without Sioned’s humility.”
“When was that girl ever humble? She and Rohan both have defied me since the day they were wed! She hasn’t worn her faradhi rings in years! Just that bloody great emerald. Humble?” She laughed bitterly.
“You’re in a foul temper tonight.”
“I know.” She gestured an apology with one hand, rings and bracelet gleaming in the firelight. “What Sioned has is a healthy fear of the power knowledge can give her. Andry’s not afraid of anything. Except, for now, me. But not for much longer.”
“Andrade—he’s like her in that he can be led by love. Not fear.”
“I’ve given him no cause to love me. I never meant to—not with any of them. I don’t want them to adore me. It’s not necessary.”
“If you want them to do your fighting and your work for you—”
“Leave off, Urival!”
“As you wish, my Lady,” he said in a voice heavy with disapproval.
Andrade heard the door shut and resisted the urge to throw something. She was too old for this nonsense, too old to be juggling the actions and motives and feelings of so many people. In her youth she had relished power; by middle age she had exercised it with consummate skill. But now she was tired of it. Tired of the responsibility and the scheming and keeping one eye on everyone to make sure they stayed in line.
But more than her weariness, she was frightened. Andry would not stay in line. He would do with the scrolls what she was scared to do: use them.
Chapter Twelve
It was virtually impossible for the High Prince to travel incognito, but Rohan gave it a good try on the journey through Princemarch. No dragon banner announced the identity of the eight riders; no royal badges appeared on the guards’ tunics, which were plain and unmatched; no expensive trappings decorated the horses; and no farmer or innkeeper with whom they stayed went without payment, though it was every prince’s right to demand free meals and lodgi
ng when traveling through his realm.
But though Rohan did not advertise his presence, neither did he deny his identity when people addressed him with royal titles. News of his travels seemed to spread more quickly than faradhi messages on sunlight; Andrade would envy the silent efficiency of these people. For his own part, he appreciated their general lack of ceremony. He hated fuss, suspicious practically from birth of those who made a great show in his presence, for show was usually designed to cover substance people did not wish seen. These folk, however, were casual and cordial in their welcome, with nothing to hide from their prince. Rohan viewed this as a tribute to their good sense and Pandsala’s good governance on Pol’s behalf. Had she been a bad ruler, they would have hated everything to do with him, while trying to hide it with false good cheer.
Accommodations varied. Some nights they stayed in neat chambers at an inn; occasionally they unrolled blankets in a barn; quite often they spent the night in the open beneath the stars when evening found them still on the road. Food ranged from tavern fare to farmhouse stews to their packed provisions and whatever half-a-day’s hunt could provide.
They rode wherever curiosity took them, investigating local landmarks, seeking deep into remote valleys, riding measures out of their way to visit famous sites recommended by their hosts. There were impromptu races across flower-strewn meadows and excursions into the hills for baths in ice-cold waterfalls. All these side trips were watched over by four guards who, while joining in the spirit of fun, remained on constant alert.
The four were commanded by Maeta, whose presence had not been planned. She merely showed up their third day out, as casually as if the encounter was an accidental one during an afternoon ride. Her explanation that she had always wanted to see the sights fooled no one; they all knew that she had been sent by her formidable mother as an extra guard for Pol. Rohan did not send Maeta back to Stronghold, for not even he felt equal to facing Myrdal’s wrath; the old woman was probably Pol’s kinswoman, but she was certainly the only grandmother he would ever know, and Rohan respected that special relationship almost as much as he respected Myrdal’s temper.