by Melanie Rawn
Kleve slid up to a window, hoping Riyan would do exactly as told. Bother the boy, anyhow—and bother Andrade, for setting Riyan to do what Kleve was perfectly capable of doing all on his own. Still, he had to admit that the young man’s presence had been useful tonight. He would never have found Kiele if not for Riyan.
He moved around the side of the house, trying to find a partially open window that would allow him to hear what was being said inside—and nearly got hit in the face by a window suddenly flung wide. He flattened himself against the wall, clamping his teeth shut over an exclamation of surprise, and froze until the curtains dropped again to guard the light inside.
“It’s an oven in here, damn it! Hotter than the Desert in high summer!” a man’s voice grated. “If I have to try these damned clothes on, then at least save yourself the trouble of washing my sweat from them afterward!”
“You have absolutely no sense of caution! I’m sure I wasn’t followed, but if you think we’re safe, then think again!”
“Shut up, Kiele!”
“How dare you give me orders! And whatever possessed you to come into the city today? Of all the stupid, foolish things—!”
“I was bored! You’ve kept me out here for longer than I can remember! And no harm came of it—who’d recognize me?”
“Someone recognizing you is exactly the point!”
“If my former jailer hadn’t been out drinking, no one would have been the wiser. But no, he had to be half-drunk and, of course, he had to run to you and tattle!”
There was the sound of something, a chair perhaps, crashing to the floor. Kiele gave a little cry and then a curse, and the man laughed.
“Calm yourself. You came here to lecture me, and I’m not interested. Let’s get on with the clothing, shall we?”
“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say—or you’ll ruin us all, Masul!”
When he spoke again, his voice was savage. “I’m sick of being caged, and I’m sick of you telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, and most especially I’m sick of your doubts! When are you going to admit that I am who I say I am, sister darling?”
Kleve dug his fingers into the weathered wood of the house as his knees wobbled with sudden shock.
“Try on the tunic,” Kiele said with the inexorable ice of a mountain glacier.
Kleve shifted so he could peer through the tiny gap in the black curtains. His muscles creaked a protest at the awkward stance necessary to avoid rustling a flowering bush, but his reward was a view of Masul’s head poking through the neck of an elegant dark violet velvet tunic.
Once, a very long time ago, Kleve had traveled to Einar on Andrade’s business. Midjourney, he had nearly been trampled on the road by a group of highborns out for a day’s hunting. No apology had been offered; indeed, their young leader had told him to get his filthy Sunrunner carcass out of the way or regret it. Laughing, they had ridden on. It had been Kleve’s distinct pleasure to follow them in secret and scare off a prime stag by calling up a judicious gust of wind across its hindquarters. He’d amused Andrade with the story on his return to Goddess Keep. Her satisfaction had been all the greater when he had conjured the leader’s face in the fire. She had identified him instantly.
The face he saw now—green-eyed, high-boned, sensuous, sullenly handsome—would be, without the beard, nearly the living image of that arrogant youth, High Prince Roelstra.
He slid down the wall to the grassy ground, stunned. So the rumors were true, and his suspicions justified. The pretender existed and Kiele was sheltering him. She had probably coached him in her father’s mannerisms and the like, rehearsing him for an appearance at the Rialla. And Chiana was at the residence in Waes—Kleve understood that very well. Kiele’s delight in Chiana’s humiliation would be the final spice in the taze. The Father of Storms himself could not have created the uproar this Masul would cause, with Kiele’s help.
He could still hear voices from within the house, but paid them little mind. Masul was trying on clothes, half a dozen garments designed to make him look as regal and as much like Roelstra as possible. Kleve leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing both faces to mind again. The resemblance was there, no doubt of it. But was he truly Roelstra’s son? And if so, what then? Had he a right to his father’s princedom? Strictly speaking, Kleve supposed he did. But Rohan had defeated Roelstra years ago and claimed Princemarch by all the rules of war. And none of that would matter, for even if Masul was not who he claimed to be, many of the princes would choose to believe—if only to make trouble for Rohan.
Political complexities were beyond him, Kleve told himself. He would convey this staggering news to Andrade and she would make the decisions. She was very good at that. He pushed himself to his feet, bones aching a little with the dampness of yesterday’s rain. He needed quiet, seclusion, and moonlight. He crept away from the house, not needing to see or hear anything more, heading for the trees where he’d left Riyan.
Something warned him, some muted whisper at the edge of his perceptions, half an instant before he heard the voice.
“So you were right after all, Kiele. We were being watched.”
A long, hard hand circled Kleve’s wrist, fingers that dug all the way to the bones. The Sunrunner wrenched away and cursed, lunging for the mare tethered nearby. Masul only laughed as Kleve grabbed the reins, fit his boot into a stirrup, and lurched up. The fist that slammed into his lower back made him spasm with pain. He lost his balance and sprawled to the ground.
“I told you I heard something!” Kiele cried, her voice thin and shrill. “Masul, what are we going to do with him?”
“First, we’ll find out what he knows.”
Kleve knew what would happen after that. He struggled to his feet, hanging onto the saddle for support, and lifted one hand. “You’ll answer to Lady Andrade! I’m faradhi!”
Into the darkness he spun a flaring weave of Fire, called up in desperation—for by its light he saw his own death in Masul’s green eyes. The young man was laughing at him, a deep and mellow laugh that congealed his blood.
“I’ve always wanted to meet one.”
Kleve fought a small, incoherent war with his lifelong vow not to kill using his gifts. Self-preservation and the need to get this information to Andrade battled against his training, his ideals, his vocation, and his morals. He turned his face to the moonlight, staggering back against the horse’s flank as Masul kneed him in the groin. The Fire guttered out, and instinct spun other threads with frantic speed. Power flushed through him with dizzying strength in his need as he completed the weaving. The iron grip twisted his arm. He fell to his knees, tangled in moonlight. Sorting threads with frantic bursts of power, he struggled against Masul’s physical hold and made a mighty effort to pattern the moonlight into fabric that would reach to Goddess Keep.
There was an icy chill at the base of his left little finger, quickly replaced by a searing pain.
“Finger by finger,” Masul said.
In his youth, when he’d delighted in invigorating battle with mountain raiders who respected profits more than Sunrunners, he’d known his share of wounds by knife and sword. But when Masul’s steel blade slashed off his finger, he felt as if his entire body had been cut open, every nerve severed. Threads of moonlight turned to spun silver glass around him and shattered. The shards lacerated his mind. He screamed, the sound becoming colors that were additional knives in his head, in his flesh. The thumb was carved from his right hand and he screamed again.
“Don’t kill him! We have to find out what he knows and if he’s told Andrade!”
“It’s only two fingers. He won’t die of it. What a coward he is—just listen to him yelling!”
Kleve was incapable of fighting the appalling agony that butchered him from inside out. Another finger dropped into the blood-washed dirt. He died before they could ask their first question: died not from loss of blood or physical shock, but from the steel that repeatedly pierced him while
he tried to use his faradhi gifts.
Segev heard voices in the library just as he located the Star Scroll on the shelf. He froze, fingers extended, nearly touching his prize. A flicker of his mind darkened the tiny flame he had conjured to see by. He told himself to wait it out, stay calm, remember how close he was to success. Whoever had entered would soon be gone. He had waited earlier behind a row of shelves for Andry to leave, and he could wait again.
But it was Andry’s voice he heard. “If you think Wilmod’s essays are boring, you should try Dorin’s. At least Wilmod knows how to construct an argument. Dorin’s just plain awful at everything!”
They were down the room from the small chamber where the scrolls were locked away with other important records. Segev rapidly reviewed the layout and breathed a sigh of relief as he recalled that the books Andry talked about were on the other side of the library. But then he tensed again when recognition of the second voice destroyed all his plans.
“I was thinking along the lines of farming manuals as a soporific,” Hollis said teasingly.
Segev heard their footsteps fade down the long row of shelves and moved quickly. He had touched nothing but the lock on the door, so there was nothing to put back as it had been. He let his fingers brush longingly against the leather case containing the Star Scroll, then went to the door. He slid through and the lock worked with a faint click. Pocketing the key, he cursed Andry for ruining it all. Hollis, obedient to a suggestion he had made tonight while serving her dranath-laced taze, had gone to the stables as planned to saddle a horse for his swift, unnoticed departure. But Segev dared not chance now that the mount had been left for him.
He used the shadows to conceal his progress toward the main door, but froze again as he heard them coming back in his direction. There was an alcove nearby with a study table and a chair. Segev sat, opened a book left there, and put his head down on his folded arms.
“Oh, Andry—look,” Hollis said softly from nearby. “I didn’t see him earlier. Poor boy!”
“He certainly is devoted to his studies,” Andry whispered. “Should we wake him?”
“He’ll have a terribly stiff neck tomorrow if we don’t.”
A gentle hand touched his head and despite himself a shiver of excitement went through him. He had never forgotten that night with her and doubted he ever would. He used the startlement to mime abrupt awakening from sleep, and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Morwenna—I forgot the answer—oh!” He blinked and sat up. Hollis wore a fond, amused smile, and Andry was grinning over a scroll clasped to his chest. “What happened? Did I fall asleep?”
“Yes, and quite some time ago, I’d wager.” Hollis ruffled his hair. “Come up to bed, Sejast.”
He gave the perfect impression of being fuzzy-headed with too little sleep as he got up and yawned. Andry’s sharp gaze had gone to the open book on the table, and his brows lifted exactly the way Andrade’s did.
“Magnowa’s treatises? That’s pretty advanced stuff.”
Segev was thankful that he actually knew about the book, and managed a bashful shrug. “Some of the words are hard, but it’s interesting.”
“A good deal of it is closely related to the old language,” Andry observed. “Are you having much trouble?”
“Some, my lord, but it gets easier.” Boldly he added, “I guess it must be the same way with the scrolls.”
Hollis answered Andry’s astonishment with, “He comes from the mountains. The dialects there are closer to the old tongue than what we speak. He’s interested in history and has helped me several times.”
The young Sunrunner nodded slowly. “Maybe you’d like to give me some advice on a few translations.
Segev nearly yelped in delight. “Could I, my lord?”
“The histories are tough going in parts, and there are a lot of words I can’t figure out. I’d appreciate the help.”
“Oh, thank you! I’d love to work with you and Lady Hollis—” He cast a look of calculated adoration at the golden-haired Sunrunner, who smiled back at him, her dark blue eyes alight.
Andry’s lips twitched at the corners, for he had seen precisely what Segev wished him to see: a boy infatuated with an older woman. “I’ll talk to Lady Andrade about it tomorrow. Meantime, I think we all ought to go back upstairs, don’t you?”
Having impressed Andry with his admiration for Hollis, it was an easy matter to include himself in escorting her back to her chamber. He pretended to be drawn to the view of the sea from her windows, and on the way back to the door dropped the key soundlessly into the little silver bowl on her desk where he’d found it. He lingered as long as he could in telling her good night, then returned to his own small, windowless room.
Reaction set in after he had closed the door. He sat down on his bed, the chamber lit by the glow of the brazier—necessary for light but also for keeping some of the damp from the walls, even in summer. Bemused, he held out both hands and watched the fingers tremble. He had nearly been caught tonight. He didn’t want to think about what Andrade would have done to him had she discovered his true identity and purpose here, let alone what he’d done to Hollis by addicting her to dranath.
But he had not been caught. True, the Star Scroll was not in his possession, and he was not galloping north to Mireva. But something even better had happened, if Andry followed through with his notion of having “Sejast” help with the scrolls. He could work his way to free access to them, and learn more than Mireva had ever guessed—certainly more than she would ever teach him of that dangerous knowledge. Ruval was the one she’d chosen to educate in the finer points of the craft; Ruval, whose only recommendation was that he was Ianthe’s firstborn son.
Her thirdborn sat hugging his knees and grinning. He was glad he’d been unable to steal the scrolls, glad he would be staying here. If he played his part correctly, he would learn what the Star Scroll could offer along with all the faradhi secrets being taught him daily. He might even be taken to the Rialla as part of Andrade’s suite. Hollis liked him, could not do without him. She would ask Andrade for permission to bring him along.
Why wait? Once there, he would challenge the High Prince himself.
Rivan flattened his back to a tree as Kiele galloped past on her mare. He’d heard the screams, faint but clear in the night stillness, and had barely slid into the woods in time to avoid her as he ran back to the manor house.
By the time he arrived, the place was silent and deserted. Riyan watched for some time from shelter, tremors shooting through him, before he finally approached the dwelling. The door was unlocked. He entered cautiously to find the interior empty. There were signs of habitation—and also of hurried leavetaking.
Outside again, circling the house for a clue as to what had happened there, he found nothing. Dirt and grass had been scuffed along one wall, but that could have been the work of the mare. Of Kleve there was no sign at all.
Riyan inspected the house once more in growing perplexity. He discovered food, used crockery, a rumpled bed, and a few clothes that would fit a tall, athletic man. Returning outside, he glanced up at the moons, tempted to use their light to cast about over the countryside for Kleve. Memory of Andrade’s warning dissuaded him—that, and Kleve’s promise to meet him tomorrow at the goldcrafter’s. Riyan looked down at his four rings with a sense of betrayal. Knowledge enough to weave the sunlight, but not the moons he needed so much right now.
He returned to the residence, slipping into his chamber as dawn first touched the sky. Despite his unease, he slept soundly for several hours and was up in good time to keep the appointment at the goldcrafter’s. But Kleve did not.
Part Two
Sorcery
Chapter Fifteen
Sioned crouched atop a knoll in the tall summer grass, a breeze off Brochwell Bay ruffling her loosened hair. The sunlight came from behind her, making her an unidentifiable shadow—a trick her Desert-bred husband had taught her—as she watched the activity in the encampment below, where nearly ninety tents forme
d eleven neat little enclaves of color. Each group followed roughly the same pattern: the prince’s large pavilion in the center surrounded by smaller tents for vassals, aides, and servants. Her own pavilion, an immense thing of blue silk that had been Prince Zehava’s last extravagant purchase before his death, occupied the best site on a rise just above the west branch of the Faolain River. The dragon banner was unfurled, for although Rohan had not yet arrived she shared his sovereignty. The dragon was as much hers as his. He had made that quite clear at their first Rialla. She smiled to herself, recalling the slack-jawed amazement of the other princes when Rohan had broken all tradition and brought her into a banquet at his side. Since then other wives had demanded—and by and large had received—the same privilege. None of them, however, shared their husbands’ authority as completely as did Sioned. The dragon was proof of that, too, holding a gold faradhi ring set with an emerald in his claws.
The other princes had followed Rohan’s lead as well in the use of personal emblems to identify their people and belongings. In the last ten years all had chosen devices of their own, though Chay remained the only athri with his own symbol. The encampment was gaudy with colored tents and seethed with pennants flying above them that depicted all manner of devices. Some were beautiful, others merely appropriate. Fessenden’s silver fleece on sea-green fluttered on tall silver poles; Gilad’s three silver moons on blushing pink wafted above tents of the same ridiculous color. Dorval’s white ship on a blue field waved a full arm’s length higher than Grib’s white candle on red, sure to irritate proud Prince Velden, who would doubtless order taller flagpoles next time. Above her cousin Volog’s tents the breeze fingered scarlet banners with elegant silver flasks thinly outlined in black. Ossetia’s wheat-sheaf on dark green was beribboned with mourning gray to remind all of Prince Chale’s loss of son and grandson. Sioned noted the quiet of his camp, sad contrast to the bustle elsewhere. She pitied the poor old man, forced to attend the Rialla when his grief was so new.