by Melanie Rawn
But why had Masul not sliced off Kleve’s hands completely? Even if he’d taken all the rings, there would have been marks around the fingers left by the sun. Without hands, nothing could identify him as faradhi. An instant later the answer was obvious. A corpse with missing hands could point in only one direction: the murdered Sunrunner.
Still, Masul had neglected to dispose of the severed fingers; a stupid mistake. No, a fatal one. Had he trusted that after once finding nothing, no one else would come and make as thorough a search as Riyan had just done? Had haste made him careless? Had he not dared come back here or had his own arrogance betrayed him?
Riyan wondered what poor terrified person had found Kleve’s body. But he knew why no one had come forth with the information. Who wanted to be connected with the death and desecration of a Sunrunner? How the gold ring had found its way to Sioned was a mystery he gnawed at while stuffing the sheets into his saddlebags. Perhaps someone had gone looking for Kleve or heard a rumor, or the remaining rings had been taken from his fingers for sale. It didn’t matter much, and Riyan told himself to stop questioning the Goddess’ good will. She looked after her faradh’im; that was all he needed to believe in. What was important was the terrible evidence lashed securely into leather pouches.
He returned to the house and washed his face and hands again, shivering. It was dusk; Chiana and Halian would be impatient for his return. He stuffed the sheets with their terrible contents into his saddlebags. A gallop through the crisp evening air blew away the horror and fanned his anger. He would see Masul dead for this, and Kiele with him. They had murdered a Sunrunner. He hoped Andrade would match their viciousness when she decided the manner of their deaths.
Halian and Chiana had ridden back without him. Riyan shrugged, caring nothing for any punishment the prince might decree for his dereliction of duty, and stayed at the residence long enough to down two large cups of wine before riding back to the encampment. He did not stop at Meadowlord’s light green tents, but instead made straight for the High Prince’s pavilion.
Riyan went past Tallain without a word. He bowed and swept a grim gaze over his father and Rohan, who fell silent as he threw the saddlebags on the desk.
“Proof,” he said curtly.
Ostvel opened the leather bags and caught his breath. Rohan said nothing as the contents were placed before him. He studied them for a long time, then met Riyan’s eyes.
It took only a few moments to tell the story of his afternoon. His father looked murderous. Rohan’s eyes kindled with a slowly gathering fury that, if unleashed, would destroy everything in its path.
“One of them has the other ring,” Riyan finished. “I’m sure of it. My guess is that it was the fifth, gold for the right thumb, the Sunrunner’s ring.”
“Too big for Kiele,” Rohan murmured. “But Masul’s size. Yes.”
“If he dares to wear it, we have him.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps.” Rohan folded the sheets over and replaced the bundles in the saddlebags. “Your father has told me the rest. But I must give you an order now as your prince, Riyan—something you may find difficult to obey as a Sunrunner.” He held Riyan’s gaze with his own. “Say nothing to Andrade of this. Nothing.”
He felt no conflict. “I was your man the day I was born.”
The blond brows arched slightly. “Not even a fleeting qualm? Andrade won’t be pleased by that. Whatever you may be to me, you are partially hers.”
“All that I am, my prince, is yours,” Riyan said with simple dignity.
Rohan nodded slowly. “You honor me, Riyan. Have Tallain return with you to Clutha’s camp. If anyone asks, he is to say you were summoned by me when you rode in. That should excuse you from any difficulties with Halian. As for your absence today—”
“I’m answerable to Prince Clutha, my lord. Not Halian.”
“I understand. But let me know if there’s any problem.”
“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and started for the door, then paused and turned. “I have a favor to ask. Will you make sure they take a long time to die?”
Ostvel made a sound low in his throat. Rohan merely nodded. “Yes, Riyan. Both Masul and Kiele will be a very long time dying.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Riyan bowed again, satisfied, trusting his prince as implicitly as he trusted his father, and left them.
Ostvel picked up the saddlebags and held them to his chest. “You know what the penalty is for murdering a faradhi.”
“Yes. But not yet. Not until he’s been disproved in his claim. That ties my hands, Ostvel.” His fists clenched as if tightening around Masul’s throat. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered, “how dearly I’d love to kill him now.” Then he looked up. “Riyan must be watched very carefully. If Masul suspects anything, his life will be worthless. Have you friends among the Sunrunners Andrade brought with her?”
Ostvel nodded. “I’ll make it a personal favor, nothing that Andrade need concern herself with.”
“Good. It will turn out as we need it to, my friend. We haven’t come this far and done so much to see it all ruined now.”
Ostvel bowed slightly. “I never believed any differently, my prince,” he said softly.
After he had gone, taking the saddlebags with him, Rohan murmured, “I wish I could believe with you, my friend.”
Chapter Nineteen
Princess Alasen was a past mistress of the art of escaping any es cort her father chose to set over her. Simplicity itself in and around the castle of New Raetia on Kierst, freedom was even easier to arrange in the crush of people on their way to the races. Among them, Alasen became only a young girl in a plain dress, anonymous unless one noted her father’s silver-flask emblem stitched on the tiny leather purse at her belt.
A canopy of green silk had been raised above the royal enclosure, and the stands were filling rapidly. Much of the crowd veered off to find good seats, but Alasen continued on to the paddocks, where young men soon to be knighted were to demonstrate their horsemanship before the racing began.
She found a place at the rails and propped her elbows on the painted wood to watch. Her father’s squire, Sorin of Radzyn Keep, led fourteen highborn youths on magnificent horses into the grassy meadow, pausing to acknowledge the cheers of friends and relatives assembled to watch. They began a formal ride around the enclosed area, changing gaits and directions with invisible signals to their mounts, cutting diagonals and riding intricate patterns in perfect formation. Sorin rode one of his father’s horses, an elegant dapple-gray mare with a black mane and tail; Alasen wondered about the chances of convincing her father to purchase the animal for her and decided they were fairly good. Volog was in excellent humor despite the scandal of Masul’s appearance, and his private talks with the High Prince had been much to his liking. He was pleased, too, that she had formed a friendship with Cousin Sioned. It might be possible for her to coax him into buying the mare, even without its being a wedding present.
Alasen was under no illusions as to why her father had brought her to Waes this year. Young men had been presented for her inspection at New Raetia for two years now—rather late for a princess, but then she was Volog’s last and favorite child, whom he wanted to keep with him as long as possible. But she would be twenty-three this autumn, and it was time she married. If she was disinclined to accept any of the young men who came to Kierst, then Volog was determined that she look the rest of them over at the Rialla. But he expected her to choose a husband, and she knew it.
Sorin rode into the center of the paddock by himself, showing off more fanciful maneuvers—curvettes and flying leaps designed to flaunt a rider’s skill and impress potential customers with the horse’s quality. Lord Chaynal stood a little way down the railing from Alasen, critical eyes noting every nuance of his son’s performance. Many of the other horses being ridden today were his as well, the rest belonging to Lord Kolya of Kadar Water—Chaynal’s only serious rival in horse-breeding. The two holdings had enjoyed generations of friendly competition, sco
rning and degrading each other’s horses with cheerful predictability at each Rialla.
Alasen applauded her approval of Sorin’s skills and waved as he rode past the railing to collect well-deserved accolades. He grinned and winked at her. He certainly was the best-looking of all the young men—long and lanky, with his father’s chiseled features. He was the best rider, too. Alasen’s pride in him was that of an elder sister, and it was a relief to them both that the warmth of their friendship was untouched by Fire. Their parents had once or twice discussed the possibility of a match, but nothing had ever come of it. She and Sorin laughed heartily at the very notion. He would make a wonderful husband for some woman, but not her. For all his twenty winters and many knightly accomplishments, Sorin was like a great playful colt who still bumped his knees and nose. Alasen was a little surprised to see him so self-possessed and grown-up today.
She wondered suddenly what his brother Andry was like, the twin who had rejected the usual nobleman’s training in order to become a Sunrunner. The seriousness of his goals was probably reflected in his personality, she mused—all the playfulness and humor she liked so much in Sorin schooled out of Andry during his years at Goddess Keep.
Other young men were taking their turns now, and Alasen’s eye was caught by a splendid Radzyn sorrel ridden by a youth wearing Meadowlord’s light green. The squire made his mare dance delicately across the paddock at an impossible angle, and the onlookers gasped with pleasure as the horse changed directions with the airy grace of a feather in a wayward summer breeze. The young man was of middling height with the dark coloring of Fironese mountain folk, and not half so handsome as Sorin. But as he rode past her, one sight of his eyes reversed her opinion of his looks. Fringed by long, thick black lashes, his eyes were a deep velvety brown with bronze glints, shaped wide and long beneath straight, heavy brows. These astonishing eyes changed his face from merely pleasant to nearly beautiful. He reined in the mare directly in front of her, shifted not a breath in his saddle—and the horse suddenly reared back, gathered herself, then came down on forelegs with rear hooves lashing out. It was a warhorse’s move, precise and deadly, and the crowd burst into applause.
“Oh, well done!” Alasen cried along with the cheering audience.
“Do you think so?” a man’s deep voice said at her shoulder.
“Oh, yes,” she answered without turning, enthralled by the young man’s ride. “Just perfect! Do you know who he is, sir? He wears Meadowlord’s colors, but then every squire is still in his fostering lord’s colors.”
“His own are blue and brown, for Skybowl. His name is Riyan, and he’s my son.”
Alasen looked up then into a pleasant, smiling face. There was a family resemblance about the brow and nose, and she realized that with maturity the son would become nearly as distinguished as the father. But their eyes were very different; the ones gazing down at her now were gray, shaded by dark lashes and a shock of tousled brown hair showing threads of silver. “You must be Lord Ostvel,” she said, returning his smile.
“The same. I thank you for the compliment on my son’s behalf. A father’s pride is one thing, but to hear a young lady’s praise confirm it. . . .” He gave a self-mocking shrug. “And you must be Princess Alasen of Kierst.”
“How could you know that? I purposely wore my oldest and plainest dress today, and I’m trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd!” She laughed up at him.
“I doubt you could ever succeed in that, my lady. As for knowing who you are—I met your mother once and you’ve the look of her. But the green eyes confirm it. They’re precisely the same color as Prince Davvi’s, and the same shape as Princess Sioned’s.”
“Really? I know I look like my mother, mostly, but do you think I resemble the High Princess even a little?”
“You sound as if you’d like to. But I’d say that looking like yourself is quite enough. You’ve certainly impressed that young man over there.” He nodded to where Lord Chaynal stood with a youth whose blue eyes were indeed studying her most intently. “Obviously he finds it more rewarding to look at you than to watch his brother ride.”
“His brother?” Alasen repeated blankly.
“Sorin. Your young admirer is Andry of Radzyn, and lately of Goddess Keep.”
She forgot the dignity of her twenty-two winters and stared. So that was Sorin’s twin! “They’re not very much alike, are they, my lord?”
“It used to be almost impossible to tell them apart. But they’ve grown up quite differently in the last years.” His voice was suddenly expressionless and she glanced up at him, startled. He noted the look and smiled once more. “But I’m keeping you from watching the rest of the show. They’re about to ride toward each other at a full gallop—Sorin’s idea, the madman. I just hope Riyan doesn’t disgrace himself by falling off.”
“I doubt he’s done that since the first time you put him on a pony,” she chuckled.
The line of riders formed again, then broke in two at the middle. They cantered to opposite ends of the meadow, wheeled in place, and at a signal from Sorin thundered toward each other with a speed that promised to annihilate them all. Yet somehow each found a space to gallop through, and in the next instant they had all lined up again to enjoy the crowd’s applause.
“Excellent,” Lord Ostvel murmured. “But don’t tell my son I said so,” he added.
“But he deserves to be told, my lord. Next to Sorin, he’s the best rider here.”
Laughter rumbled up from deep in his chest. “No more syrup for my paternal pride, my lady! Tell me, what do you think of the mare he’s riding?”
“As a warhorse, perfection. As a casual mount—” She shook her head. “That mare would fret herself to skin and bones if she wasn’t given anything more than a good gallop every other day.”
“I agree. She’s too high-strung. I need to gift Riyan with a proper knight’s mount, though. Which horse would you favor?”
She hesitated, then had to answer honestly. “Sorin’s gray, without a doubt.”
Lord Ostvel gave a long sigh. “I was afraid we’d agree on that, too. Chay’s going to demand half a year’s income for that horse—and he won’t knock the price down for the sake of friendship, either!”
The crowd was breaking up now, heading to the stands to watch the first race, and Alasen was jostled against the rails. Ostvel took her arm to steady her. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “But I think I’ll wait here until the crowd thins a little.”
“No need. I’ll escort you, if you’ll permit. Would you like to go congratulate Sorin?”
“Yes, please!”
Together they made their way to where Lord Chaynal stood with his sons and Riyan. Ostvel ruffled his own son’s dark hair as if he was still ten years old instead of two days away from formal knighthood; Riyan bore with it, grinning, and gold sparkled with the bronze in his eyes. Alasen was introduced and noted that Riyan was not another such as Sorin—though just as accomplished at the arts of being a knight, he also possessed social skills enough not to blush in the presence of a pretty girl. He gave her a bow and a smile, and again she saw his father in him.
Sorin then claimed her attention with a demand to be told how wonderful he was. Alasen laughed at him. “You stayed in your saddle, which is more than I expected!”
He turned an aggrieved face to his father. “Allow me to thank you, my lord, for never giving us any sisters! Andry, this is the girl I told you about, who’s made my life misery for nearly eight years. Princess Alasen of Kierst, my brother, Lord Andry.”
Alasen was in for a surprise. She received a very elegant bow, a very direct stare, and a very composed pronouncement of her name and title in a voice that made her complexion change color, not his.
“So you’re Volog’s youngest,” said Lord Chaynal. “Happy man, to have such a treasure in his castle. I even hold you excused from never having taught this hopeless whelp of mine any manners during his time at New Raetia.”
She met his grin
with sparkling eyes and her lips tucked into a rueful line. “Indeed, my lord, I am sorry. We tried everything, but to no avail.” His eyes were gray like Lord Ostvel’s, but like sunlight on moonstones where the other man’s were silver in shadow.
“She means,” Sorin said, “that she used to throw books at me in the schoolroom. Don’t try to deny it, Allie, you know you did. I still have the scars.”
“And the addled wits, if her aim was good enough,” Andry teased.
Lord Chaynal moaned. “Mannerless, impudent, fractious—Ostvel, what did I ever do to deserve such offspring?”
“Something dreadful, I’m sure. We ought to get out of the sun, Chay. Desert folk don’t mind it, but I’m sure Princess Alasen would prefer to be in the shade.”
“Is the heat in the Desert as terrible as they say?” she asked.
Lord Chaynal smiled, and once more she could see a son’s maturity in a father’s face. “It would burn forty freckles onto your charming nose before you could draw a breath.”
“Stop flirting or I’ll tell Mother on you,” Sorin threatened, grinning.
“Indeed?” The Lord of Radzyn drew himself up to his full height—only a fingerspan or so greater than his sons’, but he also outweighed each by a silkweight of solid muscle and out-shouldered them by the breadth of a hand. “I compliment pretty girls just as I please, boy, and the day I stop—”
“Is the day Maarken inherits,” Andry interjected slyly, “because you’ll have been dead at least three days!”