by Melanie Rawn
The ashes moved. They became a stately vortex borne on Air, pulled higher and thinner until the spiral spread thrice a man’s height over the awestruck crowd. Pol had tasted faradhi power before; this was the reality, the full feast of it, glutting his mind and body. And he understood Andry’s single-hearted commitment, his need to be this above all things, a Sunrunner who called Air and summoned Fire, who could weave light and all the elements with the power of his thoughts.
The ashes, silver and gold fused with them in glittering pinpoints of light, were sent out over the land, wind drawing the mist ever more fragile. As far away as Dorval, as far as Firon and the Desert and Kierst, other breezes would pick up the fine dust until the invisible rain finally fell and joined with the soil. The last link between Andrade’s spirit and body was severed, the substance that had once been flesh now spreading across the lands she had served so long.
“Pol.”
He was dimly aware that someone was speaking his name.
“Pol. It’s done. Pol, come back to us.”
He looked up uncomprehendingly at his parents. His mother’s green eyes were dim with weariness and, startlingly, fear. His father had a grip on both his shoulders now; he was the one who had spoken. Pol drew in a soft breath and tried to smile at them, suddenly aware of how much effort it took to make the muscles of his face respond. He was tired with a tiredness he had never experienced before, and it was remarkably difficult to stay on his feet.
His mother nodded slowly, her eyes no longer afraid. “It’s all right now,” she murmured to herself.
Of course it was all right, Pol wanted to say. He had only been doing what every Sunrunner could do.
But as people came to make their bows to him before returning to the encampment, he saw strange things in their expressions. Even Lleyn, even he and Chadric looked at him with new awareness in their eyes. Pol found it very odd.
But he understood only too well the expression in one pair of eyes. Andry never took his gaze from Pol’s face. And in that long, level look Pol found confirmation of his earlier wariness. Andry might be powerfully gifted in the faradhi arts—but Pol was just as gifted, and a prince.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Instinct, of course,” Sioned remarked with a casualness she was far from feeling. Rohan gave her a long, slow look that meant her tone hadn’t fooled him a bit.
They had just seen Pol tucked up in bed, exhausted and swaying on his feet. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, sun-bleached hair bright in the dawn light filtering through the tent. Rohan had then taken Sioned in to their own section of the pavilion, made her lie down, and had then begun pacing the carpet.
“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she went on. “He just did it. I can’t describe how it felt to have him suddenly there, all that raw young strength meeting and blending with Andry’s, yet both of them separate. They simply threw the rest of us out of the conjuring, they were that intent on doing it all themselves. Young and very strong, both of them.”
“I saw Andry’s face afterward,” Rohan said quietly.
Sioned sat up, hugging a pillow to her chest. “So did I,” she was compelled to admit.
“I can see where he’d be angry, in a way. His first big moment as Lord of Goddess Keep, and his cousin who’s going to be High Prince shares it with him, his cousin who’s even younger than he is. But I didn’t like what I saw in his face, Sioned. It reminded me of the Fire-dragon you conjured at Stronghold, the one that flew across the Great Hall and melted into the tapestry.”
She shrugged. “Flashy, but effective.”
“You know what I mean, damn it. Andrade was furious and suspicious. Andry looked at Pol the same way.”
“They’re both young, Rohan,” she repeated.
“Young and very strong, you said,” he corrected grimly.
She sunk her chin into the silk-covered softness, and was silent.
“He’s my nephew, my own sister’s son. This is insane.”
Still she said nothing.
“Why should they come into conflict with each other? Their areas of power and influence will be totally different.” He stopped his pacing and rubbed his hands over his face. “Goddess. If Andrade made a mistake in him—”
Sioned bit her lip, then said slowly, “Do you remember that athri from up near the Cunaxan border who asked you what to do about his sons?”
“He had a legitimate one and a bastard, and they both wanted to succeed him. As I recall, the Plague settled the question by taking both of them, and the holdings reverted to Tiglath.”
“Yes. But when he told us about them, and their characteristics, it became clear that both were able enough to hold the manors very well. We talked about it all afternoon. Do you remember what I asked him at the last?”
Rohan nodded tiredly. “Which one, if he gave his lands to the other, would make war against the decision until he could take what he wanted?”
Again she was silent for a long time, and finally said, “Come to bed, my love. At least lie down for a little while, even if you can’t sleep.”
“It’ll be noon before we know it.”
“Yes.”
“Sioned—”
“I know.” She looked up at him. “I’m frightened, too.”
Pol woke quite suddenly to a queer grayish light like dusk through the wire mesh window beside his bed. He leaped up, horrified lest he had slept past noon. But the haze was only clouds that had blown up since dawn. The sun made a hesitant appearance, then shied back behind a billow of slate-colored clouds. Pol tiptoed around the partition, saw that his parents sat with their backs to him talking in low voices, and estimated his chances of sneaking out. Returning to his bed, he gathered up boots and a fresh shirt. He paused before leaving the pavilion; his parents were quiet now, and his mother’s hand reached over the brief space between them to grip his father’s hand, tightly. Pol could not distinguish the words she used, but the pain in her voice was achingly clear. He bit his lip and slid from the pavilion.
Tallain was nowhere in evidence, and Tallain was the only one who might have ordered him back into bed with impunity. The guards merely bowed as he paused to haul on boots and shirt. He ran his fingers back through his hair and hurried to the nearby tent where he suddenly knew Tallain would be.
His instincts proved correct. Not only Tallain but Sorin, Riyan, and Tilal were there, each with a section of Maarken’s battle harness in his hands. They glanced up as Pol entered, and identical small, grim smiles came to all four faces.
“My brother is fortunate in his squires,” Sorin remarked. “Here—your fingers are nimbler than mine, Pol.” He gave his young cousin a vambrace. “Scour the inner part of that, will you? I can’t get at the smaller bits.”
Together they polished steel fastenings and silver decorations until one metal’s shine was indistinguishable from the other. Leather was oiled to suppleness where needed, and inspected for stiffened strength where essential. None of them spoke unless to ask for a fresh cloth or to request an opinion about the readiness of a particular piece—opinions that always expressed satisfaction, but that were only spurs to more polishing, more oiling, more making sure that Maarken’s equipment would be nothing less than perfect.
After a time, Tobin came in with her son’s clothing. Her black eyes acknowledged Pol with a quick gleam. She laid out trousers, shirt, and tunic on a chair, smoothing them, her fingers tender on silk and velvet and butter-soft leather.
The colors dazzled. The shirt was Radzyn’s white, with a red collar and yoke. Sky-blue for his Desert ancestors and pale blue for Lleyn who had knighted him were subtly worked into the thin embroidered bands sewn down the sides of the white leather trousers. But his own Whitecliff’s red and orange dominated the tunic, whisper-light velvet that showed either color depending on which way the nap was rubbed. In it, as his muscles moved beneath the rich cloth, he would look like a living flame.
“If he dares get any holes in this, I’ll take him
over my knee,” she said suddenly. And only then did Pol realize how afraid she was.
“I’ll remember that, Mother.”
Maarken entered the tent, his skin sun-bronzed and his hair gold-lit after a summer spent in Princemarch, gray eyes bright as quicksilver. He smiled easily at them all before sliding an arm around his mother’s waist.
“I mean it,” she insisted, looking smaller than ever next to her tall son. “This velvet cost me a fortune. If you so much as loosen a single thread in a single seam, I’ll—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “Stop worrying. And thank you for the clothes. They’re magnificent.”
“Damned right, they are.” She gazed up at him a moment, then reached up and took him gently by the ears to pull his face down to hers. She kissed him quickly and let him go. “I’ll go find your father. Not that you need any help in arming,” she added with a fond glance at the others.
“The only thing lacking is a sword, my lady,” Tilal said, rising. He went to a corner and pulled out a scabbard, presenting it to Maarken with a low bow. “I bought this for my father, and he sends it to you with his love. We’d both be honored if you’d use it today.”
Maarken ran marveling fingers over the garnets embedded in the hilt, then tested the grip. “It’s perfect. I—Tilal, I don’t know what to say.”
“Just tell me you’ll use it. I know you have your own, but—my father also said that at his age, he’s not likely to use this for the purpose its crafter intended. And a sword this fine shouldn’t sit idle in an old man’s feeble hand.” Tilal smiled. “His opinion of himself, not mine!”
“I’ve been to war with Prince Davvi,” Maarken said softly, meeting Tilal’s green eyes. “I’ve seen what he and a sword can accomplish. Thank you—and thank him for me, as well. I’m just sorry it won’t drink anything better than that bastard’s blood.”
Tobin made a soft sound, but instantly recovered and said tartly, “You’ll wield that sword for your kinsman and your prince—and the Sunrunners, too, for that matter. I can’t think of a more honorable first blooding for a sword than that.”
“You’re right, Mother, as always.” He glanced around the tent. “And I can’t think of more honor than to have princes and lords help me to arm. But it’s getting late. We’d best get started.”
Tobin touched his cheek briefly, then hurried from the tent. Pol stepped back and watched as Maarken first got into his clothes, then stood still in the middle of the tent while Sorin, Tilal, and Riyan buckled him into his battle harness. Pol knew the theory, of course, and had assisted in arming Prince Chadric and his sons on ceremonial occasions. But he had never helped anyone don the accoutrements of war in earnest before, and hung back shyly, wide-eyed.
The red-orange tunic all but vanished beneath the chest- and spine-guards that were buckled securely at shoulders and ribs. The stiffened leather had been dyed the dark red of Radzyn and Whitecliff, and was studded with steel and silver across the breast. Maarken would be fighting afoot, not on horseback, so his clothes and armor were designed to permit as much freedom of movement as possible. When he was almost ready, he waved the three young men away and turned to Pol.
“My prince,” he said quietly.
Pol looked up in awe at this cousin he idolized. Surely there was no finer young man in the world, no nobler young knight, no more admirable Sunrunner. And yet—Maarken smiled slightly, his eyes conveying understanding. Pol wanted to be the one to defend his own princedom, and cursed his youth and lack of experience in battle. He knew it must be wrong to want to prove himself in fighting, when his parents had worked so hard all their lives to spare him from living by the sword. But, coming up on his fifteenth year, and in the presence of the champion who would fight for him today, he realized that it would have been unnatural if he hadn’t wanted to be in Maarken’s place. He smiled wry assent to the look in his cousin’s eyes, and shrugged one shoulder slightly.
Sorin came forward then with the belt, gave it to Pol. He fastened its white length around his cousin’s waist, fingers nimble on the golden buckle given by Prince Lleyn. Then he accepted the sword from Tilal and presented it. As it was strapped on, he looked at Sorin and Riyan.
“Do you have what I gave you?” They understood at once, and handed Pol the knives he’d purchased for them at the Fair. He showed them to Maarken. “They’re only eating-knives,” he apologized, “not really suited for throwing. But Father always says that you should have at least one in reserve where your enemies won’t think to look for it. Father keeps his in his boots.”
“I know. I have a couple hidden—but these are quite welcome, believe me.” Maarken slipped the knives into his belt.
Sorin asked, “Will you want the helm?”
“No. Nor leather coif, either. I plan to watch this bastard’s face crumple, and hoods and helms only get in the way.” He grinned suddenly. “Besides, it’s damned hot out there.”
Suddenly they were all silent, unwilling to acknowledge that it was nearly noon and Masul would be waiting. Pol gazed long and hard at his cousin, wishing he had words to explain his feelings—wishing he knew what those feelings were. They tumbled in him so quickly that he didn’t know if fear or pride or love or hate or grim anticipation dominated. He touched Maarken’s wrist briefly, saw the gray eyes smile down at him.
“Stay safe, Maarken,” was all he could think of to mumble around a sudden lump in his throat.
“I will, my prince.”
An unexpected visitor came in then—unexpected only by Pol, and respectfully welcomed by all but him. He felt guilty for the distance he wanted to put between himself and Andry, yet the wariness was stronger than ever.
Andry didn’t seem to notice, however. He embraced his eldest brother and said, “Don’t take this as an insult, please—but you must end this quickly. I don’t want the stars shining on your battle. If these sorcerers could kill Lady Andrade on the starlight, they’d have no scruple in doing the same to you. Guard yourself, Maarken.”
“You can’t mean Masul has them on his side knowingly!” Riyan exclaimed.
“I don’t know what I mean,” Andry snapped. “I only know that this has to be done before nightfall. I don’t know enough about the Star Scroll yet to be able to counter whatever they might attempt.”
Maarken nodded slowly. “There are clouds enough to keep out the sunlight, Andry. And it’s not even noon yet! I wouldn’t be too concerned about the stars.”
“Well, I am,” his brother said in curt tones.
“Maarken knows what he’s doing,” Pol heard himself say.
Andry glanced at him. “He fights for my honor as well as yours.”
Pol nodded. “I think we’d better get there first, by the way. If Maarken’s late, Masul will only taunt him.” He made an effort at Maarken’s nonchalance, and shrugged. “If for no other reason, he needs killing for the foulness of his mouth.”
Approval shone briefly in Maarken’s eyes. He clapped Pol on one shoulder and said, “Let’s see an end to this, then. I’m stifling in here, and—”
Pol saw his face freeze, and turned. Hollis stood in the doorway, her long tawny hair wild around her shoulders, falling in tangled strands to her hips. Blue eyes, huge and dark in her pallid face, saw only Maarken. Pol’s astonishment and devouring curiosity yielded to tact for the first time in his life; he collected the others with a gesture and led the way from the tent.
Whatever Pol had hoped they might say to each other to mend the breach that had been only too obvious since her arrival at Waes, Maarken’s expression as he joined them plainly signaled that such things had not been said. Pol was suddenly furious with Hollis. Anyone with any sense knew that no man or woman should be sent into battle with the memory of fear-filled eyes. He’d watched and learned from the leavetakings at Stronghold this spring; even though no war was anticipated, a season spent on the Cunaxan border was always dangerous. Especially had he noticed the manner in which Lady Feylin had bid farewell to Lord Walvis. She h
ad embraced and kissed him, then berated him for polishing his damned harness so bright that it pained her eyes to look at him. They had parted with teasing—much the same technique Tobin had employed a little while ago with her son. He’d seen men and women at Stronghold use the same cover for emotion as they said good-bye to warrior wives and husbands and lovers. Hollis would have to learn.
Andry was in the process of making things worse. “Maarken—she does love you, she’s just been ill this summer and—”
Pol fixed Andry with what he hoped was an adequate approximation of his father’s coldest look. Evidently it was more than adequate; the new Lord of Goddess Keep flushed like a schoolboy and looked away. But in the next instant the man who made Pol so uneasy had returned, and gave him a glance of equal iciness. They had met by faradhi means, they two, learned things about each other’s strengths that had not yet been fully analyzed. And Pol had the sudden, sick feeling that whereas he would never come to open battle with Andry, neither would they ever be completely at peace with each other. There was too much power on both sides.
Gentle Goddess, why power? he thought suddenly as they started walking to the High Prince’s pavilion where the rest of their family would be waiting. What did it gain? Roelstra had enjoyed setting princes against each other and reaping the spoils. Andrade had wanted to reorder the continent under Sunrunner rule. Pol’s father wanted to form a fabric of law as wide-ranging as the fabric of light the faradh’im had spun last night. But what did Andry want?
More to the point, what did Pol himself want?
Troublesome questions flew entirely out of his head as he met his parents and the others outside the huge tent. Urival stood stiff and straight, as one who feared that relaxing any muscle would mean collapse of his elaborate defensive structure against grief. Chay was just as straight-backed, but without tension. He moved easily to embrace his son, confidence and pride in every line of him.