by Melanie Rawn
The sword dropped; Maarken rolled sluggishly to one side and it missed him by a hand’s breadth. Masul’s fingers and slowly crumpling body knew what his brain could not yet accept: he was a dead man. Wide with disbelief, his green eyes sought Rohan. It took him a very long time to fall to his knees. He looked down at the blood that poured his life out onto his chest, onto the ground, as if it ought to be someone else’s blood. His lips moved, but the steel blades in his throat rendered him mute. Rohan watched unblinking as he pitched forward, total astonishment scrawled across his face, and died.
The giant’s fist seemed to have closed around every throat, including Rohan’s own. He tried to swallow, to find his voice. He could not. The silence was broken at length by the soft moans of dazed faradh’im.
Sioned clawed her way to her feet, stood swaying beside Rohan. He spared her a glance, then turned to his son. Pol was clinging to Sorin’s arm, upright but just barely. Yet when Rohan started forward, Pol followed, determination substituting for physical strength.
Rohan pulled his knives from Masul’s throat, cleaned them on the grass, and returned them to his boots. Pol cradled Maarken’s head on his knees, wiping away blood-and sweat-caked dirt from his face, saying his cousin’s name urgently. Maarken groaned, eyelids fluttering, then looked up.
His words nearly broke Rohan. “S-sorry, my prince,” he whispered. “I—failed—”
“No!” Pol exclaimed. “You went out to fight a man, not a sorcerer!”
A harsh laugh claimed Rohan’s attention. Miyon of Cunaxa glared at him and spat, “Is that the story you’re going to use? Sorcery? A pretty excuse for breaking more laws than you ever wrote in your life, High Prince! The only sorcery here was what the faradh’im used—”
“To protect both men from treachery!” Pol cried hotly. “How dare you—”
“If you think I’m going to believe that, boy, you’re an even bigger fool than your father!”
Rohan spoked very softly. “I did break the law by killing Masul myself. But I’ll not argue circumstances with you or anyone else. I find myself tempted to break a few more laws by ordering my troops to cross your border. If you think you can get word north faster than I can, keep talking.” He paused. “Otherwise, close your mouth and get out of my sight.”
Chay was with them now, gathering his son into his arms as his grace of Cunaxa wisely, if furiously, followed Rohan’s advice. Maarken made a feeble protest that not only was he quite all right, he wasn’t a child. His father silenced him with a single look, then glanced up at Rohan.
“Now, before anyone else can make an uproar, may I get my son the hell out of here?”
Rohan flicked a finger; Tallain came running. “Tell the princes to attend me at dusk. And find a physician. Neither my wife nor my sister is up to it.”
“I’ll tend Lord Maarken, if your grace will permit.” Gemma appeared, Tilal at her side. “Medicine is familiar to me.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Chay said, hiding most of his doubts.
But Tilal nodded confirmation and they carried Maarken from the field. Gemma, with Danladi assisting, made expert work of Maarken’s wounds and bruises after giving him a sleeping draught that sent him mercifully beyond the reach of pain. Chay and Rohan watched it all, wincing as each wound was revealed and cleaned and bandaged, grateful for Gemma’s skill and her assurance that there would be only a few scars. More worrisome was the crushed wrist; Danladi spent a long time over it, and even through his drug-hazed sleep Maarken groaned as it was bandaged. Time alone would reveal whether he would regain use of it.
Chay did not thank his prince for his son’s life. Rohan would have been insulted by such words; if it was the duty of a vassal to fight for his prince, it was no less a prince’s duty to protect his vassals. All that was understood.
Pol had been sent back to the pavilion with his mother and aunt, where all three tumbled into sleep as if they, too, had been drugged. Rohan assumed that Andry or Urival or someone had seen to the other Sunrunners in similar fashion. It was nearly dusk before Tallain came to Maarken’s tent with shocking news.
“The princess-regent is dead, my lord.”
Rohan was aware that he felt nothing, in the way that a stunning blow cripples emotion.
“How?” Chay rasped, unbelieving.
“There was only the one wound, a knife-puncture in her leg. She couldn’t have bled to death from it. But she died just the same.” Tallain looked as if he couldn’t believe it, either. “Her sister, Princess Naydra took her from the field to her husband’s tents, and asks what you wish done, my lord.”
He was beginning to feel now, and his emotions shamed him. For he felt nothing except relief.
“My lord?”
“Yes,” he responded automatically. “She’ll be given honorable burning in state as befits a princess and a Sunrunner. At Castle Crag, I think—yes. Please tell Princess Naydra that if she’ll do me the favor of arranging things, I’d be very grateful. And—and tell her that I share her grief.”
The odd thing was that he did, in a way. He grieved for the intelligence twisted, the love based in hate, the gifts misused. But he was also shamefully glad that she was dead, that he would not have to immure her in some remote keep for the rest of her life. Her crimes were unforgivable, but in her own terrible way she had loved both him and Pol. Rohan cleared his throat.
“Are the other princes waiting yet?”
“No, my lord. When it looked as if you’d be longer here than dusk, I sent them word to come tomorrow morning.” As Rohan frowned, Tallain turned defensive and a little formal. “Her grace the High Princess concurred that everybody needs to rest.”
“Her grace the High Princess can be a graceless nag. Especially when she’s right. Go reassure her for me, Tallain.”
Looking vastly relieved, the young man bowed and left. Rohan then turned to Gemma. “My lady, have you finished?”
“Just now, your grace.” She wiped her hands on a towel and returned it to Danladi’s waiting hands. “There’s no serious hurt done except to his wrist—although he’ll be stiff and sore for quite some time, and one or two of the sword cuts will bear watching. As for his hand . . .” She glanced at Maarken. “I can’t tell yet. But he shouldn’t be moved for at least two or three days.”
Danladi smiled shyly. “Considering the trouble we had to get the sleeping draught down him, you’ll be lucky to keep him in bed for one, your grace.”
“He’ll behave,” Chay said gruffly. “Or I’ll skin what hide he has left.”
“I don’t doubt it, my lord,” Gemma said. But Rohan saw something in her expression that puzzled him. He arched a brow at her and she looked away, suddenly nervous.
“What is it, my lady?” he coaxed. “You’ve done me and mine a great service. Ask what you will.”
“Your grace, I want no payment for—”
“Oh, let me be generous,” Rohan suggested with a slight smile. “It’s one of the few real pleasures a prince has, as you’ll find out.”
“I don’t ask for myself,” she said quickly. “But for Danladi.”
The other girl caught her breath. “No, Gemma, please—”
“Hush,” the princess commanded gently. “She’s been a sister to me for many years now. It’s my wish that we become sisters in fact as well as in feeling.”
Rohan exchanged a puzzled look with Chay.
“I’ve been a princess all my life, though my title will change somewhat when I go to Ossetia after my lord Tilal and I are wed.” She blushed becomingly at mentioning his name. “But Danladi is just as much a princess by blood as I am. I would consider it a great favor if you’d ask Prince Davvi if it would be possible for Danladi to become Princess of Syr and my sister-by-marriage.”
“With Kostas?” Chay blurted out, then apologized hastily as Danladi turned crimson to the roots of her hair.
“He thinks he wants me,” Gemma said artlessly. “But once I’ve left High Kirat, and if Danladi’s dowered temptin
gly enough. . . .”
Gemma evidently had no illusions about Kostas’ character. Neither did Danladi. She met Rohan’s gaze squarely, blue eyes in a timid, fair face telling him silently that she wanted Kostas for her husband. He marveled that her love for Gemma had not suffered in the face of Kostas’ preference; Danladi was surely unique among Roelstra’s daughters in that she seemed to have not a jealous or possessive bone in her body.
But—Roelstra’s grandson as future Prince of Syr?
Sweet Goddess, he was thinking like Pandsala. After all, another of Roelstra’s grandsons would be High Prince one day.
“My lady,” he said to Danladi, “I will be pleased to talk to Davvi as soon as it’s opportune. If I may speak frankly, however—” He gave her a smile and she blushed again. “I think that once Kostas sees your pretty face around High Kirat after he’s come to his senses, he’s more than likely to lose them again.”
“Th-thank you, your grace,” she breathed.
He caught himself just in time from shaking his head in amazement. “I’ll be subtle, I promise,” he added, and at last she smiled.
As he walked beside Chay back to his pavilion, the older man gave a low whistle. “My, my, but you were gallant! Imagine, that pale little wisp of a girl being Roelstra’s daughter! And wanting to wed Kostas, that colossal ass.”
“Chay, I’m surprised at you. I thought you knew from personal experience that the right wife can be the making of a man.”
“You always take refuge in jokes, don’t you?” Chay asked sympathetically.
“You know me too well, damn you.” They stopped outside the pavilion and Rohan looked around at the gathering dusk. “I can’t take in what’s happened the last three days. I keep thinking I’ll wake up. Chay, how did all this happen?”
“The way things always do: while we weren’t watching.”
“I was watching,” Rohan replied grimly. “I watched but I saw nothing, nothing at all.”
“Go lie down and sleep. You’re about to fall over.”
He shrugged and entered the tent. Chay followed. “You don’t have to hover around, making sure I obey you,” he said a bit testily. “And what gives you the right to order me about, anyway?”
“The right of any elder brother. Now, be sensible and go to bed. Believe me,” he added ruefully, “it’ll all be waiting for you tomorrow morning.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
“She’ll be all right now. She’s sleeping.”
Volog sat down heavily in a chair near his daughter’s bed. His hands came up to cover his face, and for a moment Davvi thought he might weep in his relief and weariness. But then Volog rubbed his cheeks briskly and raked his fingers through his graying hair.
“It seems I’m forever thanking someone else for taking better care of my daughter than I can. And the thing of it is, she’s always taken splendid care of herself. Until now.”
“It’s the shock of her faradhi gifts, cousin, no more than that. Although I admit that’s quite enough,” Davvi added.
“Yes. But the question is, should she go to Goddess Keep and learn how to use such gifts, or try to forget that she even has them? They’ve brought her nothing but pain that I can see, ever since she set foot on board ship to come here.”
Davvi did not answer. Volog gave him a speculative glance, then pushed himself from the chair.
“I know,” Volog said. “It’s not something I can decide for her.” He led the way into the main part of the tent, gestured Davvi to a chair, and beckoned a squire to pour wine. “I’m curious, cousin,” he went on. “How did Sioned happen to leave River Run for Goddess Keep?”
Davvi waited until the squire had bowed his way out and they were alone, then said slowly, “Sioned was only a little girl when our parents died. I suddenly had a keep to oversee. I was too busy to take much notice of her and she went pretty much her own way. But when I married Wisla, she was quick to see it—‘a strange way with the wind,’ she called it. One winter night as we sat in the solar, the fire went out and Sioned coaxed it back into being without touching it, without moving more than her fingers. Our grandmother and yours was faradhi. But it never occurred to me before that night that Sioned might be, too.”
“I’ve been just as blind with Alasen,” Volog admitted. “You know, I often wondered what it might be like—I’ve even envied Sioned.” He glanced at the partition behind which his daughter slept. “But not anymore.”
“Sioned has found great joy and fulfillment in being a Sunrunner.”
“Alasen has not.” Volog sipped at his wine. “Ah, well. As I said, it’s her choice to make.” He looked up as the squire came back in. “Yes? What is it?”
“A message from his grace of Isel, my lord.” The boy handed over a folded and sealed square of parchment, and again bowed himself out.
Davvi snorted. “Let me guess. Saumer has experienced a revelation.”
“No bet.” Volog tore open the letter and scanned its contents. “Ha! It seems that not only Saumer but Pimantal of Fessenden has had a change of heart. Kiele is confessing to anyone who’ll listen. She had word of Masul, brought him to Waes, believed his story, and taught him Roelstra’s mannerisms to heighten the chance resemblance. She begged him not to kill the Sunrunner, and so forth and so on. I doubt any of it will weigh much with Lord Andry. But I find this very politic of Saumer and Pimantal, I must say.”
“Especially in Pimantal’s case, now that rumors about Lleyn’s grandson and Firon are all over the camps. Volog, I need a favor. When Pimantal makes his conversion public, kick me when I laugh in his face.”
Volog grinned. “Agreed, if you’ll do the same for me. Rohan has his majority now, at any rate.”
“Cold comfort.”
“Indeed.” He hesitated, then asked, “Davvi, what do you know of the Lord of Skybowl?”
If Davvi was surprised, he did not show it. “A good man, the best. He spent his early youth at Goddess Keep with Sioned—married a Sunrunner, in fact, though he’s not one himself. You saw how fine a son he raised.”
“Mmm. Lord Ostvel was of great help to me with Alasen. I’d like to do something for him, if he’ll allow it.”
“I doubt he will. But if you approach Rohan and Sioned, they’ll find a way around him.”
“Advice I shall take, cousin.”
By sheer force of will and a flat refusal to let the staggering pain in his head get the better of him, Urival got out of bed, dressed, left his tent, and started walking.
It was still early, the moons just visible between clouds. But it felt more like the deep black time before dawn. The last days had been an unrelieved horror and anyone with any sense was resting. But he had long ago acknowledged that sometimes he had very little sense indeed. So he crossed the bridge and skirted the silent Fair, heading for the field of battle.
He was more or less certain he knew what had happened. The two deaths besides Masul’s, and the burning of his own rings, had told him much. He paused for a moment when the field stretched out before him, thinking about how he had found them: Pandsala, her dark eyes staring sightlessly up at the clouds; Sejast, prone with a knife stuck in his back. Hollis was sprawled nearby, propped on one hand with her head hanging, bright hair tangled around her face. Urival had looked swiftly around him. But no one watched; all eyes had fixed on the little knot of people around Maarken. Quickly he yanked the knife from Sejast’s corpse. Hollis had lifted her head. There was blood all over her.
“He’s dead, then, isn’t he?” she said quite calmly.
“By your hand,” he murmured.
She nodded. “Pandsala tried and failed.” Suddenly tears rained down her cheeks. “Ah, Goddess, the Star Scroll—he knew, he knew, he was one of them, he wanted Maarken dead! Give me back the knife, he needs killing—”
“He’s dead. And Maarken’s alive. Hollis, listen to me!”
But she drew her knees to her chin, arms wrapped around them, and rocked back and forth, weeping, murmuring of dranath an
d the Star Scroll and sorcery.
Urival shouted Sorin’s name. The young man glanced around, left Andry to Lleyn’s care, and hurried over. At Urival’s direction, he gathered Hollis up to carry her. She buried her face in his neck for a moment. Then, looking at Urival again, she whispered, “Tell my lord I’m sorry. I beg his forgiveness.”
“He’ll understand.”
“Do you?” Her eyes narrowed.
Urival nodded. “Take her back to the encampment, Sorin.”
Hollis shivered, her gaze wild again, tears streaking through the blood on her face. “But there’ll be no Sejast, and I’ll die—you know that I’ll die without him!”
Sorin stared at her. “My lady—”
“Hush,” Urival whispered. “She’s not responsible for what she says right now. Rest easy, Hollis. You won’t die, I promise you.”
Her hand reached out piteously. “Do you swear? I don’t want to die. Maarken—I want Maarken, where is he?”
Urival placed his fingertips on her forehead and spun sleep around her. As long lashes descended to hide the anguish in her eyes, he told Sorin, “Don’t worry. She’ll be all right.”
“If you say so, my lord,” came the dubious reply.
Urival flinched in the darkness now as his boots crunched on glass. The remains of Rohan’s water clock were underfoot, trampled and forgotten. He poked around, careful not to slice his fingers, and eventually found what he was looking for: the golden dragon that had decorated the upper sphere’s lid. He turned it from side to side, rubbed his thumb over the proudly uplifted wings, then pocketed the emerald-eyed token and walked on.
He stopped when he saw the dark bloodstains soaked into the soil. Only a little of it was Pandsala’s, spilled from a wound that should not have killed her. He had taken Sejast’s body from the wash of blood on the ground and hidden it in the nearby trees. He went there now. Insects had not yet begun on the flesh, gorged as they were on the blood. For a moment Urival considered throwing the body in the river. There would be no cleansing Fire for this one. But he rejected the impulse; Rohan would want to look on the dead face, the other princes would need proof that there had been a sorcerer present—and Andry required a vivid demonstration of Sunrunner fallibility.