by Melanie Rawn
He picked up the corpse and carried it from the trees. Like Andrade, he had seen and frowned on the boy’s arrogant delight in his growing powers. But that was gone now, leaving only this light, limp body, dark head tucked to Urival’s shoulder like a sleeping child. Who was this boy who would never become a man?
With the compelling eyes hidden, Urival saw softness that lingered around the lines of cheeks and brow, the curl of the mouth. A boy arriving out of nowhere, speaking in the accents of the Veresch, fixing unerringly on the two Sunrunners with the closest ties to the Desert, knowing snatches of the old language. Knowing, too, the uses of dranath and sorcery.
This “child” had lied his way into Goddess Keep, addicted Hollis to dranath that might yet kill her, cozened her and Andry into letting him work on the scrolls. He had spun sorceries hoping to kill Maarken. He had killed Pandsala. Every Sunrunner present had felt his power. He was an heir of the Old Blood, enemy of the faradh’im. And yet he seemed so young, so innocent.
Urival searched for reasons. Sejast’s people had been hidden for hundreds of years. Why now? Why him? What was special about this boy? He had sought to aid Masul, who claimed to be of Roelstra’s blood. How could his victory have benefited the sorcerers? What could possibly connect sorcery and Castle Crag?
The first anyone had ever heard of dranath was when Roelstra used it to enslave a Sunrunner. Alone of her sisters, Pandsala had proven gifted—but no one had ever tested the others. And she did not share the Sunrunner aversion to water. “My mother came from a place known only as The Mountain.” The mountains of the Veresch—whence Sejast had come to Goddess Keep.
Urival stifled a curse as the boy’s head rolled back against his arm. He’d forgotten in his haste earlier to slide the lids closed—and the eyes were wide open to the star light. Glazed. Staring. He’d seen eyes like that long ago, dead green eyes lit by stars and framed by black hair. Rohan’s sword had gouged his throat, but still the face had smiled in death, as this face smiled now.
Nose, brow, mouth, jaw—not the mimickry of color and movement Kiele had heightened in Masul, but a likeness, the way a sapling is the young, half-formed version of the parent tree.
Ianthe had borne three sons before her death, sons everyone thought had died with her—and the mysterious fourth son—at Feruche. Urival had long known their names. And that all of them were alive.
One was dead now. Not “Sejast,” but Segev. Segev, who had killed Andrade.
Urival carried Ianthe’s son to the bridge. Aching with exhaustion, he paused in the center of the span. The Faolain was dark and deceptively quiet below him. Upriver the water thundered, but from here to the sea all was swift, powerful silence. Desirable silence.
The muscles of his shoulders and back tore as he hefted Segev’s body over the rails and let it drop into the current. The gray-clad corpse surfaced once, then vanished forever.
“Urival came in just before midnight to tell us the boy, Sejast, was responsible. Sorcerer’s get, living all this time at Goddess Keep. It doesn’t bear thinking about, Meath.”
“It can’t become common knowledge, Sioned. Andry’s going to have trouble enough convincing everyone he’s as strong as Andrade was—if this was known, no one would have confidence in him at all. He let Sejast work with him on the scrolls.” Meath downed his third cup of wine in two swallows. “Goddess! Andrade’s death, and now this!”
Rohan pushed the flask across the table to him. “With no body to hand, we can say that the boy died the same way Pandsala did. The problem is, we don’t really know why she died.”
“I can tell you that.” He glanced up suddenly, and set both cup and pitcher down hard on the table, spilling some of the wine. “Pol!”
“What are you doing up?” Sioned asked sharply. But Meath was already rising to give the boy a rough hug.
“Goddess, but I’m glad to see you! Sioned, don’t make him go back to bed. He wouldn’t sleep, anyway.”
She shrugged. “Oh, very well. As long as you’re up, you probably ought to listen so we don’t have to repeat ourselves. Sit here by me, Pol.”
He did so, settling into a place between her and Rohan. “You look tired to death,” he told Meath.
The Sunrunner dropped back into his chair. “I’ve been on horseback ever since word came about Andrade. And you don’t look so great, yourself.”
“Why did Pandsala die?” Pol asked softly.
“Sioned was in charge of a powerful conjure, right? Every faradhi in the place dragged into it.”
“And we were winning, too,” Pol muttered.
“Of course,” Meath said, surprised that he would even mention it. “You’ve got a lot to learn about your mother, y’know. From what’s been described to me, all of a sudden you felt like the whole world was shattering around you. I’m not surprised—and I know exactly what it feels like. The same thing happened to me. I was in the middle of a conjuring and got a knife in me. And do you know why I didn’t die?” He paused for another swallow. “I pulled it out.”
If he’d had the energy left, Rohan would have been pacing the carpet. “You faradh’im are forbidden to use your arts to kill. Are you saying—”
“I’ve been reading Andry’s translations,” Meath interrupted. “The precise wording is that we’re forbidden to use our skills in battle. And this is why. A working Sunrunner hit by arrow or sword or knife is dead.”
“But why?” Sioned exclaimed. “There’s no reason for it! Why should a minor wound taken during a conjure kill us?”
“I don’t know. But think about this for a moment. There’s a mention in the scrolls of the Merida and their glass knives. They worked for the sorcerers. Glass was said to be sacred. It became a matter of pride to use glass, almost a religion. It was their hallmark, their signature on a murder. But why glass?”
“Iron,” Pol said abruptly and succinctly. Then he seemed to hear what he’d said, and his face changed. He reached across the table, poured wine for himself, gulped it down.
Meath nodded. “My reading exactly. The knife that hit me and the one that stabbed Pandsala were steel. And I’m betting that Kleve’s wounds weren’t ones to kill him, either. He was trying to use the gifts, and the knife—”
“But the steel was removed,” Rohan pointed out. “It had to be, for Masul to sever more than one finger.” He saw the Sunrunners look a little ill at that, their hands clenched instinctively into fists, and added, “Forgive me. But I don’t see how your theory works here, Meath.”
“I’m guessing that even though the knife wasn’t in him all the time, each successive cut acted the same way, shocking his mind until he died of it. You told me Pandsala had only the one wound on her leg. And yet she’s dead. You also said that just as suddenly as the pain began for the rest of you, it stopped. That must have been when Hollis removed the knife. The iron was no longer disrupting the linked conjuring. But Pandsala was already too far gone. Think of it like blood going to the brain through the big arteries in the neck. If they’re severed, the brain dies. There must be something that happens inside us when we weave light or conjure Fire—something that iron breaks. Thank the Goddess that Sejast was not part of the Sunrunner conjuring when Hollis stabbed him.”
“And if the sorcerers formed the Merida,” Rohan said, “they’d make them use glass because they didn’t trust them not to turn those knives on their masters. Meath, I’ll even bet that the sorcerers forbade iron weapons in their presence. They knew why, but nobody else did. For someone ungifted, glass or steel wouldn’t matter. Both kill.”
Sioned laced her fingers together. “So here’s another reason we must keep this quiet. If anyone knew how vulnerable we are to iron and to sorcerers pretending to be faradh’im—”
“We’d all be dead before next summer,” Meath finished for her.
Rohan leaned back in his chair. He felt a million years old. “Very well. Try this. Pandsala and Sejast died because they weren’t strong enough for the power of Sioned’s conjuring. T
his adds to her already substantial reputation as a faradhi, a nice bonus. Everyone around the two of them and Hollis was a Sunrunner and in no condition to see, let alone remember, exactly what went on. Sejast’s body is gone—hmm, that’s a problem. How about this: Urival, as chief steward of Goddess Keep, dealt with the corpse in private. That’s only the truth, after all. We can tell Naydra the knife was poisoned. Urival has it right now, and he’ll have to get rid of it. What have I forgotten?”
“Nothing that I can think of,” Meath said. “You’ve a gift of your own, your grace.”
Rohan smiled faintly. “I thought you cured of that ‘my grace’ nonsense.”
“Certainly—your royal highness.” Meath grinned at him.
Sioned rubbed the nape of her neck. “I think we can expect Chiana to be utterly loathsome tomorrow. Goddess give me the patience not to slap her.”
“Are the rumors true, that Halian’s going to marry her?” Meath asked.
“I wish him much joy of her,” Rohan said. “And I pity Clutha more than I can say.”
“The one I feel sorry for is Alasen,” Pol said. He got up and stood behind his mother’s chair to massage her shoulders. “Better?”
“Thank you, hatchling.” She smiled and leaned back into his careful, soothing hands. “Why Alasen?”
“Didn’t you feel it? She was caught up in it, too. And it terrified her.”
“Alasen?” Meath asked. “Volog’s youngest girl?”
“Sunrunner,” Rohan confirmed. “But once she learns to use her gifts—”
“I don’t know that she wants to,” Sioned mused. “She doesn’t much like the idea of being faradhi, Rohan. We had a talk about it—Goddess, only six days ago? Is it really the last day of summer?”
“By dawn, the first of autumn.” Meath pushed himself to his feet. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’d suggest that all of you do the same, if I thought suggesting would do any good. And even I hesitate to give a direct order to the High Princess.”
“She doesn’t obey me,” Rohan said. “Why should she listen to you?”
“Stubborn as ever.” Meath went to kiss Sioned’s cheek. “I can hardly wait to get back to Graypearl, where I do have the authority to order Pol around.” He gripped the boy’s shoulder. “Eolie and I have a lot of work to do with you. And none of it has any bearing on being a squire.”
“You mean you’re going to teach me faradhi things?” He stared at Rohan. “But I thought Andry would be the one to—”
“Eventually,” Sioned interposed. “But they’ll teach you certain things you need to know.”
“Good,” Pol stated. “I’m not all that comfortable with the idea of going to Goddesss Keep not knowing any more than the usual new people there. I’m not usual; I’m a prince.” He smiled as Rohan’s brows shot up. “I don’t mean it like that. I just mean that my position makes me unique. And I don’t think Andry is going to relish having the ruler of Princemarch underfoot.”
So Pol senses it, too. The unspoken words darted between Rohan and Sioned.
Meath stretched, bones cracking, and yawned. “I find you rather pesky, myself,” he said amiably. “May I commandeer a bed in one of your tents, my lord prince?”
“Anything not already occupied by one of my female retainers,” Rohan replied equably, and Meath grinned before bowing a good night.
“I think sleep is a very good idea,” Sioned murmured after Meath was gone. “We’ve princes to face tomorrow and a very long ride back home to rest up for.”
“Father, will we be going north to Castle Crag?”
“No.” He elaborated on the harsh monosyllable with, “We couldn’t be sure of getting back to the Desert before the rains begin. And you have to take ship for Graypearl. Lleyn’s letting me borrow you for a little while longer, but has need of his squire—however clumsy and unlearned.”
“Father!” Pol, who knew he was being teased and who also knew why, smiled. “I never get the chance to get arrogant about being a prince. Nobody lets me!”
“And a very good thing, too.” Sioned rose, planted a kiss on her son’s brow and said, “Back to bed. Rohan, leave orders with the guards not to disturb us, please? Urival and Meath were necessary, but—”
“Of course. Sleep well, Pol.”
The boy paused at the partition. “Father . . . I know we won, but why doesn’t it feel like winning?”
“I know what you mean,” he said quietly, not attempting a glib answer that Pol wouldn’t have believed anyway. “It didn’t feel like it when I killed Roelstra, either. I don’t know that it ever does, not when people have to die in order for us to win.”
Pol nodded. “I understand. Try to sleep, Father.”
“You, too.”
Sioned was in bed when he finished instructing the guards and went into their quarters. Rohan stripped and lay beside her, flat on his back, staring at the blue ceiling.
“And what have we won?” he asked softly. “Pol’s right to Princemarch. Freedom from Pandsala—though not from her crimes. Tilal as Prince of Ossetia one day. Lleyn’s grandson in Firon. Look at what we’ve won, Sioned. And look at what all this winning cost.”
She put her arms around him, shifting so his head could rest on her shoulder. She said nothing, and he was grateful.
“I love you,” he told her. “You and Pol are the only victories that ever mattered to me.”
Rohan had decided to summon all the highborns, not just the princes. The thirteen chairs and the huge table were taken outside into the weak morning sun. Each prince sat in his usual place, with wife, heir, and vassals, if present, standing behind him. The Sunrunners were grouped at a table nearby, where Andry sat to witness and seal any documents signed that day.
Lady Eneida of Firon had given over her seat at the princes’ table to Chadric on his son’s behalf, and looked relieved that somehow in all the chaos the problems of her people had not been forgotten. A private discussion with her before the general conclave had been most satisfactory; Laric would be welcomed with open arms by a thankful populace when he arrived in Firon sometime before winter began. And after the formal acceptance and acclamation of Laric’s new position, a foregone conclusion, there would be one more vote against Masul. Cold comfort, indeed.
Chiana was, as Sioned had predicted, intolerable. She had taken possession of Halian’s arm and was wearing her most elaborate gown and a brilliant smile, behaving as if she was already Princess of Meadowlord. Her sister Kiele looked on her with dull loathing; Maarken, still slightly groggy with the effects of battle wounds and the draught given him to ease the pain of his wrist, pushed her rudely aside when she attempted to embrace him in thanks for her deliverance. Rohan regretted the necessity for her presence, and again pitied poor old Clutha his declining years in her company.
Rohan took his time about the business of the extraordinary meeting. First there were several treaties to be signed—not many, as few had been willing to agree to proposals without knowing who would be ruling Princemarch. But now Rohan found them eager to accept the continuance of prior treaties for another three years. They could do little else when the High Prince made the suggestion—in polite tones but with ice in his blue eyes.
With the treaties out of the way, Rohan turned to Laric’s confirmation as Prince of Firon. Lady Eneida detailed the twists and turns of ancestry that made him eligible, and affirmed that she and the Fironese people were more than willing to have him. To Prince Chadric she gave a diamond ring, gem of Firon, in trust and token for his son. Laric’s acclamation was unanimous; again, it could scarcely have been anything else, not when the High Prince speared possible dissenters with his frigid gaze.
The vote was then taken that confirmed Pol’s possession of Princemarch. A mere formality, of course, but one that Urival had been oddly adamant about the night before. It was his view that all princes should agree that he and he alone was the rightful ruler there. Not that anyone had dared say a word when Pol took the seat Pandsala had occupied durin
g the last four Riall’im.
Ostvel was then presented to the assembly as Regent of Princemarch. A parchment was presented for his signature—Rohan’s, Sioned’s, and Pol’s already being appended—that gave him Castle Crag outright. He was also given a new seal, the wreath of Princemarch circling a depiction of the keep itself. There was not a whisper of reaction as he signed and affixed his seal, gave over the ring betokening his lordship over Skybowl, and accepted the one Pandsala had worn. He stood behind Pol’s chair, silent and solemn.
Rohan then called Riyan forward and gave him Skybowl, but in a different manner than his father had held it. A document similar to that making Castle Crag Ostvel’s created Riyan Lord of Skybowl; no longer was either holding the property of the Desert or Princemarch. Riyan hesitated, looking at his father, asking silently if he should sign this instrument that would make him an athri in his own right and found their hitherto obscure family in the lands of two princedoms. Ostvel nodded once in assent. There had been a brief discussion with him, too, before the larger meeting, with Rohan and Sioned stating flatly that this was the way things had to be. Ostvel would hold Castle Crag and Riyan would have Skybowl, both keeps theirs by law. The elevation of a pair of landless nobod ies—even though one of them was a Sunrunner—shocked more than a few people. But as Riyan signed the document and his father’s ring was placed on his finger, no one breathed a syllable of protest.
It was Sioned’s turn then, presenting a plan of her own that Rohan refused to have anything to do with. He listened stony-faced as she called Sorin forward and named him Lord of Feruche Castle.