by Melanie Rawn
“This is what you’re afraid of!” he called out above the rush of wind and flames. The wind whipped at her shawl and her hair, stung crimson into her white face. “How can you say you love me when you hate what I am? This is what I am, Alasen—this is what power is about!”
He saw the horror in her eyes. Had he been anyone else, she would have loved him. Well, then, let her see exactly what he was, he thought bitterly, raging at a life that in giving him everything he wanted had taken her from him. He pulled her inside the maelstrom of spinning colors, forced her to create wild beauty with him. He lifted both arms and the fiery vortex burned higher, brighter, fed by their intertwined gifts. Windborne sparks plummeted into the water, shone and hissed before vanishing. Trees bent and shivered on either side of the river; birds startled to frantic shrieks fled their perches, some of them flying into the flames and their deaths. Water roiled, heaved, a shining red-gold wave crashing against the opposite bank.
Alasen stumbled away, clutching her shawl to her breast. Andry reached out with all his mind’s force, showed her a fantastic spectrum of color, hues no eye had ever seen or named, made her feel the awesome strength of Sunrunner arts. But things that were glorious and beautiful to him horrified her. She screamed in terror as wind lashed at her body and power at her mind.
“Andry, please!” she sobbed. “It hurts! Let me go!”
The whirlwind guttered out. “Alasen—forgive me, I’m sorry! I didn’t know it would hurt you! I only wanted—Alasen, please!”
But she was stumbling headlong up the slope, and vanished into the shadows of the wood as he called her name one last time, without hope.
There was little light to see by as she ran; the sun huddled behind the western hill, the trees ragged black silhouettes knifing into a sickly yellow-gray sky. And then there was no light at all while she stumbled through the wooded slope. She nearly sobbed aloud when she saw the watchfires, hurried toward them before realizing what her face must reveal to anyone with eyes to look. The flickering watchfires blurred and she wiped her eyes repeatedly, mortified as guards stared. At last she recognized her own scarlet tents, and the large one that was her father’s. She burst into the pavilion, swaying.
Strong arms caught her and she slumped gratefully, hiding her face in a soft velvet tunic. But as her heart calmed from its frenetic racing and her mind gradually blotted out the flames, she realized it had been a mistake to come here before she had regained control of herself. She should never have let her father see her in this condition. He would blame Andry with the implacable anger of a parent protecting his dearest child. A new terror flayed her raw nerves as she thought of what might be said or done, what enmity might be created because of her.
She made an effort, pulled away from him. But it was not a Kierstian scarlet tunic that was damp with her tears. The velvet was dark blue with a black yoke, and covered shoulders broader and more muscular than her father’s. Horrified, she found herself looking up into the deep gray eyes of Lord Ostvel.
“My lady,” he said awkwardly, his face crimson in the bright lamplight. “Forgive me. Your father summoned me here, then was called away. He asked me to wait for his return. I didn’t mean—but you were so—I only thought to help—forgive me,” he finished.
He was stammering like a schoolboy, and she realized he was as embarrassed as she. Strangely enough, his discomfiture brought back a measure of her poise. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very glad you were here.”
He looked down at his hands that still held her arms in a gentle grip, and swiftly released her. “I—your father said you were talking with Lord Andry,” he said irrelevantly, taking a step back from her.
As he met her gaze again, the small grace of composure deserted her. He knew, or at least suspected. But he would never say anything. She saw that in his eyes . . . and something else. Through her stunned surprise she wondered why she had never seen it before—not in him, or in herself.
Alasen watched her hands touch his shoulders. She felt the warmth of him, the strength beneath the soft velvet. If Andry was Fire, quick and brilliant and dangerous, this man was Earth—enduring, patient, safe. Here was power that did not frighten her, eyes that demanded nothing. Only waited, aware now that she knew a thing only just admitted to himself.
With him there would never be the wild swirl of colors through her mind and heart. There would never be the shattering joy of first youth’s passion. She would never know what it meant to be a Sunrunner and fly down ribbons of woven light. There would never be the glory of powers fully realized, gifts nurtured to fruition. Part of what she was would never find fulfillment.
But with him, there would be warmth, quiet strength, enduring tenderness, and peace.
Very gently, she slid her hands into his, a silent offering. His long figures closed around hers almost convulsively. Ostvel bent his head.
It was a long time before he spoke, and the words came slowly. “My lady . . . Alasen . . . my life scattered on the wind with my Camigwen’s ashes eighteen years ago. I became . . . my son’s father, my prince’s friend, Skybowl’s lord. But I had no life. I did not know how . . . how empty I was, until you.”
She moved closer, still holding his hands, seeking his warm strength, resting her weary head against the hard muscles of his chest. She could hear his heart like the beating of silken wings. She waited until the rhythm slowed, then stepped back and smiled serenely up into his wondering eyes.
“Come,” she murmured. “We should tell my father.”
Tobin, in the way of all ruthlessly practical people no matter what the circumstances, ordered dinner served in Rohan’s tent—and ordered her family and friends to attend or else. The Lastday banquet would have been held that evening, the feast that was more spectacular with each successive Rialla. But not this year. Kiele’s elaborate plans were forgotten, her servants and the splendid plates and crystal remained at the residence in Waes, and Princess Gennadi had the food distributed among the poor.
Only Chiana saw any reason for celebration. Cheated of her triumphant entry to the feasting on Halian’s arm—and her chance to show off the grand banquet she had worked on with an eye to costing her sister a full quarter of Waes’ yearly revenues—she settled for giving her own elegant dinner for those highborns who did not dare refuse her invitation.
Tobin surveyed her own arrangements, knowing full well that no one would appreciate them and that this food, too, might just as well have been given to the poor. Loaves of fresh bread, bowls of fruit, meat on silver trays, piles of vegetables—she expected almost all of it to stay right where it was on a long table to one side of the pavilion’s main chamber. Watching her brother methodically peel, seed, section, and put a marsh apple aside untasted, she sighed with irritation. But she said nothing. He wouldn’t have listened to her, anyway.
She had more success with her nephew and one of her sons. Though at first Pol seemed disinclined to eat, he succumbed to the demands of a healthy young appetite; Sorin had never willingly missed a meal in his life. Maarken, busy trying to tempt Hollis with food, was hopeless. So was Sioned, though she rallied enough to give Rohan a look of mock horror when he offered her a slice of the marsh apple; the fruit gave her hives. One never worried about Meath; he had been born hungry and ate enough for two. As for Chay—like Rohan and Urival he ignored the food in favor of vintage Syrene wine.
Tobin frowned her disapproval as Rohan gestured to Tallain and yet another bottle was opened. But she realized that the liquor was unlikely to make any of them drunk. They did not drink for any of the usual reasons: to forget, to celebrate, to dull the pain. They drank to get up the courage to talk.
It was the lack of any but the most desultory conversation that concerned Tobin most. There were things that needed saying, discussing, explaining. But not even she dared introduce any dangerous topics tonight. Not yet; not until everyone stopped looking so damned grim.
She was not insensible to the undercurrents of feeling; she shared their abiding
grief for Andrade, their shock over the manner of the other deaths, and most especially the lingering weariness of the Sunrunners. But without talk there could be no understanding, and thus no dealing with the horrible events of this Rialla.
Yet there were people missing who should have been present. She beckoned Tallain over and asked him if he knew where Andry and Ostvel were. The youth shook his head and shrugged.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I left word at their tents, but. . . .”
Tobin gnawed her lower lip for a moment. “I see. Send someone to find them, please.” She went over to Riyan, who was sitting beside Meath near the tapestry partition. They made as if to stand and she waved their back down. “Don’t be silly,” she admonished with a slight smile. “Riyan, what’s happened to your father?”
“I haven’t seen him since he went to see Prince Volog, my lady.” He leaned forward and caught Sorin’s attention. “Why did your lord want to talk with my father?’
“Oh, that.” Sorin swallowed and shrugged. “He wanted to thank him again for helping Allie the other day. She was pretty shaken, you know. Ostvel got her calmed down, more or less.”
“As you know so much, can you tell me where your brother is?” Tobin asked.
“That I cannot, Mother,” he replied easily. “But quite frankly, Riyan, if I were your father I’d stay out of his way for a while. Did anybody else see Andry’s face when Ostvel threw that knife to Lyell?”
“It was mercy,” Meath said slowly. “But I’m not sure it fit in with Andry’s notion of justice.”
Tobin frowned. She agreed with the Sunrunner, but did not care to admit that she hadn’t understood the reaction of her own son. It was a bad business, this not seeing one’s sons while they were fostered. One remembered them as little boys, and the shock of meeting them again as young men was unsettling. It would be far too easy to wound their new adult pride by attempting to treat them as the children they had not been for years.
And now who was it, she asked herself wryly, who wanted to avoid something that needed talking about?
“Sorin,” she said all at once, “get me a cup of wine.” He rose to do her bidding, and she reflected that manners in the young were an excellent thing. She sat down near Meath and Riyan, saying quickly, “Tell me truthfully—what happened to Maarken while he fought?”
Meath blinked; Riyan, to whom the question had been directed, put down his fork and shook his head. “My lady, like the other Sunrunners I only caught glimpses.”
“I think you saw more than that,” Tobin murmured. He flushed. “Forgive me, but—”
“I know,” he whispered. “But it’ll take some getting used to.”
Meath was looking baffled; neither enlightened him. Tobin said, “What did you see?”
Riyan looked down at his rings. “They burned. Perhaps that happened to Pandsala, too.” He drew in a deep breath. “It wasn’t so much actual things I saw as feelings, my lady. It was like—like fear had taken on shapes, half-misted, felt but not quite seen.” His luminous eyes lost focus as he remembered. “Air alive with shadows. Things escaping from cages, all of them black and terrible. Threats and dangers, some from childhood nightmares, others from—from all Hells. Feelings sneaking up on you from behind, ready to tear your mind out and devour it. Shadows you couldn’t quite see, but you knew they hid something hideous come to kill you and everything you loved—”
Pol had come over to them, drawn by the muted power of Riyan’s voice in the abrupt silence as all turned to listen. His eyes were wide and dark, pupils swollen.
“I saw it, too,” he breathed into the enthralled hush. “It was just like that. You reached to drive it away and it disappeared and something else just as deadly took its place. But you couldn’t really see it or touch it—”
The look in his eyes frightened Tobin. “Pol. It’s all right now. All over.”
He gazed at her for a moment as if he didn’t recognize her. Then the muscles of his face drew into taut lines much older than his years. “Is it? Sejast was only a little older than me. Maybe he didn’t know all that much. What if there are more like him, older and more experienced, waiting for the right chance?”
Urival was at his side, one hand on his shoulder. “Then we shall deal with them. I wasn’t going to propose this yet, but I think perhaps I must. I’ll return to Goddess Keep and stay with Andry while he finds his footing there as Lord. But I’m growing old. I’ve taught many hundreds of Sunrunners in my life—and the last one I will teach is you.”
Pol stared up at him, brief incomprehension whisked away by complete understanding—and gratitude.
Urival nodded. “When Meath says you’re ready, send for me. I’ll come to you wherever you are and teach you what you’ll need to know. Andrade wished it.”
They don’t want him taught by Andry. The realization horrified Tobin. The tall old Sunrunner turned his beautiful, implacable eyes on her, not without understanding and even compassion. But she had no time to lash out in her son’s defense. Ostvel had come in, and Alasen with him. The pair stopped just at the tapestry partition, the tense quiet startling them both. Alasen’s fingers sought Ostvel’s.
That single gesture was eloquent of all. Volog had thought to reward him; he had been rewarded with the love and the hand of Volog’s daughter.
Riyan was the first to get to his feet. He went to his father and clasped his shoulder, sharing a wordless moment as they looked into each other’s eyes. Then he held out his other hand to Alasen. She placed her fingers within it; he raised her palm to his lips.
Sorin’s jaw had dropped open in amazement. Tobin thought that very odd and resolved to ask him about it later. But all her questions soon became unnecessary. For as the others, led by Rohan and Sioned, came forward to embrace the couple and express their joy—more than welcome on this sad, strange night—Andry came in.
The silence was even more sudden than before, and just as terrible. Sorin set down the winecup and started toward his twin. Hollis took an involuntary step back, clutching Maarken’s arm. Chay glanced around from making a remark to Sioned. She turned stricken eyes to Rohan; his expression changed and he drew breath to speak.
But Andry had already overheard too much. Tobin ached for his pain as he stared glassy-eyed at Alasen and Ostvel. The young woman’s green eyes filled with tears. Andry’s gaze went from her face to the pleading fingers she held out to him—and when he looked up again, at Ostvel this time, his eyes were incandescent with furious hurt.
“You should know better,” he said very softly, “than to interfere in the affairs of Sunrunners, my lord.”
Tobin understood then why Andrade and Urival did not want Pol taught by the new Lord of Goddess Keep. She raged silently at her kinswoman for showing Andry everything of how power was used and nothing of when not to use it. Andry lifted his hands, scant four rings glittering—and Fire gathered between his fingers to outblaze even that in his eyes.
Sickened, Riyan took a step toward Andry. “At least be honest about it,” he rasped. “You don’t give a damn about what he did for Lyell and Kiele.”
Andry didn’t seem to hear. Ostvel pushed Alasen toward Sioned and faced the young man, his eyes like winter.
The Lord of Goddess Keep held the sphere of Fire cupped between his hands, cold white-gold Fire like captured starshine, giving off light but no warmth. He looked briefly at Urival. “You should have read more in the scrolls,” he murmured.
“And you should never have read them at all. I’m the only one who can give you the ten rings, Andry. Stop this or you’ll never wear them. You may put them around your fingers, but they’ll stay hollow.”
The fury shone in his eyes, the Fire in his hands.
“Andry.” Rohan spoke into the terrible silence. “Please.”
The pale flames wavered as he heard the High Prince, his cherished uncle, say that word to him. He looked once more at Alasen’s tear-streaked face, then down at the Fire. It died softly. The lines of his face crumpled int
o anguish for just an instant before he straightened his shoulders, his expression one of desperate pride.
“I regret. . . .” He bit his lip and tried again, and his mother moaned softly for the pain she could never comfort. “My Lord Urival, there’s nothing to keep us here. Tomorrow morning we leave for Goddess Keep.” Alone, his eyes said as one last time he looked at Alasen. He swept his gaze around the other faces, then bowed slightly to Rohan. He left the tent swiftly, not quite running.
Sorin was gone into the night after him before anyone could tell him not to. Chay slumped into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
“Gentle Goddess,” he said in a muffled voice. “Why didn’t I see? He’s my son.” His hands dropped to his knees and he met Urival’s gaze. “Stay with him. Help him. He’s so young, Urival. He’s so young.”
Tobin shook off Hollis’ tender hand, stumbled into Pol’s private chamber alone, and wept.
It was nearly dawn before Sioned gathered enough courage to ask.
“Beloved . . . how did you know what to say?”
Rohan turned his long-empty winecup between his hands. “His pride had been demolished. I had to restore it.” He looked up with a bitter smile. “How many people have ever heard the High Prince plead?”
She nodded at his wisdom. “He might have killed Ostvel.”
“I know. I understand it. I was about his age when I found you. If I’d lost you the way he lost Alasen—I might have been tempted to do the same thing.”
Shocked, she protested, “You would never have—”
“Wouldn’t I? Love is even more powerful than those faradhi gifts of yours, Sioned. Romantics would call us living proof of that.”
“So you understood his pride, and humbled your own.” She hesitated a moment. “Pol won’t.”
“No. But maybe he won’t have to.” Rohan set the cup aside and got to his feet, moving like an old man. “He’ll have Urival’s knowledge. And power much different than Andry’s.”