by Melanie Rawn
“I—I’m not sure,” she said, frowning. “It was very quick. I saw myself standing on the cliffs at my parents’ farm.”
It was a six-day journey to her home in coastal Syr. That was a long time in comparison to her other visions. But this concerned him less than the other aspect of her sight. No simple, everyday occurrences, but major events—or things that would become so in time. He had tried to puzzle out why she had seen the birth of Sionell’s son; there had been no visions when the children of other athr’im were born. He could only wonder what role the boy would play when he was grown. The death of Milosh’s wife had shown its significance quickly: grief-stricken, he stayed at his estates long enough to see her ashes blow away on the wind, then rode off into the hills. Pirro of Fessenden pleaded with Andry through his court Sunrunner to find his brother before he did himself some injury in his mad flight. Andry obliged—and worked devri spells at a great distance when it was seen that Milosh was in the hands of a sorcerer with a grudge against Pirro. Milosh had escaped with his life and a loathing of diarmadh’im that rivaled Chiana’s—she who had also been used by a sorcerer. Andry had been able to rid the continent of one more enemy—and not in Princemarch, where Pol could make self-righteous objections. The death of Milosh’s wife had been the catalyst.
Now, however, he could not fathom why Brenlis should have seen herself on the shores near her home. “Perhaps it was only a wish, a memory,” he suggested.
“That’s possible,” she said, and seemed relieved.
But he couldn’t make himself believe it. “Brenlis, if you want to go home and see your family . . . .”
She smiled and shook her head. “I miss them sometimes, especially my little brother. But my home is here, at Goddess Keep.”
He waited for her to add, With you. He was a fool to expect it, but couldn’t help hoping. “Come inside. It’s getting chilly.”
He read to her while she sewed a new dress for their daughter, Merisel, thinking with amusement how astounded the others would be to see them. Just like an old married couple. Sometimes she asked for stories of his childhood or Desert legends, but most of all she loved to have him read to her. She was as mind-hungry as he had been in his youth, but with a tragic difference: she could not read. It had not been thought necessary for the child of a farmer, so she had never been taught. In her four years here she had tried again and again to learn, but without success. She confused letters, her mind making them into so many meaningless ink squiggles on a page. It was Jolan’s opinion that the Goddess had given her one gift in exchange for another. Brenlis could write her name, and that was all.
Andry read to her that night from a book recently sent from the scriptorium on Kierst. The story dated back hundreds of years before Sunrunners and diarmadh’im had battled for the continent, a thrilling and unlikely tale of a quest for a lost crown called a selej. It took until midnight to finish it, and he was dry-voiced and hoarse by the time he was done, but he had enjoyed the story and Brenlis had begged him to keep reading. He supposed that tales of the past must soothe a mind that so often saw the future.
Perhaps that was why she came to him: for refuge, quiet companionship. She never spoke of her own people or her home, or shared any of her thoughts or feelings unless he specifically asked. He had learned not to ask, schooling himself to patience. The night she spoke freely was the night he would know he had won her.
Whatever her elusiveness, it did not extend to rejection of physical pleasure. She had had no lover but him, ever since her first night when he had worn the Goddess’ illusion—and she had seen right through it. But tonight, even as she cried out in his arms, shuddering and clasping him ever closer, he knew he had not reached her heart. He never had. But someday, he promised himself, nestling her in his arms to sleep, someday . . . .
When he woke just before dawn, he was alone. Brenlis rarely stayed with him until morning. He buried his face for a moment in her pillow, scenting her in the silk, and wondered yet again if he ought to marry her. He was often near to asking, but supposed he was afraid she would refuse him—or, worse, accept for the wrong reasons.
It was Valeda who brought his breakfast, instead of the boy who usually waited on him. She obviously had something to discuss in private. In a single glance she took in the evidence of Brenlis’ presence the night before: rumpled sheets, the impression left in the second pillow, stray hairpins on the carpet. Valeda tended to take a rather proprietary interest in his bed life, though she was never so foolish as to display jealousy. She knew better, having observed Othanel, long-dead mother of his son Andrev, who had been tediously possessive.
“How are the children this morning?” he asked. Valeda looked after his three daughters and two sons as devotedly as if all of them, not just Chayly, were hers. To the two eldest in particular—Andrev, Othanel’s son, and Tobren, whom Rusina had never wanted—Valeda was the only mother they had ever known. Ulwis and Brenlis were more like fond aunts to Joscev and Merisel than mothers.
“They’re all quite well, my Lord.”
“Are they used to Tobren’s being gone yet?” He had sent his eldest girl, aged twelve, to foster with his brother Maarken—a calculated move on Andry’s part, and they all knew it.
“Tobren?” Valeda looked blank for a moment, then nodded. “Oh—they miss her very much, my Lord.”
“You’re formal today. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just a little nervous, perhaps. Today we test Evarin’s idea, after all.” She paused. “Brenlis rode out at dawn. Alone.”
“She did? Why?” He sat straighter, frowning.
“Word came on first light that her brother is ill. Torien gave permission. She was frantic, poor thing.”
“Why didn’t she take one of the physicians with her?”
“The Sunrunner who sent the message is a Master Physician. Thelyn—you remember him, the itinerant faradhi who rides Syr and Gilad.”
So Brenlis had been correct in her seeing; within days she would in truth be standing on the grassy bluffs of her home. “Very well. I wish she’d taken an escort, though.”
Valeda’s lips quirked in an almost-smile. “Young she may be, and with only two rings—but none could mistake those rings and none would dare even think wickedness toward a Sunrunner. Your doing, my Lord.”
“Not entirely.”
“Don’t worry about her. They know she’s coming, and will probably send someone to meet her. Besides, consider the country she’ll be traveling in.”
Not all diarmadh’im had fled to the Veresch all those years ago after defeat at Lady Merisel’s hands. While most had sought refuge in Princemarch, some had blended into the populations of the other lands. Only last winter Thelyn had found a tiny community living in the Catha Hills, and a year earlier a pair had been discovered in Gilad. Their homes now stood empty, marked on the doors with the sunburst that had become the Goddess’ sign.
“I suppose you’re right, and I shouldn’t be concerned for her safety,” Andry said. “They have a healthy respect for Sunrunners in the south. Besides, she saw this last night—or at least herself at her parents’ home.”
“Did she? An odd talent, this sight. I don’t think I’d choose to have it.”
“At times I don’t think Brenlis likes it, either.”
“Her absence won’t affect the problem in Grib, will it?”
A slow smile spread over his face. “Not at all. I don’t have to promise that the future will be foreseen—I only have to hint that it might.”
“You enjoy tweaking the High Prince’s nose, don’t you?”
“Not his, and not the nose. Pol’s pride. And don’t tell me again that it may get me in trouble one day.”
“I wouldn’t presume,” Valeda said. “You always know what you’re doing—and how far to take it.”
“Your faith warms me,” he drawled. Then more briskly, “Well, shall we go over the working Evarin proposes?”
A broad grin lit her face, uncharacteristic in its a
lmost malicious glee. “I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s already been done,” Valeda said in Rusina’s voice.
Andry sat straight up in bed, gaping.
She called out, “You can come in now,” and the bedchamber door opened to admit Evarin—looking indecently pleased with himself—Oclel, and a second Valeda. The real one. Andry was thunderstruck. The dark blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, and sturdy build of the woman seated nearby changed. Dark curls clustered around a high, polished forehead, and the figure fined down to dainty elegance.
Rusina laughed as he greeted the change with a gasp, then rose and went to her husband. “Perhaps I should try it out on you some night, now that I’m good enough to fool even Andry!”
Oclel made a face at her. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Andry closed his jaw and felt his lips thin angrily at the trick played on him—her vengeance at last for fathering Tobren on her during her first night. She’d even forgotten that the girl was at Whitecliff—which Valeda never would have done. That ought to have told him something was wrong. Rusina cared nothing for the daughter he’d given her. It had been her own damned fault, he reminded himself sharply; if she hadn’t been silent about her feelings for Oclel, if she hadn’t hesitated so long to Choose him publicly, Andry would never have given her a child.
The others were laughing, too: Evarin at his own cleverness, Oclel at his wife’s impudence, Valeda at Andry. He realized that he would have to join in or look even more of a fool. Forcing a rather weak chuckle, he shook his head.
“I ought to toss the lot of you on the next ship to Kierst! How dare you!”
“Don’t blame me,” Oclel said. “It was Evarin’s idea.”
“And you gladly volunteered, didn’t you?” he asked Rusina, who grinned again and nodded. “Congratulations. I never suspected a thing. I want a complete explanation after I’ve—”
“Soothed your pride?” Valeda offered, smiling. “Poor Andry! It really was rotten to do it this way, but Evarin insisted on a graphic demonstration of success.”
“Nonsense,” Andry growled. “You did it to humiliate me. Now, get out before I change my mind and ask Prince Tilal to lend me his oldest, smallest, leakiest ship and send you all on a long ocean voyage. Out!”
All but Valeda left him. “I’ll help you bathe. The best cure I know for injured pride is a nice, hot soak.”
He followed her into the bathroom. “You’re a miserable, disrespectful, incorrigible group and I don’t know why I put up with you.”
“Yes, my Lord,” she agreed, and twisted the faucets. The silver spigot gushed forth steaming water from the closed cistern on the roof, heated by the sun in summer and by fire the rest of the year. The tub drain connected to the pipes of the middens, flushing them out every time someone took a bath. Modern plumbing was Andry’s contribution to comfort at Goddess Keep—grossly expensive, but worth it.
Valeda tested his bath water and gestured for him to get in. She scooped up a cake of herb-scented soap, a soft brush, and a razor, obviously intending to give him a thorough bath and shave.
“I’m quite capable of washing myself,” he said.
“Don’t sulk. And it’s always wise to be nice to the lady with the razor.”
He grinned and submitted to her ministrations. She rubbed soap down his back and he leaned into her strong, massaging hands. “I consider myself warned. But I refuse to be placated by pampering. You’re all going to Kierst as soon as I can find a boat.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“And don’t think you can get around me by being sweet to me.”
“Of course not, my Lord. Although I’d be more inclined to believe you if you weren’t purring like a hunting cat in the sun.”
He chuckled unwillingly. After a few moments’ silence, he said, “Rusina really enjoyed fooling me.”
Valeda shrugged. “She’s always held a grudge.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“Not your fault she got pregnant?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. But the mistake was made just the same.”
He was quiet for a moment, then burst out, “How in all Hells did she and Evarin do this, anyway? I thought it was only in the planning stages.”
“If I tell you, will you promise not to shout at them?”
“Well . . . .”
“Promise, Andry.”
He sighed. “Just keep rubbing my back.”
She walked her thumbs down either side of his spine. “They used dranath.”
“They what?”
“Oh, come now. We’ve all experimented with it. If it makes you feel better about Rusina, consider the headache she’ll have for the rest of the day.”
Andry jerked away and turned to grab her wrist. “She used it without my permission. How dare any of you—”
Valeda responded by dumping a pitcher of cool water over his head to rinse him off. “Stop being so damned self-righteous!” she snapped. “As if you had a lock and key on power!”
Letting her go, he snatched up a towel and got out of the tub. “Don’t you understand how dangerous this is?”
“That’s never stopped you. And it’s from you that we all take our example, my Lord,” she said acidly. “In case it had escaped your notice.”
He scrubbed himself vigorously with the towel, glaring at her. “Tell me the rest.”
“Not while you’re yelling at me.”
“I promised to spare them, not you. By the Goddess, Valeda, you of all people should know better than to countenance this!”
“Who said I did?” She stalked out of the bathroom and into his bedchamber. Andry followed, the towel wrapped around his waist.
“Explain yourself,” he ordered.
Valeda whirled, blue-gray eyes flashing. Yet her voice was tightly controlled, her words clipped. “How would you react, my Lord, if you opened your chamber door one morning and looked into your own face?”
• • •
The four culprits sat in chairs before Andry’s huge desk. Subdued now, uneasy at his silence, they did not look like children brought up before their schoolmaster after some transgression, but instead like adults caught playing like children with something much too dangerous.
Andry let them wait. He sat straight-spined and unmoving in his chair, his hands with their ten gleaming rings flat on the polished wood before him. Four rings were set with tiny rubies or diamonds, tokens of his lineage in the colors of his father’s holding. The rest were plain gold or silver, connected by chains as fine as woven hairs to bracelets clasping his wrists. The left cuff was gold, set with a huge, irregular cabochon lump of darkest blue sapphire. There was a similarly sized moonstone, smooth and milky and glowing, in the silver encircling his right wrist. He had chosen the gems and bracelets himself some years ago when he felt himself to be truly the Lord of Goddess Keep. The sapphire represented truth; the moonstone, wisdom; together with the virtue signified by rubies and the cunning of diamonds, they were the jewels he considered most symbolic of his aspirations. That rubies also meant success in war afforded him a grim private smile. Andrade had worn a different gem on each finger, taking unto herself all the traditional symbolism. Andry had not done the same—not because he was more modest than Andrade, or less ambitious, but because his ambitions were more keenly focused.
There were no windows in this room to spill the day’s sunlight onto the jewels, but by candlelight they danced and sparkled just the same. Andry had made this chamber his office primarily because no outside light ever shone in it. He wanted no prying eyes, either Sunrunner directed by Pol or Sioned, or sorcerer directed by persons unknown. He eliminated the risk of flames lit here by hand, fire that might be used by someone else to watch him, by igniting candles only with his own Sunrunner’s Fire. Today, if any diarmadh’im attempted observation by unfamiliar means, Torien would sense it: he had the Old Blood in his veins, and in the presence of sorcery his faradhi rings would burn as if to sear the
flesh from his bones.
So Andry felt perfectly safe in discussing this new and dangerous working here—one of the few places in Goddess Keep that was indeed secure. But discuss he did not, and would not until his people had had the chance to appreciate the fine points of the morning’s trick.
He kept his gaze on them, waiting for the moment when none of them had the temerity to look at him. As expected, Rusina was the last to submit. The others—Oclel, Torien, even the usually irrepressible Evarin—had been staring at their folded hands for a long while now. But Rusina kept stealing small glances at him, smug amusement slowly becoming resentment. When her gaze finally lowered for good, Andry spoke.
“Now,” he said softly, “since you’ve all had the chance to consider your actions—would one of you care to tell me how in all Hells you did it?”
Evarin cleared his throat. “We didn’t mean—my Lord, it was just—”
“—too good to pass up,” Andry finished. “I understand. I even forgive you for startling me out of five years of my life. You’ll have to make your own peace with poor Valeda for showing up at her door like that this morning.” He grinned. “Start explaining or I really will find that ship.”
Evarin exhaled in relief and began. Andry listened, and remembered another experiment when another ruler of Goddess Keep had received a shock and another arrogant youth had done the shocking.
“—and so when I realized the working done for a first night could be adapted, I asked Rusina to help. She’s familiar with it and was willing to try the variation. A few days ago we succeeded in changing her enough to make her unrecognizable as Rusina. But we couldn’t get her to look like another specific person. That’s when we went to Torien and came up with the dranath idea.”
The chief steward nodded. “We know that it augments power. But there’s nothing in the Star Scroll about shape-changing. We’ve had to go about it on our own. This seemed the logical approach—especially considering that Mireva certainly and Princess Ianthe’s sons probably were addicted to dranath.”