by Melanie Rawn
“Not even my mother’s own brother?”
“No. Fifty people is too many, Pol. It’s not that I don’t trust the others, but unless they have a real reason to know, it’s better and safer if they don’t.” He sighed and stretched his shoulders. “And now that you know the background, I can tell you the rest. These caves won’t last. The dragons haven’t been here in Goddess knows how long, and they won’t ever come near the place again. People have swarmed all over it for too long.”
“But what about the Hatching Hunts at Rivenrock?”
“That was a single day every three years. These caves have been worked almost every day for over thirty. The other side of the canyon is played out. This side has only a few caves like this one left.”
“There’s Rivenrock, though, isn’t there? We could—oh!” Pol sat up straighter. “The dragons need those caves!”
“And they won’t ever return if we do there what’s been done here. Ideally, we’ll be able to lure them back somehow, and work the caves they use now, north of here.”
“Near Feruche,” Pol said.
“Yes.” A handful of sand was clenched in strong fingers. The topaz and emerald ring spat fire. “Your mother wants me to rebuild the castle there. It looks as if I may have to.”
Something about his tone of voice warned Pol not to ask why he was so reluctant to talk about Feruche. “But, Father, we can’t touch those caves either, or the dragons won’t have anyplace to hatch. They won’t go back to Rivenrock, and that’s the only place with enough caves to make sure of a large population of dragons.”
“So you see, Pol, learning is easy and making things work is hard.” Dusting off his hands, he got to his feet. “And now you know all about the dragons and their gold. I didn’t want to worry you with it so soon, but. . . .” He finished with a shrug.
“Are you sorry you had to tell me?”
“No. Better to have one more good brain at work on the problem. Our difficulties aren’t immediate, after all. Ostvel estimates another eight to ten years before these caves are emptied. We’ll think of something by then.”
“We’d better,” Pol said, rising. He tossed the shard back into the cave and started for its mouth, then turned back as Rohan cleared his throat. “Don’t tell me there’s even more to talk about?”
“No, just a little something you’ve forgotten.” He pointed at the thin finger-flame still hovering above the sand.
Embarrassed, Pol dampened the Fire with his mind.
“It’s a good thing we agreed not to tell Andrade,” Rohan added. “You’d never live it down!”
Far from the caves of dragon gold, Lady Andrade was enjoying the last of a perfect day. The gold she saw around her was a misted glow of sunset that turned the sea to ripples of tawny velvet. She had loosened her hair down her back and shoulders like a young girl’s, and the soft breeze through her windows stirred the silver-gilt strands around her face. Like all faradh’im, she was a creature of sunlight; winter storms and fog oppressed her spirit. But now, with the wealth of spring around her and the promise of summer in the air, she felt truly alive again.
Leaning one shoulder against the stone framing the window, she folded her arms and sighed with pleasure as the sun flushed warmth through her bones and across her cheeks. Her morbid winter murmurings about age and death were forgotten; she always felt that way when rain-clouds darkened the sky. But the last chills had been warmed from her muscles and blood stirred fresh and strong in her veins again. She chuckled and she swore she’d outlive them all.
It had been an interesting day, and for two people in the keep it would be an even more interesting night. The youth Sejast had been tested that morning for his first ring, and nearly called up a bonfire. But he had neither blushed nor stammered out an apology for his lack of control. He was strong and he knew it. Andrade looked forward to teaching him the fine art of restraint over the next years; she had done it before with young men and women even more gifted than he and even more eager to explore their powers. But she had to admit that his arrogance—that was the only word for it—found its match in Andry alone.
Or in herself, basic honesty compelled her to acknowledge. She chuckled again, wondering how her long-ago teachers had managed to keep from throttling her. She almost wished she was still young enough to have Sejast’s man-making night for herself, for she knew she could go a long way toward taming him. But she trusted to Morwenna’s skills in the matter. A Sunrunner of eight rings and thirty-five winters, Morwenna had enough Fire in her to scorch even young Sejast quite nicely.
A soft knock at her door turned her head from the vista of sunset over the sea, and she called, “Come in, Urival. It’s open.” But it was not her chief steward who entered: rather, as if conjured by her thoughts, Morwenna hobbled into the room. She looked vastly irritated and in a fair degree of pain. Andrade went to her at once, demanding, “What happened? Here, come sit down.”
“Thank you, my Lady. What happened? Stupidest thing in the world.” She sank into a chair and slapped a palm against her thigh in disgust. “I tripped over my own shadow is what happened. You know that bad step in the library that everybody avoids? Well, in avoiding it I stumbled and fell. I’m afraid you’ll have to send someone else to Sejast tonight.”
“I hope you’ve had your injury treated by now.”
“Of course. Nothing broken, just bruised. But it hurts something fierce.” She raked black hair from her eyes. “The Goddess might lend me her spell for the night, but I doubt even she could disguise this.” She hiked up her skirt to show the livid mark on her dark skin. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
“Very. You’re lucky you didn’t break anything. Well, tell me who you’d send in your place.”
Morwenna settled her skirt once more and leaned back. “I regret the lost chance, believe me. He’ll be a difficult one to manage and I was looking forward to it.” She grinned as Andrade gave a snort. Even for a hot-blooded Fironese, Morwenna’s wholehearted enjoyment of making boys into men was nearly scandalous. “Jobyna’s too tame, Vessie isn’t quite secure enough in the art for someone as perceptive as Sejast seems to be. I’d send Fenice but she’s at the wrong point in her cycle. Eridin would do for him, and I think Hollis is capable, if she isn’t moping about Maarken today.”
“Hmm.” Andrade sat down and tapped her fingers against the arms of her chair. “Have you seen Hollis and Sejast in each other’s company?”
“No more than the other faradh’im associate with newcomers. They’ve spoken, surely. But the Goddess takes care of secrecy.”
“The Goddess,” Andrade responded dryly, “trusts us to use our wits. I don’t trust people who know each other well—”
“Oh, come now! Of the five it could have been for me, I’d grown up with three of them right here at the keep, the fourth was my tutor, and the fifth was someone I’d planted the whole herb garden with that spring! And I never knew which of them it really was.”
“Point taken,” Andrade conceded. “It’ll be Hollis then, I suppose. Is the time right for her?”
“She’s safe. But I’ll admit I’m curious about what kind of children might come of that boy. If he hasn’t already left one or two behind him.” She chuckled.
“That’s a bet not even Sioned would take,” Andrade agreed. “Go put a compress on that leg. I’ll have your dinner sent up to you.”
Morwenna sighed. “Not exactly the evening I’d had planned. But no matter. Shall I go tell Hollis?”
“I’ll do it. You get your weight off that gorgeous bruise.” Andrade smiled. “And I promise to have the step fixed.”
“It’d be a help. There’s nothing to be done about my clumsiness.” She grimaced as she got to her feet and limped out.
Andrade’s fingers continued to drum an ever-changing rhythm. If Hollis was lost in fancies about Maarken—well, that was too bad. She was not his wife yet. And she was, and would always be, a Sunrunner. She had worked the spell two or three times since her outrageous
disobedience in going to Maarken for his man-making night, and Andrade was reasonably sure he knew about those times. But a woman’s body was her own, even when her heart had been given. Hollis was not even Maarken’s official Chosen yet. The girl knew her duty as a Sunrunner.
As she braided her hair before leaving her chambers to find Hollis, Andrade was aware that it was not so much the girl’s suitability for the task that made her Andrade’s choice as it was this possibly last chance to remind her of her commitment to Goddess Keep. Andrade was prepared to see another of her faradh’im married to a royal lord—but she was damned if she’d see another Sunrunner remove every ring but the one her husband had given her. Hollis would do her duty. She would not be another Sioned.
Segev volunteered to take Morwenna’s dinner up to her. It was the least he could do after engineering her fall.
It had been laughably easy to arrange. She always went to the library for an hour or two of study before the evening meal, preparing her notes for the next day’s classes. The faulty step had been his ally; everyone made the same movement to avoid it, and slicking the next one just enough to upset balance had done the trick. He had experimented the night before, careful not to succumb to his own ploy, then wiped the wood clean. This afternoon he had waited for Morwenna’s regular visit, and after she limped out, cursing under her breath, had emerged from his hiding place to blot up the traces of oil. The telltale cloth had been thrown down the cliff where the tide would carry it out to sea. No one had seen him, no one suspected that the accident was no accident, and he sat down to dinner with perfect unconcern.
Hollis was missing from her usual seat, and that was a good sign. But neither were Jobyna or Eridin present, and that was bad. Of course, he was taking a chance that someone other than Hollis would take Morwenna’s place tonight, but the golden-haired Sunrunner was only his preferred choice. Any of the others would have done just as well, though none were as pretty. It amused him that instinct had turned him to the Chosen lady of Lord Maarken, cousin to the boy who might lose Princemarch by the Rialla and who would certainly lose the Desert itself in a few years. Segev was increasingly committed to the notion that he and not his eldest brother Ruval would oust Pol from Stronghold, but it depended on proving himself to Mireva. He went upstairs early, tired of pretending embarrassment at the unsubtle jests of his companions. They were jealous. He had a new chamber all to himself, and a new status signified by the plain silver ring on his right middle finger, earned before any of them had called so much as a fleeting spark of Fire. He escaped their teasing as soon as he could and went upstairs to explore his new surroundings.
He had been too young when Feruche fell to recall the luxuries there, but something in him hungered for beautiful things: silk sheets, thick carpets, tapestries, elegant furniture, and huge rooms to display it all in. His new chamber had none of those things. There was a narrow bed, a small table beside it, an empty brazier, and a small chest for clothes. On the bedside table was a basin for washing and a plain pottery jar he had filled with wine that morning. Now he laced it liberally with dranath and sipped a little himself, relishing the unmistakable glow it brought to his body.
Segev lay down naked in bed and mimed sleep. But as time passed he grew impatient, wondering if they’d forgotten about him. How did other youths behave when they knew it was to be their man-making night? He was nervous, but not in the ways they would have been. Every step outside in the hallway quickened his pulse, yet his door stayed closed. The darkness thickened in his windowless chamber and the sheets began to chafe him. He turned onto his left side, then his right, threw the sheets to the floor and dragged them back up again.
Something had gone wrong, he was sure of it. The old bitch Andrade had become suspicious. Someone had discovered traces of grease on the step. His disguise had been penetrated. They were about to drag him out of bed and use all their arts to make him tell everything he knew about Mireva and the stone circle in the forest and—
A crack of light appeared around his door, defining it as a tall rectangle. He sat bolt upright in bed, sweat clogging his hair and skin. Someone entered—no, something, a glimmering mist without colors, so pallid as to be almost transparent. The door became darkness again, blending into the greater night, but the subtle formless glow glided toward him, casting neither light nor shadow. He tried to still his pounding heart as he felt a gentle finger run softly across his lips. He had not been this agitated with Mireva, nor with the peasant girl to whom he’d lost his virginity at the age of thirteen.
He was on fire.
The hazy light drifted closer and he reached up, his arms closing around a slender female form. Tremors shot through him and he gasped. Pulling her down beside him he forgot Mireva, his brothers, the reason he was at Goddess Keep—everything. He knew only the dizzying fragrance of her, the suppleness of her, the ancient implicit challenge of her flesh whispering against his own.
Their first coupling spent him quickly. He lay back panting, drenched in sweat, humiliated that he had not lasted longer. A vague memory of Mireva in her youthful guise flickered across his memory; why had she never told him how powerful faradhi magic was in this act? The woman, whoever she was, existed only as a faint luminous glow. His fingers could touch her, but he could not identify the shape of nose and brow and mouth, the contours of breasts and hips that would tell him who she was. He could not see the color of the hair cascading around him. He hoped it was golden, and that it was Hollis in his arms, but could not bring himself to care if it was not; her lips were teaching him things not even Mireva had known, bringing him to life again when he had feared the night might be over for him.
He was given longer to recover the second time. Having acquitted himself with better skill, and prepared for the blinding pleasure of her body, he regained his breath and presence of mind sooner. He reached for her hands, trying to feel the number of rings. But there were none, and that frightened him. Shock cleared his head. Real Sunrunners were not even supposed to be curious about who had come to them. He must make no more mistakes. He must remembered what he had to do.
Segev opened his mouth to suggest they have some wine—and discovered he could not make a sound. He knew his own voice had echoed the woman’s cries of pleasure, but now his tongue felt strange and thick in his mouth, his lips seemed numb, and his throat closed up, nearly choking him. Truly scared now, he wrenched away from soothing hands and fell to his knees beside the low bed, clutching tumbled sheets in both fists. She was a dream, nothing more than a pale ghost without definition or identity. If faradhi powers were this formidable—he reached for the wine and swallowed two large gulps, needing the dranath to replenish his courage.
Her fingers closed around his and she took the pottery jug from him. She drank deeply. Segev’s hand slipped as she gave the jug back and wine spilled onto his knees. He heard a whimsical, misted laugh from very far away as she coaxed him back up onto the bed.
When the morning chime sounded outside in the hall, he woke with a spasm of terror. She was gone. He was limp and exhausted, barely able to roll onto his side and sit up. Carefully he called a little Fire into the brazier and by its light inspected the wine jar. Most of the liquid was gone.
Had he gulped down too much? Had she swallowed enough? Anger burned along his tired nerves and he swore aloud. Why hadn’t Mireva warned him that Sunrunner arts were so potent?
He drained off the last of the drugged wine and lay back, gradually relaxing as it did its work. Perhaps Mireva had not known; perhaps he was now in a position to learn things she would never know. Perhaps, using such things, he could easily take Ruval’s place when it came time to defeat Prince Pol.
Perhaps Segev no longer needed Mireva at all.
Today he would go to the tree circle in the forest and seek his future in the Fire. The original plan had been that he only go through the motions, but he decided that he would indeed summon the magic—for if other things faradhi were as powerful as what had occurred last night, h
e might see things even Mireva could not.
The Sunrunners had taught him all the ritual words and all the correct things to do. He had paid attention for curiosity’s sake, for he had never intended to carry out the private ceremony in fact. But now he jumped from the bed and dressed in haste, eager to find out if the faradh’im possessed other, equally potent, spells. Combined with what Mireva had taught him he could—
Suddenly he stood still, his hands on the door latch. He would not be going to the forest as a true Sunrunner. In his diarmadhi blood throbbed an herb they feared as nothing else in the world. If the spell around the woman last night had been that of the Goddess Mireva had always taught him to deny, then was it possible that there might be vengeance on him for what he had done—and for what he planned to do?
He made himself open the door, shrugging off his superstitious fears. He had succeeded thus far. There was no reason to suppose he would not succeed with everything.
And he began to believe that he could have powers even greater than those Mireva possessed. He could take Princemarch and the Desert for his own, and become High Prince like his grandsire.
With Hollis at his side? He reminded himself to watch her and Jobyna and Eridin closely today for signs of dranath intake. He went downstairs smiling.
Chapter Ten
Sioned frowned with concentration, weighing the flat stone in her palm. Her audience waited nearby—Sionell holding her breath, Pol sorting through his own collection of rocks, and Walvis grinning as he stroked his neat black beard. The Lord of Remagev gestured invitingly to the calm surface of the lake. Sioned angled her arm carefully and sent the stone skimming out over the water.