by Melanie Rawn
Three colors were missing from the array below her, and there were corresponding gaps left for those who had not yet arrived. Her brother Davvi was due sometime today, and by evening his turquoise tents would rise near her own blue just as his princedom of Syr bordered the Desert. Princemarch’s violet would be established on the other side when Rohan, Pol, Maarken, and Pandsala rode in tomorrow. They had not taken the usual route down the Faolain to the Rialla, prohibited by the fact that neither Pol nor Maarken could set foot on anything that floated. Pandsala had no such difficulty, and it remained one of the curiosities of her Sunrunner abilities that she had no qualms about crossing water. Andrade and her suite—including Maarken’s intended wife—would arrive whenever Andrade felt like arriving. Her white tents would be set up apart from the rest. Sioned had made certain that several prime locations were left open for her, but just where the Lady would choose to make her camp was, as ever, her own affair.
Sioned sat back on her heels, lips pursed as she considered the meetings that would constitute the working portion of the Rialla for Rohan. The last three assemblies had been rather tame affairs compared to the first one she had attended. Trade agreements, boundary agreements, marriage agreements—nearly everyone had agreed on nearly everything. Sioned ascribed much of this amity to Rohan’s statesmanship and skill at weaving so many different personalities and aims into a more or less cohesive group. But though she knew his acumen was responsible for much of the concord between princes, other factors were involved. The Riall’im of 701 and 704 had been canceled; Plague had stunned the continent before the first and three years after that, Roelstra’s death had dealt everyone another shock. Sioned’s mouth tightened to a bitter line as she reflected that almost no one had believed Rohan could prevail over the powerful and cunning Roelstra. Memory of their final combat, a fight to the death beneath a dome of starlight woven by Sioned herself, could still make her shiver. Roelstra’s planned treachery had failed; Rohan had killed him in a fair fight. But the remembrance of the strain as she used forbidden starlight at an impossible distance was the stuff of nightmares.
In the years since then, the older princes had bided their time, waiting to see what kind of High Prince Rohan would become. The younger, less experienced ones had waited, too, watching for strengths and especially for weaknesses. By now they all had his measure as a man and as a prince. Despite his obvious power, they were anxious to test him.
She combed her fingers through the long grass, judging its moisture as a daughter of a farming lord had been taught to do. No grass grew in the Desert that had been her home for nearly half her life now, but the old habit was in her and, recognizing it, she smiled. Her childhood at River Run seemed very far away. The holding now belonged to Davvi’s younger son Tilal, who for eight years had been Rohan’s squire. Tilal was twenty-four and looking for a wife. Sioned reminded herself to get a wager going with her brother on how many young ladies would lose their hearts to the young lord’s black curls and brilliant green eyes. She anticipated a tidy profit from Davvi’s modesty regarding his offspring’s attractions.
If only family matters were all she need worry about. . . . She saw her fingers curve into dragon claws and consciously relaxed them. In a way, this purported son of Roelstra’s was a family matter. Her gaze raked the encampment and she totaled up the princes likely to favor the youth’s claim, if only to make trouble for Rohan. Miyon of Cunaxa was the prime candidate; a tall, thin, haughty man of thirty winters, he had finally managed to wrest control of his princedom from advisers who had ruled in his name for many years. He had executed them all, reportedly with his own sword. But though control of Cunaxa had changed, its policies had not. Miyon coveted the northern Desert and gave shelter to the Merida whose land it had long ago been. The Desert city of Tiglath, while not a port by any means, offered the only relatively safe harbor north of Radzyn. Cunaxan goods—wool, carpets, clothing, and the finest swords and metal-work in the princedoms—were mostly sent overland, for Lord Eltanin of Tiglath loathed the Merida even more than Rohan did and charged the Cunaxans huge sums for the right to load ships off his coast. More often than not the merchants chose caravans rather than ships, despite the expense of overland transport. Miyon was realist enough to keep from setting his sights on Radzyn to the south, where Prince Lleyn’s great cargo ships found anchorage, but he would always look hungrily at Tiglath. He would support the pretender’s claim whether he believed in it or not; anything to put pressure on Rohan to change Eltanin’s crippling port fees.
Cabar of Gilad and Velden of Grib were two more young princes aching to test Rohan’s authority. They had behaved themselves for quite a long time now, but there had been indications at the last Rialla that they were only looking for a convenient excuse for a challenge. Saumer of Isel might go either way, depending on his current desire to irritate Prince Volog, with whom he shared an island and a grandson. Likewise Prince Chale was questionable; he and Rohan were often opposed because Chale had cordially loathed Prince Zehava, Rohan’s father. Sioned suspected that Chale had supported Roelstra in his war against the Desert, but whatever proof might have existed had long since been ignored in the interests of princely amity. Rohan was very generous when it suited him. Still, Chale’s grief over the loss of his son and grandson might make him apathetic—which could be help or hindrance. Sioned had no way of knowing.
Those who would support Rohan were Lleyn, Volog, and Davvi. Of the remaining four princes, Clutha of Meadowlord would in all probability revert to his traditional position of neutrality. It was an old habit that died hard; Clutha had spent too long with one eye on each of his borders, wary lest his land become their battlefield yet again. As for Princemarch itself—Pandsala’s voice as regent would be raised against the pretender, but her influence would be negligible. If it was decided that this man was who he said he was, Pandsala would be out of a job. Pimantal of Fessenden could, quite simply, be bought with a few hundred square measures of leaderless Firon, whose representative would have no vote in the matter at all. Neither would Rohan or Pandsala.
It was interesting that the tents below were grouped pretty much along political lines. Those of Cabar, Velden, and Miyon were to the west; Lleyn and Volog were near Sioned’s own blue tents and the spaces left for Davvi and Pandsala; Clutha, Pimantal, Saumer, Chale, and the black pavilion housing Lady Eneida of Firon were to the east. Three to be watched, three to be sure of, and four to be swayed if possible. She wondered what Rohan might offer to win the doubters—and which of their nervous fears Miyon would play on to gain their support for his side.
All this was assuming, of course, that conclusive proof either way could not be offered regarding this pretender. Sometimes Sioned believed that Andrade and Pandsala would be able to convince everyone straight off that Chiana was the child born to Roelstra’s mistress, Lady Palila. But she was also a realist, and as she gazed moodily down at the tents where ambitious princes plotted for their own advantage, she knew that she and Rohan had to be prepared for the worst.
She got to her feet and stretched, glancing automatically to the north, where Rohan and Pol were even now riding toward Waes. She had much to tell them of the detour she had taken with Chay and Tobin back to Radzyn to collect horses for sale; their progress through Syr and Meadowlord had had all the grace and dignity of a threatening stampede. But she was more concerned with hearing the details of their summer. Maarken had kept her informed on the sunlight, and she had done some judicious observing herself at various times—most especially to reassure herself that Pol was unharmed after the disastrous climbing expedition at Castle Crag. But she wanted to hear it all from her husband and son, and most of it from Rohan—preferably in bed.
That reminded her of certain arrangements she wished to make. She ran back down the hill, arriving breathless at her pavilion. Tobin had helped herself to Rohan’s large desk, going over her notes for the breakfast she always served to the princes on the fourth morning of the Rialla. The princess looked up as
Sioned entered, and smiled.
“Do you know, even after all these years, I can’t find a single improvement to make in Camigwen’s plans? She was an absolute marvel of organization.”
“Stronghold still runs according to her orders. Can you imagine what she would have made of Skybowl if she’d gotten her hands on it? Although I must say Ostvel hasn’t done too badly.”
“What are you doing?” Tobin asked as Sioned opened a chest and rummaged through its contents.
“Collecting a few things. I’m planning a surprise for Rohan.”
Tobin laughed as Sioned held up two familiar wine goblets. “Those can’t be the same ones you bought at the Fair twenty-one years ago!”
“Of course they are. And when Davvi arrives I’m going to steal a bottle of his best mossberry wine, and—what’s all that racket outside?”
Both women left the private area of the pavilion and poked their heads outside. Sioned asked the guard on duty what all the fuss was in aid of; he saluted casually and replied, “I think it’s his grace Prince Davvi arrived, my lady. Shall I send a squire and ask him to attend you here?”
She was already running to meet her brother, dodging past horses, baggage wains, and servants clothed in turquoise. Davvi had become Prince of Syr after the death of their close kinsman Jastri in Roelstra’s war against Rohan; though not born to the honor, Davvi had proved a capable ruler and an ally for reasons of friendship and philosophy as well as blood bond.
He turned from ordering the arrangement of his tents when his sister called his name. He was very little like her in appearance, except for the green eyes that flashed as he swung her up in his arms. “Look at you—High Princess, indeed! Dressed in your oldest riding leathers, your hair a wreck, boots scuffed—what a disaster you are, Sioned!”
She made a face at him. “That’s hardly the way to address the High Princess! You’re looking well, Davvi—there’s a bit more of you than there used to be, but it’s very becoming.” She poked him playfully in the stomach.
“Oof! I resent that!” He pinched her chin and laughed again. “But look who I’ve brought with me, Sioned.”
She turned and found Kostas and Tilal nearby. After hugging them both, she stood back to look them over. “Davvi, how did you ever manage to produce such gorgeous sons? Goddess knows, you’re nothing to look at. Kostas, you get more princely every time I see you. And Tilal—have you gotten taller again?”
“Not unless you’ve gotten shorter,” he replied. “I know for a fact you’ve gotten more beautiful. Hasn’t she, Kostas?”
“Unfair to every other woman at the Rialla,” the elder of the brothers replied, shaking his head with regret.
“Save your pretty speeches for the girls whose hearts you’ll be breaking,” she retorted.
They were indeed a handsome pair. Tilal was slightly taller, his striking green eyes set in a face crowned by glossy black curls. Kostas conceded nothing to his brother in looks; his waving brown hair was smoothly swept back from almost black eyes, and his solidly muscular body was broader through the shoulders, though just as lean through the waist and hips. Sioned revised her plan of wagering on Tilal’s conquests to include Kostas as well. Between them they would have every unmarried female in fifty measures aflutter. Sioned grinned and told them so.
Davvi snorted his opinion. “They’re quite conceited enough, thank you. Don’t encourage them! Let’s go for a walk while they do a little honest work for a change and help get everything put together. We can catch up on all the news.”
She took Davvi’s arm and they set off toward the river. Parental pride kept them talking about their children for quite some time as they walked along the riverbank. A family dinner was agreed on for that evening at Davvi’s tents and at his insistence. “You have enough to worry about without watching half your food stores inhaled by my two gluttons.”
“Oh, very well. But I’ll bring the wine. Now tell me what’s troubling you.”
“That obvious? All right. I need your opinion and your advice, Sioned.”
“It sounds serious.”
“It is. You know Wisla always meant for Kostas to marry Gemma, and they’ve both resisted it. At first I think it was because of what happened to her brother Jastri. But I’ve made sure she’s treated as a Princess of Syr, and she’s continued to live at her childhood home. We’ve done everything possible for her, including a dowry if she chooses someone other than Kostas.”
“But now she’s dowered with all of Ossetia as Chale’s heiress. I begin to see the problem—but go on.”
“It’s fairly plain. Gemma’s mother was Chale’s sister, and whoever she marries will become Prince of Ossetia. Goddess, all this tangle over inheritances—is it my imagination or is it worse than anything that’s ever happened before? Which reminds me, what about this supposed son of Roelstra’s?”
“Later,” she said, shaking her head. “Tell me about Gemma.”
Davvi pushed a willow branch aside for her. “Kostas is handsome, charming when he pleases, capable enough in governance—and a fool. Once word came that Inoat and young Jos were dead . . . well, he couldn’t have handled it worse. He’s ambitious without the cleverness to disguise it, Sioned. If he’d been smart, he would have used the opportunity to comfort Gemma, be the one she turned to in her grief. She was very close to her Ossetian cousins, for all that Inoat was so much older than she.” He paused thoughtfully. “Gemma’s a girl of deep and rather stubborn feelings. The kind who decides and then never wavers from the decision no matter what.”
“Not the best quality in a ruler, but—no matter. Go on.”
He smiled briefly. “I hear the High Princess talking. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yes. Kostas couldn’t hide his excitement and announced to everyone that they’d be married here at the Rialla. She reacted the way any proud and high-strung girl would. She positively won’t have him, Sioned, and he’s equally determined to marry her so he can add Ossetia to Syr when I’m gone.”
“Oh, dear,” Sioned murmured.
Davvi bent and picked up a few loose pebbles from the riverbank, throwing them idly into the water. “I’m fond of the girl. She came to replace Riaza, the daughter Wisla and I lost in the Plague. But I like her for herself, too—and I’ll admit that it’s partly because she’s shown no interest in marrying Kostas just to make herself Princess of Syr.”
“He can be a little difficult at times,” she observed diplomatically.
Davvi snorted. “He can be a damned idiot, as his recent actions indicate! Gemma was in no hurry to find a husband—but now I’m afraid she’ll take anyone rather than Kostas. I want her to be happy. She was a great comfort to me when Wisla died two winters ago. She and Danladi—that’s Roelstra’s daughter by Lady Aladra—they brighten up life for an old man like me.”
“Danladi?”
“Quiet child, blonde hair, very shy. It’s an odd friendship, because Gemma’s so strong-willed.”
“Even odder—Roelstra was the one who led Jastri into the war that cost him his life.”
“I told you Gemma’s impulsive in her likes and dislikes. They’re the same age, and were only children when Roelstra and Jastri died—and they’re both exiles of a sort, I suppose. They’re like daughters to me, Sioned.”
She crouched down on the gravelly bank and began sorting pebbles. “Kostas can’t drag Gemma kicking and screaming to the Lastday marriages, you know.” Her brother made no answer, merely sat on his heels at her side, and she glanced at him, startled. “Don’t tell me he’d dishonor her and force her into marriage that way? The laws about rape would make that very risky.”
“I’m sure it’s occurred to him,” he replied grimly. “I thought you and Rohan might have an idea or two. The truth is that I don’t want Kostas to have both Syr and Ossetia. He’s my son and I love him, and he’ll do very well with what I’ll give him—he’s a good man. But—”
“But you don’t entirely trust him?” she suggested gently.
“Awful
thing to admit about a son, isn’t it? If it was Tilal, I wouldn’t hesitate an instant. You and Rohan made a fine man of him, Sioned.”
“We had excellent material to work with, thanks to you and Wisla.”
Davvi shrugged. “Do you ever—I mean, Pol’s still very young—”
“I think the difference is that Pol’s being trained to the responsibilities of two princedoms, not just one. Kostas probably sees taking Ossetia as the fulfillment of ambition, not a responsibility.”
“And Pol will be a faradhi,” Davvi said softly.
Sioned was so startled she frankly stared at her brother. “Are you telling me that part of Kostas’ ambition is to have Sunrunner children with Gemma?”
“I suspect it. It’s not unknown in the Ossetian line, you know. That’s another reason I don’t want him to have both princedoms. But discounting that, he doesn’t much like Pol’s potentials. Don’t look at me that way—you know very well there are others who feel as he does. Pol will be High Prince and a Sunrunner. That’s a combination that makes a lot of people nervous.”
She flung the stones into the river and sprang to her feet. “Father of Storms! Will it stop only when all princes are also faradh’im?”
“I don’t know,” he told her frankly. “Again, if it was Tilal, I wouldn’t be worried. He spent a long time with you. He’s not envious or resentful or fearful of what you are—and what Pol will become.” Davvi sighed deeply and shook his head. “Sioned, at times I wonder what our parents would have said about our lives.”
Sioned put a hand on his shoulder. “You have more memories of them than I do. What do you think they would have said?”
He shrugged uncomfortably. “I think perhaps I never would have married Wisla, and if I had not, then you never would have been sent to Goddess Keep.”