by Melanie Rawn
“But I’m not tired, Mother.”
“You will be.”
A short while later, the promised hot bath and breakfast proved her correct. Pol yawned his way into the portion of the huge tent sectioned off for his bedchamber, and Rohan shared a smile with his wife.
“Are you always right?”
“Not always—but I’m never wrong.”
He snorted. “And if you are, you don’t admit it.”
“Neither do you.” She refilled their cups with steaming hot taze and leaned back in her chair, set opposite his at the desk. “Maarken kept me informed, of course, but I want to hear it all from you.”
Rohan smiled. “Pandsala wasn’t just being polite, you know. I think everybody who met Pol wanted to take him home!”
“Just as I expected. Tell me about the vassals.”
“There aren’t many. Roelstra took most of Princemarch into his own hands, so the holdings are run by glorified stewards, not athri’im. There are four exceptions. My favorite is Lord Garic of Elktrap Manor. He’s a crafty old soul—waited out Roelstra, hiding most of his wealth, with the result that his two pretty granddaugh ters are dowered like princesses.”
“Mmm. Speaking of princesses and dowries. . . .” She told him about her conversation with Davvi and her solution to his problem.
“Very astute of you, love. Chale can probably use the comfort Gemma’s presence will give him.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “What news should I know about?”
Sioned detailed what she knew, what she suspected, and what was currently rumored. Rohan listened in impassive silence to the long recital, and at last nodded slowly.
“Something interesting happened the day before we left. Pandsala has been scouring Princemarch since spring for any word about this pretender. As it happens, he grew up at Dasan Manor, and his name is Masul. Lord Emlys of Dasan was long gone from Castle Crag with the other vassals and stewards by the time word came, so we couldn’t question him. Pandsala’s informant says that Masul vanished about the end of spring with a little money, the clothes on his back, a sword, and Emlys’ best horse. The horse turned up in Einar, of all places. But Masul is already in Waes, I’d bet anything on it.”
“What do they say about him? Is it possible he’s Roelstra’s son?”
Rohan stretched the tension from his shoulders and Sioned went to stand behind him, rubbing the strong taut muscles. “Ahh . . . that’s wonderful. They say the boy is tall, with dark hair and green eyes. Lived with his grandparents at Dasan. Their daughters were in service at Castle Crag, one of them as nursemaid to Kiele and Lamia. And now you tell me Kiele is circulating word that this Masul just may be her brother. An interesting connection, don’t you think?”
“Her invitation to Chiana becomes clear, too. You know how we wondered about that all summer. They’ve never been fond of each other, especially since Chiana tried to seduce Lyell. Kiele’s going to pay her back with public humiliation.”
“Roelstra’s daughters are such delightful women.” Rohan murmured.
“Now, I’ve always liked Naydra and so have you. I was talking to her last evening, and she said the oddest thing. We spoke of her sisters and—”
“Sioned? Rohan?” Tobin peeked around the partition. “Your son claims he’s about to expire of starvation and asks can we please eat now? I must say I agree with him. It’s noon.”
“Have we been talking that long?” Rohan asked, surprised. “And when did Pol sneak out of here?”
“After lunch, you’re going to bed,” Sioned told him.
“All alone?” He pulled a forlorn face.
“You don’t have the energy to do me justice,” she said, laughing. “Besides, I’ve got a surprise planned for later. Get what sleep you can, because you won’t get any tonight.”
“You have a way of making a threat sound absolutely delightful.”
Late that night they saw their resentful but obedient son tucked up in bed and left the pavilion. Guards trained by Maeta in the arts of protecting irreplaceable princes were on duty; Pol was safe. The family had drunk to Maeta that night at dinner after Maarken and Pol had told them of the manner of her death. When they returned to the Desert, the rest of her ashes would be scattered on wind summoned by the faradhi princess she had served—and the young, untrained faradhi prince she had given her life to protect. Pol’s education would begin early so that he might perform this service for his kinswoman.
Sioned would teach him, and she cared not a damn what Andrade thought of it.
“Where are you taking me?” Rohan asked as they strolled the riverbank past the bridge.
“Back twenty years,” she replied, leaning her head on to his shoulder. “You’ve just done something dreadfully heroic by saving me from the evil clutches of an infamous seducer—”
“Heroic, eh?” Rohan laughed. “And we’re about to anticipate our marriage vows by several days, is that it?” He held her closer to his side. “I thought I loved you then. It was nothing compared to now.”
“You haven’t lost your romantic impulses,” she approved, and conjured up a tiny flame on the damp grass ahead of them, gentle light that limned the shape of a willow tree. Parting its branches, she revealed the snug den she had created the afternoon before, over which a bemused guard had kept watch until tonight.
Rohan slid inside and Sioned followed after damping the little Fire. “It’s considerably more welcoming than last time,” he commented, patting the blankets spread on the ground. “As I recall, we had to use your skirt for a bed.” He reached over and fingered the two glasses and bottle nestled against the willow’s trunk. “And you accused me of being a romantic!” The faint light of moons and stars filtered through the silver-green canopy of leaves around them, touching his face with cool, soft fire. Sioned took his hands, held them to her cheeks, turned her head to kiss each palm.
“I love you,” Rohan said.
Their lips met and they sank down onto the blanket, content for a long while simply to kiss one another. Sioned lost herself in the warmth of his arms, the wine; on his tongue, the delicate nuances of his mouth on her own. Bones melting, sweet weakness stealing through her veins, cherished familiar ache growing in her body, she glimpsed in memory the shy youth who had first made love to her beneath this willow tree, and smiled against his lips.
Chapter Sixteen
Prince Volog of Kierst was Sioned’s cousin, a fact no one would have cared about had she remained an obscure Sunrunner at Goddess Keep. But she had married Rohan, who had become High Prince; events had made her brother Prince of Syr. Thus Volog found himself blood-bonded to some very important people.
He was wise enough—and proud enough—neither to ask favors nor to trade on the relationships. There was no need to do either. His position and his possessions made the bond one Rohan was pleased to acknowledge to their mutual advantage. In his turn, Volog found Rohan a pleasant friend and a helpful kinsman. He did not resent the chance that had given Sioned their grandmother’s faradhi gifts instead of himself, for he was that rare man who held onto what was his, appreciated what life gave him, and did not extend himself beyond his known limitations.
To be sure, he gloated over the eventual union of Kierst with Isel into a single princedom. But he did so in private, not wishing to stir up trouble that Saumer of Isel was perfectly capable of causing until their grandson came of age. At Rohan’s strong suggestion, a marriage had taken place between Saumer’s only son and Volog’s eldest girl. Volog’s heir had later wed Saumer’s favorite daughter. The latter union had produced a son who became sole heir to both princedoms when Saumer’s heir died without issue. The child would be brought up at both courts until his twelfth winter, at which time Volog intended Saumer to agree to the boy’s fostering at Stronghold. He did not require Saumer’s approval, but he was smart enough to know that they ought to be in accord over the education of their mutual heir. Volog enjoyed his triumph in private, and in public was the soul of friendship to Saumer. Each m
an conveniently forgot about the hundreds of years their forebears had spent encouraging land-thievery and cattle-stealing along their mutual border.
Volog had another daughter, his youngest child and his favorite. Alasen was a charming girl, twenty-two winters old, with gold-lit brown hair and green eyes the color of the sea off the Kierstian coast. Delicate arching brows and a sweet, serious mouth completed her beauty; her intelligence was evident in her face and her conversation. She was Volog’s pride and joy.
But she was not looking her best when he presented her with gruff pride to Sioned on the first morning of the Rialla. Her cheeks were pallid, her eyes dark-circled, and there was a pinched expression about her mouth. Sioned knew that none of it was due to trepidation at meeting the High Princess. She knew the signs of a protracted recovery from crossing water when she saw them.
“The journey from Kierst was not one you enjoyed, I think,” she observed wryly. “Volog, it seems our grandmother’s influence hasn’t entirely missed your line after all.”
“I’m not faradhi-gifted, your grace,” Alasen said quickly, and with such firmness that Sioned’s brows shot up. “Others besides Sunrunners are ill in ships.”
Volog shrugged. “Whether she’s gifted or not remains to be seen, Sioned. I thought you might like to meet her just the same.”
Sioned correctly interpreted this to mean she was to find out whether or not Alasen was indeed faradhi. It hovered on her lips to ask why Volog had not taken her to Andrade long ere this, but the glance of loving indulgence he gave his daughter explained all. Alasen denied the possibility; her father could not bring himself to submit her to Andrade’s testing against her will. Sioned was his next best solution.
“I’m delighted to meet her,” she said, smiling. “If you’re feeling up to it and you’ve nothing else to do, would you care to accompany me to the Fair today? My husband has strictly forbidden me to buy my son presents to spoil him, and naturally I have no intention of obeying.”
Volog rumbled with laughter. “The rights of a mother su percede the commands of a husband, and rightly so! Goddess knows, her mother and I have spoiled Alasen shamelessly.”
“Rohan’s father once told him that daughters are to be indulged, for it’s a husband’s problem to discipline a woman.” Sioned laughed softly, but did not miss the tightening of Alasen’s lips at the mention of husbands. “I can’t say that Prince Zehava ever took his own advice, for he indulged both daughter and wife until the day he died. Rohan never believed him, anyway!” She turned to the girl. “I’d be glad of your company today, Alasen.”
The banter had relaxed her, and she gave Sioned an enchanting smile. “I’d love to join you, your grace.”
“Then I’ll leave her in your care,” Volog said, and departed.
Sioned took the girl’s arm. “If you feel you can’t use my name just yet, then please call me ‘cousin.’ Between the two of us it’s actually true, not like most of the others I have to address by that term.” She wrinkled her nose and Alasen grinned.
“I know exactly what you mean. Every time I have to use it with Prince Cabar, I’m reminded how grateful I am that it isn’t true.”
“Our dear cousin of Gilad is a bit on his dignity, isn’t he?”
“He’s pompous, arrogant, and unbearable,” Alasen summed up tartly, then blushed. “My father’s right—I’ve been so spoiled I forget to speak with proper respect.”
“Speaking it and feeling it are different things. We’re family, Alasen. Say whatever you like.” Sioned winked at her. “Goddess knows I do!”
The two women were dressed casually, and as they joined the queue at the bridge there was nothing to distinguish them from anyone else going to the Fair that day. All rank and privilege were set aside, a relief from the ceremony of other occasions. The vendors addressed everyone from serving maids to princesses with exalted titles; the prettier the lady, the more outrageous the form of address. Men, be they lords or grooms, were always “Your Excellency” at the Fair. Plain garments and a leveling of rank were the rule.
Nevertheless, Sioned’s red-gold hair was well-known, even though the huge emerald on her finger was hidden by thin leather gloves. Attempts to defer to her were discouraged with a smile and a shake of her head, which only led to more deference. She politely refused a place at the head of the queue waiting to cross the bridge; a path opened up for her anyway. On the other side of the river, merchants forsook the rest of their customers to wait on her. She pointedly moved away when it happened, and after a time word spread that the High Princess was in the crowd but did not wish to be recognized. Things settled down, and she was able to do some serious shopping.
“Is it always like this for you?” Alasen asked.
“For the first little while, yes. Long gone are the days when I could walk here unnoticed. This is your first Rialla, I take it?”
“Yes—and it’s wonderful! I’ve visited Port Adni, of course, and the markets there. But it’s nothing like this!” She gestured to the happy chaos of merchants’ stalls, customers, squires and pages running errands, apprentices carrying fresh wares to replace those already sold. The Fair was bright with colored awnings and noisy with a milling crowd in a holiday mood—and, at the far end of the huge field, smelly with pens full of sheep, goats, calves, and young elk. Their bleating was nearly as loud as the chatter of the bargaining going on. The two princesses went to inspect them.
“Look at that little calf with the white splash on his face,” Sioned told Alasen. “He’s going to be an absolute monster when he’s grown, and sire many generations just like him.”
“How do you know about such things?”
“I grew up on a working farm, not in a palace,” Sioned replied, smiling. “That little fellow is descended from stock I tended as a child. His bloodlines are quite as grand as any of Lord Chaynal’s stallions.” The calf, as if sensing himself the object of discussion, ambled over and snuffled at Sioned’s outstretched hand. “Davvi’s going to make a fine profit from you, my lad.”
“Why should a prince concern himself with livestock?” Alasen wondered.
“A prince should involve himself in everything that happens within his borders. Actually, Princess Pandsala thought this up. It’s her idea that the stock of all princedoms can be improved by mixing bloodlines. At a price, of course,” she added, chuckling. “Cattle-breeding may not be as glamorous as Chay’s horses, but it’s a great deal more practical.”
“My father says there are hawks for sale this year, too. Were they the regent’s idea? May we go look at them?”
“I was headed there next. And they’re my idea,” she continued as they started up a hill to the woods. “We could never afford good hawks when I was a girl. The best are bred in Princemarch and kept only for the very rich. They’re still expensive, but most people should be able to afford them.”
The caged hawks were in the cool shade of the trees. A few wore hoods despite the distance from the noise and bustle of the Fair. Sioned surveyed the results of her little scheme with satisfaction. The falconers were doing a brisk business, evidenced by little tags on many of the cages that indicated the birds had been sold. The tags were color-coded to individual princes and athr’im. She was pleased to note that people had done their buying early.
Alasen gazed in awe at a preening amber-faced hawk. One long wing stretched the limit of the cage to show bronze and green and gold pinions. “Isn’t she beautiful?” the girl whispered.
“I always wanted to fly,” Sioned murmured. “Especially watching the dragons over River Run when I was little.”
“It must be the most wonderfully free feeling in the world,” Alasen said dreamily. “To know that all you need is the sky and the sun.”
“It’s something like being a faradhi,” Sioned remarked, and received the reaction she had expected. Alasen’s shoulders stiffened and she turned away from the hawk. Sioned pretended not to notice. “I’m about to spoil my son by purchasing one of these birds. Help m
e pick out the best.”
“But he owns them all, doesn’t he?”
“He owns the right to breed them, which we sell at a nice sum to these good falconers, who reap the profits of their labors.”
A bearded young man approached them, bowed low, and swept out a hand to indicate his wares. His full sleeves made the gesture reminiscent of flight, an impression accented by the sharp curve of his nose and two small, bright eyes.
“A hawk for Your Magnificences? None finer than mine! A personal grant from the high and mighty Prince Pol himself, given with his own royal hands. Modesty aside, my hawks are born of matings much like the one that produced the young prince himself—fabled lady mother and powerful princely sire that he has, and my hawks the same. Allow me to show you birds that the High Princess herself complimented me on only this morning, excellent judge that she is of all things in this world including hawks, and told me the famous emerald on her hand would be a fitting price for any one of these beauties.”
Sioned stuck the gloved hand wearing the famous emerald into her pocket. “That’s as may be. But how much are you willing to sell one for?”
He named a price that made her blink. Pandsala had set strict limits on the amount to be charged; even taking into account the bartering that would bring the price down, the final sum would be considerably above that limit. The idea was to make the birds available, not to make stupendous profit.
To Sioned’s surprise, it was Alasen who began to bargain the price down. Her expertise was an education to Sioned, who had never been much good at such things. When she saw something she wanted, she could never bring herself to haggle and possibly work herself into a position where pride would compel her to walk away. Most merchants saw this in her face with the first halfhearted exchange. But Alasen was a true artist who obviously loved the game, and soon had the falconer clutching at his tousled hair and clawing at his beard in pretended agony. Sioned kept silent and enjoyed the show.
At last Alasen turned to Sioned. “You’d best go look at the other hawks. I’ll join you shortly, I think—this man’s skull is as thick and hard as an unhatched dragon shell.”