by Melanie Rawn
Alasen was a little amazed by the playful bantering between fathers and sons, so different from the relationship between Volog and her brothers Latham and Volnaya. The scrupulous respect and politeness they showed each other were quite the opposite of the affectionate abuse she had just heard. But she liked their easy manners and knew instinctively that their teasing came in direct proportion to their love for each other.
She was also surprised at herself for joining in. But she had probably picked up the ability from an indulgent father and Sorin’s constant teasing. She would miss them when she married. The reminder of the reason she was at Waes took some of the brightness from the day. She deliberately turned her thoughts elsewhere as she started back to the stands.
Sorin, Riyan, and Lord Ostvel took the lead, leaving Alasen and Andry a pace or two behind. They walked in a silence she found embarrassing after the preceding chatter. At last he spoke.
“You have no attendant with you today, my lady?”
“I like to escape sometimes,” she confessed. “My father has a tendency to watch over me as if I’m made of Fironese crystal.”
“Anyone looking at you might say that you are,” he mumbled.
Alasen gave him a startled glance. He was looking anywhere but at her. She had heard compliments from her cradle, yet Andry’s words sounded more like a grudging admission of an inescapable and somewhat uncomfortable fact than a bid for her favor. All at once he looked exactly like Sorin did in the presence of other pretty girls, his cheeks red and his steps a bit too long. She smiled indulgently. Boys were amusing creatures, but she was old enough to know that she preferred grown men. Still, Andry was rather sweet, and though the set of his features was different from Sorin’s, he was just as good-looking. With the exquisite Princess Tobin and the dashing Lord Chaynal for parents, none of the brothers could possibly have turned out ill-favored. And Alasen approved wholeheartedly of handsome young men.
It seemed to Sioned and Tobin, sitting in the royal stands, that there were more young people at the Rialla than ever before, most of them looking for suitable spouses, as Alasen was supposed to be doing. The High Prince’s liberal rules about who could attend had swelled the ranks of each prince’s retinue with highborn youths and maidens, their servants, and guards for their material wealth. For their persons, no guards were necessary; Rohan held each prince personally responsible for the safety of the young people in his charge, and no one wanted to cause a war over any outrages perpetrated on or by those whose innocent purpose here was to get married.
Sons and daughters not heir to their parents’ lands usually had little other than their charms to recommend them. Rohan and Sioned, wanting to even up the matrimonial stakes a little, had once considered providing all with enough gold to make a decent start in life. Tobin had ruthlessly quashed this notion by saying that if they really wanted to advertise the dragon gold, why not just take everyone on a tour of the caves? Ways were found of dowering the worthier and poorer young men and women just the same, principally through the races. Formerly, only the winning riders had come away with prizes, but now those who came in second and third received small purses of silver. It was said that some of the young men lost on purpose to win useful cash instead of the gems that came with victory—gems they could not afford to have set and which did not fetch their true value at the Rialla.
Heirs and athr’im had no need of anything but their positions to attract young women to them. There were many unmarried men present this year—Miyon of Cunaxa being the greatest prize as a prince already ruling. Sioned thanked the Goddess that Pol was still too young for the flirtatious follies going on all around her in the stands, and she and Tobin amused themselves between races by commenting on pairings that seemed to change every other moment.
Halian of Meadowlord and Kostas of Syr were much in demand and obviously enjoying themselves hugely. Patwin of Catha Heights, widower of Roelstra’s daughter Rabia, was another excellent catch, judging by the cluster of females around him; in addition to his wealth and caressing brown eyes he possessed a gorgeous hilltop castle legendary for its gardens. Young Kolya of Kadar Water, Allun of Lower Pynne, and Yarin of Snowcoves were all besieged.
“I’ll bet the next winter’s snowfall that Clutha’s granddaughter Isaura marries Sabriam of Einar,” Sioned whispered to Tobin, nodding to the pair who were trying to hide their clasped hands beneath the cover of the girl’s skirt.
“Every grain of sand in the Desert says that Allun finally gives in to Sabriam’s sister,” Tobin replied. “Look at Kiera over there, using those big eyes on the poor boy! It’d make for an interesting alliance, I must say.”
“Mmm. I’m more interested in who goes after Tilal. Where’d he vanish to, anyway? And just look at Chale, glowering over there—he’s scaring off anyone who even comes within speaking distance of Gemma! How’s the girl ever going to provide the next Prince of Ossetia if he doesn’t let her talk to anybody?”
“Who’s that with them? The blonde girl who looks as if she’d been washed once too often and hung out limp on a line?”
“I think it’s Danladi—yet another of Roelstra’s daughters. You know, the one he had with Lady Aladra.”
“Oh, Sioned, quick! Chiana’s cornered Miyon! And there’s Halian near them, looking like a storm over the Veresch! Now, that’s interesting!”
The next race began, and they concentrated on cheering a Radzyn stallion to victory. Most of Chay’s horses were being ridden by younger sons with hopes of winning prizes. Chay was generous, but only youths he trusted personally were allowed to ride his entries. The approval of the powerful Lord of Radzyn was enough to keep many young ladies avidly watching to see who he honored with a ride on one of his horses.
Tobin applauded immodestly. “We won again! Marvelous! Who’s up, Sioned? I can’t see that far.”
Rohan slid into the seat beside his wife and announced, “Our own Tilal. I’m going to have wonderful fun pouring a river of garnets into his hands. Have you ladies decided yet who’ll wear the wedding necklet he’ll have made of them?”
“Who’s applauding loudest?” Sioned countered.
Many cheered him as he rode past on his victory lap, but Sioned’s eye was caught by something that puzzled her deeply. Kostas, despite a smile and a wave for his younger brother, did not take his gaze from Gemma very long. She had her nose buried in a book, ignoring everyone and everything. Pale, delicate Danladi’s blue eyes were narrowed with worry. Sioned sat back with a frown.
One of Lord Kolya’s entries was the victor in the next race. The young man danced with pride and excitement as he went down to congratulate his rider, and actually flung his arms around the mare’s neck. The royal trio laughed, then paid close attention as the next race was called—for Maarken was riding.
“I do so want him to win,” Tobin said with a casualness that fooled no one. “I can’t afford to part with any of my own jewels when he finally needs a necklet for his bride.”
Rohan snorted and exchanged a half-hidden grin with Sioned. A short time later Maarken had ridden to an easy win. Tobin forgot herself and leaped up, cheering raucously for her son. This time Rohan and Sioned burst out laughing, and her sternest reprimands could not shut them up.
A vendor selling fruit ices came up the aisle, and Rohan tossed him coins enough for three cups. Tobin appropriated the apple ice right out of her brother’s hands.
“I wanted that one!” he complained. “I paid for them, I should have first choice.”
“Hush up and behave yourself,” Tobin admonished, handing him the mossberry ice he had given her. “Anyone would think you’re still twelve years old.”
“You’re a selfish and unnatural sister,” he grumbled. “Look, there’s Sorin!” When her head turned, he snatched the cup from her and replaced it with the mossberry ice.
“Rohan!” She elbowed him in the ribs.
Sioned laughed. “In another moment you two will revert to childhood and start playing at dragons. High
Prince and the Lady of Radzyn, indeed! Now, tell me the name of that beauty Sorin’s riding. He looks like one of Pashta’s get.”
“He is. That’s Joscenel, twin to Andry’s Maycenel. We gave them both a good horse when they became squires. Rohan, give that ice back!”
He held the apple cup out of her reach. “A good horse? That one looks like solid muscle covered in sunlight. I give him three lengths and a tail.”
“Pashta never sired a finer pair,” Tobin said. “No bet, little brother.” She licked at the dripping ice in her hand, making a face at him. “This is better than the apple, anyway.”
“It is?” He tried to switch cups again, and they giggled like children.
Sioned, safe with her snow-cherry ice, lost her grin when another horse came into view. “Rohan . . . look who’s riding the Kadar horse.”
He glanced around. All mirth faded and the light left his eyes.
“Well?” Tobin prompted. “I’m a victim of old age and my eyes aren’t any good at that distance. Who is it?”
“Masul,” Rohan replied colorlessly.
It seemed that everyone saw him at the same time. Quiet descended like a cloud over the animated conversation in the stands. One last nervous giggle sounded from somewhere, and then all was still. Masul bestrode a magnificent bay stallion, the characteristic white blaze and feathery white tufts at each hoof marking the horse as one of Kadar Water’s breeding. The young man was not wearing Lord Kolya’s colors, however—and Lord Kolya was in shock at the sight of the pretender riding one of his horses. Masul was dressed in a silk shirt the deep violet color of Princemarch.
He had shaved off his beard, a ploy not lost on anyone with half a brain. The clean, harshly handsome lines of his cheeks and jaw were visible now below the startling green eyes. As the horses paraded past the stands, Sioned met his gaze for an instant and saw the sheer glee in his grin. Fury gripped her that he dared wear Princemarch’s color, swiftly followed by profound gratitude that Pandsala was safely in her tent. Rohan had told her about the regent’s mood and actions yesterday, and Sioned was certain that had Pandsala been here she would have ripped the violet silk right off Masul’s shoulders.
She darted a look at her husband, who appeared to be contemplating some similar act of mayhem, Tobin’s black eyes were snapping with rage and her cheeks were deeply flushed, but Rohan’s anger was as pale and cold as if his face had been carved from snow.
Lyell was the official starter. He toyed with the fringe of a large red-and-yellow flag as the dancing, restive horses lined up. Sioned’s gaze traced the measure-round course and saw to her horror that this was the race to Brochwell Bay and back. The jumps were in position; a section of railing had been removed where the horses would leave the track for the cliffs. Anything could happen along that unwatched course. She knew that only too well. Rohan had ridden the same race twenty-one years ago to win her emeralds, and had nearly been killed along the way.
Sorin patted Joscenel’s sleek, sunny neck, and a white-tufted ear swiveled back to listen to whatever he was saying. Sioned glanced over the other horses. Sorin was definitely the entry to beat. Two riders were on Lord Kolya’s horses and wearing his russet-and-white; two more entries bore the plain red of Prince Velden of Grib. Another of Chay’s horses was down the line from Sorin. Both young men were in his red-and-white silks. The eighth horse was Lord Sabriam’s, distinguished by the orange and yellow of Einar, and a ninth belonged to Lord Patwin, the rider his younger brother dressed in garish red and blue stripes. These would battle it out for third place, for it was obvious that the contest for first would be between Sorin and Masul.
Tobin, recovering from her initial shock, was now the picture of composure to anyone who did not know her. Sioned, who knew her very well, saw a telltale pulse pounding in her throat as she bent to place the uneaten ice at her feet. Small, delicate fingers were then laced together in the princess’ lap, knuckles white with tension. Tobin would show nothing more than a mother’s justifiable pride when her son rode to victory. And Sorin must win, Sioned told herself, looking at Rohan’s frozen, expressionless face. He must.
Lyell swept the flag down and the horses shot forward like arrows from nine warrior bows. Clods of dirt were flung up as they pounded past the stands and through the opening in the fence. The crowd gasped once, and then the strange, unsettling, whispering silence descended again.
As she had done years ago when Rohan had been up on Pashta in the same race, Sioned swiftly wove a thin plait of sunlight and sent it after the riders—thanking the Goddess that the sunlight was on her face and she did not have to draw attention to herself by moving. As she watched the nine horses separate on their way to the wood, she had the distinct impression that someone else was observing on the sunlight as well. Maarken, perhaps, or Andry, anxious for their brother. Careful to keep her own weaving distinct and separate, she glided toward the cliffs, waiting for the riders to emerge from the trees.
Masul was in the lead, Sorin just behind, the others trailing by at least two lengths. Joscenel was a streak of pale gold against the dark gravelly ground. Sorin rode close to his horse’s neck, so much in harmony with the stallion that every stride seemed to find response in the ripple of muscle beneath Sorin’s shirt. Sioned had never seen anyone ride this way, not even Chaynal, who was the best rider in living memory. Chay sat his horses with easy authority; Sorin became one with his mount.
Masul approached the sharp, dangerous turn at the cliff with rocks flying from beneath his bay’s white-feathered hooves. He had to haul the animal’s head cruelly around to avoid plunging over into the sea. Sorin judged the angle better, slowing Joscenel for an easier turn, and made up ground as Masul’s outraged horse faltered, nearly stumbling, before finding his stride again.
Behind them, one of Velden’s riders miscalculated and his terrified horse pulled up short, skidding to a halt on his haunches a man-length from the cliff edge. His rider went flying and vanished over the jagged rocks. The horse, trembling all over, limped away.
Sioned did not wait to see if the rest negotiated the turn safely. She raced back on the sunlight and saw Rohan and Tobin staring at her, only now realizing she had not been entirely with them.
“A rider went over the cliff,” she said. “One of Velden’s. He needs help—if he’s still alive.”
Rohan nodded curtly and left them, shouldering his way down to the track. Sioned felt Tobin cling to her hand, but had no time to reassure her. She rethreaded the sunlight and sped along it, hoping to catch Sorin and Masul as they emerged once more from the wood.
But the two horses were even faster than she’d thought. Both were well away from the trees. Masul’s stallion was lathered, ears laid flat, teeth bared; only his rider’s iron grip kept him from giving in to deeper instinct and turning to attack. Blood welled along the bay’s hindquarters where the golden stallion had evidently gotten in a vicious bite. Sioned was astounded that the two warhorses still obeyed their riders.
Sorin was pressed even more tightly to his horse’s neck now, his shirt cut to ribbons by low branches in the wood. His gloved hands held the reins almost at the bit. For three strides the pair hurtled along neck and neck, and then Joscenel began to pull ahead.
Suddenly Fire blossomed before them to the right, directly in Sorin’s path. His horse swerved madly, eyes showing white with terror. Joscenel plowed into Masul’s bay and the big horse stumbled. Recovering in a stride, they still ran so close together that sparks struck by iron-shod hooves on stone flew up simultaneously. Sioned saw the prong end of Masul’s whip flash, and Sorin’s back arched as steel cut into his shoulder. Joscenel struggled to maintain his balance as the young man lurched in the saddle. Masul kept his bay stallion right beside Sorin, riding for the edge of the Fire, forcing Joscenel directly into the chest-high flames.
Sorin righted himself and signaled his horse. Muscle bunched beneath the sweat-darkened hide and Joscenel soared over the Fire, landing a long stride beyond it with his belly s
inged and his white saddle blanket smoldering. The flames vanished, leaving a thin blackened line in the dirt that was quickly obliterated by the hooves of six other horses.
Sioned gave a violent shudder as she slid back down the sunlight. Staggering to her feet, her vision cleared just in time for her to see the two stallions thunder onto the track toward the first jump. Masul used his whip on his stallion, the shine of the silver prong sullied now with blood. The first jump was cleared, and the second. Sorin was on his heels by the third. One of Lord Kolya’s horses foundered after the first obstacle, his thrown rider rolling quickly out of the way. Nobody seemed to notice.
Had Tobin’s fingers been knives, they would have sliced Sioned’s arm to the bone. Someone cried out in the silence, echoed by another shout from the commoners’ stands, and sound rippled through the crowd—not cheers of encouragement but release of unbearable tension. Sioned heard a low moan claw up from Tobin’s throat, knowing that the princess’ control was nearly gone.
Bay stallion and golden stallion cleared the last jump together. The former’s ribs and mouth were coated with blood-red foam; still the whip dug into his sides. Under its assault he used up the last of his great heart and crossed the finish-half a stride in the lead.
Tobin dragged Sioned down through the crowd to the railings, and Sioned finally succeeded in getting in front of her tiny sister-by-marriage to protect her from the wildly screaming throng.
“Make way!” she shouted. “Let me pass! Make way for the High Princess!”
“Sioned!” came a familiar bellow. “Over here!”
She shouldered her way to Ostvel, gripping Tobin’s hand. He was at the rails, keeping a place clear for them to duck through. “Get everyone to the paddock, quick, or there’ll be trouble. Chay’s got murder on his face.”