by Melanie Rawn
“All they need is a chance to know you, and they’ll love you as I do.”
“Please don’t push me,” she whispered helplessly, still not looking at him.
He wanted to take her face in his hands and force her to see him. “Very well. But we belong to each other, Hollis. We Chose each other.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and left her.
He did not return to the white pavilion. He strode down to the river and sat on a large rock, gazing blindly into the dark water, his body clamoring plaintively for Hollis’ body, his head aching as if he’d swallowed two bottles of wine rather than half a cup of harmless taze.
When everyone had left the white tent, even Sioned, Rohan finally sat down again. The tension of the day had exhausted him, wound his muscles into knots, throbbed through his veins. And if he was tired, Andrade looked haggard. The brazier’s glow highlighted the deep crevices around her mouth and across her forehead. She had shaped so many lives, influenced so many destinies—including his own. She had brought him Sioned.
Urival sat beside her, golden-brown eyes nearly the color of mud beneath the heavy shadows of his brows. Both faradh’im looked terribly old.
“Sioned can conjure pieces of the future in Fire,” Rohan said abruptly. “Could you conjure up the past?”
The breath left Andrade in a rush and Urival’s eyes turned black. Her fingers groped toward his and clung tightly. Rohan wondered very suddenly why he had never before realized that the pair were lovers, and had been for more than the length of Rohan’s life.
“I’ve often wondered if you picked up that little trick from me, or learned it on your own,” Andrade remarked at last, her voice as cool as ever. “Never smear it with honey when you can shove it down their throats, eh?”
“We’re all tired.” Rohan folded his arms to hide the trembling of his hands. “None of us has time to scrape off any sugar-coating. Can you or can’t you?”
“To quote your son—I don’t know. I’ve never tried.” She let go of Urival’s hand and laced her long fingers together. “I assume it’s a particular night you wish seen in the Fire.”
“Andrade—” Urival began, but her lids had already drooped over her blue eyes and the coals in the brazier flared in: response to her silent call.
Rohan held his breath. She brought her folded hands to her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, face drawn into a taut mask, proud bones stark beneath aging skin. Fire leaped up in the bronze cauldron, wavered, steadied, jumped toward the ceiling. Hazy pictures began to form in the flames.
Lanterns were lit on Roelsra’s barge, swaying gently in the night with the motion of the river. Sailors milled about nervously on deck. There was a narrow staircase, a tiny, dim room where three women writhed and shuddered in their labors, watched over by Princess Pandsala. The scene abruptly shifted, and women clustered in a paneled corridor. Andrade’s ringed hand pounded without sound against a closed door. And that door opened.
The Fire blazed wildly and died with a sound like a sword hissing back into its sheath. Andrade gasped, her forehead slick with sweat, and sagged against Urival. He held her close, glaring in fury at Rohan.
“Satisfied?” he spat.
Rohan knelt before his aunt, taking one of her hands, frightened by her sketchy breathing. “Andrade—I’m sorry—”
“No,” she whispered hoarsely. “Be still.” She sucked in a huge lungful of air, then another, and straightened. “I’m only winded. Now I know why such things are forbidden.” She held out her free hand and watched it quiver, bemused. “Sweet Goddess. That’s never happened to me before. It felt like falling into an endless well, into the dark—” She broke off and tossed her head to clear sweat from her eyes. “It’s possible. I might be able to do it.”
Urival gave a lurid curse. “You’ll do no such thing because he’s not going to ask it of you! Don’t be a fool!”
She ignored him. “Did you see anything useful, Rohan?”
“The barge, the room belowdecks, a few women in a hallway, your hand knocking on a door. That’s all.”
“I didn’t take it far enough,” she fretted.
“Any more and you would have fainted—at the very least!” Urival rasped. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No more than usual. Peace, my old friend. Rohan, I’ll do as you wish if it becomes necessary. When would you like to schedule my performance?”
“If you think you can manage it, in two days’ time. But—”
“But nothing. Only—you won’t be able to get the same from Pandsala. It took everything I had just to get the little you saw. She’s not up to it either in talent or training.” Her hand tightened around his. “Try everything else first. I’ll do this if I must, for Pol. But only if I must.”
“Only if there’s nothing else I can do,” he promised. “You scared me half to death.”
“It wasn’t exactly a pleasure for me, either,” she responded with the old acerbity. “Go on, get to bed.”
Rohan pressed her fingers to his cheek, then to his lips. “Forgive me, Aunt,” he said. She smoothed back his hair almost tenderly, one of the few gestures of affection she had ever given him. It brought a lump to his throat. Before he could embarrass them both, he rose and left the tent.
Just as the white silk fell closed behind him, he heard Andrade say, “Urival—bring me the Star Scroll.”
Rohan walked very slowly back to his own pavilion. He had what he wanted. And it terrified him.
Chapter Twenty-one
At Pol’s age, being bored was bad enough. But when combined with the certainty that strange things were brewing, important things that concerned him but that no one bothered to tell him about, boredom became a grim determination to do something. Almost anything.
His Aunt Tobin always gave a breakfast party on the fourth morning of the Rialla. Absolutely everyone was there, feeding like half-starved dragons. Pol wandered from group to group spread out between tents in the new sunshine, sulkily chewing on a biscuit stuffed with sausage and fruit preserves. All the princes and athr’im and ladies and squires bowed when he passed, but they were caught up in their own conventional pursuits. They were, in fact, ignoring him. Even his own family was too busy to do more than smile in his direction. His father was in deep consultation with Lleyn and Chadric; his mother chatted with Miyon while Tobin gradually maneuvered Chiana over to them and left her there; Chay and Sorin talked horses with Lord Kolya; Andry stood tongue-tied and grave near Volog and Alasen of Kierst; and Maarken hurried back and forth from the trestle tables to where Hollis sat with Andrade and that intense black-haired youth, trying to find delicacies to tempt her appetite. Pol looked on them all with a sense of betrayal. He wasn’t stupid, he wouldn’t have blurted out any secrets, and he would be High Prince one day—and yet none of them had thought to include him in the great doings and schemes hatching around him like dragon eggs. He would even have welcomed Sionell’s irritating company right now; at least she paid him some attention.
He strayed over to where Ostvel crouched before the central firepit, where still more food was being cooked. Lord of Skybowl though he was, still he took upon himself his old duties of chief steward of Stronghold while at the Rialla, and swore softly as he built up the fire. New wood had been stacked to replenish the flames, but the logs were slow in lighting. Pol had a sudden, perverse idea, and gestured casually with one hand. Flames surged up, immolating the wood and startling Ostvel into another curse.
Pol suddenly knew that people were staring; some even backed away from him, wide-eyed. He gave everyone his sunniest smile. Let them ignore that, he told himself.
“Does that help any?” Pol asked Ostvel in his most innocent tones.
The Lord of Skybowl rose, scowling at him. “Don’t you ever dare do that again,” he said through gritted teeth.
Any pleasure in his trick evaporated. Ostvel had never used that tone of voice to him in his life, let alone looked at him with such dark disapproval. Pol tried to shrug off h
is discomfort, and turned to go back to the main party. But whispers had run through the gathering, and now everyone was looking at him—including his parents, whose eyes shone cold green and even icier blue. Abruptly Pol was the cynosure of all attention, and he felt his cheeks grow hot as first his father and then his mother turned away.
But then he happened to see Masul, over by a tree with Kiele and Lyell and Cabar of Gilad. The pretender’s complexion had gone as white as Pol’s was now crimson. The boy slid his gaze around the rest of the assembly as people resumed their former conversations or, more likely, spoke of him in hushed tones. The stinging blush faded from his cheeks and he realized that whatever his parents might think, he had succeeded in reminding Masul that it was more than a prince he challenged; it was a Sunrunner.
Pandsala came over to him then, and for the first time he felt a glimmer of real liking for her as she rescued him from solitude and silence. She talked quietly about the weather, and gradually Pol relaxed. Then she led him over to where Gemma stood beside old Prince Chale, who was barely tolerating the presence of Pol’s cousins Kostas and Tilal. The latter grinned at him while Chale said something conventional about the excellence of the meal. Then, with a bow to Gemma, Tilal took Pol’s arm and coaxed him off for a private talk.
“Not the wisest thing you ever did, cousin,” the young man told him. “But I don’t think your mother will complain too much.”
“Did you see Masul’s face?”
“No, I was watching Clutha.” Tilal snatched up a pastry from a tray borne by a passing servant, and munched on the tidbit as he went on, “He’s got an easy face to read, you know. Riyan tells me Halian’s been after Clutha to commit to your side, because he wants to marry Chiana—Goddess help him! But the old man’s balking. I think what you just did was remind him what manner of prince you’re going to be. If Masul gets hold of Princemarch, Meadowlord’s right in the middle again. And the last thing Clutha wants is to provide your battleground—especially with a Sunrunner prince on one side of him!”
Pol sighed softly in relief. “Thanks. I’ll use that information when Mother and Father start yelling at me.”
“Oh, they’ll have forgotten all about it by this afternoon.”
“Only if I disappear for a while. Listen, do you want to go over to the Fair? I have a couple of things I have to check on. Do you have time?”
“Ask permission first. I don’t know if my sword is enough in their eyes to protect you.”
“I’m sick of asking permission, and I’m sick of not being told anything!”
Tilal grinned again, and it was impossible to sustain resentment in the vicinity of those merry green eyes.
“I sound like a spoiled brat, don’t I?” Pol asked diffidently.
“You sound like every boy who’s coming up fast on being a man. You should’ve heard me until I really got to govern River Run. I’ll meet you outside my tent after this party breaks up, all right? I’ll go ask your parents right now for permission—that way you won’t have to go near them until this afternoon, if you’re lucky.”
Pol nodded grateful thanks. He found a convenient tree and leaned against it, watching the highborns and thinking how fond he was of Tilal. He had known his mother’s nephew since birth, when the young man had been Rohan’s squire. Tilal had been knighted during the celebrations of Pol’s eighth birthday, and giving Tilal the traditional loaf, salt, and gold belt buckle was one of the best memories of Pol’s childhood. Tilal had left Stronghold that next spring to live with his parents at High Kirat, the Syrene seat, and a year later had taken possession of the combined holdings of River Run and River View. The former was his birthplace, and Davvi and Sioned’s as well; the latter had become part of River Run through Davvi’s marriage to its heiress. Thus Tilal ruled a considerable stretch of land along the Catha River, some of the best farming and grazing country in the princedoms.
At the Syrene enclave, Tilal’s pennant of green and black fluttered above his small turquoise tent. A squire younger than Pol bowed nearly to the ground on seeing him. Tilal, emerging from the tent with a large leather purse jingling in his hand, smiled a greeting and waved the squire away.
“I think Aunt Sioned is glad to give you something to do today,” he confided. “She’s not all that pleased with you, but I don’t think there’ll be any punishment. All her time and imagination are busy elsewhere.” He tied the purse to his belt, checked his sword, and said, “All right then, we’re off. If we hurry we can get to the Fair before the crowds.”
“But I’ll bet the girls still follow you, all the way over there,” Pol teased. “I was watching at breakfast this morning, before you and Kostas started talking with Chale.”
“Oh, most of the girls will be staying here today, planning their finery for the next few days. I’ll let the other men have a chance,” Tilal replied, a breezy note in his voice, his eyes self-mocking. “There’s a Cunaxan vendor Kostas told me about yesterday who makes the most amazing swords. I want to get one for my father.”
“Do you think Sorin and Riyan would like something from him?” Pol asked as they walked. “I want to get them each a present, and I brought a lot of money. Oh, and I have to stop by a certain silk merchant’s, and I need the best Fironese crystaller.”
The Cunaxan proved to be a true artist. The sword Tilal purchased from him was a marvel of gleaming steel decorated with engravings of apple trees heavy with fruit. He etched Syr’s emblem while the cousins watched. The grip was adjusted to Tilal’s specifications to make it comfortable for his father, and while Pol selected two fine knives for Sorin and Riyan in celebration of their knighthood, Tilal produced a handful of small garnets to be set in spaces left by the crafter for the purpose.
The work took a long time, but the result was magnificent. Noon sun slid down the long blade and smoldered in the dark jewels, found its echo in the gold-chased hilt. Tilal wrapped the sword carefully in a length of softest wool, paid for his prize, and sighed happily as they walked away from the booth.
“Were those the garnets you won in the race?” Pol asked. “Aren’t you going to have the rest of them set into a necklet?”
“Perhaps.”
The boy eyed his cousin sidelong. “Oh. I see. No lady has struck your fancy to make a bridal necklet for.”
To his astonishment, Tilal’s jaw hardened and his eyes were fierce as he said, “Prince you may be, but that’s none of your business.”
Pol nearly stumbled over his own feet. It seemed to be his day for provoking furious looks from family and friends; he kept his mouth shut as they searched the aisles of booths and finally stopped before a collection of crystal that seemed blown of soap bubbles, all soft pink and green and blue iridescence in the sun.
Tilal relented, becoming once again the cousin and good companion. “Who’s this for? Your mother?”
“No. Another lady.” Pol laughed as Tilal’s black brows shot up in surprise. “As everybody keeps telling me, I’m too young for that yet! I broke a glass belonging to an innkeeper’s wife in Dorval, and I need to replace it.” He pointed to a fragile goblet in the shape of a fantastical yellow flower, footed in green leaves and rising on a stem where tiny crystal pearls imitated dewdrops. “I think I’d like that one, please.”
“A wise and brilliant choice, exalted lord,” the merchant enthused.
“How’re you going to get it all the way back to Graypearl in one piece?” Tilal asked.
The merchant snorted. “I’ll wrap it so fine and safe that the worst winter storms couldn’t even make it tremble. A moment only, most gracious lord.”
When the wooden case was readied—twice the size of the goblet and packed with lamb’s wool—Pol asked that it be sent on to his father’s pavilion. On realizing who his customer was, the merchant blanched, abased himself, and with reckless speed snatched up another goblet and presented it to Pol. This one was a gorgeous creation of purple glass shading into blue at the rim, darkening down the stem to a foot of opaque black. Th
e whole of it was supported by three thin wires of gold that swirled up and around to circle the rim.
“My prince,” the merchant said humbly, and bowed again.
Pol blushed, and wondered if his complexion would learn to behave itself with age. “I really can’t—”
“Please,” the Fironese said. “I speak for my guild and for all my people when I say that we eagerly anticipate coming under the benevolent governance of so noble and powerful a prince.”
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
“Please, your grace.” The man’s dark eyes met his, and Pol remembered Lady Eneida’s fears of being invaded by Miyon of Cunaxa. It seemed the Fironese really wanted him as their prince. He’d have to tell his father that.
“I accept, with great thanks,” Pol said. The goblet was wrapped and added to the first one, to be sent along with it to the High Prince’s pavilion.
“Well, well,” Tilal murmured as they left the Fironese.
“I can’t help it,” Pol replied, shrugging. “They’re determined to give us their princedom. Better us than the Cunaxans.” He stopped abruptly, aware that Tilal had a claim to Firon, too.
His cousin was grinning at him. “Better you than me!”
“Really? You don’t want it?”
Tilal gave an exaggerated shudder. “Me, up there in all that snow? Do you want to kill me off?”
“It doesn’t snow all the time,” Pol reminded him.
“It snows enough. I don’t want Firon, Pol. I’ve told my father so. It’s too far from—from everything.”
What Firon was too far from had been amended, but Pol didn’t press for a correction. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it . . . but I don’t know too many men who’d turn up their noses at a princedom. Come on, let’s get something to eat and then visit the hawks. Mother says she bought me one, and I haven’t had the chance to see him yet.”