by Melanie Rawn
“His Grace of Grib,” Rohan said as Lleyn sat down and Andrade’s pen scratched again.
Velden was instantly up, his pose aggressive. “I must disagree with our cousin of Dorval. There is no proof to contradict the claim. He must be given the benefit of any doubts any of us may have. I for one have no doubts. The evidence is certain. I accept him as Roelstra’s son.”
“His Grace of Fessenden.”
Long, lanky, lazy-eyed Pimantal unfolded himself from his chair. “Prince Masul,” was all he said, with a slight bow in the young man’s direction.
Rohan wondered what Kiele had offered him as he watched Pimantal resume his seat. “His Grace of Syr.”
Davvi got up, leaning slightly forward with his knuckles resting on the table. “I agree with our cousins of Ossetia and Dorval, and for their reasons. But I have another reason. Even if this man were Roelstra’s son, and even if I were convinced of it, Princemarch was long ago won by all the rights of war, confirmed by law. I gained Syr in much the same way. It is true that I was the only male heir left of the Syrene house. But my claim rests on precisely the same rights of war as the claim to Princemarch. If this assembly chooses to violate its own agreement of the spring of 705, that acknowledged High Prince Rohan’s rights of possession, then—” He swept the gathering with cool green eyes, “—then I assure you that the same principle, or lack of it, will hold true for me.”
As astounded as the rest of them, shock betrayed Rohan into exclaiming, “Davvi!”
Sioned’s brother met his gaze calmly. “I knew you wouldn’t agree with this, Rohan. But believe me when I say that if a princedom won and lawfully confirmed can be so easily taken away and given to another, then I and mine will have no dealings with princes.” He sat down.
It took Rohan a moment to recover. But his voice was firm as he said, “His Grace of Kierst.”
Volog levered himself up, cast a piercing glance at Masul, and said, “I’ll take good governance and peace, demonstrated these many years, over this unknown farmhand who hasn’t convinced me of anything but his colossal arrogance.”
Miyon of Cunaxa stiffened with insult. “Have a care, cousin,” he said tightly. “You will be seated at this table with him before the day ends.”
Volog gave a bark of laughter. “Not damned likely, boy!”
“My lord,” Rohan murmured in warning. “His Grace of Gilad.”
He wondered for an instant if Princess Kenza had managed to nag her husband into shaking off Miyon’s influence. But Cabar stood, gulped, and mumbled words agreeing with their graces of Cunaxa, Grib, and Fessenden. As he sat and Andrade’s pen rasped on parchment, Rohan turned his gaze momentarily to Saumer of Isel. His was the only vote still in doubt. Some perverse sense of the dramatic within him made him call on Clutha of Meadowland next, and the tension drew out a little finer, a little tauter.
The old man stood. “I say our cousin of Kierst has spoken most wisely of all. But, like our cousin of Syr, I have another reason, too. For longer than I care to recall, my land has been the battleground between the Desert and Princemarch. In the past fifteen years I’ve gotten used to peace. I don’t intend to jeopardize it—because if any of you think that giving Princemarch to this boy will be as easy as all that, you’re sadly mistaken. And who’d pay for it in burned fields and dead people? Me, that’s who! I spent my childhood and youth and middle age watching armies lay waste to my meadows. I’ll not have it in my dotage as well. No, thank you!” He plunked back down into his chair and turned his scowling attention to his hands.
Five against, four in favor. Rohan turned to Saumer. “His Grace of Isel.”
Volog’s erstwhile enemy, grandfather with him of their mutual heir, rose reluctantly to his feet. “Cousins,” he said, his voice heavy and strained, “I have considered this matter, as all of you have, with the whole of my mind and my heart. I do not agree with previous statements about evidence. I have seen no evidence one way or the other that convincingly refutes or proves either side. But I ask this. What right does a man have to his lands?
“The High Prince, while still in possession only of the Desert, quite rightly and wisely stated that in order to rule effectively, he had to know what he was prince of. We spent much time and effort uncovering precedent for holding our lands, and the treaties drawn up were of great satisfaction to all.
“And yet—if precedent and traditional right to what we hold is the highest law, where does that leave possession by right of war? If that is the paramount law, then we would all be at each other’s throats—as in the past.” He flicked a glance at Volog, who gave him stare for stare.
“If a man has the right to his lands, then he has the right to give them to his son. Usually the eldest, and one born of his wife’s body—but there are several instances in the recent past of a younger son or an illegitimate one inheriting. If we take away that right, and if we decide that war is the more legitimate means of gaining a princedom or a holding, then we announce chaos and we might as well gird ourselves for battle here and now. For none of us will be secure in what we hold, from prince to most obscure athri.”
He paused a long moment, then shook his head. “I do not disbelieve the Lady Andrade and the Princess-Regent. I do not disbelieve this young man before us now. But I do believe in the law, and in my own conscience. And both tell me that Princemarch by rights belongs to the son of the late High Prince Roelstra.” He cast a quick glance around the table again, and sat down.
Rohan held in the long sigh that wanted to escape his chest, kept back the twist of bitter disappointment that threatened his lips. Saumer was not trying to spite Volog or anyone else; he was honest in his misgivings and in his beliefs. Actually, Rohan told himself with grim humor, he ought to be cheering the words that had come from Saumer’s mouth: “I do believe in the law.” He’d been working to instill those words and that belief in his fellow princes for over twenty years. And what a time to succeed!
Andrade broke the silence with a rustle of parchment. “The count is as follows. Ossetia, Dorval, Syr, Kierst, and Meadowlord against; Cunaxa, Gilad, Grib, Fessenden, and Isel for.” She lifted her gaze from her notes. “My lords, it appears we have a deadlock.”
Rohan did not meet her eyes, knowing what he would find in them. Masul was chewing his lip, the fingers of one hand drumming on the carved wooden support of the water clock.
At last Rohan got up, consciously drawing all eyes to him. “My lords, it is as the Lady has said. Both sides lack a majority. Firon being without a prince, and both myself and the Princess-Regent being obviously disqualified, I can see few ways of breaking this deadlock.”
All of them sat up straighter at his implication, but it was Masul who voiced their question. “What do you mean?” When someone sucked in an outraged breath at his peremptory tone, he added, “My lord.”
“I mean there are alternatives. Such proofs as are readily available have been presented, and have failed to convince one way or the other. But . . .”
He finally looked at his aunt. She nodded slowly, placing her long hands with their ten rings and gleaming bracelets on the table before her.
“What is it, my Lady?” Lleyn asked, his voice soft.
She answered, “The faradh’im have certain skills not generally known among the populace—or, indeed, among most faradh’im themselves. Some of us are able to catch quite detailed visions of the future, for instance.”
Miyon leaned back in his chair with an angry gesture of one hand. “Your pardon, my Lady, but surely you don’t propose to show us what the world would be like with Prince Masul at Castle Crag? I never heard of anything so—”
Andrade continued as if he had not spoken. “I have done such things myself, my lords. But what is relevant to us at present is something else. The past—and specifically that night twenty-one years ago—is in my memory. Using certain . . . techniques . . . I will be able to conjure that past for all of you to watch with your own eyes. It is a difficult thing, and possibly a danger
ous one. But those of you who do not believe me will, I think, believe the evidence I will present before you.”
“And why should we believe this—or even allow it?” Velden exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of this supposed ability, either! Why should it be trusted?”
“You dare question the Lady’s word?” Lleyn asked, his eyes like thunder.
“Peace, my friend,” Andrade said. “He has every right to question. Would it satisfy you, Prince Velden, if I first conjured a scene from the past that you and I both witnessed?”
Cabar stared slack-jawed; Miyon was anxious and trying to hide it; Masul’s lip curled scornfully. Pimantal looked intrigued, and Saumer, hopeful. He said, “If it will settle our doubts and if it is not too dangerous for you—”
“It probably is,” she said with a shrug. “But I consider this person more so.” She fixed Masul with a sardonic eye. “Well? Are you secure enough in your claim of truth to have the truth revealed to you through Sunrunner arts?”
“In which I have very little faith,” he shot back. “But if their graces wish it, then why not?” He smiled.
“Very well.” She rose and bowed to Rohan. “With your permission, my lord, I will retire to my pavilion and prepare.”
“Will tomorrow serve, my Lady?” He was appalled by her sudden pallor.
“Tonight at sunset will do. I’d like to get this over with.” Again she speared Masul with her gaze. “You’ve taken up quite enough time and energy as it is, and their graces have more important matters to discuss.”
Without another word she walked from the tent, leaving an apprehensive silence behind her. Each prince looked at every other prince, and finally at Rohan. He cleared his throat.
But before he could say anything, Masul spoke—drawling, amused, yet with an undercurrent of hostility seething in his voice. “Well, cousin,” he said to Rohan, “it seems your family witch is your last hope. But I’m not worried. Nothing scares me.”
“Then you are a fool,” Rohan replied tranquilly. “We meet here at sunset, my lords. I trust no one will object to the presences of the High Princess and my son, as well as the Princess-Regent.”
There were no objections; there could be none. In renewed eerie quiet they left Rohan alone. He stood silent and unseeing for some time after they had gone. Then, sinking down into his chair, he put his face in his hands.
“Gentle Goddess,” he whispered. “What have I done? What am I about to do?”
There was no one to answer.
Chapter Twenty-three
Of all the people in Waes that Sioned wished to see that noon-day, the very last was Chiana. But the would-be princess was not far behind Tallain, who had run to the great blue pavilion at once with word of the princes’ decision. Sioned had been there all morning, waiting in solitude and silence for her husband, wanting not even Pol to share the time with her. Tallain, respecting her obvious wishes, told his news and withdrew. But Chiana invaded close on his heels and paced the carpets with every intention of wearing them into the dirt.
“How could you allow this to happen?” she cried. “How could you?”
“Be silent,” Sioned told her in a tone that ought to have warned her to do so immediately.
Chiana was beyond even rudimentary understanding of another’s emotions—not her specialty to begin with. Sioned rose from her chair, a small frantic voice in her head demanding that Chiana be evicted at once, before Rohan could come back with his undoubted need for what little peace Sioned could give him. But Chiana continued to berate her, shrill and voluble in her furious panic.
“You had only to order it, and this pretender would be dead! My father would have executed him before he even opened his mouth! What use is the power of a High Prince if you don’t use it? And now I must pay for this cowardice! I must suffer doubts of my birth! I must—”
Sioned bore it with phenomenal patience before her temper simply snapped.
“You, you, you! Is your precious self the only thing you can think about? Roelstra’s daughter! If I’d ever had any doubts, they’re gone now! Only the spawn of that vicious self-centered viper would behave so! Now let me be, Chiana, or I’ll throw you out of here with my own hands!”
She had the odd sensation that it was someone else’s voice shouting, someone else’s hand that lifted threateningly. But sight of the emerald ring reminded her that the hand raised to strike was indeed her own. She swung away, nauseated. “Get out,” she whispered. “Get out before I forget who I am.”
“You seem to have forgotten who I am!”
Tallain’s frantic voice rose in the outer chamber of the pavilion. “Your grace, please—”
“Is Rohan here? I must speak with him at once!”
Pandsala; all that Sioned needed at this point was another of Roelstra’s daughters. She turned as the partition rustled and Chiana gave a blurt of laughter.
“Pandsala! Tell her! We demand the death of this pretender!”
Pandsala started at the sight of her half sister—and looked guilty. Sioned’s fists clenched.
“Well?” Chiana snapped. “Go on! Tell her! If none of you has the courage, I’ll order that bastard killed myself.”
“If he dies,” Sioned heard that strange voice that was not her own say, “your death will follow, Chiana—and by my Sunrunner arts.”
The younger woman gasped and turned white. “You wouldn’t dare!”
A tiny smile hovered around Sioned’s lips. “Would I not?”
At that precise moment Rohan stepped into the tent, and stopped instantly at the sight of the three women. He noted and dismissed Chiana’s rage with one piercing glance. Then he regarded Pandsala for a moment, his eyes chips of colorless ice. At last he looked at his wife, a flicker of irritation spasming over his features. To her he said, “I come here expecting respite, and find a battlefield.”
And with that, he was gone.
Chiana’s mouth hung open. Pandsala looked as if she would either scream or attack her half sister, perhaps both. Sioned wanted to weep with the pain of seeing Rohan’s eyes so cold and dead, his face carved in stone. Her own blood congealed into rivulets of ice, her own features drawing into a hard mask as she glared at the intruders into her husband’s peace.
“Leave me,” she snapped.
“I am not a servant!” Chiana retorted, but without her earlier righteous fury. “I am a princess!”
“Shut up, you fool!” Pandsala hissed, and dragged her by one arm out of the pavilion.
When Sioned was alone, she spent a long time staring with blind eyes at the empty doorway. Then, with a brisk command, she called Tallain in and told him to fetch her son.
Having rid herself of Chiana through the simple expedient of pushing her into a nearby tent and shouting at the guards to keep her there, Pandsala set off after Rohan. She had a fair idea of where he would be headed. If quiet was his goal, then he would surely seek the river downstream from the encampment. She knew she would have, and her heart thrilled to recognize a similarity of impulse between them.
Sure enough, there he was—striding purposefully through the damp gravel at the water’s edge, a slim figure in dark blue trousers, black boots, and a loose white shirt, crowned by blond hair. Pandsala snatched up her long skirts and hurried after him. When she was within hearing distance, well beyond the last of the tents up on the wooded slope, she called out.
“My lord! Wait!”
Rohan swung around with a furious movement, ready to snarl at anyone who dared intrude. And again Pandsala’s heart quivered when his expression changed at sight of her. Though the ice and stone of him did not melt or soften, neither did he vent his temper on her. He would have done so with almost anyone else. But now he found in Pandsala, as he had not in Sioned, the respite he needed.
This was what she told herself as she neared him, and the catch in her breath was more at having him all to herself than at the exertion of her run.
“My lord—I’m sorry for Chiana’s outburst. It was unf
orgivable.”
“But then, so much of Chiana is unforgivable,” he replied. “You didn’t race after me to tell me this, my lady.”
“No,” she admitted quietly, her heart and respiration slowing. “I wanted to discuss some possibilities with you, my lord. Things that might save Lady Andrade the danger of a conjuring.”
Blue eyes narrowed. “She’s already told me that you have neither the skill nor the strength for something similar. Please don’t suggest it, Pandsala.”
“I would do it,” she maintained, tearing her gaze from his to look at the river. “But it may be that neither of us will have to attempt it.”
“Explain yourself.”
She glanced up the wooded bank. “If you please, my lord, shall we walk a little farther? I can’t see anyone, but—”
Rohan nodded, and they walked. After a time Pandsala spoke in a low, urgent voice.
“The princes are deadlocked without hope of persuading any of Masul’s supporters to change their minds. You know as well as I that this means he will have to be recognized as ruler of Princemarch. Without votes enough to deny him, your own honor will demand that he be confirmed, no matter if there are five other princes who believe him false. Had there been six, or seven, then he could have been denied. But even then, even with only two or three princes to champion him, he could have mounted an army to fight for Princemarch, with those princes at his side. If he is denied now, there are five who will gird and supply him. I want war no more than you do, my lord. But war will surely come, and not just between you and Princemarch. All the others will be drawn in, and all our substance spent.”
“Succinct and accurate,” Rohan said in clipped tones. “What do you propose as a solution?”
“If the results of the trouble cannot be removed, then we must go to its source. Masul himself.”
“And what would you do?”
She cast him a sidelong glance, drawing in a deep breath.
“What Chiana proposed just before you entered the pavilion. Kill him.”