by Melanie Rawn
Still, Andry could not help murmuring, “You’re not sorry, are you?”
“I would be if you were. But if you’re content, then so am I.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Listen to how mellow I’ve become in my old age!” Then, seriously, he added, “Andry, I’m proud of all my sons.”
He bit his lip and nodded blindly.
Younger sons and younger brothers came forward with their sponsors, and received gold buckles, bread, salt, and each athri’s special gift. From nearby, Rohan and Sioned and Pol presided over the whole, and the honor of being knighted in front of the High Prince, High Princess, and their heir was not lost on any of the young men so elevated. After making their bows to their lords, they turned, marched a few paces to the left, and bowed even lower to the royal trio. Smiles greeted each new-made knight: approving from Rohan, kind from Sioned, and a trifle envious from Pol.
Riyan made his appearance toward the end of the ceremonies, being the son of a relatively minor athri without important blood-bond to any royal house. He accepted the usual gifts from Prince Clutha and his eldest daughter, a statuesque lady of great dignity and a sudden mischievous smile as she gave the young man Meadowlord’s traditional gift: a flask carved from the horn of a stag. The proportions of the animal who had contributed the horn must have been truly awesome, for the flask held enough wine to make a man blind drunk.
“I hope you won’t mind if I share this first one with you in celebration,” said Princess Gennadi. Riyan returned her grin as she undid the stopper, bright with silver and a circle of tiny sapphires, and expertly tilted the flask to spray a stream of crimson wine into her throat. Righting the horn, she gave it to Riyan. He offered it first to Clutha—who was shaking so hard with repressed laughter that he nearly missed his open jaws—and then took a large mouthful for himself.
“My lord, my lady,” Riyan said to them as he recorked the flask and hung it around his shoulder by its silver chain, “I wish for you what you’ve so graciously made sure of for me—may you never, ever thirst!”
Everyone was more than glad of the chance to laugh. Clay slapped Ostvel on the back and announced, “That boy’s got style!” as Riyan made his bow to Clutha and Gennadi. Rohan, Sioned, and Pol were grinning broadly as the young knight approached and bent low before them.
Ostvel, rigid with nerves during Riyan’s presentation, nearly wilted with relief as his son walked over to him. But he quickly recovered himself, turned to Chay, and said slyly, “Now, my old friend—are you seriously willing to see anyone with less style riding that beautiful dapple-gray mare?”
Chay might have been proof against Ostvel’s blandishment, but when Princess Alasen turned the full force of her eyes on him and pleaded Riyan’s case, he was lost. His wife saw it, and laughed.
“Give in, you old miser,” she scolded, nudging him with an un-gentle elbow. “You’d never be happy if anybody else rode Dalziel and you know it.”
Chay groaned. But by the time Riyan joined them to collect congratulations and embraces, he was resigned. “Well, it looks as if you’ll be riding off with my prize mare this year, thanks to your father—and a certain pair of big green eyes I should know by now how to resist,” he added in Alasen’s direction. “Sioned has a look just like that!”
Again Andry felt a delicate, exquisite twisting in his chest when Riyan bent over Alasen’s wrist to thank her. When she smiled, the ache was worse. And when she glanced laughingly at him, those green eyes alight, he suddenly knew what was wrong with him.
To hide it, he looked away. It was the worst possible thing he could have done. Alasen was no fool. Only three winters his senior, she had lived at a great palace all her life and not in the relative isolation of Goddess Keep for the last six years, as he had. She had seen his like before, known the adoration of countless young men ever since she could remember. She knew exactly what he felt. And she would laugh, amused to have collected yet another heart, and pity him for giving that heart where it could find no home. Doubtless his feelings, so vital to him, would be to her just the worship of one more callow fool too young to know what love was. Bitterly humiliated, he compelled himself to have the courage to look her in the face.
What he saw stunned him.
Her eyes were clear and soft and gentle. She was not laughing at him. She did not pity him. She knew what he felt for her. But she did not smile in kind rejection.
Alasen might not love him, but she was shyly pleased that he loved her.
Andry’s world turned to hazy colors, all unfocused around the green of her eyes, the ivory of her skin, the sweet rose of her mouth, the rich gold-lit brown of her hair. Sunlight spun through him seemingly of its own accord, and through it he felt her other colors: glowing moonstone, bright ruby, deep onyx. She gasped softly, feeling the woven light lace its brilliance around and through her. All the colors of late summer swirled around them, sweet and shining in a dance fitted to the music of birds and wind and the coursing of blood in their veins. Andry realized it was Alasen’s first experience of her faradhi gifts, and in soaring joy knew it was something only he could show her.
Delight flushed her cheeks as she gazed up into his eyes, and they were the only people in the world for many shared heartbeats. But all at once there was a world again, its demand harsh and frightening as through their enchantment they both heard the name Masul.
He strode up to the place where all the other squires had been knighted. But his sponsor was not Kiele’s husband Lord Lyell. At his side was Miyon of Cunaxa, whose bright orange tunic Masul wore. The outrageous presumption of the man, the sheer audacity of it, spread shocked silence over the knoll like a cloud. Andry’s gentle glowing haze of color became so sharply focused that he winced. He saw with painful clarity the white fury of Rohan’s face, the crimson of Chay’s as he fought down terrible rage.
The formula rang out mockingly as Masul knelt before Miyon and the latter said, “I have examined this candidate in all aspects, and found him worthy of my sponsorship for knighthood. Therefore I charge him to serve the Goddess and the truth, to live hon orably and courageously in rich times and in bitter. In token of both I give him bread and salt, and in token of his new and honored state I give this golden buckle.”
Loaf and vial were presented, and Masul’s violet belt decorated with a large hollow circle of gold, pierced with gold. Then, grinning slyly, Miyon called one of his squires forward and a startled gasp went through the audience, for with the presentation of the final gift it was remembered that Cunaxa, home of the finest metalsmiths on the continent, traditionally gave as its special gift a sword.
Newly girded with a magnificent blade in a gorgeous scabbard set like the hilt with amethysts, Masul sauntered a few paces and made his brief, mocking bow to Rohan, Sioned, and Pol. The first nodded curtly, rigid with his effort at control. Sioned, equally furious, acknowledged Masul’s salute with a grim stare. But the boy, for all his youth and inexperience, was the one who saved the disaster for them.
With absolute, proud calm, and in a clear voice that carried across the grassy knoll, he said, “Something mars your appearance.”
Masul straightened up and stared. “What are you talking about?”
“Your belt.” The corners of Pol’s mouth lifted in a tiny, cold smile. “Violet with orange—what a painful mistake in color, especially to a Sunrunner’s eyes. And I am certain it was a mistake.”
“Violet is the color of Princemarch,” Masul replied with scant courtesy to this stripling prince he could have broken in half.
“And Princemarch,” Pol informed him pleasantly, “is mine. Be so good as to rectify the mistake, and remove the belt.”
If he refused, there would be pandemonium. If he obeyed—
Miyon hastened forward and whispered something urgent in Masul’s ear. The pretender’s face turned several sequentially darker shades of red. Miyon said something else, and backed away. And Masul, salvaging what he could of a battle he had lost, undid the golden buckle so recently clasped arou
nd his waist.
“As you wish—my lord,” he added insultingly. The sight of him juggling loaf, salt, and sword while trying to undo the buckle from the leather brought grins and even a few open titters of laughter. But Pol waited with perfect aplomb while Masul struggled to maintain his dignity and comply with a request he dared not refuse. Pol was in the right. Princemarch still belonged to him. Defiance now would be foolhardy.
The long strip of violet-dyed leather was freed. Masul held it in one fist, as if strangling a poisonous snake. Pol was wise enough not to extend his hands for it, and thus Masul did not have the satisfaction of dropping it into the dirt for Pol to retrieve. Tallain appeared silently at Masul’s side, and before the pretender could even consider throwing it to the ground, took the belt and coiled it nearly as he returned to his post near the royal trio.
Pol nodded graciously. “Now you look much better, and your tunic is much easier on the eyes. You have our permission to withdraw.”
Masul’s green eyes bored into his. “Keep your precious color, princeling,” he sneered.
“I intend to,” Pol replied.
With Miyon in attendance, Masul stalked off down the hill. He was not even out of sight before someone, no one ever knew who, sent up a raucous cheer that was Pol’s name.
Andry, who had watched the whole with his breath caught in his throat, laughed aloud and joined his family in its surge to Rohan, Sioned, and Pol. If there were disgruntled partisans of the pretender on that hillside, they vanished quickly in the wake of Pol’s small, telling triumph.
A little while later, when everyone was heading down the knoll to their camps, Alasen caught up to Andry and asked, “I understand what Prince Pol did—and it was masterful—but why was that man knighted?”
“It wasn’t just to irritate us,” Andry agreed.
“Yes, our young prince did very well today, didn’t he?” Ostvel said from behind them, where he walked with Riyan and Chay. “I thought the pretender would have a seizure! Pol’s definitely his father’s son, Chay.”
“A fact Masul is currently cursing,” Andry’s father replied with a tight grin. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to hurry back to camp. I want to be the one to tell old Lleyn about this.”
“Do it carefully!” Ostvel called after him. “He’s likely to laugh himself into a fit!”
“My lord,” Alasen said to Ostvel, “I still don’t understand why—”
“Just for spite, my lady,” Riyan said quickly. “Father, Tallain says we’re to meet their graces immediately after this. We’d best hurry.”
“Of course. Andry, will you see Princess Alasen safe to her father’s care? We seem to have been separated from his grace in the crowd.”
Andry would have kept her safe even if a thousand mounted knights suddenly thundered down on them. He suspected his face showed it as he said, “Of course, my lord.”
“Good. I leave you in his capable hands, then, my lady.” Ostvel smiled again at Alasen, and she smiled back.
“They didn’t answer us,” she said when they had gone.
“No.” Andry couldn’t bring himself to care. “My lady—Alasen—”
She blushed and his heart turned over. It was a very long time before either remembered that they were supposed to be going to her father’s tents.
Andrade glanced up. Ostvel was holding her cloak over one arm, his face in shadow. No lamps had been lit, and the setting sun had turned the white tent to gray mist around them. She rose, smoothed her hair, and allowed him to drape the cloak around her shoulders.
“My Lady—”
“No.” She heard her voice sharp with nervous tension, and clenched her fists beneath the concealing folds of material. “No,” she said again, more softly. “All will be well.
“There’s nothing I can say to dissuade you.”
“Of course not. Hurry up. This must be done before moonrise. Is everyone assembled?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s get this over with. I’ve had enough of this Masul person.”
“As have we all,” he muttered.
The late sun hovered in a sky washed pale yellow. Andrade mounted the knoll where knighting ceremonies had been held that afternoon. She smelled rain in the air, and fear not her own, as she stood outside the circle assembled on the hill. Twenty-five people stood around an empty firepit, a necklace of princely power threaded by faradh’im. When Andrade and Urival joined them, they would number twenty-seven—one of the multiples of three strictly prescribed for what she was about to do. Andrade found the mystical significance of three absurd, and suspected Lady Merisel had, too. But she did not dare flout traditions she knew nothing about.
Andrade had carefully planned the balance of powers, both political and faradhi, around the circle. There was nothing in the Star Scroll that demanded it, but her own sense of balance had focused the two conflicting sides directly opposite each other. Sioned acted as the Desert’s Sunrunner, as usual; Rohan stood to her right, his eyes dark with guilt. Pol had insisted on his privilege as titular ruler of Princemarch—and Pandsala could not have joined the circle in any case, for the presence of persons who could appear in this kind of conjure was forbidden. Tobin, despite her mere three honorary rings and her lack of formal training at Goddess Keep, was acting as Pol’s Sunrunner. On the other side of the circle were Miyon of Cunaxa and the four other princes who supported Masul’s claim. Faradh’im, including Hollis, stood between them. Chale had selected Riyan as his Sunrunner. Andry had asked for and received permission to stand with Volog as his faradhi link in the circle. On his other side was Lleyn, with Maarken at his side. Lady Eneida represented Firon; Urival would stand with her. Young Sejast had volunteered to act as Davvi’s faradhi. They completed the circle next to Sioned.
They were all looking at her with differing mixtures of wary apprehension, worry, and simple curiosity. Urival took her cloak at a gesture of her fingers, and she spared a glance for the swords and knives laid neatly out on a blanket on the grass. Ostvel would watch over them—and over Chiana and Masul, who also could not be part of the circle. Others stood outside, as well: Chay and Sorin with Alasen, Tilal and Kostas beside Gemma and Danladi. Pandsala stayed apart, seeming calm and confident until one saw her deep, shadow-bruised eyes.
Kiele had the temerity to approach Andrade, but one cold look kept her from speaking. She returned to Masul’s side. The pretender arched a sardonic brow at the Lady of Goddess Keep, but if the expression reminded her of Roelstra, she did not allow herself to think it.
She nodded Urival to his place in the circle and entered it herself, standing before the firepit. Logs had been stacked in a heavy triangle, kindling piled beneath them, ready for Sunrunner’s Fire. Andrade watched as the sun dipped lower, the sky gradually darkening. She had only a short wait before the moons would rise; this conjuring could take place only beneath stars. When the first of them winked into view in the east, she lifted one beringed hand. Urival stepped forward with a small flask. He opened it for her, took a small golden cup from his pocket, and poured out dranath-laced wine.
Andrade drank it quickly. Almost at once her head began to throb. She drank more; the ache faded to a glow of well-being, an almost sexual pleasure in the flow of blood through her veins and air through her lungs. Heat spread along her body, a slow uncurling of power that nothing in the Star Scroll had prepared her for. The sky went dark while she drank again. And it seemed to her that the stars exploded into being simultaneously, made of a million different colors that she could weave into the fabric of her memories.
She was startled when the logs burst into flame. She could not remember having consciously willed it, yet there the Fire was, flaring up toward the light-dazzled night sky. Someone gasped; perhaps it was herself. She did not know and certainly did not care. This was power beyond anything she had ever felt. It sang through her, promised delights of mind and flesh and spirit that enchanted her. Sweet, clean, omnipotent, acting on the already extraordinary stre
ngths that had made her Lady of Goddess Keep, the dranath rushed through her and she nearly laughed aloud.
Andrade reached for the energies of the Sunrunners circled around her, wove their varying colors into a taut, shining fabric disciplined by her strong mind. It was a cloak she wore for only an instant before it melted into her flesh and became part of her augmented powers. So this was a sorcerer’s way, she thought, this was what she had been so afraid of. How foolish! The ascent was dazzling. She had no thought for the fall.
Turning her face to the flames that leaped higher, higher with her every thought, she effortlessly caused the scenes of her memory to play out in smoky patterns superimposed on the red-gold heat. If there were gasps of fearful surprise, she did not hear them. She knew only the soaring glory of power.
The sailing barge swayed with the gentle motion of the Faolain River, the night sky bright overhead with stars. Palila lay in bed, straining in labor. Ianthe appeared, lips moving soundlessly, and as Andrade left the cabin she saw the princess sit beside Roelstra’s mistress, stroking her hand. A staircase, steep and dark; a cramped, dim room, where two other women struggled to give birth, presided over by Pandsala. A third clutched her newborn fiercely to her breast. Andrade helped the other two as best she could, then left for the upstairs cabin once more. The night whirled dizzily, sickeningly around her as she stood on deck. The star-dappled water seemed to rise up, trying to claim a Sunrunner. When the world stopped spinning, she was given a swallow from a sailor’s pocket flask.
Memories overlapped skittishly for a moment, the face of the kind sailor superimposed on that of a green-eyed corpse: Masul’s real father.
Palila’s door was locked. Women clustered in the passage, women who were supposed to assist at the birth. Andrade pounded on the carved wood, her rings shimmering in the light from a nearby lamp. Abruptly the door was flung open. Ianthe stood there smiling, a violet-wrapped bundle in her arms.