by Melanie Rawn
“You’re not the guardian I would have chosen for him, but you’ve done very well,” Ianthe taunted. “You even love him! My son, and you love him! It’s the best joke I ever played on anyone, the crowning scheme of my life!”
Pandsala stared in horror at Ianthe’s child. Part of her wanted to thrust it away from her, hurl it over the walls to the deep gorge of the Faolain below.
Ianthe laughed. “But I’ll take him back now. He’s mine. More important, he belongs to our mother’s people. I always thought it grossly unfair that she passed the gifts to you, not me. Think what I could have done with them!” She held out her hands. “Give him back to me now, Pandsala. Your work is done.”
“No!”
“He doesn’t belong to you,” Ianthe explained as if to a dull witted student. “Give him to us.”
A shadow fell on the lawn beside her. She turned and saw her father, tall and green-eyed and adamant. He said, “Give him to us. It’s time.”
She clutched the infant to her breast. Calling on everything she had ever learned of power, she flung a bolt of Sunrunner’s Fire at Ianthe, at Roelstra. Their flesh blackened and crisped before her eyes, but they were laughing as she killed them.
She began to run, tripped on the steps, fell, dropped her precious burden. She screamed again, terrified. But the blanket was empty.
Sioned appeared on the walkway above her, the emerald ring blazing as bright as her emerald eyes. She knelt and gathered the violet blanket, never taking her gaze from Pandsala’s.
“What have you done?” she demanded, unfurling the cloth. “Look at the blood!”
Pandsala cringed away from the velvet that dripped fat spheres of thick red blood. They hit the sun-heated stones and burned to blackened circles. She touched one and her fingertip came away scorched, but there was no pain.
She looked up suddenly, relief sobbing through her as Pol came out of the castle to stand beside Sioned. But this was not the boy Pandsala knew; this was a man fully grown, tall and proud, the great topaz-and-amethyst ring on his finger. He looked down on her with remote curiosity and no recognition. Sioned took his hand. Claimed him.
Pandsala opened her mouth to reveal the truth. She could destroy Sioned by speaking of Ianthe.
Bud she did not. If she had killed Ianthe and Roelstra to keep Pol free of them, she could not reclaim him for them by telling him who his real mother had been. She could not do that to him.
Another shadow appeared, and for a panicked instant she thought Roelstra had escaped the flames. But it was Masul who strode forward, green eyes brimming with vicious glee as he swung his new Cunaxan sword at Pol’s head.
“No!” she screamed again. Behind him were three more shadows, dark and menacing, more fatal even than Masul. Rohan must change his mind, he must allow her to remain regent of Princemarch—how else could she continue to protect Pol from the dangers that threatened him again and again and—
Masul laughed down at her and the sword continued on its slow, deadly, sunlit arc toward Pol’s neck.
“NO!”
“My lady!”
She sat up in bed, shuddering, and stared without comprehension at the boy standing beside her. He held a candle. The flame danced light over his dark hair, into his eyes—green like Roelstra’s, like the pretender’s—like Sioned’s. Their faces layered over his, joined by Ianthe’s atop them all, and Pandsala shrank back from him. “Wh-who are you?” she breathed.
“My name is Sejast, my lady,” he said, and the other faces vanished at the sound of his voice. Not more of the dream, then. Only a boy wearing a single faradhi ring on the middle finger of his right hand.
“Forgive me for violating your privacy, but—but I was sent to find out if you were in any distress after what happened tonight.”
“I’m quite all right,” she said, her voice infuriatingly thin and weak.
“I’m glad to hear it, my lady,” he said with a shy little smile. “Some of the others aren’t doing so well. But you’re much stronger than they, I think.”
“You don’t seem much bothered.” She swung her feet over to the floor, smoothed back her hair. “Are you so very strong?”
He blushed. “I’m not that gifted, my lady. If you’re well, then I’ll go and let you rest.”
“Wait.” She grasped his arm and he helped her to her feet, all respectful solicitude. “Get me something to drink.”
He obeyed as she made her way to a nearby chair. She drank thirstily, needing the wine to wash away the last shadows of her dream.
“Do you want me to call a physician, my lady?”
“No.” Feeling better, she straightened her shoulders and regarded him closely, searching for the elusive memory. She had seen him before, she was sure of it. All at once she had it. “Aren’t you the boy who attends Lady Hollis?”
“I have that honor, my lady.”
“I see.” Having placed him now, she relaxed. This was no shadow, only a nice and helpful boy who had been kind—and who had better not say anything about what he might have heard. “I was dreaming,” she said, “when you came in and woke me. I must have startled you.”
“Not half as much as I did you, my lady.” He smiled again. “I heard you call out and I thought it best to wake you if I could.”
“My thanks. It was not a pleasant dream,” she added wryly, relieved that she had said nothing to reveal herself. “And thank you for your attention, Sejast. You may go now. I’m recovered.”
“Very good, my lady. But please try to rest. You look very tired.”
“I will. Goodnight.”
Segev grinned to himself as he left the tent. So much for family instinct, he thought; Pandsala had not recognized a hint of her sister Ianthe in him. It had been a daring thing to do, but the night and Mireva’s use of him and especially Andrade’s death had intoxicated him. He had felt power rip through him like a blizzard of cold, stinging snow that burned with his own body heat and turned to fiery rivers of strength. His mind itched for the Star Scroll and the spells that would show him even more power. But he still had to wait.
Not for long.
He made his way to the High Prince’s tents, careful to let his ring be seen by the guards. He paused outside Maarken’s tent, listening to the voices, watching the shadows on the wall.
“Hollis—stay here for the night, you’re not well enough to—”
“I want to go back and sleep in my own bed!”
“This is your bed! You’re going to be my wife! Any bed I’m in is the one you should be in, too!”
“Maarken—leave me alone, I can’t—”
Segev grinned again, barely containing laughter as the shadow that was Hollis broke away from the taller shadow’s outstretched arms. He hugged himself with excitement.
Hollis snapped, “Stop acting as if I’m yours!”
She nearly stumbled over Segev in her flight from the tent. Suddenly it was as if Maarken’s rasping cry of her name did not exist—or Maarken himself, for the matter.
“Oh!” she said, startled. “Sejast! Are you all right?”
He had grasped her elbow, and now slid his hand down to hers. Thin, chill fingers curled around his. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I’m fine. But I’m glad you’re here. Will you take me back to our tents?”
He cast one glance back over his shoulder as he escorted her. Maarken stood there in the entry of his tent, a lit candle flickering in his hand. By its light, Segev saw undisguised jealous hatred in the young lord’s pale eyes. And grinned.
Ostvel had tried to give Volog’s daughter back to him on the knoll, embarrassed by the girl’s small, desperate sobs and the way she clung to him. But Alasen would not let go. Volog, after a gentle attempt to draw her into his own arms, shook his head and murmured, “Come with me. I doubt she’s aware of much of anything right now.”
It seemed true. It was accident that he had been near her in the first place, when Andrade’s conjuring had gone all awry and the Fire had
turned from vision to nightmare. Alasen’s moan of agony, a tiny echo of Andrade’s scream, brought Ostvel’s hands out to steady her; the next thing he knew, she had buried her face against his chest and dug her fingers into his shirt. She trembled as if her slender body would shatter. Frantic for his son’s safety, Ostvel tried to pry himself away. She only hung on tighter.
Davvi and Chale were helping Riyan; as Ostvel watched, Gemma and Tilal joined them. Riyan looked groggy but was fast recovering. Ostvel gave heartfelt thanks to the Goddess and to the tenderly protective spirit of his Camigwen that surely watched over their son, and turned his attention to the girl weeping hopelessly in his arms.
Volog seemed content to let Ostvel help Alasen back to the tents. He left them for a time, then returned to murmur, “Riyan’s all right. Davvi’s seeing to his comfort.”
“Thank you for your care of my son, your grace,” Ostvel said.
“And for your care of my daughter.” Volog stroked Alasen’s hair. “Poor child. . . . She’s faradhi, of course.”
Ostvel coaxed her to take a few steps. “Come along now, Alasen. It’s all over. You’re safe.” He met Volog’s eyes again. “What of Andrade?”
The prince shook his head.
Ostvel swallowed hard. Memories tumbled in him of his youth at Goddess Keep, growing up with Camigwen and Sioned and Meath and so many others who were Sunrunners. He had never felt the lack of what they had and he did not, had even hoped that one day he would earn the rank of chief steward there. Instead, he had accompanied Sioned to Stronghold, become Rohan’s liegeman and friend and finally athri of his own keep. Andrade had ordered Sioned to the Desert, thus reordering all their destinies. Andrade had in many ways ruled his life for much of his life. It was impossible to think of her as dead.
Alasen was walking more securely now, but when Ostvel tried to unclench her fists from his shirt and hand her over to her father, she gave a despairing cry and huddled still closer.
“It’s all right, my love,” Volog murmured, one arm around her waist. “Only a little way now. My lord, you know more of the faradh’im than I. What happened here tonight?”
“I’m not sure, your grace,” he temporized, although he had strong suspicions. “There are . . . certain things in which all Sunrunners present are joined, and tonight . . . tonight was dangerous.” Even more so than the night Sioned had woven starlight, and not only Tobin and Pol, who had been nearby, but faradh’im hundreds of measures away had been caught up in it. Then, the tangle of colors had been sorted out by Andrade; Ostvel surmised that Sioned had done the work tonight. The other Sunrunners, no matter their level of training, had recovered, though they would all have raging headaches, if he knew anything about the breed. But Alasen had no training at all.
“Joined whether they like it or no,” Volog interpreted, nodding at his daughter’s bent head.
Ostvel nodded.
“Urival—or was it Sioned?—is very skilled.”
He knew a leading remark when he heard one. “I don’t think those of us without the gifts can ever really understand what happens to them, your grace.”
“But you lived amongst them for most of your youth, yes?”
“I had that honor. When they talked of touching colors and seeing each other’s patterns in light—” He supported Alasen as she stumbled. “Their powers are a mystery to me, your grace. But they are only people in the end, like the rest of us.”
They reached Volog’s scarlet tents. Ostvel began to wonder if he would have to sacrifice his shirt to the girl’s fierce grip. Eventually, however, he and Volog persuaded her fingers to loosen. The prince placed his daughter on a low couch, covered her with a light blanket. Her green eyes were wide open and staring, blind to everything around her. Or so Ostvel thought until he turned to go, and she reached out both hands with a piteous cry of abandonment.
He knelt beside her, pressing her hands in both of his. “Hush now. It’s all right, Alasen. You’re safe. I promise you, my lady. Safe.”
She searched his face and sense returned to her eyes. She almost smiled at him. Goddess, but the girl was beautiful, he thought with a catch in his heart that confused him. Her long lashes closed and he was glad that those eyes no longer gazed up at him with such trust, such gratitude.
Alasen whispered suddenly, “But she’s dead. All the colors—and Lady Andrade is dead.”
“Shh,” he replied, aware of Volog hovering on the other side of the couch, watching. “Just sleep now, my dear.”
Alasen’s fingers moved convulsively in his own, then went limp. Ostvel waited until he was sure she slept, then rose tiredly to his feet. Joints at knee and shoulder hurt a little in the damp climate of Waes, so different from the hot, dry Desert around Skybowl. The dull aches reminded him of his age, fully twice that of the girl who lay on the couch, resting at last but not at peace. Another small hurt centered in his chest as he gazed down at her youth, her pale, strained face.
He turned to Volog. “She’ll be all right once she’s had a good long sleep, your grace.”
“You must be getting bored by my expressions of thanks,” the prince said wryly. “May I offer you some wine, my lord? We could both use it.”
“At any other time I would accept gladly. But I really ought to go see about my son.”
“Of course. Another time, then.” He escorted Ostvel to the en tryway. “I hate to ask it, but what do you think will happen tomorrow? Andrade is dead, the question of Masul is still unresolved, and I see no way out of this.”
“The High Prince will find one. He always does.” Ostvel thought of the Sunrunner Masul had undoubtedly killed; if it could be proven against him, he would die—pretender to Princemarch or not. “Good night, your grace.”
He met Chay outside the perimeter of Rohan’s tents. “I’ve been checking on our sons,” the older man said. “All serene—though they’ll not be fit to live with tomorrow, if I know faradh’im.”
“My diagnosis exactly. I’ve just been with Volog. Alasen was stricken more than the others. She’s had no training.”
Chay looked grim. “Someone must have known her colors. Otherwise Sioned would never been able to find and separate her from the other Sunrunners, and we would have lost her to the shadows.”
Ostvel wondered who it might have been who had touched and remembered Alasen’s unique pattern of light. Then he shrugged; it was enough that someone had. “How does Tobin?”
“Well enough. She knew what was happening the entire time. She’s stronger than she knows, and even stronger than she pretends to be,” he added with a rueful shrug. Then he sobered. “I can’t believe Andrade is gone.”
“Nor I,” Ostvel murmured.
“I can usually guess the workings of Rohan’s mind—though I’m just that half-step behind him much of the time. But I’m damned if I know what he’s going to do now.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he repeated.
Ostvel thought it best to change the subject. “Riyan is with Davvi right now?”
“What? Oh—no, he’s with Andry at the Sunrunner tents. Sorin’s going to stay the night with them. Maarken’s holed up in his own tent pretending to be asleep.” Chay grimaced. “I wish I knew what was going on with him. That girl of his is lovely, of course, and Andry tells us she’s perfect for Maarken. But if she’s in love with him, I haven’t seen anything of it. Ah, well. They’ll work it out themselves, I suppose.” He squinted at the eastern sky. “Not much left of tonight.”
“I wish there were. I’m not looking forward to tomorrow.”
“Will the burning be here, do you think, or at Goddess Keep?”
“I don’t know. Urival will have to decide, but I don’t think he’s in any state to make plans.” He gripped Chay’s arm lightly. “We won’t be, either, unless we at least try to get some sleep.”
“Ostvel, I can’t even begin to think what plans to make—except ones for war.”
Andry lay sleepless and afraid in the small white tent, not com
forted even by his twin’s presence nearby. He had been the one to delineate Alasen’s colors—and Sioned had not been the one to separate her from the rest. Andry had done it himself. Through the shock and agony threatening to tear his mind apart, he had seen the luminous pattern that was Alasen begin to splinter. Panic had shoved aside all else. He had sensed the method used by Sioned to extract Pol from the chaos; instinct had taken over from there. The effort to calm Alasen’s terror and keep her whole had wrung all the strength from him. The next thing he knew he was being helped down the knoll, led by Sorin’s worried, soothing voice.
He could hear his twin’s soft breathing nearby, the rhythm one of wakefulness, not sleep as Riyan’s was in the other bed. Andry sat up slowly, holding his throbbing head between his hands.
“Lie back down, you idiot,” Sorin whispered, instantly at his side. Andry groped for his brother’s warm hand. “What is it, Andry? Are you all right?”
He could not seem to stop the sudden shivering that invaded his bones. “I-I just can’t get warm,” he stammered.
Sorin pulled another blanket from the foot of the bed. “Here, get this wrapped around you. Better?”
“Yes,” he lied.
Sorin crouched beside him as he lay back. “I sent a squire to ask after the others. Everyone’s all right, more or less. But the consensus is that you Sunrunners will be feeling tomorrow as if you’d had a four-day voyage on the open sea.” He pressed Andry’s fingers hard. “Goddess, you scared me!”
He let himself drink in his brother’s solid, sane presence. Gradually the visions faded from his conscious mind, sinking into a locked place where only nightmares would have the key. “Are you going to stay here?” he asked, unashamed of his pleading tone.
“Of course. For one thing, Father ordered it. And for another, do you think I’d leave you when you’re hurt like this?”
Andry remembered a time long ago when they’d both been very small, and the sunlight had suddenly assaulted his mind and gifts with brutal insistence. Frantic, Sorin had stuck to Andry’s side for days thereafter. And there had been a winter when Sorin had sickened with a high fever, and Andry had defied his mother’s prohibition and stayed with him, taking care of him until he was well again. It had been like that all their lives. He pitied those who had no twin, no second self to be there always—but even more, he pitied his brother Maarken for what he must have endured when his twin Jahni had died of Plague.