by Melanie Rawn
Sorin squeezed his hands again. “Do you think you can get some sleep now?”
“Yes—no. Andrade’s dead, isn’t she?”
Sorin nodded. “Urival’s with her, and Lleyn, too, I think.” “Be thankful you can’t see and feel what I do, brother,” Andry whispered. “It was like a window of stained glass all in motion, pictures shifting and backlit by Fire—but then it shattered into a million pieces and I had to find the right ones, put the pictures back together again—Sioned did the work, but—I could feel all of them, all of us, the fear of the shadows—”
“It’s all over,” Sorin murmured. “Relax now, Andry. Just close your eyes. I’ll be here.”
He smiled faintly. “I’ve missed you, you know.”
“Me, too. Listen, what if I ask Father if I can come visit you at Goddess Keep for the winter? He and Rohan have to figure out something for me now that I’ve been knighted, after all. That’ll give them some time to think up what they want to do with me.”
“What about what you want to do with you?”
“I never really thought about it,” Sorin replied easily. “They won’t set me to the account books at Radzyn Port or anything boring like that, you know.”
He chuckled. “A good thing, too. You never could add without counting on your fingers.”
Sorin grinned, and Andry realized that sibling magic had worked again: his brother had made him laugh.
“It’d be interesting to help with the new port on the Faolain, thought,” Sorin went on. “I like building things. Volog’s got a little manor house that he’s reworking just in case Alasen marries somebody who doesn’t have a place suitable for a princess. I’ve had a great time there—” He broked off suddenly, whispering, “Andry?”
He cursed himself for letting it show on his face. “What?” he asked, trying to imitate Maarken’s most forbidding tone. But evidently his older brother had been the only one to inherit that particular inflection from their father. Sorin simply stared.
“You—and Alasen?” he got out at last. “Oh, Goddess!”
“What’s wrong with me and Alasen?” Andry challenged. “I may not be a prince and I don’t have any lands, but I’m the grandson of a prince and son of the Lord of Radzyn and nephew of—”
“Oh, stop waving your credentials like a trade ambassador,” Sorin chided. “It’s just a surprise, that’s all. I can’t think of her as anything but a pest who grew up sort of pretty. But if you love her—”
“As if there’s a chance,” Andry muttered.
“Why shouldn’t there be? Your lineage is just as good as hers. What’s more, she’s kin to Sioned and Pol. It’d be in the family. I think it’s a great idea. Really.”
“Do you?” He sighed. “Now I just have to convince her, and her father, and her mother, and—”
“You sound like Maarken. You Sunrunners—always finding shadows where there aren’t any. Why shouldn’t she accept you? You’re fairly presentable, you don’t eat with your fingers, you’re smarter than the average plow-elk, and you wash regularly.”
Andry couldn’t help grinning again. “Thanks for building up my confidence!”
Sorin patted his shoulder. “Only too glad to help.” But after a moment he grew serious. “But do you think you could give up being at Goddess Keep? It’s all you’ve ever wanted, Andry. The manor on Kierst is beautiful, and it’d be more than enough for any man to run—and having Allie there would make it perfect for you. And you’d still be a Sunrunner, of course, probably attached to Volog’s court. Actually, it’d be an excellent move politically. If you were their assigned Sunrunner, then when Arlis grows up and inherits the whole island—”
“I’d do it, for her,” Andry said slowly. “But I won’t have to leave Goddess Keep. Alasen will come there, and be trained as a faradhi.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Sorin—I can’t imagine anyone who has the gifts not wanting to use them, to learn everything they can about being a Sunrunner. It’s the most wonderful thing in the world. It’s—”
“I could set that speech to music by now, I’ve heard it so often,” Sorin interrupted, grinning again. “All right, then—take her to Goddess Keep and make a Sunrunner of her.” He wagged a monitory finger in Andry’s face. “But I’ll come along this winter to make sure your intentions toward her stay honorable!”
“Sorin!” Andry protested, outraged until he saw the teasing gleam in his twin’s eyes. He took a playful swing at Sorin in retaliation, but sudden movement jostled the ache in his skull to new and inventive pain. He lay back and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Easy,” Sorin advised, worried again. “You really should try to sleep.”
“Not for the next little while, I’m afraid,” said a quiet voice behind them. They turned, startled, and beheld Prince Lleyn silhouetted in the doorway. “It’s nearly dawn—not enough time for a decent sleep. Lord Andry, if you feel up to it, Lord Urival asks that you attend him. I suggest,” he added dryly, “that you feel up to it.”
Andry hurried into his clothes and exchanged a single bewildered glance with his twin. Following Lleyn from the tent, he asked, “Your grace, do you know why Lord Urival wishes to see me?”
The old man cast him a sidelong look. “You don’t know? Good.”
The words did nothing for Andry’s peace of mind. He entered the huge white pavilion alone, almost trembling with unformed apprehensions. Urival stood before the tapestry partition that hid the sleeping area where Andrade lay. His hands were clasped behind his back, his face utterly still and expressionless but for the sorrow that dulled his golden-brown eyes.
“My lord?” Andry asked hesitantly.
Urival took the few steps that separated them, extending his hands. Andry looked uncomprehendingly at the two bracelets held out to him.
“My Lord,” Urival said quietly.
And then he knew, and there was a roaring in his mind like a storm of Fire. Agony and exultation, grief and joy, terror and desire—Andry took the bracelets, clasped them about his wrists.
“My Lord,” Urival said again, and bowed low to him.
Chapter Twenty-six
Far away in the mountains, Mireva paced and fretted. “Why do they do nothing?” she demanded for the fifth time of Ruval, who lounged near the open door of her dwelling, his chair tilted back and his feet propped against the wall. “This whole day long, nothing but baking in their damned tents like dragons in hatching caves, when they could be—”
Ruval laughed and she rounded on him furiously. He held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Forgive me,” he said, still smiling. “But what else can they do? You saw how they scuttled from tent to tent last night. Today they wait. By sunset they’ll have made the pyre, and before the first star is out they’ll gather to burn the old witch.” He shrugged. “I still don’t understand why you killed her, though.”
“Could there ever be a better time? And when would I get another chance?” She poured wine from a bottle kept cool on the table. “She was vulnerable as she’d never been before. In any case, with her gone and her senile lover distraught, Segev will find it that much easier to steal the scrolls.”
She drank off the wine, set her goblet down, placed her palms together. “I can almost feel them in my hands, Ruval. I must have them, I must. So much has been lost. It’s incredible that Merisel wrote it all down. She was our most powerful and implacable enemy. And yet she seems to have known almost everything! Who told her? How did she gain such knowledge?”
He stretched his arms wide and eased his chair to the floor. Rising, he poured himself a share of the wine. Watching him, she felt her tension dissolve and something else uncurl in her body to take its place. He had experienced his final growth to manhood this spring and summer. His shoulders were broader with muscle, the lines of body and face hard and clean with the predatory beauty of a hunting cat. Even lazing back as he had been, or standing casually with a goblet in his hand, there was a feeling of contained power abo
ut him. For now it was purely physical; over the next years she would tutor him fully in other powers. Mireva’s gaze roamed over him, and a slow smile stretched her lips.
Ruval recognized the look, and laughed. “We really ought to celebrate Andrade’s death,” he suggested. Taking a long gulp of wine, he set down the cup. “After all, they won’t be doing much of anything for the rest of the day. No need to bore ourselves with watching them.”
“And have you a means of celebration in mind?” she asked archly.
He only laughed again.
But a little while later, when they lay in a tangle of half-discarded clothes on her bed, she drew back and took his face between her hands. Fiercely blue eyes, hot with passion, glared at her for the interruption.
“Hear me,” she said, breathing hard. “Tonight we must watch most carefully, and every night until Segev is back with the scrolls.”
“Don’t you trust my dear littlest brother?” he mocked.
“If I didn’t, he’d be dead.”
Ruval grinned down at her, turned his head to sink his teeth into her hand. “And the same goes for me, doesn’t it? But apart from that craven idiot Marron, I’m all you have, Mireva. Treat me sweetly, my lady, and I’ll give you a princedom.”
“Treat me sweetly, my lord, and I’ll give you everything from the Sunrise Water to the Far Islands.” She tightened her grip on his face, dug her fingers into his hair. “Remember that.”
“How could I forget?” He grasped her wrists and spread her arms wide on the bed. “Will you do this with Pol one day?” he asked, eyes burning even hotter now.
For answer, she called on the dranath that had been in the wine, using it and ancient sorcery to transform herself into the beautiful, willowy girl. She flung thick black hair over her shoulder, stretching widely, grinning in delight at the young, supple body she now wore.
Ruval laughed. “Fit for princes, indeed! May his Goddess pity him!”
It was a long walk to the cliffs where the ritual would be held. Rohan worried that the distance might be too much for Chale and Clutha, and especially for Lleyn. But Chale had Gemma and Tilal to support him; Clutha had Halian. Lleyn leaned on nothing but his dragon-headed cane, though Chadric and Audrite hovered close enough to irritate him into several sharp glances.
Andry had seen to the building of a suitable stone pyre. He and Urival had chosen a site where the rocky cliffs rose to their highest point, the sea immediately below. Stones had been piled up into a flat resting place, covered by a length of white silk velvet never unbolted since its weaving. A litter had also been constructed quickly from a single mighty tree felled that morning; every wood-carver at the Fair had been called on to smooth the struts and poles, a goldsmith had gilded the four handles, and a jeweler had set moonstones into them.
Rohan held two of those handles now, feeling the cool overlay of gold and the smoothly rounded gems in his palms. Chay had taken the other end of the litter, at Andrade’s feet. Rohan watched the bowed dark head above the collar of gray mourning clothes, seeing suddenly how much silver had threaded through Chay’s hair. Sioned and Pol walked to one side of them as they carried Andrade, Tobin and two of her sons on the other. It was Andry who led the procession, the bracelets gleaming around his wrists. Urival followed behind with the Sunrunners. Highborns, their families and retainers, and finally the common folk trailed behind Rohan—whose back Tallain had insisted on guarding.
They set Andrade on the stones, bowed to her, and joined their wives and children. The ritual belonged to Andry tonight; he alone would preside. Not even Urival, who had known her and loved her so long, could participate as anything more than just another faradhi.
Andry came forward, lean and pale and moving with the strict grace of one whose control is too rigid to permit natural gestures. He paused while everyone assembled, and Rohan followed his gaze where he could among the crowd. Princes, athr’im, their wives and children and retainers; the Sunrunners to one side; great numbers of merchants and servants from the Fair across the river; all of them encircled by soldiers wearing the emblems and colors of the thirteen princedoms on their tunics, but carrying no weapons. Rohan wondered how many of them would soon be wearing colors and weapons in earnest.
Andry seemed to be looking for someone in particular, and a small muscle tightened in his cheek when that person went un-found. Rohan knew his nephew’s face well enough to read it, even in its new aspect of Lord of Goddess Keep.
Water from a flask was scattered down the length of Andrade’s white cloak as more people stood watching than had ever seen a Lady or Lord of Goddess Keep honored before. They kept a respectful distance from Andrade’s family and the faradh’im. The ritual itself was long familiar to them all—but the one they held vigil for tonight had been the personification of the Goddess’ power. There were many who looked askance at the young man who would replace her, and even more who considered him easy prey. Rohan felt a faint, grim smile move his lips as Andry, a slim gray shadow in the gathering gloom of dusk, let a fistful of Earth trail from his fingers down the white cloak. If anyone thought him weak, they were in for a surprise. They ought to know that a man born of Chay’s family, Andrade’s, and Zehava’s was made of both power and strength.
It seemed Andry wished to go on record for those qualities, as well. He circled Andrade’s pyre so everyone could get a good look at him. Then, facing west to the sea across her body, he held up both arms. His sleeves fell back to show bracelets that caught the last rays of the sun in silver and gold. His four rings tipped in tiny rubies shone as he suddenly stripped both bracelets from his arms and replaced them on Andrade’s crossed wrists.
Rohan felt Sioned give a start of surprise beside him. He took her fingers and she met his gaze, bewildered. Rohan admitted to himself that if Andry had not explained it earlier, he would not have comprehended, either. The youth was putting everyone on notice that whatever Andrade had been, he would not be the same. When she had become Lady, she had used the bracelets of the man who had been Lord before her—a calculated act of humility, for she, too, had been very young when named Lady. But the gold and silver bracelets that had circled her wrists for most of her seventy winters would melt and vanish with the flames that consumed her empty flesh. Rohan did not know whether this was the action of an arrogant child or a man who knew precisely what he was doing. But he knew that sooner or later they would all find out.
Urival had been scandalized by Andry’s plan, though he dared not object. Now he stood with bent head and slumped shoulders. He looked so old, Rohan thought, aching with pity. He held tighter to Sioned’s hand, not wanting to think about a time when he might stand thus and watch his own beloved consigned to the Fire.
Andry gestured, and a soft breeze stirred the motionless Air, wafted across Andrade’s body, fluttered the hem of her cloak and touched loose wisps of her silver-gilt hair. Tobin and Sioned had offered to help Urival make her ready, but he had jealously clung to the one service he was allowed to perform: washing her body, dressing it in a white gown, braiding her long hair.
The other Sunrunners moved to circle the pyre. Urival was the last to come forward, holding out a small silver flask of sweet oil to Andry. But the young man shook his head, returning the flask to the old man’s suddenly shaking hands. Rohan nodded slowly in approval. Urival should have some part in honoring Andrade. It was only right.
He could smell herbs and spices heavy on the motionless air as thick oil was tenderly smoothed on Andrade’s hands and brow and lips, and the four corners of the cloak were anointed. Urival stepped back, tears shining on his cheeks as Andry called Fire.
Sunrunners cloaked and hooded in gray bent their heads. The flames caught, rose, lit Andrade’s strong, severe profile for a long moment. Rohan felt Sioned tremble—and then she was walking forward to join those of her kind in watching over the woman who had taken her in, taught her the nature of her gifts, summoned her to the Desert to become the wife of a prince. Tobin hesitated, then went t
o Sioned’s side. Maarken was right behind her, and last of all Pol left Rohan to stand between his mother and his cousin. Rohan felt Chay and Sorin draw a little closer to him. Of all Andrade’s family, they were the only ones ungifted with Sunrunner’s Fire.
Andrade had hoped and planned what Rohan would be. Instead it was Pol who would be both faradhi and prince. There were soft gasps throughout the crowd as he joined the Sunrunners and gave them another reminder of what many would like to forget.
Rohan glanced around the cliffside. His eyes lit on Masul. Murderous, greedy, ruthless—everything Pol was not, Masul was. What if faradhi powers had been added to those vices? He acknowledged the reasons for the strictness of Andrade’s training, her arrogant demand that all Sunrunners bend to her will. Sioned had not; but neither had Pandsala. She had given Rohan a bitter lesson in what could result when faradhi and princely powers combined in a single ruthless will.
Sooner or later there would be other princes who possessed the gifts. Pol, Maarken, and Riyan would not be alone for long. Andrade had trusted that her formidable will would instill discipline in such people to guard against abuses of power. But Andrade was gone, and Andry would take her place. He was too young, Rohan thought, frowning. Much too young.
“The same age you were when you became a ruling prince. . . .”
He looked sidelong at Chay. By the blazing light of the pyre, the proud, handsome face seemed carved in stone, generations of loyal athr’im and valiant warriors shining in his eyes. Rohan’s gaze then sought his sister in the circle of Sunrunners, the ends of her black braids peeking out from beneath her gray veil. She was a most remarkable woman: princess and politician, warrior in her own right, born of a long line of princes. Coming from people such as these, Andry could not help but be strong. Perhaps in a way much different from Andrade, as his refusal to wear her bracelets had foretold, but strong just the same.