by Melanie Rawn
Roelstra’s daughters, he told himself, shaking his head as he locked his library door and sat down at the huge slate-topped desk. One of a score of keys unlocked yet another coffer of most-secret records. The lesser archives were being sorted by trusted scribes. Treaties, trade agreements, marriage contracts, the everyday effluvia of running a large and powerful princedom; none that held any dangers. But all that was in the locked coffers Ostvel read himself. Roelstra’s daughters, he thought again; the labeled dates told him that within would be Roelstra’s concealed records about Ianthe, Feruche, and Rohan.
And perhaps what he feared to find: record of Pol’s true ancestry.
He flinched when rusted hinges squealed a protest as he raised the lid. At least it had obviously not been opened in years, probably not since Pandsala received the keys he himself now possessed. He wondered what she had felt on reading this parchment giving Feruche to her hated sister, or this copy of a letter from Roelstra congratulating Ianthe on the birth of her first son, Ruval. Ostvel stared at the name, remembering with terrible clarity the first time he had seen it: on Pandsala’s list of murders.
He had decided to investigate the most recent records first after finding the archives, and chose a coffer bearing Pandsala’s seal and the date 719. The top layer had been her private diary, sporadic entries regarding politics and their implications for Princemarch and the Desert; internal difficulties, how she had dealt with them, and what she suspected motivated them; and, dated in the summer of that year, a heartbreaking series of jotted notes regarding Pol.
I am blessed by the Goddess with the presence of the only two I have ever loved. Pol is all I hoped he would be, and more besides. I love him more than I would have loved the flesh of my own flesh. His mother could not love him more. He ought to have been mine! Rohan is as I remember him: as perfect and golden as his son. They both should have been mine. Instead they belong to Sioned. Why does she have everything and I nothing?
But those words had not given him the shock of the other parchments, drawn up as if formal Acts of her Regency. He had found them at the bottom of the coffer, neatly folded, each penned in her elegant script. Sentences of death. And at last he had learned the how of her murders, and the why.
He could see the documents as clearly as if they were spread out before him, could feel again the horror of first reading and realizing what she had done to her own blood on behalf of a boy she did not know was her own blood.
An induced miscarriage for Naydra, depriving her and her lord of an heir for Port Adni, which would become a Kierstian crown holding after Lord Narat’s death. Slow poison lanced through the parchment of various letters sent to Cipris, before the latter could marry Halian of Meadowlord and produce a legitimate princely heir of Roelstra’s blood who might one day challenge Pol. A hunting accident to dispose of Rusalka before her marriage could produce an heir. The same reasoning applied to Pavla; the method, the gift of a necklace whose prongs were tipped with a slow poison. Rabia, wedded to Lord Patwin of Catha Heights, had borne three daughters and died in childbed of the third, who survived her—but there had never been a breath of rumor that the death had been anything other than natural. Yet she was on Pandsala’s lethal list, too, the means of her death delineated in bold pen strokes. Hired assassins in Waes had rid Pandsala of Nayati before she, too, could marry and produce offspring. Of Roelstra’s eighteen daughters, the Plague had taken five; Pandsala had eliminated five more; five still lived. Of the other three, Kiele had been executed for the murder of a Sunrunner and Pandsala was dead of sorcery. Ostvel himself had killed Ianthe.
But Pandsala’s crimes had not been limited to her sisters. An arranged accident for Obram of Isel, Saumer’s only son, had left Arlis, grandson of both Saumer and Volog, heir to both princedoms. Thus the island would eventually be united under Sioned’s kinsman. Reading this, Ostvel had thanked the Goddess he had not asked Alasen to help with the archives; her adored elder sister Birani was Obram’s widow.
There were similar cold-blooded horrors to be found in Pandsala’s records, all of them with justifications that were perfectly reasonable by her standards. None of her murders had ever been suspected, and some had been positively brilliant in their cunning. For example, she had marked Tibayan of Lower Pyrme for death because of his intransigence regarding certain issues. He had been one of those rare people to whom a simple bee sting was poisonous. Pandsala’s notes showed that in the summer of 714, she had arranged for a whole swarm of the insects to be set loose in his private chambers. This was her most creative kill, and even through his nausea at her logical reasoning and matter-of-fact death sentences, Ostvel was compelled to admire the woman’s ingenuity.
Success in another murder had not brought the desired result. Ajit of Firon’s death—a seizure of the heart caused by poison, according to Pandsala’s record—had left that land without a prince. But Firon had not gone to Pol, despite his superior blood claim. Ostvel now understood the reason Rohan had given it instead to Prince Lleyn’s younger grandson. Though he had unwittingly profited by Pandsala’s other political executions, on discovering the reason for Ajit’s death Rohan had refused to take the princedom Pandsala wished to give him and Pol.
Pandsala’s final murders, however, had produced exactly her intended result. The deaths of Prince Inoat and his son Jos had left Chale of Ossetia without a direct heir. His niece, Gemma of Syr, married Sioned’s nephew Tilal, and when the old man died they would become Prince and Princess of Ossetia. Pandsala had thought Gemma would wed Tilal’s brother Kostas, heir of Syr, and thus merge the two princedoms; but her major aim had been to bring yet another princedom under the control of Pol’s kinsmen. Through her efforts, Sioned’s kin would rule Ossetia, Syr, and Kierst-Isel; allies would possess Dorval and Firon; Pol himself would hold the Desert and Princemarch. Eight out of thirteen princedoms: not a bad return for a mere eleven murders, Ostvel thought acidly.
Pandsala had had four more deaths in mind. But Kiele had destroyed herself without any assistance. Ostvel wondered if an earlier attempt had failed—which led him to speculate about other murders she might have attempted that were not listed. But whatever her other vices, stupidity had not been among them. Eleven deaths in fifteen years were enough to fulfill most of her ambitions for Pol. More might have attracted suspicion.
It was the last entry that had given him the most worry. Ruval, Marron, and Segev, bastard sons of Princess Ianthe: locations unknown. They must not be allowed to challenge Pol for possession of Princemarch.
Ostvel had stared long and hard at the names, as if ink on parchment could give him sight of their faces. He knew what everyone else knew: all three had different fathers, young lords of surpassing physical beauty; all three had been born at Feruche—Ruval in 700, Marron in 701, Segev in 703; all three were thought long dead. What he and only a few others knew was that they had escaped the destruction of their mother’s castle in 704, carried off by loyal guards on horses he and Sioned and Tobin had ridden to Feruche, stolen from them in the chaos of Fire and panic that night. And he shared the knowledge with even fewer people that they were Pol’s half-brothers.
These three, of all persons living, Pandsala would have killed if she could.
He glanced over to the carved wood paneling where a secret hiding place kept that parchment and certain other dangerous documents safe. Old Myrdal, long-retired commander of Stronghold’s guard, had found that niche and many other interesting things when she’d paid him a visit during the first year of his residence here. She had gone through Castle Crag stone by stone and her expert eye had found not only the sliding panel in Ostvel’s library, but hitherto unknown doors, passages, and stairs.
“I doubt Roelstra knew about any of this,” she had remarked as they explored a concealed corridor one afternoon, her limping steps assisted by a dragon-headed cane. “He killed his father, you know, when he was barely ten. Poison, it’s said. If he’d waited for a natural death, he might have learned Castle Crag’s secrets. Bu
t you can see by the dirt and the mess that these haven’t been used in a very long time. Probably over fifty winters.”
Ostvel had personally overseen the walling-up of every concealed passage, staircase, and chamber. The servants followed his orders, agape at the revelation of a world within the world they had known all their lives. But certain things he had left as they were, known only to himself and Alasen. The hiding place in his library was one of them; a similar secret compartment in the walls of her office was another—the reason she had chosen the room, in fact. And he left one passage clear, leading from their private chambers to those reserved for Pol when he was in residence, and thence to a concealed exit from Castle Crag. Myrdal had insisted on the latter. “You never know,” she had reminded him, “when you might need to get in or out in a hurry with no one the wiser.”
Not that Castle Crag had been even remotely threatened in centuries. Ostvel hoped that as he went deeper into the archives he would learn who had built it, when, and why. But for now he was more concerned with recent events, and thus returned his attention to the coffer containing documents from the years just before Pol’s birth.
Roelstra and Ianthe’s alliance with the Merida was nothing new to him, nor was the record of their difficulties keeping those descendants of ancient assassins in line. He smiled a little as Roelstra’s anger spilled over onto parchment in venomous written accounts of the negotiations. Another congratulatory letter to Ianthe on news that she was pregnant again—with Marron, Ostvel deduced—was followed by a return note from her asking about rumors of Plague.
Ostvel set that page aside, unwilling to relive a spring and summer twenty years past, when he had helplessly watched Camigwen’s agonizing death. The next parchment was a copy of an agreement drawn up by Rohan and Roelstra setting the price for the dranath that had cured the Plague. Through his merchants, Roelstra had demanded and received a colossal sum for the herb that grew only in the Veresch. His following letter to Ianthe had been full of amazement and fury that Rohan had produced the required amount of gold. Neither had ever guessed that it had not come from emptying his treasury, but by using dragon gold.
But the cure had come too late for his Camigwen, Rohan’s mother Princess Milar, Maarken’s twin Jahni, thousands of others—and Sioned’s unborn child. Ostvel’s jaw muscles tightened. Rohan had always suspected but never been able to prove that Roelstra had withheld the drug until certain of his enemies were dead of Plague. It was the Goddess’ blessing that Rohan had not been among them.
He dug deeper, finding a letter in which Ianthe exulted at the birth of her second son, another asking her father to arrange an attack on a trade caravan—and a copy of his testy reply suggesting she get her pet Merida to do it. He wondered at that, then realized that such an attack would bring out the garrison of Desert troops which had been stationed below Feruche at that time. Anything Ianthe wished Rohan to know could be told to the commander, who would tell his prince. There had been just such a gambit when dragons had flown over Feruche in 704; nothing was more calculated to bring Rohan to a place than the chance to see dragons. And when he had ridden up to Feruche, Ianthe had captured him.
Another several layers of parchment dealt with Segev’s birth, Ianthe’s subsequent ostentatious celibacy, her plan for getting Rohan out of Stronghold to view the dragons. Ostvel nodded; his guess had been correct, then. She obviously intended all at Feruche to know that the child she carried that year was Rohan’s; her smug letters to her father gloated on that very subject. But did anyone know this child was Pol? He held his breath when he came upon her last letter.
It’s rumored that Sioned is pregnant—although I saw no signs of it when she was my guest here. I hope one of my guardsmen fathered the child—did I send you details of how often they entertained her? If I forgot, remind me to tell you in person. You desired her at one time, I believe? So it should be highly satisfying to watch her public disgrace. Whatever she whelps, it will be my son and not hers who is Rohan’s acknowledged heir. Soon I will hold the next High Prince in my arms, and all will know him as your grandson. He’ll rule the Desert after we’ve disposed of Rohan, Maarken, Andry, and Sorin—and anybody else who might claim either land or stand in his way. I’ll write again after delivery of our little shining star. And who knows—he might even inherit the Sunrunner gift that appears in Rohan’s family!
How odd, he mused, that Ianthe had used the word Sioned had chosen as the boy’s name. “Pol” meant “star.” Ostvel reached into the coffer once more. Its final contents consisted of a bit of torn parchment bearing words in Roelstra’s hand: Born to my daughter Ianthe, a son, my grandson, heir to Princemarch and the Desert, the next High Prince. May he live a hundred winters and destroy an enemy during each of them—especially his elder brothers.
Ostvel shivered. What a legacy to leave a child. A legacy Pandsala had sought to fulfill, even to planning the murder of her own nephews, Pol’s half-brothers.
But they still lived. They would have to be found and their threat eliminated. They were too dangerous. With a few exceptions—gentle Danladi, quiet Naydra, cowed Moria and Moswen—Roelstra’s offspring were uniformly ambitious, arrogant, and scheming. Thirteen of the sisters were dead, but one still lived who was definitely her father’s daughter.
Chiana was at last a princess in fact. Her marriage to Halian of Meadowlord had given this formerly powerless (therefore relatively harmless) woman a taste of ruling a whole princedom. Chiana had in two brief years grasped as much of her husband’s power as she could. When Clutha died, she would rule, not Halian. Ostvel suspected she would never rest until her son, born this past spring, was High Prince. Though all Roelstra’s daughters had renounced any claim to Princemarch for themselves and their heirs, Chiana had been only a child at the time and could always say she had not understood what she had signed.
Goddess help them all if she or anyone else ever found out that Pol’s right came from Roelstra’s blood in his veins, not just Rohan’s conquest. Ostvel mentally listed those who knew: himself, Rohan, Sioned, Chay, Tobin, Myrdal, and one servant at Stronghold. Not even Andrade had known. If Sioned had her way, no one would ever know, especially not Pol. He doubted the wisdom of never telling the boy the truth, but it was not his decision to make.
He closed and locked the coffer, storing it with the other dangerous one in the secret space. Sioned might just get away with it, he mused. Nothing in the archives even hinted that Ianthe’s fourth son had not died at Feruche. Everyone knew she had been pregnant; many believed the child had indeed been Rohan’s. Ostvel had been at Stronghold that summer and autumn, when Sioned had emptied the keep of all but three servants and spread word that she was pregnant again. Two of those servants had since died, their knowledge of the secret blown away with then ashes on Desert winds. The one who remained—Tibalia, a young girl at the time and now in charge of all maidservants at Stronghold—was trusted implicitly. At Skybowl, where Sioned and Ostvel and Tobin had fled from Feruche and where Pol had been Named, the story was that Sioned, furious beyond reason at knowing Ianthe carried Rohan’s child, had gone to destroy her rival—and that the strain of the journey had brought Pol’s premature birth. No one had ever questioned this tale, though Ostvel was never able to decide whether it was really believed or not. Still, Skybowl’s people had kept the secret of dragon gold. Whatever they truly believed, they could be trusted. And surely any rumors would have surfaced long ere this.
So Sioned was probably safe in her deception. Goddess knew, she had paid dearly for it. Ianthe’s sniggering reference to multiple rapes had knifed through his heart, and with more than the anguish of knowing proud Sioned had been used thus. For to her, none of it had ever happened. She had never said a word about what had been done to her at Feruche; Ostvel had learned of it from Rohan. Neither did she ever speak of that summer and autumn of waiting, or of the night Feruche had burned. None of it existed for her. Sometimes he wondered if she even had a clear memory of that time. He truly believed she
had gone a little mad that year. He knew from experience that agony and terror and grief must be cleansed from the heart. Sioned’s wounds were still open and bleeding. Ostvel had known her since childhood; she could hide very little from him.
He twisted the small carving of gilded elk-hoof that fit cunningly into the wood paneling. Myrdal had noted that other secret rooms, doors, and passages were opened with a similar carving that depicted a rising star. Ostvel found it intriguing that Pol’s name was the key to Castle Crag’s secrets, and eerie that Ianthe had written words calling him what Sioned had Named him. And, strangest of all, the same stars provided the light used by diarmadh’im.
The word meant “Stoneburners” and came from the manner in which rock cairns glowed during certain ritual sorceries. Urival shared odd bits of Star Scroll knowledge with Sioned on sunlight, and she passed on some of them to Donato, Ostvel’s court Sunrunner and a friend of their youth. Stars were everywhere these days, it seemed: used in sorcery, Pol’s name, indicating Castle Crag’s secrets—could the place have been built by these diarmadh’im?
Ostvel stretched the weariness from his shoulders, reminded by various impudent aches that this would be his forty-eighth winter. A smile formed as he reflected on where those winters had taken him—from obscure retainer at Goddess Keep to Regent of Princemarch. He had a grown son who was faradhi and lord of his own keep, and an infant daughter whose mother was a princess, and—
He gasped. It was two years ago today that he had married that princess. He barely remembered to lock the library door before sprinting to his suite. A frantic search in his wardrobe had him cursing. He’d had the ring made, he knew he had. Alasen had given him his ring last year; by Kierstian tradition, the partner superior in rank had a second year to decide about continuing the marriage. But this year he could claim her and—where was that damned ring?