by Melanie Rawn
“And what did you see on moonlight that you’ve been thinking about ever since?”
“My lady, I’ve been trying to puzzle something out all night. I waited to consult you, hoping the fog would lift and I could get a clearer look by sunlight, but—” He shrugged. “You know that I keep regular watch on all Princemarch’s holdings and take a look at the borders every so often as well.”
She nodded. Donato’s observations were occasionally very useful—for instance, when he caught Geir of Waes in a little smuggling off the coastline three years ago. Ostvel was bothered by what he thought of as spying, but Alasen quashed his doubts with the simple logic that people who had nothing to hide would never even know they had been seen.
“It may be nothing.” Donato shrugged uneasily and sat down across the aisle from her. “But—has Ostvel or his grace authorized any military exercises around Rezeld?”
“Ostvel has not,” she replied with total confidence. “I doubt if Prince Pol has, either. How many troops and horses are we discussing here?”
“The manor can stable twenty horses and could conceivably pack about a hundred extra people into the hall for sleeping.” He hesitated. “Alasen, camped in the fields nearby were at least three hundred, possibly more. I can’t think where they’d be keeping the horses—in the woods, perhaps. And if they’ve bows and spears, they’re as hidden as the horses. I won’t be sure until I can get a better look.”
“What about banners, colors of any kind?”
“None. I’m not familiar with how one prepares for war. We’ll have to ask Ostvel what else I should look for when I go back.”
Alasen frowned. “Who could Morlen be thinking of warring against? Surely not us. Castle Crag is impenetrable. And not Dragon’s Rest, either. That would be ludicrous. It would take twice three hundred soldiers and then some even to make the attempt. If there were brigands to be chased out of the mountains again, he’d apply to us for help while Pol’s at Stronghold—and to you as a Sunrunner, to let him know where they’re hiding.”
“It makes very little sense, my lady—unless Morlen has the assurance of more troops from someone.”
Alasen rose. “I’m going to talk to Ostvel about this. Donato, keep alert for any break in the fog. If it doesn’t clear by noon, then we’ll have to send you out in search of some usable sunlight.”
He contemplated the swirling gray outside the oratory wall. “I hope this really is fog up from the river and not a cloud hugging the ground. Otherwise I’d have to ride all the way to the top of Whitespur.”
Ostvel was fast asleep, snoring gently. Alasen paused a moment, urgent worry fading a little as the familiar tenderness crept through her. His dark hair was going gray and the lines carved on his face by twenty years in the Desert were deeper, but in slumber he looked nearly her own age. His sensitive mouth curved softly, its almost vulnerable lines belied by the strong bones of brow and nose and cheek bequeathed to their son. Not a beautiful face as masculine beauty was usually reckoned, but a face she had grown to love very much.
“Ostvel,” she whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Dearest, I’m sorry to wake you, but we must talk.”
He grunted and rolled away from her touch. She shook his shoulder.
“Ostvel!”
“Go ’way,” he muttered, hunching into the quilts.
“What a welcome for your loving wife,” she chided. Climbing onto the bed, she knelt at his back and tickled his nape with one finger. “Come on, I know you’re awake.”
“If you were a loving wife, you’d let me sleep.” He flopped onto his back and glared up at her. “Better still, you’d teach our pest of a son some manners, so I could sleep nights like the honest, hardworking athri I am. Very well, I’m awake. What is it?”
She told him.
“Damn.” He flung back the quilt and strode to the dressing room. Alasen followed, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.
“We can’t wait for the fog to lift,” he explained as he pulled his warmest clothes from the closets. “Donato and I will have to ride up Whitespur now, as soon as possible.”
“But why? I know the activity at Rezeld is suspicious, but—”
“It fits in with a few other puzzling things I’ve noticed this last year.” His head disappeared for a moment beneath a thick knitted-wool shirt. “Why, for instance, Morlen has asked Pol to secure him a quantity of iron at the Rialla bargaining this year. He says he wants to reinforce Rezeld using the new techniques devised at Feruche and perfected at Dragon’s Rest—but how could he do that without tearing down his whole keep? My guess is that he’s going to need replacement iron for things he’s melted down to make spears and arrowtips for this little comedy.”
“Ostvel!”
“Hand me those other leggings, will you, my love? Moths have been at these. There’s something else. Chadric wrote of a curious circumstance in a letter recently. Someone contracted for a great deal of silk. It was a huge order and he filled it, of course, at a tidy profit. But once it reached Radzyn, it vanished before the shipping duties were paid.”
“Lord Chaynal never mentioned—”
“It would have shown up on the account books only at next New Year. I doubt he’s had the time or inclination to do his book-keeping recently.” Ostvel stamped his feet into his riding boots and reached for a heavy tunic. “Chadric thought the colors involved might interest me.”
Alasen frowned. “Not Rezeld’s colors.”
“Indeed not. Cunaxan orange. And Merida brown and yellow.”
She stared at him. He gave her a tight smile and bent to kiss her.
“Why would one need so vast a quantity of silk? Summer tunics, of course. For an army. Moreover, an army heading for the lower Desert. Cunaxan wool would kill them quicker than Desert swords.”
Alasen found her voice again. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
“Because none of it fit before now.” He hesitated as he pulled on his gloves. “Even after nine years with you, I suppose I’m still in the habit of fretting on my own. Forgive me.”
She nodded, and that was the end of the issue. “Go have the horses saddled. I’ll find Donato and while he’s getting dressed I’ll have the kitchens put together a meal.”
Ostvel took her waist in his hands. “Have I told you recently—”
“That I’m wonderful?” She smiled. “Just bring yourself back in one piece, my lord, or I’ll have your teeth for tunic buttons.”
Ostvel had spent his early youth at Goddess Keep and his first wife had been faradhi, so he was as intimately familiar with the process of weaving sunlight as anyone not gifted could be. He knew what kind of light was needed, and how much, and for how long. So when Donato would have stopped halfway up Whitespur to risk a Sunrunning, Ostvel forbade it.
“That cloud over there would trap you before you’d gone past Castle Crag. Don’t be an idiot.”
“The more I think about all this, the more I want to hurry and the more nervous I get.”
“Which is precisely why you need a nice, strong fall of sunlight.”
Donato squinted at the snowfield ahead. “You’re going to make me ride through that muck, aren’t you?” He sighed and stroked the neck of the sturdy little mountain pony beneath him. “At least we’re not on those great fire-eaters Lord Chaynal gave you.”
The uncertain gray light muted the brilliance of the snowy peak rising up before him. What had been torrential winter rains in the lowlands had covered the Veresch in the heaviest snow within living memory. Castle Crag had become a glistening fantasy in ice, silent until the children had discovered that this strange frozen stuff they usually saw only on mountaintops was tremendous if chilly fun. But all was eerily quiet now, except for the crunch of broad hooves on snow and soft exhalations that sent clouds into the frosty air.
It was noon and they were nearly at the top of Whitespur before both Ostvel and Donato were satisfied with the sunshine. They refreshed themselves with a bite to eat
and some wine, huddling beside their ponies for warmth. Then Donato faced east, toward Rezeld Manor.
Ostvel saw his eyes go blank, unfocused. How many hundreds of times had he watched a Sunrunner at work? Chances were that he himself possessed a glimmer of the gift; his elder son was a faradhi trained and skilled, and whereas eight years old was young to show the signs, last summer Jeni had flatly refused to join a sailing party on the Faolain. Ostvel was pleased that at least two of his children were gifted. He had always wondered what it might be like to weave light, to fly without dragon wings, to revel in the flush of power through body and heart and mind. But he had also seen what possession of the gift had done to Alasen, the pain and terror that had taken years to fade. And he had also seen Sionell’s anguish that her lack had rendered her an unsuitable match for Pol, even if he had ever noticed her as a woman. Ostvel had always honored and valued faradhi powers in his youth; ambivalence about them had crept slowly into his mind, beginning the night Sioned had almost killed Ianthe using those powers.
Donato stumbled suddenly against the pony’s shoulder. Ostvel steadied him, knowing better than to distract him with questions before he had fully returned. In a moment the Sunrunner had caught his breath. He chafed his gloved fingers, looking stunned.
“They’re all gone! It’s like nothing was ever there!”
“You mean they’ve marched.”
“I mean there’s no sign of the encampment I saw last night! No scars of cookfires on the ground, no hoofprints, no evidence.” He shook his head. “Ostvel, I saw what I saw last night.”
“Look again,” was the grim reply.
It took a few moments. Meeting Ostvel’s gaze again, he kneaded his laced fingers together to warm them. His voice was expressionless as he said, “Lord Morlen’s lady is in the courtyard with her daughter. They’re standing in front of a mirror combing their hair dry. The servant holding the mirror steady is Fironese. The little boy holding the hair ornaments is trying not to drop them—it’s all bloody nothing!” he spat. “What I saw last night is gone!”
Ostvel paced a few stiff step away in the snow. All at once he looked back over his shoulder. “Why are you rubbing your hands?”
“It’s cold.”
“Not that cold. What’s wrong with your hands, Donato?”
The Sunrunner pulled off one glove with his teeth. His fingers were shaking. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered. “They feel burned.”
“Sorcery.” The word hissed in the white quiet of the mountainside. “You slammed right into it. Faradh’im work with sunlight by day—no need for this by night, not with all the clouds and the moons rising so short a time.” He kicked one booted foot into the snow. “But there’s sun over Rezeld today.”
“It’s impossible. They couldn’t hide a whole army—”
“Then perhaps you were only dreaming last night,” Ostvel growled, knowing very well Donato had not. “How do we know what they can and can’t do? Andry himself admits that Lady Merisel didn’t tell everything she knew in the scrolls. The point is, we’ve got to get word to Rohan. From Rezeld to Dragon’s Rest—”
Donato interrupted. “Pol is his own Sunrunner. He’s at Stronghold. There’s nobody at Dragon’s Rest to warn.”
“They’ll have to send a messenger through the mountains, then. And a small troop with him to see that the news gets there. Contact Sioned at once.”
While Donato obeyed, Ostvel paced. He could not imagine life without faradh’im, but in the end they were useless against those who understood their limitations.
Donato was pale and drawn by the time he returned from Stronghold. But he was also angry. “I couldn’t find her. Andry was the one who answered. He said she’s otherwise occupied. But I told him everything.” His lips twisted. “He assured me he’ll inform Sioned—but I know he didn’t believe a word.”
Ostvel nodded slowly. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Donato was one of the old guard, like Morwenna, who had chosen service elsewhere rather than continue residence at Goddess Keep and watch faradhi traditions shatter. It was no secret that Andry wanted his own representatives at all courts. Several years ago he’d sent a young woman to be Donato’s second; though pleasant in her person and quite skilled, she was so obviously loyal to Andry that Ostvel had wasted no time in packing her back to Goddess Keep with a polite but firm refusal of the offer. The episode had insulted Donato, irritated Ostvel, mortified the rejected Sunrunner, and infuriated Andry.
“I saw what I saw,” Donato repeated stubbornly.
“Perhaps he did believe you, and chose not to indicate it,” Ostvel mused.
Donato’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wherever else his ambitions might lead him, he could hardly want the destruction of Dragon’s Rest!”
Ostvel only grunted.
The Sunrunner thumbed one of his rings nervously. “Are you going to tell me about these? Why they hurt?”
“Not now. But thank the Goddess for it, my old friend,” he said more gently, trying to ease Donato’s eventual shock when he learned he, too, had diarmadhi blood.
After helping Donato onto his pony, he mounted and they rode down the mountain, back into the fog that still blanketed Castle Crag. He saw the faradhi to his chambers for a well-earned rest, then climbed up to the oratory and stared out at the gray mist. Eventually he almost smiled. Sorcery might have disguised whatever was happening or had happened at Rezeld, but Ostvel would need no magic to hide what he was about to do.
Only a short while later he stood beside Dannar’s cradle, watching the boy sleep. He stroked one finger lightly over bright red hair, remembering when Riyan had been this small, this defenseless. His paternal reverie was broken by a smile as Dannar’s sleeping face screwed up in a terrible grimace.
“Ah, now, none of that, my lad,” he whispered. “You must be very good while I’m gone, and let people sleep nights.”
The mere sound of his voice settled the child, and a great yawn was followed by a drowsy mumble. Ostvel tugged unnecessarily at the blanket—a gift from Rohan and Sioned, woven in Desert blue and Princemarch’s violet to signify his relationship to both, with a touch of Kierstian scarlet around the edges to honor Alasen. So much royal heritage wrapped around so small a child. . . . He smiled again. Camigwen had always accused him of being a perfect shatter-shell around babies.
A soft voice behind him made him turn. “Everything’s ready.”
“Thank you.” He did not need to ask if Alasen had accomplished it all in secret. “If anyone asks—”
“Donato is indisposed and you’re out checking the herds again after the winter rains,” she finished for him.
They left the nursery and went to their own rooms. Donato and two male guards waited there, dressed warmly and carrying small satchels. Ostvel accepted his own pack from Alasen, then turned to his escort.
“I trust you or you wouldn’t be here,” he said simply. The guards gave him brief, proud nods. He led them through the anteroom to the bedchamber. “My lady?” he asked. “Will you do the honors?”
Alasen walked unerringly to the fireplace, touched a carving in the form of a star, and stepped aside as a narrow section of stone slid soundlessly back, revealing a dark passageway. “This leads to Prince Pol’s rooms,” she informed the dumbstruck guards. “And thence down about a million stairs to the river. I hope you’re in good shape,” she added wryly. “Remember to douse the candles before you emerge from the passage, and don’t use any light in the boat. And—” She faltered slightly. “And take good care of my lord.”
“With our lives, my lady,” one of them said, and followed Donato through the opening, each carrying a lighted candle. The second man hung back, tactfully studying a tapestry as Alasen turned to Ostvel.
“I’d come with you, but you know how I feel about crossing water,” she told him.
He framed her face in his hands. “I wish you’d reconsider about having Sioned or Riyan contact you with news Donato will send them.”
She shoo
k her head. “They’ll have enough to worry about without adding me to the list. I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t press the point. Leaning down to brush his lips against hers, he was startled when she flung her arms around his neck and clung to him.
“Be careful.” Then she let him go as abruptly as she had embraced him. “Hurry.”
A few moments later, holding a candle high as he negotiated the narrow passage, he heard the whisper of stone sliding shut behind him. He was gambling that four men could get to Dragon’s Rest in the same time an army could march there from Rezeld. The swift-flowing Faolain would take them to a landing where they would commandeer horses. At his age he was not looking forward to a forced ride, but with a little luck they’d make it in time.
As for the reason he was doing this crazy thing—he pushed hard on the star carved into the wood paneling of Pol’s bedchamber and led the way through the opening. He supposed it was the habit of half a lifetime to look after his princes’ interests. There was no one at Dragon’s Rest of sufficient authority to counter Lord Morlen, so it was his duty as regent in Pol’s absence to forbid this unlawful undertaking. Flimsy, he thought; nicely attentive to Rohan’s law, but no man who raises an army against his prince is going to be bothered by a little thing like legality. Besides, you’ve never commanded a defensive action in your life, unless you count Stronghold in 704 when the Merida attacked, and even then it was Maeta and Myrdal who ran things.
He called a stop halfway down the interminable stairs so the four of them could rest their legs before knees turned to mush. During the brief respite, he continued examining his motives. There was no Sunrunner at Dragon’s Rest to receive Pol’s orders at a distance. It was essential that Donato be there. But this excuse held up only little better than the other. If Andry was prompt about relaying Donato’s message, even if he didn’t believe it, then someone would arrive at the palace about the same time as Ostvel.
If Andry told Rohan and Sioned. Not when.
His real reason was that of the few people he trusted absolutely, Andry was not among them. Rationally, he knew there could be no motive for Andry to conceal what was going on, but trust was not a thing rationally arrived at. Ostvel wanted to be at Dragon’s Rest, to warn, to lead if necessary, to defend his princes as he had done for nearly thirty years.