by Melanie Rawn
And no foolishness, as Andry was still young enough to do. He shouted an order for his faradh’im to seize the man whose lineaments were shifting, changing, hovering between one face and another in obvious struggle to resume his false shape. Nialdan and Oclel ran down the center aisle and got within arm’s reach of the man before a circle of cold white fire sprang up in defense.
Rohan could have told Andry it wouldn’t work. He kept silent as the Sunrunners fell back. The enemy had strength; Rohan had been expecting a manifestation of it for many days now, and thus was not as shocked as he might have been. Still—none of them had ever heard of this aspect of diarmadhi power, the ability to alter one’s face and form. None of them knew how to deal with it. Now, of all times, patience was needed. Strength had been shown; Rohan hoped that waiting would expose weakness. There was noting else he could do.
At his shoulder, Pol whispered, “It’s Ianthe’s younger son. I recognize the red hair. And where one is, the other must be as well.”
Rohan nodded. “He must be among Miyon’s suite. The search must be conducted by Riyan. Have him take Morwenna with him. They’re the only ones who can sense sorcery through their rings.”
Pol blinked as his old teacher was identified as part diarmadhi, but recovered quickly. “I’ll have all the Cunaxans rounded up at once.”
Sioned murmured, “Get Rialt to do it. I have the feeling you’re to be a featured performer in this little play.”
Miyon had recovered from his stupefaction by this time, and gestured for the red-haired man to be brought forward—as foolish an order as Andry’s had been. Behind the wall of icy flames as tall as his head, the man had begun to laugh. When he walked the rest of the long aisle, Nialdan and Oclel warily trailing him, it was because he chose to do so. The fire formed a cloak around him.
Miyon braced his fists on the table before him. “I am horrified!” he exclaimed. “A sorcerer posing as one of my own guard!”
Rohan slanted a look at him. The shock had been genuine, but not the protestation. Just as he’d expected. “We understand,” he said, knowing Miyon would not hear the irony.
“Do you, my lord? To discover one of that foul race has been in charge of my safety for Goddess knows how long?” Miyon gave an artistic shudder.
“You have our sympathies,” Sioned told him. “Perhaps you would care to withdraw, my lord. Your nerves must be quite shattered.”
Miyon gaped for an instant before recovering his dignity. A flight of dragons couldn’t tear him away from this spectacle.
“No?” Sioned went on. “Very well, then. You must have a great interest in this, after all.”
“Self-interest,” Tobin supplied ingenuously from nearby. What she really meant and what Miyon had to pretend she meant were entirely different things.
“Naturally I wish to know how this came to pass, my lady,” he said to Tobin, who nodded as if she believed him.
Andry spoke up impatiently, outrage blazing in his eyes. “Confine this man at once! There must be some way to—”
“And what would you suggest?” Sioned asked. He had no answer and no chance to think of one, for the man had reached the area before the high table.
He made a sweeping movement with one arm and the fire vanished. In a ringing voice he called out, “I am Marron, grandson of High Prince Roelstra and rightful Lord of Feruche, where I was born of the Princess Ianthe! I am willing to prove my claim against the usurper Pol at a time and place of his choosing!”
If he had expected pandemonium, he was doomed to disappointment. Absolute silence greeted his announcement. Rohan merely lifted a brow.
Pol said, “If I was disposed to entertain this absurd claim, which I am not, I would point out that Feruche belonged to Lord Riyan the moment I placed its ring on his finger.”
“It is you I challenge, not him!”
Andry had gasped on hearing the name, and now said in a tone of deadly quiet, “This man murdered my brother.”
“I am a prince. My person is inviolate unless formal charges are brought against me—and even then I cannot be forcibly detained.” Marron smirked. “Read your own law, High Prince.”
“It’s one we haven’t gotten around to changing,” Rohan admitted with mild regret. “As for formal charges—the murder of Lord Sorin is primary among them.”
“I killed him in self-defense,” Marron shrugged. “He attacked me. If every man who slew an enemy in battle was tried for murder, half the high table here would be long gone. And in any case, no one but a gathering of princes can judge me. I am sworn to no one, I am no man’s vassal. I am a prince.”
“That’s open to debate,” Pol snapped. “I myself saw you helping to kill a dragon. And that law applies to everyone, no matter what station!”
“ ‘Helping’?” Marron grinned at him. “That’s a matter of interpretation. There is no means by which you may arrest or detain me. And you still haven’t answered my challenge.”
Riyan stepped around the high table, still pallid, still rubbing at his fingers. “I accept for Prince Pol. Goddess forbid that he should dirty his hands on you.”
“I do not accept! I challenge Pol, not you!”
“And I say Feruche is mine, and it is me you will fight!” Riyan shouted. “Will it be swords, you bastard excuse for a prince, or sorcerer’s tricks?”
“Neither,” Andry said. “This man has admitted to murdering my brother. His death is mine.”
Marron swung to face him, suddenly wary. In the next instant Riyan groaned and doubled over, his hands twisting into claws as Marron’s sorcery lashed out. Before anyone could draw another breath, Fire engulfed Marron’s body, gold and crimson and so intense that Nialdan and Oclel cried out and shielded their faces. But defense came too late. Andry spread his arms wide, calling down yet more Fire. And when it subsided, there was only the stench of charred flesh and a pathetic scattering of blackened bones on the tiles.
“He knew somehow about the rings, what they signified,” Riyan said.
Ruala nodded. “Even in the brief time since I met him, I’ve learned that it doesn’t do to underestimate Lord Andry.”
They walked together through the back gardens, where Princess Milar’s fountain blossomed taller and stronger than ever in this spring of abundant water. The little stream that meandered through the lush green grass and flowers had overflowed all winter, and even now was barely contained by its banks. Firepots glowed along the pathways and glittered from the little bridge arching over the stream. The stars were bright enough tonight to illumine all but the grotto, and it was to this place that Riyan guided their steps.
She had been the one to come to him. After Rohan, looking sick and stunned, had ordered everyone out of the Great Hall, Riyan had sought the coolness of the fountain. It was only memory that burned around his fingers, but memory was enough to make him plunge his damnably shaking hands in the water. Ruala had found him there.
She paused at the apex of the little bridge and looked up at the stars. “It was a brave thing you did, accepting challenge on Marron’s terms of sorcery.”
Riyan shrugged. “I was so furious I didn’t really know what I was saying.”
Ruala smiled at him. “Yes you did. I’ve come to know you, too, in the short time since we met at Elktrap.”
“And do I worry you as much Andry does?” he asked, inviting her to flirt with him.
She was in no mood for it; her look turned serious and she said, “He’s changing everything. All the traditions of Goddess Keep. I don’t know why anyone was surprised when he killed Marron using his gifts. I expected it.”
“I should have, too, I suppose. But Sunrunner training is so strong—it’s not something any of us can even consider, even if we’re threatened. And I really wasn’t thinking straight, you know. My rings had turned to fire. I keep wondering why that happens.”
Ruala hesitated. “If you promise not to interrupt, I can explain.”
He watched her face for a long moment, the dark gr
een eyes shadowed to black, the strong lines of nose and cheek and jaw softened by starlight. Taking her arm, he walked with her down to the pathway again in silence.
“My family is very old and has lived very isolated,” she began. “In the Veresch, memories are long. The mountain folk still prefer their dialect of the old tongue. I speak it myself a little—one has to, in order to deal with them. And sometimes they treat the old ways as if the new did not exist. Things you Sunrunners are only now rediscovering through the scrolls, some people in the Veresch have always known.”
“What do you know about the scrolls?” he demanded.
She gave him a slight smile. “You weren’t to interrupt. But no matter. My grandfather despaired of my ever believing any of the family stories. But this spring has taught me how true they are. How else could Andry have defeated a diarmadhi if he hadn’t learned it from the scrolls? Oh, it’s not stated openly. You have to be as devious as Lady Merisel herself to discover the method.”
Riyan stared at her. “How do you know all this?”
“I might not have credited my grandfather’s tales, but I listened to them.”
“Lord Garic,” he said suddenly. “The same name as Lady Merisel’s husband.”
“It’s a rather common name in the Veresch,” she said easily. “Something else he told me was that the ceremony of giving the rings is a simple one, but potent. The very gold you faradh’im use is charged with power. Some say Lady Merisel cleaned out an entire mine on Kierst and had the gold brought to her at Goddess Keep to be imbued with power. Lord Gerik and Lord Rosseyn helped her as long as they could, but not even they had the strength to endure five days of it. She was more powerful than any of us can imagine. Rings made from this special gold are given to a Sunrunner rather casually—although I’m told Lord Andry makes it more of a ceremony these days. But it doesn’t matter. The spell is already in the gold. That’s Lady Merisel’s gift to Sunrunners. The warning when sorcery is nearby—if they possess sorcerer’s blood themselves.”
“I don’t understand. Why would she do that, if she spent her life working against diarmadh’im? Logically, the power in the rings would be a trap for those trying to pass themselves off as Sunrunners.”
“Tell me, my lord, does the fact that you have diarmadhi blood inevitably make you evil?”
“There are a lot of people who are going to be asking themselves exactly that,” he replied bitterly.
“The only answer that counts is yours.” She stopped walking and looked up into his eyes, her own strangely intense.
“My answer is ‘no.’ Of course it doesn’t. And I see your point, my lady—character determines how power will be used, not the source of that power.”
“Ah.” She sighed softly and continued on toward the grotto.
“You don’t agree?” he asked, confused.
“Certainly I agree. But how much easier it would be if one could say, ‘Here is a faradhi, who always does the good and right thing, and there is a diarmadhi, who cannot.’ People would prefer it so.”
“Andry would,” he mused. “He doesn’t dare touch me, but I’ve always felt that anyone else would be wise to hide it from him.” Ruala nodded sadly. Riyan pulled a branch of Sioned’s willow out of her way and said, “So the reaction was set into the gold rings as a warning. Wait a moment—the silver ones burn, too.”
“But not as much. Originally all Sunrunner rings were gold. Perhaps they changed some to silver when the supply began to dwindle, and mixed some of the spelled gold into the making. That would be sensible, but I don’t really know.” She glanced up. “Why do you think the rings of a Lord or Lady of Goddess Keep are always taken at death and melted down to make the successor’s rings?”
“You know a great deal for having lived—isolated,” he commented warily.
She ignored his rather obvious hint. “Not that it signifies with Lord Andry, that he had new rings made. The gold and silver are the same. And he has no Old Blood. But once the special gold runs out. . . .”
Riyan saw that he would have to be blunt, “Why didn’t your grandfather say something, tell someone?”
“The sorcerers haven’t threatened in generations. But they’ve come into the open again, and Lady Merisel’s wisdom is serving you very well. They can’t work their spells around Sunrunners such as you without giving themselves away—and without their spells, they are relatively harmless.”
They came to the waterfall that tumbled down mossy rocks from the hidden spring and stood quietly for a time, listening to the night. Its sounds were very different at Skybowl: water surged gently there, did not dance and chatter like this. The stars reflected off slow ripples across the lake, did not dart and tease the eye with glinting swiftness off the spraying drops. At Feruche, Riyan thought suddenly, there was no open water at all. Strange that he’d been so unwilling to accept it from Pol this afternoon, and yet by evening was ready to risk his life to keep it.
“You know a lot about the diarmadh’im,” he said at last. “And about the Sunrunners. I’d like to hear Lord Garic’s stories sometime.”
“You’re welcome at Elktrap whenever you like, my lord. It would please my grandfather very much to see you again.”
Riyan looked down at her. He would risk it; somehow he had to risk it. “And would it please you? Would you welcome me, Ruala?”
She met his gaze steadily, and it seemed all the stars concentrated their brilliant light in her eyes.
When a playful night breeze tossed water at them like handfuls of diamonds, they were much too busy kissing each other to notice.
Pol dismissed Edrel as soon as he entered his own chambers and let his clothes fall where they would, careful only of the gold belt buckle given at his knighting. Restless, sickened by the night’s events, he paced a carpet made of thin, nubby Fessenden wool and tried to find some center of calm within himself.
He hadn’t felt equal to staying with his family as they heard Andry out. He knew how the conversation would go—Andry would say again what he had said when the Fire had died and Marron with it: “He killed Sorin. He deserved to die.” No Sunrunner ethic, no consideration of orderly process of law, no argument in the world would ever convince Andry that he had done something terribly wrong. And beneath the angry frustration he knew the others shared, Pol was afraid.
He could not have endured being near his cousin another instant. So he had left with Rialt on the pretext of finding and confining the rest of Miyon’s suite so Riyan and Morwenna could test for the presence of sorcery. But Riyan had disappeared. Considering the jittery state of Pol’s own nerves after this night’s business, he didn’t have the heart to track him down.
He doubted anything else would occur before tomorrow, anyway. Long ruminations about the brothers and what Ruval said the day Sorin died had convinced Pol that Marron’s action was unexpected, not part of the master plot. Ruval was the elder, and his would be the serious challenge. Pol had been waiting for it. Tomorrow, next day, the day after—it would come soon enough. But not tonight.
A breeze had come up with the rising moons, and Pol stood at the windows to feel its coolness. The Desert smelled different this year, rich with water and flowers, unlike the usual clean aridity, almost the fragrances of Dragon’s Rest. His grandmother Milar’s fountain rose nearly twice its normal height with increased flow from the hidden spring. As Pol looked down on it, he considered a long walk in the gardens to clear his head. He saw a man and woman strolling idly from the direction of the grotto, holding hands. The pleasure of recognizing Riyan and Ruala as they stopped for a kiss was welcome distraction from the uncomfortable jumble of his feelings.
But not distraction enough. Turning from the windows, he walked the length of his bedchamber again, soft carpet and then chill stone beneath his bare feet as he made the circuit over and over. His thoughts circled, too: Andry, Marron, Ruval, the dead Sunrunner in Gilad, Miyon, dragons, Meiglan—especially Meiglan.
She was providing exactly the distractio
n her father had intended. Pol muttered a lurid curse, but whether it was directed at Miyon or himself, he wasn’t sure. He’d thought to trap everyone else into thinking him in love with the girl. But by now he was beginning to think it was himself he had trapped.
She’d be gone soon, temptation with her, and at the Rialla this summer he’d find a woman more to his taste. Older, more self-assured, capable of being High Princess. Beautiful, of course, but smart and clever as well. Someone like Sionell had turned out to be.
And yet. . . . He could not imagine beauty more compelling than Meiglan’s when she stood before her fenath, swaying gracefully back and forth as she plucked magic from the strings.
Just as her father had intended.
Pol stripped off his trousers and underwear and flung himself across the bed. Clever prince, he accused in disgust. He ought to be thinking about the challenge to his power that Ruval would surely make in the next day or two. Instead he was conforming to plan by fretting over Meggie. There, he had even given her the tender nickname. He doused the candles with a thought and determinedly shut his eyes. He’d be no good to himself or anyone else if he didn’t get some sleep. He needed a clear head tomorrow.
There was a whisper of lace and silk in the darkness, barely audible above the splash of the fountain below, and a faint fragrance he recognized at once. He sat straight up in bed, quickly hauling the sheet around his naked body, and heard her catch her breath.
“No—please, my lord—no light!”
“Meiglan? What are you doing here?”
“I—I made them let me in,” she breathed, gliding closer to the bed, a slender drifting shadow hinted at by moonlight.