by Melanie Rawn
Ostvel’s smile vanished. “Just so, my lord,” he said colorlessly. “If you’ll excuse me, I should be seeing to the baggage train. They’re falling a little behind.” He gave a brief nod and wheeled his horse around.
Rohan regretted the loss of easy warmth with a man he was sure could become a good friend in time. But having begun the charade, he had to keep on with it.
On the eighth day they crossed the Faolain—by bridge, to the profound relief of the faradh’im. They bore the teasing of their less vulnerable companions with good grace, caring for nothing so long as they were allowed to ride over the bridge instead of rafting the river. Rohan called a halt early that day and had Ostvel set up the tents for the first time on the journey. Carpets and furnishings were not brought out, for it was only necessary to find out what sort of arrangements would work best at the Rialla.
The size of the encampment proved formidable. Rohan’s tent was the largest, a silken thing of blue, silver, and gold that Zehava had ordered for this Rialla. The pavilion would be useless in the Desert itself, where shelters had to blend into the colors of the sand. But Rohan had to admire the proportions of it as he wandered around inside, finding that his father had provided for a private area as well as a public one. Rohan and Ostvel toured the encampment, plotting out the exact location of each tent at Waes, and despaired of arranging things to the convenience and satisfaction of all until Camigwen arrived and had all settled in the time it took her to draw a map in the dirt.
Rohan kept the pair with him for a time, asking questions about the horses, the food, and the furniture. Although interested in their answers, he was more concerned with observing them. Cami was brisk and decisive, remembered every detail, and kept a mental inventory of everything. She was in her element, and Rohan knew she was the very person to free Sioned of the running of Stronghold. Ostvel was her match in logistics when it came to the horses and guards. Rohan resolved to put his proposal to them once the Rialla was over—though at the moment it was nearly impossible to believe that in another ten or twelve days, all this would be finished and Sioned would be his.
He wandered slowly among the tents after they left him, thinking about the future. If only it could all be over now, and he and Sioned could ride back to Stronghold in perfect understanding, handfasted and sure of each other. Plans that had seemed so clever and exciting now only irked him. He kicked at a tent stake, telling himself he was testing its security in the ground. But he had never been very good at lying to himself.
“Well, nephew,” Andrade said at his side, startling him. “Your little entertainment will begin soon. I’m looking forward to it.”
By the early evening light she looked tired, her bright hair dusty and the lines of her face dragging downward. “I hope you sleep better tonight, beneath a tent,” he said, concerned for her.
“I’ll not sleep well until you and Sioned—” She broke off with a shrug. “But I suppose that will have to wait until you’re through scheming.”
“Does it ever stop?”
“Not for a prince. I’ve been waiting for you to ask me what I know about Roelstra. He probably knows everything about you, through his spies.” Her eyes looked haunted, but before he could say anything she went on coolly, “Although I hope they’re only the things you want him to know.”
Rohan took her arm and they walked through the encampment. “I’m more interested in his daughters.”
“I’ll just bet you are. He’s kept them tight in Castle Crag, so I’d judge them anxious for freedom. Only the legitimate ones will be proposed to you, so you needn’t worry about the others.”
“I’m going to look them all over. The more the merrier.”
“The dragon among the herd, you mean,” she countered with a smile. “I see more and more of your father in you, Rohan—in your own sweet, ruthless way. Since those girls probably don’t have hearts, you won’t be breaking anything. But you’ll wound their pride, which is more dangerous.”
“You’ve taken a hurt to your pride, too,” he commented gently. “Have you found out anything about this faradhi?”
“No, but I will,” she replied in a grim voice. “Roelstra will answer for this. I’ll wait until you’re through with him, but leave me some pieces.”
“He used your Sunrunner to spy on me—he owes us both. But tell me about his daughters.”
She did, as much as she knew, and Rohan listened attentively. Naydra was pretty, placid, and malleable; Lenala was stupid, end of report. Ianthe and Pandsala were the ones to be wary of.
“Ianthe is the most beautiful and seems to be the most intelligent, so she’ll long since have figured out the advantages of marrying you. I’d be surprised if she doesn’t slip into your tent some night. As for Pandsala, she’s nearly as beautiful and almost as smart as Ianthe, or so I’m told.”
“By whom?” he asked, knowing she wouldn’t answer.
“Never you mind. Just have a care to Sioned’s feelings. Tobin and I will do what we can to protect her from their spite. Have you decided just how and when you’ll end your little comedy?”
“I thought I’d see what develops,” he answered. “Is that dinner I smell?”
“One day soon you’re going to have to give me a straight answer, you know. Yes, that’s dinner, and I’m starving. Chay and Tobin are coming to my tent for family dinner tonight. You’ll do me a favor by joining us to provide some intelligent conversation. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand watching them watch each other.”
A long time later, as Rohan left his aunt’s tent in the dark, he tried to recapture the feeling of freedom he’d had on the journey. Impossible now. Conversation at dinner had revolved around the Rialla. Tomorrow they would reach Waes, and the next day the princes would begin their talks. Rohan walked slowly to his own tent and stood outside it for a time, staring moodily at the gilt poles with their stylized dragon heads on top. Ostvel had ordered guards set around the royal tent tonight, good practice for the Rialla when such would be necessary, and one of them paused in his measured pacing to salute Rohan.
“Will you be retiring now, my lord?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Very good, my lord.” After saluting again, the man continued his rounds.
Rohan remembered the last Rialla, when he’d been watched far less formally and all the real attention had been on his father. No longer could he go where he pleased; he would be the cynosure of all eyes from now on, his movements watched, his words analyzed, his every gesture commented on. Feeling suddenly stifled, he turned and headed down toward the river.
He stood on the shoreline and watched the black water. The moons had not yet risen, and the starlight was feeble between wispy clouds. Up the opposite shore trees splayed darker shadows, a breeze whispering through them in answer to the low, insistent murmur of the river. Rohan shivered, reacting to the hint of autumn in the air, and rubbed his hands together to warm them. He was not meant for such places, he told himself, places with a careless abundance of water and effortlessly thriving crops and herds. He had been bred to the bone-burning heat of the Desert, the harsh winter wind off the Long Sand that could strip away a man’s flesh and bury his skeleton without trace. Yet even dragons sought out softer lands—to pick them clean. Rohan shivered again, and not from the chill, before turning to walk back to his tent.
The simple shift in position saved his life. A finger’s breadth from his ribs the air suddenly hissed with the sound of a passing knife. He dropped instantly into a crouch, boot-knife in his hand, eyes scanning the darkness. A second blade whisked past him, missing his head by a handspan, and he cursed his fair hair that shone even in the moonless night. The nearest cover was twenty paces up the slope. All he could do was become a shadow like any other.
A bird sang out and small animals chittered furiously as a nest was disturbed. Rohan stayed frozen, listening. When the night settled back to silence and there was nothing to be heard but the river, he blinked the cold sweat of tension fro
m his eyes and got slowly to his feet.
Though he presented an easy target now, the night was free of more knives. He waited a moment, then searched the riverbank. A thin hilt was embedded in the mud, angled down as the assassin anticipated Rohan’s defensive crouch. He pulled the knife out and ran his fingers down the fine, smooth blade, catching his breath. It was not made of Cunaxan steel, but of glass.
He hid the knife with his own inside the top of his boot, and returned to his tent. Walvis drowsed in a corner near the lamp. Rohan held the glass knife to the light, unsurprised to see the characteristic notch in the blade that was meant to catch in the victim’s flesh when he tried to remove it. The hilt was wrapped in thin strips of brown leather, the blade made of green glass. A tight smile stole across Rohan’s face and he hid the knife deep in his saddlebags where his squire would not find it.
So the Merida wished to warn him, he thought as he gathered a blanket around him and settled down to sleep. “Merida” meant “gentle knife” in the old language—gentle because the sharp glass blades were as quick and deadly as steel, and the Merida had come to power as a guild of assassins renowned for their silence and skill. Rohan’s death would have been nice for them, but failing that, the knife had put him on notice that they were near. They wanted him nervous and suspicious, hoping he would make mistakes. Rohan smiled again and stretched beneath the blanket. This new problem added to all the others set excitement welling in his blood, eagerness for the coming battles of wits and nerve. If the Merida had meant to frighten him, they had failed.
Sioned reined in her horse at the top of the hill, looking down in wonder at the vast encampment. Other princes had arrived early and set up their tents, and Sioned identified them for Cami and Ostvel, who had come to inspect the area before the main column of Rohan’s suite arrived.
“That yellow group over by the woods, that’s Prince Saumer of Isel. He’s as far away from Prince Volog as he can get—they share their island very unhappily, so they stay away from each other at the Rialla. The orange tents are Prince Durriken’s. He’s going to bake down there, so far from any trees.”
“Who’s been drilling you in this information?” Cami asked. “Urival?”
“Princess Milar. Let’s see—red is Prince Vissarion of Grib, that silly pink for Seldeen of Gilad, and green for Chale of Ossetia—that one’s easy, Cami, you remember when he came to visit at Goddess Keep and the whole place was awash in green uniforms.” She identified the colors and their owners effortlessly, glad now of the princess’ instruction. Scarlet, black, leaf-green, the turquoise of her own native Syr—she knew them all. Conspicuously absent were the High Prince’s violet tents, and when his name was left out of her inventory Ostvel gave her a curious glance.
“He makes an entrance?”
“He makes an entrance,” she confirmed. “He’ll sail down the Faolain tomorrow morning with all due ceremony. Looks like a carnival, doesn’t it, with all those colors clashing against each other?”
“And people doing the same,” Camigwen observed. “Especially princesses. No, I will not be quiet, Sioned! Two gowns were all you’d allow Princess Milar’s women to sew for you—two, when you’ll have to appear at five times that many functions!” She turned in her saddle, eyes flashing. “How long have we been friends? Don’t you know how much I want your happiness? Why won’t you do anything to secure it?”
“After he’s had a good look at the princesses, I’ll know that if he chooses me it’ll be because he really wants me.”
“To hell with the princesses!” Camigwen exploded.
“The others are almost here,” Ostvel interrupted. “We’ll have to find a good place to set up camp. Fight with her later, Cami, we’ve got work to do.”
“How can I fight with her when she doesn’t care?” But she followed Ostvel down the hill, leaving Sioned to stare down at the gaudy camp, biting her lip.
By evening the Desert contingent was established in blue tents. Having done her part at Camigwen’s direction, Sioned slipped away to explore. The Rialla would officially begin tomorrow with the High Prince’s arrival, and she would have to become Rohan’s extra eyes, ears, and tongue. She must behave as if she did not want him, conduct herself with silent modesty in public and private—and try to ignore a growing desire to flay the royal daughters until their skin was in ribbons.
But something more serious worried her, and that was the Sunrunner Roelstra had somehow corrupted. Andrade had questioned her during the journey, but Sioned had been unable to supply many details. She was certain, however, that whoever it was had also been there the night Princess Tobin had been ensnared in the moonrunning. It was a pity she did not know how to identify and seek out this renegade faradhi and help him. Sioned’s heart cringed every time she recalled his despairing plea to be forgiven.
As the sun went down, lights were lit within the tents, making huge colored lanterns of them. Sioned paused in her walk through the camps—unchallenged because of her rings—and watched the shadow-shows given by people unaware that their movements could be seen against the light. One expanse of scarlet silk showed her a man and woman locked in an embrace; laughter sounded and the light was abruptly extinguished. Farther along, a turquoise tent showed one man gesturing angrily at another. The latter’s defiant posture slowly wore down until he fell to his knees with head bowed. Sioned wondered what might be seen on other nights, especially against the blue walls of Rohan’s tent.
She returned to the Desert camp and sat down on a small stool outside the tent she would share with Camigwen and three other faradhi women. A brazier filled with glowing coals was before her and she gestured them into flame with a wave of her hand. The motion brought a quick spark from the emerald on her finger. Both hands out in front of her, she stared at her rings. Eight of them now, but only seven earned in the faradhi manner. She still did not know why she had done so dangerous a thing as to weave herself into the distant faradhi’s working—or, rather, she knew why and feared to admit it. What would she not do for Rohan? she wondered, troubled anew by her response to him. Urival was right to be wary. She would use her gifts and her skills on Rohan’s behalf, no matter what his intentions. Her power with sun- and moonlight was nothing compared to his power over her.
Rebellion stirred, and she told herself she would not become one such as the other faradhi obviously was to Roelstra. Yet the man hated his enslavement; Sioned knew that her own would be welcome. Goddess, what a fool her heart had made of her. She glared down at the emerald, which Tobin had informed her had been in the family for nobody knew how long. It was said to be possessed of a magic all its own. Green for her eyes, she thought, damning Rohan again for putting her through the public display.
The gold rings caught her attention and her thoughts turned to the discovery in the hatching cave. If Rohan was correct, then life would change drastically in the Desert. With unlimited wealth, he could buy whatever he wanted for himself and his people. He could purchase whole princedoms and their princes—or princesses, she added with a grimace. Everyone had a price.
She tried to believe that she did not, that nothing could induce her to betray her training as the other faradhi had done—but the living refutation suddenly walked into view, arms wide as he stretched. Hot color rose in her cheeks and she turned her face to the fire. For him, anything; it frightened her. He would never ask—or so she had to believe—but it was bitter to know she would betray anything and anyone for him.
“Sioned?”
His footsteps whispered in the damp grass. She held out her hands to the brazier again, gaze fixed on her rings as he crouched beside her.
“You’re up late. You must be tired—it was a long ride, and I’m sure Camigwen didn’t spare you a share of the work.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“Nor I. Roelstra’s arriving tomorrow, and I’m worried.”
“Surely you know what you’re going to do.” Her gaze strayed to his fine, sun-browned hands, held near hers as he wa
rmed them at the fire.
“More or less. But it all may change when I meet him face to face, one prince to another. What if he sees through me?”
“If those who love you have their doubts, why worry about a stranger?”
“Oh, I’ve been fooling my family for years,” he replied, and she knew he had not heard her implication. “Sioned, what if I fail? I must have those treaties. Only then can I begin to build a life for us.”
“If it’s what you truly want, you’ll find a way to succeed.” She heard the platitude and loathed herself for it.
“Sioned, please look at me.”
Unwillingly, she did so. His face was all gold and Fire, his eyes reflecting the flames.
“I need you to want this, too. Before, it was for myself and the lands my father gave me. But now it’s for you as well. The private reasons are just as important as the public ones.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “It’s been difficult, and it’s going to get worse for both of us before it gets any better. What you said to me on the Hatching Hunt, for instance. I can pretend to be what I’m not, but I can’t and wouldn’t change the past even if I could. You have to trust me.”
He held her gaze in silence for so long that she began to tremble inside with nerves. “Tell me one thing,” he said at last.
“Yes?” she asked, wary.
“Tell me you love me.”
Sioned looked away from those impossible eyes, unable to speak.
“You do, and I know it. But I need to hear you say it, Sioned. And that should tell you everything you need to know about me. Maybe the next days are going to cost us more than we’re willing to pay, but I’ve got to believe it’ll be worth it in the end. When it’s all finished here, we can go home and love each other in peace. This isn’t our beginning yet. That has to wait until we’re safely in our own country again. But the life we’ll have, Sioned—when I’m able to put my sword away for good, between us we can—”
“Your highness?” someone ventured from beyond the firelight, and Rohan cursed under his breath. He got to his feet and brushed his fingertips over Sioned’s hair as he left her.