by Melanie Rawn
“I’m letting him ride the fourth. He wanted to impress Camigwen.” Rohan winked. “It’s not uncommon for a man in love.”
“Next thing, you’ll be riding.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Don’t be an idiot! Princes don’t ride in these races!”
“No?” He called out to one of his grooms. “How’s Pashta feeling today?”
“Ready, my lord. What race do you fancy?” The man grinned.
“Brochwell Bay for emeralds,” he replied casually, and waited for Chay to explode. He was not disappointed.
“You’re crazy!”
“I’ll see to it at once, my lord,” the groom said. “And may I say I’m glad you’ve decided to enter?”
“You may not,” Chay snapped, then rounded on his brother-by-marriage. “Impress the girl if you must, but not at the risk of your neck! There’s not a woman alive who’d thank you for bringing a pair of broken legs or worse to your wedding night!”
“What I bring to my wedding night will be in perfect working condition,” Rohan answered.
“Oh, wonderful,” Chay said in a voice that dripped sarcasm. “I’ll be sure to tell that to everyone while you’re galloping out to Brochwell Bay and back, with whole measures between where nobody will have an eye out for you—Rohan, didn’t you hear a word we said last night?”
“I’m riding, and that’s an end to it,” he stated, turned, and came face to face with Princess Ianthe. Cool and lovely in lavender with silver jewelry, she had not come to the paddocks to admire the horseflesh, and they both knew it.
“It was an exciting race, Lord Chaynal,” she said gracefully. “Your wife will look magnificent in her rubies.”
“I hear you’re responsible for the idea,” Rohan said.
“Excuse me,” Chay interrupted. “I see one of my grooms signaling to me.”
Rohan looked, saw nothing of the kind, and shot a murderous look at Chay. The older man grinned and left him alone with the princess.
“Are you enjoying yourself, cousin?” she asked him.
“More so than last time, before I became an eligible prince,” he answered forthrightly, and they started back to the stands.
She blushed, with fascinating results. “It must be tiresome for you.”
“I’m sure you go through the same thing, being an unmarried princess.”
“Mostly I see ambassadors,” she said, looking down at her hands. “But I won’t consider any man who can’t be bothered to meet me himself.” She was shorter than Sioned, and when she glanced up at him her heavy dark lashes were thick veils over her eyes. “It’s a little like being offered at the Fair.”
“A little,” he agreed. “May I escort you up to your sisters? I have an entry in the next race that I’d like to watch.”
Thus it was that Sioned’s first view of him all day came as he guided Ianthe to a seat, her fingertips resting elegantly on his wrist. Rohan saw at once that he had done something both smart and stupid. There was advantage in being seen publicly with Roelstra’s daughters, dividing his attentions among them. But he had made a personal error by placing himself in a position where he could compare them directly with Sioned. She was less beautiful, less regal, less elegant—and she was also the only woman he wanted.
“Here you are at last!” Tobin said brightly as he sat down. “Is Chay all in one piece? I suppose he’ll spend all day with Akkal instead of with me. It’s easy to see which of us he values more! But I’m having a wonderful time with our cousins, and it’s so nice to be out of the hot sun. How sweet it was of Prince Lleyn to see to our comfort!”
There was more in a similar vein, and Rohan blessed her for turning into a scattershell for his benefit. Sioned sat in cool silence, her back stiff and her expression set in stone. She wore a russet linen gown and no jewelry but her Sunrunner’s rings and his emerald. Aware that noticing the ring had brought a smile to his lips, he looked from her to Pandsala.
She met him stare for stare, and unlike her sister Ianthe did not blush. He offered a pleasantry about the weather; she responded with a polite nod. He asked if she was enjoying the races; she nodded again and stared down at the track. Rohan began to feel irked. He deserved better than this and had nearly decided to go about getting it when he realized that he was reacting precisely as Pandsala wished. The notion that his clever self had nearly been outsmarted by this girl both amused and irritated him. Pandsala with her ploy of indifference and Ianthe with her obvious interest were a potent pair. All at once he wondered if Andrade had foreseen his reaction, and provided Sioned to counter any attractions he might feel toward the princesses. Certainly he had twice today come close to forgetting his probable lifespan if he wed either. But the thought of Sioned kept him from any serious danger.
His mare came in second in the race. Through the next interval and the race following he divided his attention between his sister and the two princesses, ignoring Sioned completely. She did not appear to notice.
To Ianthe he said, “I have great hopes for my entry in the fourth. There she is now—her name’s Eliziel, which means ‘cloudfoot’ in the old language.”
“She’s a beauty,” Ianthe responded warmly. “Do you take an interest in the old tongue, cousin?”
“After a fashion. Mostly to name my horses.”
Sioned’s brows shot up. “We’re taught at Goddess Keep that the old words have great power and should not be used lightly, my lord.”
“How quaint,” Pandsala murmured.
“Who’s that up on Eliziel?” Tobin asked quickly.
“Ostvel,” Sioned supplied in a colorless voice. “I marvel, my lord, that you allow someone from Goddess Keep on one of your precious horses.”
“He more than earned the privilege on the way here, so I rewarded him with the honor of riding her.”
His own reward was a frigid silence. Tobin giggled and pointed to their right. “Oh, look—there’s Camigwen with Andrade. She looks as if she doesn’t know whether to be proud or terrified!”
Ostvel on a mere horse was an excellent rider; Ostvel mounted on a mare of Eliziel’s quality inevitably won the race. Rohan grinned smugly.
“Camigwen will look lovely in carnelians,” Tobin observed.
“Is that to be the prize for this race?” Pandsala asked her sister, then turned to Rohan without waiting for an answer. “Will you really give the rider gems won by your horse?”
“He needs a wedding gift for his lady.” He delighted in having made not only Ostvel’s pleasure but Cami’s as well. Being a prince was wonderful fun.
“How generous of you,” Ianthe said, smiling. “And how lucky that carnelians will suit his lady so well, according to your sister. But surely such jewels are a little grand for a faradhi.”
“A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things,” Tobin said sweetly. “All the better if the man has the taste to match her bridal necklet to her coloring.”
“No two women are alike,” Rohan agreed blithely, and won a blank stare from Sioned for this idiotic statement. “For Pandsala, for instance, nothing would do but diamonds to match the sparkle in her eyes. And for Ianthe—the darkest of garnets, though they would be poor rivals to the color of her lips.”
“And Lady Sioned?” Ianthe purred.
“Emeralds, of course,” Pandsala said before Rohan could open his mouth. “You do have the most remarkable eyes,” she added to the Sunrunner.
Sioned nodded civil thanks for the compliment. “I would settle for common river stones from a man I truly loved.”
“A man who truly loved you would provide emeralds,” Rohan shot back. “Whoever he may turn out to be, I hope I provided him an example in that ring.”
“You gave it to her?” Pandsala was shocked into an honest reaction, and Rohan struggled bravely not to laugh.
“He did,” Tobin affirmed. “She saved my sons’ lives on the Hatching Hunt.”
“Not I, your highness,” Sioned protested. “It was Princ
e Rohan who chased the dragon away.”
“A dragon!” Ianthe exclaimed. “Cousin, you must tell us all the details!”
“I will, at some other time,” he said, rising to his feet. “You ladies must excuse me—I need to talk with Prince Lleyn. We have bet on the next race, and I want to see his face when he loses.” He distributed smiles all around and left the silken battlefield with relief.
After the fifth race—which Rohan lost to Prince Lleyn, much to the old man’s delight—there came a break for refreshments and the paying off of debts. Rohan declined Lleyn’s offer of lunch and went down to the track; there jumps were being set for the next few races. Two fences, two hedges, and two “stone” walls made of painted wood—he measured them with his eyes and nodded to himself. They were nothing Pashta couldn’t handle with ease.
He watched the sixth and seventh races from railside, making mental notes about the number of strides necessary between jumps. No one paid much attention to the slight, plainly dressed young man who cheered on Lord Chaynal’s horses. Prince Haldor of Syr’s entry took the sixth, and a stallion from Radzyn Keep won the seventh. As the eighth was called, Rohan felt a tug on his sleeve.
“It’s time, my lord,” his groom said. “I’ve brought your shirt.” He held up a sky-blue silk blouse, and Rohan stripped off his tunic before sliding his arms into his colors. The men and women around him, having heard the honorific and seen him change clothes, gaped. Then someone gave a mighty guffaw and clapped Rohan on the back.
“I’ll be wagering on you, my lord!”
“The odds should be very good against me!” Rohan answered, grinning. “Enjoy your profits!”
On the way to the paddocks, the groom provided him with a wealth of information. The course was easy enough until the climb to the sea cliffs began. There the trail turned rocky and dangerous; many horses would founder on the way up, still more on the way down. Pashta’s training in the Desert would serve him well here. As for the other entries, all were considered inferior, but Rohan was to keep an eye on Prince Haldor’s stallion. The Syrene horse had been battle-bred to sink his teeth into anything that got in range.
“I’d slow Pashta a bit during the two measures back from the Bay, my lord,” the groom finished. “He won’t save much for the jumps on his own—you know he’ll run his heart out for you, so you’ll have to make him spare himself.”
“I’ll remember.” He entered the paddock and approached the stallion, who was in fine trim and seemed to know that all the attention meant he would be racing today. He butted Rohan’s shoulder playfully with his nose, and the prince laughed.
“No plain river stones for our Sioned, eh, my lad?” he whispered, rubbing the white blaze down the stallion’s face. “We’ll beat them all in a walk.”
Pashta’s huge dark eyes closed lazily, almost a wink. Rohan laughed again, then mounted and gathered the reins.
“I’ve had to slip in weights, my lord,” the groom said. “Rules say all the horses carry the same. You haven’t enough flesh to cover your own bones, let alone make up the legal weight—so remember he’s carrying extra today.”
The blue silk clung to him in the afternoon heat, and he shifted his shoulders against the trickle of sweat down his spine. As the trumpet sounded he stood in the stirrups to signal his readiness and told himself he was not nervous. He’d never ridden in a Rialla race before—no prince had—and as he walked Pashta decorously to the starting line the prize jewels became secondary to not making a fool of himself. He glanced up at the stands only once, but could not see Sioned’s red-gold hair in the crowd. Perhaps it was better so.
Nothing prevented her from seeing him, however, and her careful composure nearly cracked. What did that madman think he was doing? She shared a horrified glance with Tobin.
“Ianthe, look!” Pandsala exclaimed. “There’s Rohan!”
“I didn’t know he would enter the races himself!” Ianthe said.
“Neither did I,” Sioned muttered. “I didn’t think he was that foolish.”
A section of the railing had been shifted so the horses could exit the track before the first jump. Excited spectators strained against the fences as the yellow flag dropped. Sioned held her breath as thirty horses thundered past, jostling for the best position through the gap. It was surely too narrow for all to get through safely, but somehow they made it. Everyone squinted for a last look as the horses topped a rise before vanishing.
Sioned listened to the shouted wagers and wished she had the courage to ride the sunlight and follow the progress of the race. She cared nothing about Rohan’s winning; she simply prayed he wouldn’t break his neck. She intended to perform that service herself to repay him for this insanity.
“Will you not wager on Prince Rohan’s success, like the rest of us?” Ianthe’s’ voice was smooth as warm honey.
“I have nothing of value,” Sioned began, spreading her hands to indicate her poverty—then caught sight of the emerald. “What will you wager against this emerald, your grace?”
“You’d bet against the prince?”
She smiled, wondering if some of Rohan’s recklessness had infected her as well. “I doubt him as a man, not as a rider. I had another wager in mind.”
“Yes?” The dark eyes were wary, and the lips Rohan had complimented were stretched into a false smile.
“My emerald against whatever you like that neither you nor your sister will win him.”
“How dare you!” Ianthe hissed.
Sioned laughed. “Your grace! Never tell me you doubt yourself as a woman!”
“I doubt your manners, Sunrunner! But I cannot lose, for there is no one else worthy of Rohan—as you of all people must know. Do you want him for yourself?”
“I haven’t yet decided,” she lied easily. “But if you’re unsure of yourself in the matter . . .”
“Done!” the princess snarled. “Your emerald against all the silver I wear!”
“Done,” Sioned nodded, and insulted the princess further by taking visual inventory of the necklet, earrings, bracelets, and belt. Ianthe crimsoned with rage and turned her back on Sioned.
She gazed down at her emerald, not believing for an instant that she might lose it, but knowing all at once how much it meant to her. Biting her lip, she glanced quickly around at her companions. They followed Ianthe’s lead in ignoring her. Sioned made her decision, rose, and edged her way to the outer stands where the sunlight was unshaded by the green silk awning.
She felt the sweet warmth on her skin, permeating her bones and blood. Lacing her fingers together, she felt the rings grow warm—even the emerald—and she was reminded of the night in the Great Hall at Stronghold, and Tobin’s assurance that this ring had a magic all its own. She faced in the direction Rohan had gone and her gaze darted down the sunlight until she saw him clinging close to Pashta’s neck as they neared the wood. Her breathing quickened in response to his; she winced along with him as, entering the trees, branches whipped at his shirt and hair. The cliff trail ahead of him was murderous, and Sioned’s heart began to beat very fast.
Rohan cursed as a sharp branch tore his shoulder. Cries of alarm came from all around him and set his palms sweating inside his riding gloves. He wrenched his horse around a fallen rider, thanking the Goddess for Pashta’s years in the Desert which had made him swifter of wit and hoof than most of the other horses. Out of the wood now, they made the turn up the steep slope that culminated in a green pylon near the cliff edge. Behind him, Rohan heard an anguished scream and there was a crunch that sounded like cracking bones. But he had no time to look back, for the pylon loomed up—and the horse beside him, its rider wearing Lord Reze’s colors, had left him almost no room to make the turn. Pashta’s ears were laid back threateningly; the other horse faltered slightly on a slippery patch and Rohan took the chance presented, urging Pashta through the narrow gap and closer to the pylon. He rounded it in a tight curve—and an instant later heard a terrible cry followed by a heavy splash in the sur
f below. Rohan winced; it could have been him and Pashta. His sole ambition now was to emerge from this wild ride alive.
The field was down to twenty. Nineteen too many in Rohan’s opinion, and in Pashta’s, too; the stallion, never one to allow another horse precedence, made for those ahead with single-minded fury. Rohan pressed his cheek to Pashta’s neck, branches slashing his shirt to ribbons, and simply hung on.
A dun-colored horse came out of nowhere and plowed into them from the right. Rohan nearly toppled from his saddle. The other rider wore the pink and crimson of Lord Tibayan of Pyrme—but the face that grinned viciously at him had the brown eyes, dark hair, and ritual chin scar of Merida Blood. Rohan swore luridly in recognition, and the Merida laughed.
Sioned had lost sight of him in the forest, but as the horses raced onto the flat plain, she stiffened in shock as a dun stallion slammed into Pashta. Yet Rohan had been prepared for the attack—his fist lashed out in a backhanded blow that swayed the other rider in his saddle. Sioned caught her breath as a whip came up in the man’s hand. It came down across Rohan’s already lacerated back and his blond head jerked in pain. Sioned’s fingers clenched into numbed, bloodless claws. The Fire in her rings spread up through her whole body as if she was suddenly sheathed in flames then leaped forward on the woven sunlight. Her lips moved as she gathered herself to activate an ancient technique Urival had taught her at Stronghold.
Rohan’s back was afire with pain. He turned his head just in time to see the Merida lift a hand, glass knife winking in the sunlight. Rohan couldn’t believe that the man would attempt a throw from horseback at a moving target—then revised his opinion as the knife whizzed a finger’s span past his shoulder.