by Melanie Rawn
She spared him the necessity of an answer by kicking her horse into a gallop—in the direction of Tiglath. Only then did the others realize she meant to accompany Walvis and Kleve to the city. The young knight swore; Tilal and Kleve simply stared. But Lhoys slapped his thigh and let out a roar of laughter.
“Northern women! Speak the name Merida and they go for the nearest sword! Best catch up with her, lad, or she’ll take command of the troops herself!”
Personal command of troops was precisely what Sioned was thinking about taking unto herself when she recovered from Kleve’s message. Lord Baisal, whose petition for a new stone keep had included a sunset walk over its proposed site, had gibbered with astonishment when Sioned broke off what she was saying and acquired the distant expression of Sunrunner conversing on the light. He had witnessed her performance six years ago in the Great Hall of Stronghold, of course, when she had used the moonlight to grasp at Roelstra’s renegade Sunrunner, but to stand within touching distance of a faradhi at work who was also one’s liege lady was something else again.
His spluttering silenced with her first words to him. Baisal, most placid and easy going of men, drew back from the grim-faced fury who ordered him to call up his levies for her inspection on the morrow and to send riders to nearby manors and keeps for the same purpose. The impossibility of these things robbed him of speech for a few moments. By the time he was coherent again, she was striding long-legged back to the holding’s walls, and he ran hard to catch up with her.
“But—my lady—provisions, horses, arms!” he puffed. “They cannot be readied in a single day!”
“You’ll be repaid for any provisions beyond those you usually supply in times of war. I am not a thief. Horses graze your fields. Catch them tonight and have them saddled and ready tomorrow morning! As for arms—what kind of athri are you not to have them to hand at all times?”
“A peaceful one!” he exclaimed, quivering with insult. “My lady, why are you speaking of war? What’s happened?”
“Roelstra.” The name hissed from her lips. “Roelstra and his daughter Ianthe. Lord Baisal, I formally require your duty as my liege man to recover your prince from the High Prince’s daughter at Feruche Castle. Is that specific enough for you?”
Baisal stopped dead at that. She went on without him. Sioned knew that if she paused to explain fully or even long enough to feel her own emotions, she would begin screaming. Rohan, held prisoner by Ianthe—who had no doubt released Tilal to provide details Sioned’s own imagination could readily supply. The commotion in the central courtyard provided welcome distraction, and she concentrated on finding Ostvel in the midst of it.
Instead, she found her brother.
“Sioned!” he cried on seeing her. Tossing his reins to a groom, he hurried to seize her in an embrace scented with sweat and horse and leather. Stunned, she looked over his shoulder and finally registered the meaning of the crowded courtyard.
“Davvi!” Pushing herself out of his arms, she gaped at her brother. It was the first time she had seen him since he had brought Tilal to Stronghold two years ago. “What are you doing here? And with all these troops in full armor—Davvi, explain this to me!”
Their mother’s green eyes regarded her from his half-ahead height advantage. He was twelve years her senior, but dirt caked in the fine lines around his eyes made him seem twice that. There were grooves cut into his cheeks, too, framing his tightly drawn lips.
“I’ve brought all the troops I safely could—not all in one group, of course, or Jastri would have suspected something. Two more detachments of twelve men each are following me, but I took the direct route. The others should be here in a day or so.”
“What are you talking about? What would Jastri suspect?”
“Come into the hall and we’ll talk. I’m exhausted. I’ve been riding for two days without sleep—or is it three?”
Mystified, she accompanied him into the stone-and-timber building that served Baisal as dining hall, seat of justice, and servants’ sleeping quarters. There was a wooden staircase at the far end, leading up to a small addition that was the family’s private chambers. Sioned led Davvi upstairs to the room Baisal’s daughters had vacated for her use, talking all the while and receiving no answers.
“Damn it, tell me why you’re here!” she demanded, digging her nails into his arm. “You were supposed to meet me in five days at the southern bridge!”
“It’s a long way from River Run,” he said irrelevantly.
“I know that!” Hearing the edge of hysteria in her voice, she slammed the door shut behind them and pressed her palms against the wood, taking several long, slow breaths to calm herself. When she turned, her brother was seated on a stool with a winecup in his hand. Sioned put her fists on her hips and after drawing another deep breath said, “Tell me.”
Davvi drained half the wine at a swallow. “Is it beneath the dignity of a princess to pour out more wine? And you’d better have some too, Sioned.”
“If you don’t tell me at once why you’re here with half an army, I’ll pour this over your head!” She refilled his cup, then followed his advice and took some for herself.
“If only it was half an army.” He sighed, clasping his hands around the cup, elbows on his knees and shoulders bent. “Roelstra’s got our young prince right where he wants him.”
For an instant she thought he spoke of Rohan, and wondered wildly how he could know. But then she realized he referred to Prince Jastri, sixteen-year-old son of their kinsman Prince Haldor who had died in the Plague. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“I was there at court, at High Kirat, when Roelstra’s man came. None of us thought much about it. Jastri’s not a bad sort, only very young. And ambitious. He and Roelstra are conducting military maneuvers around the Catha River plains. ‘Military maneuvers,’ ” he repeated bleakly, glancing up at her. “I was supposed to join them. I came here instead. He’s only my distant cousin. You’re my sister.”
Sioned paled as she reached the obvious conclusion. “Sweet Goddess,” she breathed, seeing the tapestry map in Rohan’s study as if it was flung out before her now. The Merida at work in the north; Roelstra and Jastri with troops in the south. No sane prince—or princess—could ignore either threat.
“You know what the High Prince is after, of course,” Davvi went on. “Jastri will do his work for him. Under the guise of teaching the boy how to be a general—every prince must be that, and Haldor didn’t live long enough to tutor his son in the arts of war—Roelstra will have troops positioned to invade the Desert. Sioned, he’s only a day’s march from the Faolain. You have my people if you need them. I don’t give a damn about breaking my oath to Jastri. He’s broken his to me and every other athri in Syr by throwing in with Roelstra.”
“But—”
“You wanted to hear it, so let me get through to the end.” He swallowed more wine and straightened his back. “If I were you, I’d send to Lord Chaynal at once and tell him to make ready for war. Roelstra will find some excuse to cross the Faolain. Maybe your Rohan can use that dragon-clever tongue of his to talk his way out of it, but I don’t think so. I’m convinced that by the Rialla, Roelstra wants Rohan out of the way so the Desert can be his own—or the Merida’s, which amounts to the same thing.”
“Rohan—” She choked on his name, and steadied herself by staring fiercely at the emerald on her left hand. “The Merida will attack soon in the north. I just had word on the sunlight. Our forces will be cut in half, Davvi. I was going to call the summons and send them all—”
“By the Storm God—Sioned, that’s Roelstra’s excuse! The Merida attack—it will put those damned mutual defense treaties into play! That’s how he’ll do it, cross the Faolain pretending to go to Rohan’s aid against the Merida! It’s a damned long march to Tiglath, and anything could happen on the way!”
“What does the excuse matter?” she cried. “You don’t understand! Ianthe has Rohan! She’s holding him at Feruche!”
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nbsp; Davvi’s eyes went wide and he dropped the cup on the floor, rising to put his arms around her. “Oh, Sioned,” he whispered.
It would have been so good to cry. During childhood, before Lady Wisla had come to River Run as Davvi’s bride, brother and sister had been close. Sioned wanted to hand everything over to him and trust him to mend what was wrong. But that feeling belonged to the little girl she had not been for a long time. She could not even weep in his arms; his embrace was not home to her, and it was impossible to find comfort when being held by a man who was not her husband.
She pulled away and found she was still clutching her winecup. Taking a large swallow, she raked the hair from her face. “You’re right, I must send to Radzyn. There’ll be moonlight enough tonight.”
Davvi gave a start, then shook his head. “I keep forgetting what you are. It’s funny—I can accept you as a princess, but—”
“But not as a faradhi witch?” she finished for him with a tiny smile. “When the moons rise, brother, you’ll believe.”
“Until they do, sit down and rest. Don’t argue. Princess and Sunrunner or not, I’m still your older brother, girl.” He pushed her gently onto the bed and sat down beside her. “Now, tell me how this happened.”
She told him as much as she knew, cursing herself as he paled at mention of his son. “He’s safe, don’t worry,” she added hastily. “Ianthe let him go, probably to come back to tell me exactly how she plans to kill Rohan.” Sioned gazed unseeing down into her wine. “I’ll kill her, Davvi. I swear I will.”
“Lady Andrade—”
“Can take it up the Goddess at her leisure! I’ll see Ianthe dead by my own hand! Faradh’im may be forbidden to kill, but princes are not. Hadn’t you heard? Killing is one of a ruler’s privileges.” She saw her hand tremble and put the cup down. She had already killed; how many more times before she accepted that she was no longer a Sunrunner ruled by vows impossible for a princess to keep? Vows broken for Rohan’s sake. “Oh, Goddess, my Rohan—” Wrapping her arms around herself, tight against the stabbing ache in her breast, she rocked back and forth in a vain attempt to escape the pain.
“She won’t kill him.” Davvi rubbed at her back.
“Not until she’s finished toying with him! They’ll pay for this with their lives. They want the Desert, do they? Well, then, the Long Sand will swallow them up!”
“With Jastri’s troops added to Roelstra’s, there are nine hundred across the Faolain,” he warned.
Sioned forced herself to straighten up. She held out both hands, faradhi rings glinting, the emerald nearly on fire. “Look at them, Davvi. Does Roelstra have a single ally who wears them? This is what Andrade wanted all along. Not this way, I know, but faradhi princes are her goal. I have Fire itself at my call. They’re worth at least those nine hundred.”
“Sioned, I don’t know much about Sunrunners, but I do know that your oaths forbid you to kill.”
“And my oaths as a princess? As a wife? Andrade knew what she was doing when she put me forward as Rohan’s bride. I think she counted on our breeding up faradhi children—but I’m barren, Davvi. The Plague ended my last hope of having a child. So it falls to me to use what I know and what I am.” She gave him a small, feral smile. “I don’t think Andrade counted on that. But she’s saddled with it, and if I know her, she’ll ride where she’s reined. She’s no fool.”
Davvi’s forehead creased even more deeply with worry. “Don’t fly so high, Sioned,” he cautioned.
“Ah, but I’m married to the dragon prince, brother.”
Princess Tobin, splendid in a wine-red silk gown, entered her sons’ rooms to bid them goodnight. She was in a hurry, for her hair was yet undone and she was giving a small farewell dinner for the Syrene ambassador that evening. Tossing the heavy braid over her shoulder, she went into the bedchamber prepared to do battle with the rambunctious twins. Rare were the nights when they slid meekly into their beds, and any night when they did meant either illness or scheming.
Sure enough, they were engaged in a pillow fight with their tutor and the hapless pair of squires assigned to them. The latter had barricaded themselves behind overturned chairs. Tobin sighed, knowing that the time required to calm the skirmish would make her late for dinner.
“Enough!” she exclaimed into the uproar. The tutor, about to grab a royal ankle and initiate an assault with an embroidered cushion, looked up, flushed scarlet, lost his balance, and toppled into an undignified heap. The squires leaped from behind the furniture and fled. Deprived of their quarry, the twins armed themselves with bed-pillows nearly as big as they were and stalked the tutor. Tobin marched forward and, gathering a handful of nightrobe at the scruff of each neck, shook her sons playfully.
“Two against one—is that the behavior of a knight?” she scolded. “Leave poor Gervyn alone!”
Dark-haired, blue-eyed, as alike as dragons hatched from the same egg, Sorin and Andry showed no signs of repentance. Cheated of their victim, who had wisely picked himself up and hurried after the squires, they pelted each other instead, squealing with laughter when a seam split and feathers flew.
“By the Storm Devil, what am I going to do with you?” Tobin growled, her gown now liberally dusted with feather-snow. Scooping up a twin in either arm, she deposited them in their beds and stood over them with what she hoped was a stern glare. But the absurdity of the attempt when covered in white feathers was compounded by the mischievous grins decorating her offspring’s faces. Tobin gave it up as useless, and laughed. “You’re pests and I don’t know what I ever did to merit you,” she said, hugging each of them in turn. “I ought to blister your bottoms.”
“With Sunrunner’s Fire, the way Sioned said she would?” Sorin asked pertly.
“We didn’t believe her, either,” Andry put in with a smug smile, bouncing from his bed to his brother’s for his share of maternal affection.
Tobin kissed them both and snuggled them. “Let me explain it to you this way. If you come up with any more pranks, jokes, or smart ideas, then you won’t be allowed to go to Stronghold this year while your father and I are at Waes.”
“But Sioned promised we could see dragons!” Sorin wailed.
“And it’d be a shame if your behavior prevented her from keeping her promise, wouldn’t it? Now, to sleep with you. After riding all afternoon and that minor war you two just staged, don’t you dare tell me you’re not sleepy!”
Andry’s small frame suddenly tensed in her embrace. The boy’s dark head turned to the windows where the moons’ silvery light shone through the casement onto the bed. His blue eyes were wide and shadowy, his cheeks pallid, lips moving in soundless whispers.
“Andry? What is it, love?” Tobin asked, though she was afraid she knew very well.
Sorin squirmed around and touched his brother’s arm, smooth forehead wrinkling with concern. But what one twin sensed, the other could not. Tobin shifted into the moonlight and gasped at the touch.
Goddess blessing, my sister. Forgive me for startling Andry. Tobin—oh, Tobin, she’s taken Rohan, Ianthe holds him inside Feruche! Roelstra camps near the Faolain ready for attack, and the Merida may already be at war with us in the north. Chay must summon the southern vassals and take the field against Roelstra soon—Ianthe has Rohan—the northern army must defend Tiglath—there’s no one to go to Feruche—tell Chay to come quickly, please! He must!
Tobin swayed, clutching her sons to her breast as twin anchors to reality. She cursed her lack of training that prevented her from sending questions back over the moonrays to Sioned. There was a sharp wrench, utterly unlike the usual gentle leavetaking, and Tobin cried out softly.
“Mama?” Sorin breathed, frightened, and plucked at her sleeve. She looked down with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned to Andry. Dazed and confused by what he had been inadvertently caught up in, when his eyes lifted they were swirling with moonlight.
“It’s all right, darling,” she soothed. “Just the moons, nothing more. Here
, let’s get you both tucked up into bed now.”
“But, Mama—”
“Hush, Sorin. It was only the moons.” She busied herself with the comfortingly familiar task of arranging the sheets around them, kissing their foreheads, smiling a good night. Sorin was willing to believe that nothing unusual had happened, and settled down for sleep. But Andry, her second Sunrunner child, was still troubled. But not afraid, Tobin noted with pride, just as Maarken had not been afraid when he realized what gifts he had inherited. She stroked Andry’s cheek and whispered, “Sleep now, my own. It’s all right, I promise.”
He bit his lip, then nodded and curled onto his side. She made herself wait until they were both asleep before hurrying to her rooms to change clothes. She brushed out her hair and left it loose, a breach of etiquette, for married women did not wear their hair unbound in company, but she cared nothing for that. Descending the stairs swiftly, she saw that Chay was just beginning to usher their guests into the private dining chamber. Tobin joined him, smiled, and hid her fretting impatience until the two of them were alone just outside the door. “Make excuses,” she said quickly. “I must speak to you. Now.”
“Tobin, they’re all waiting.” He took a closer look at her face and the muscles of his cheeks tightened. “All right. Stay here.”
She heard him make charming, wry apologies to the Syrene guests and order that dinner begin at once. Then he returned to her, closing the door behind him. “Tell me.”
She did.
“Ianthe!” he spat. “By the devil who sired her—Tobin, are you sure?”
“Sioned is. I don’t know how or why, but Ianthe has Rohan.” She reached suddenly for the solid strength of him, terrified for her brother, for them all. “Chay, she’ll kill him—”
“No. That’s not her way.” His lean body quivered with controlled fury and he drew away, grasping her shoulders. “Go in to dinner. Tell them anything you like about why I’ve gone. Just don’t tell them the truth.” She looked up into his eyes, saw the quicksilver grown storm-cloud gray, his rage feeding warrior’s instincts and turning his face into a fierce mask. “Now I know why the Syrene court came to buy more horses in advance of the Rialla. Roelstra’s troops threatening the Desert—I’ll slaughter him myself!”