by Melanie Rawn
“How many other princes will be with him against us?”
“We’ll worry about that later. I have work to do.”
“I’ll make sure dinner is brief, then come help. Hurry, Chay.” She leaned up to kiss him, then settled her royal demeanor firmly around her and went into the dining room to tell lies.
Chapter Twenty-three
On first waking, he thought he had sickened with the Plague again. The grinding pain in his head, the fever, the swelling of eyes and tongue, the taste of dranath—all were the same. But as he struggled out of the murky darkness of illness and drugs, he felt the fire in his right shoulder and smelled the acrid medicine from dressings there. The same stench had permeated the room where his father had died. Rohan faced the memory and the possibility that he, too, might be dying. Light-headed, he groped to feel the extent of the injury. His wrists were caught in a firm grip and a voice he did not recognize told him to be still.
Panic lurched through his weakened body. Thick of tongue and wits, he was trapped within muscles that would not respond. “Sioned—” he tried to say.
“Hush. Sleep now, and you’ll soon be better.”
Something about the voice pinched at his memory, and he fought the hands that grasped his own. “Sioned!”
“You must sleep now.”
Heavy wine laced with dranath and something else was poured down him, and he gagged. Another voice, a masculine one, swore. A second pair of hands held his face and more wine went down him. A fit of coughing nearly took the top of his head off, and contractions of muscles knotted his belly and shoulders and back.
“Lie down,” the man ordered, and as the drugged wine seeped through him he had no choice but to obey. “I agreed to bring him here, not to nurse him,” the man went on irritably.
“Shut up,” the woman said, sounding slightly bored. “If you’d been more careful in the first place—”
“You’ll note he calls out for her,” the man jeered. “Did you expect him to call for you? I didn’t kick him that hard in the head.”
“Your jibes are as predictable as your rotten timing,” the woman responded acidly.
“He should be all right by tomorrow. The fever’s close to breaking.”
“You don’t understand the risk.”
“All you need is for him to be capable. I should think you wouldn’t want him to be coherent.”
“Your delicacy of phrasing also astounds me.”
Rohan almost had it, almost knew where he had heard that voice before. Yet even as he fumbled for the memory, the drugs swirled up, and he slept.
Sioned flexed her fingers inside dragonhide riding gloves, waiting in the coolness of the manor porch for her horse to be brought around. Aware of the crowd in Lord Baisal’s courtyard and their furtive glances at her, she neither paced nor fidgeted. A princess’ icy calm was a useful and strangely comforting refuge; by refusing to show emotions, she could also refuse to feel them.
Her brother approached as her gray stallion was led from the stables, and Sioned bit back impatience at the confrontation imminent in his eyes. She had no time.
“You’re still determined to do this crazy thing,” he accused, taking the stallion’s reins from the groom. “At least take a more substantial guard with you! You can’t know what’s out there—or whom.”
“Which is why my guard is so small, and my rather distinctive hair hidden, and my royal trappings gone,” she countered. “Goddess! A princess riding disguised through her own lands!” She grabbed the reins from him and swung up onto the gray’s back, wishing she could have left her head bare to the slight breeze. The sun was only two fingers up in the sky, and already it was hot. Six years of living in the Desert had not entirely accustomed her to its brutal climate, and this was only late spring. By summer she would be limp with exhaustion.
“I wish you’d wait until Lord Chaynal arrives,” Davvi said.
“You know what to tell him when he does.” She glanced around for Ostvel. “I know what I’m doing.”
“I doubt it. Be careful, Sioned. For Goddess’ sake, please be careful.”
“For my husband’s sake.” Then, leaning down to pat his shoulder, she said more gently, “Don’t worry so much.”
He snorted his opinion of this caution. “Ostvel’s on my side in this, you know. We had a long talk last night.”
“I expected nothing less from either of you. He’ll be your eyes watching over me, I’m sure.” She spied Ostvel through the milling horses and troops and servants, and said, “I must go. Stay safe, Davvi.”
Turning her mount, she rode to the gates where Ostvel and two men-at-arms waited for her. But she was waylaid by Lord Baisal, who came running from the encampment outside the walls, where Davvi’s men and those gathered overnight from the outer farms were established. In a few days the lower pastures and hills would be covered in tents, and Chay would make efficient sense of the chaos. But Sioned could not stay to see the armed power she commanded.
“My lady,” Lord Baisal pleaded. “I beg you not to leave so soon! What am I to do before Lord Chaynal arrives?”
“Feed the men, equip the horses, and prepare yourself for war. If you have any spare moments, you might begin the design of your new keep. Farewell, my lord.”
She left him standing slack-jawed and staring, his expression a comic mixture of apprehension and delight. Ostvel, riding at her side, cast her a sidelong glance.
“He’ll hold you to that, you know.”
“If he manages to keep his wits and do what’s needed, he’ll have earned his stone castle.”
They rode through the confused camp outside the manor walls, north along the Faolain. Sioned knew how insane her actions must seem to everyone, and was determined to implement her plan before Chay and Tobin could arrive with new objections. Not that anything they might propose could sway her. There was no one else to do what she knew she must, and it was something of a relief that her personal desires coincided with her duty as wife and princess.
Lord Eltanin’s forces were locked into the defense of Tiglath; there would be no help for Rohan there. With Roelstra in the south, Chay could not lead an assault against Feruche. The castle was not susceptible to attack in any case, perched as it was on the cliffs with only two approaches, both well-guarded in peace and sure to be even more strictly watched in war. Rohan’s only hope was Sioned, his Sunrunner princess. She wondered if Ianthe thought her incapable of violating her oath not to kill. She hoped so; it would make things easier when the killing time came.
Darkness blew at him, alternately warm and chill on the sweat that drenched his body. Eyes wide, heart racing, he shook his head and tried to find anchor in the reality of his own flesh. But the wind hit him again and the darkness billowed, and the dragons reached for him with acid claws.
He scrambled into a huddle against the cavern wall, hard stones at his back, and stared in horror at the scenes around him. Dragons fighting, mating, killing; jaws dripping blood and eyes flaring like exploding jewels; bodies weaving, thrusting, wings beating, tails lashing. The huge eggs cracked open, split with a terrible sound to reveal furious hatchlings who tore at each other tooth and talon, fire spewing from their throats to sear bright and hot as sunlight through the swirling darkness of the cave.
He cried out as dragonfire charred the skin of his face and arms, the stench of burning skin overpowering even the stink of dragon blood and dragon mating. They had not yet seen him, and he tried to melt into the cavern wall. They fought on, rutted on, exhaled fire and butchered each other, driven by the need to mate and the need to survive. The wind hissed like shaken silk through the cave and he cringed back, sweat and blood drying cold and then springing up hot and salty on his blackened skin. Violence swept around him and he shook with terror that those jewel eyes would find him, those bloody claws rip the remaining flesh from his bones. A rampaging sire loomed up over him, brought by a gust of wind, and he screamed, choking on a gush of bitter fluid in his throat that tasted
of dranath.
“Rohan—!”
He reached for her blindly, clung shaking to her cool body. “Sioned—”
“Hush, darling, it’s all right now. I’m here.” There was a slick metallic sound like a sword being unsheathed, and he squeezed his dazzled eyes shut as sunlight streamed into the cave. Sioned, his Sunrunner princess, bringing with her the sun. “We’re safe, love.”
He could no longer smell the dragons or his own oozing blood, nor feel the fiery breath on his skin. The soft breeze touching him now was scented with starbriar, tender as her caresses on his back and nape. He shuddered, turning his face to her shoulder. He had forgotten what dranath could do to the mind.
There had been no cave, no dragons, no fire. Only the drug and his fever, the hold of both broken now. He rested against Sioned, ashamed of his panic. She curled up beside him on the bed and whispered gentle things until he slept.
Hard riding through the day and night brought Sioned to Stronghold just before noon. She wanted nothing more than to collapse, but kept herself alert, pacing the main courtyard where the stones’ heat radiated up like a searing fountain. When the sun was at its highest she felt the tentative touch of his colors, gathered in the strands of light, and heard him speak.
Goddess blessing, my lady. We have reached Tiglath and warned Lord Eltanin. As yet there is no attack, but the signs of it rise with the sand on the horizon. Walvis plans and prepares, and we wait for your orders.
Sioned nodded, pleased. Goddess blessing, Sunrunner. Continue preparing for war, as is being done in the south where Roelstra’s armies are camped across the Faolain. There will be no help. You must do all on your own. Tell Walvis he is not to attempt an attack on Feruche. He must defend Tiglath. The prince will soon be freed, I promise. Now open yourself to me, Kleve, and I will show you Princess Tobin’s colors. Send to her from now on. She is not faradhi-trained, and will not be able to reply to you, but give her any information you would give to me.
My lady—what of you? What will you do?
I don’t matter. Watch now, and feel, so you’ll be able to find her on the sunlight.
She concentrated on relaying the bright and lovely pattern that was Tobin to the faraway Sunrunner. When she was sure he could recognize and contact the princess, she unraveled their connecting ribbons of light before he could ask further questions.
“I trust you’re finished, and can come in out of this glare,” Ostvel, said.
She glanced at him, surprised by his presence. “Yes. Walvis will know soon that help cannot come from the south. He’ll have to lead the defense of Tiglath himself.” She looked around the courtyard, a chaos of people and noise and brightness that suddenly dizzied her. “Ostvel—take me inside before I fall over,” she breathed.
He was careful to make it appear as if his hand at her elbow was only a courtesy offered a princess, for it would not do for her to seem weak. The steps were endless, but at last she was in her chambers, sinking into a soft chair by the windows. Ostvel brought her water and a wet cloth as she unwound the heavy scarf from her head and let her hair fall free.
“Seventeen winters old,” she whispered. “Walvis is too young to lead an army, Ostvel. Goddess help me, what am I doing to him.”
“Nothing he wouldn’t be insulted if you hadn’t asked him to do. Here, let me get your boots.”
“I have women to serve me,” she protested.
“But none you’d want to see you in this condition,” he said unanswerably. He mopped her face and neck with the damp cloth, then helped her with the hot dragonhide boots. “Now, you’re going to rest until sunset.”
“If I do, will you send Maeta up to me then?”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want the guards commander for?”
“I’m responsible for Stronghold’s defenses,” she said, ready with the diversionary answer.
“No,” he corrected. “I am. But I’ll send her up at sunset, and not an instant before.”
When he was gone she did not go into the next chamber to rest, unwilling even to look at the bed she shared with Rohan. Instead she stretched out in a lounge chair that had been a gift from Princess Milar, closed her eyes, and systematically relaxed her body from toes to fingertips. But she did not really rest. She planned her attack on Feruche.
When Maeta arrived, Sioned was ready. The commander had inherited her position from her mother, the redoubtable Myrdal, who still held considerable sway over the troops even in her retirement. Myrdal might or might not have been Prince Zehava’s half-sister; the respect accorded her and her daughter was due not so much to their possible kinship with their rulers, but to their own reputations as warriors. Sioned offered Maeta a comfortable seat and refreshment, wondering how much the woman knew of what was happening.
Everything, it seemed. Her first words were, “With the Merida on one front and the High Prince on the other, we’ll have much to do in freeing Rohan.”
Relieved that she would not have to make long explanations, Sioned told her, “I see Ostvel and the men have been talking. Good. Maeta, I need the strongest, fastest horse in the stables, a waterskin and food, and absolute secrecy. And I need them all tonight.”
Maeta bit into a marsh apple, chewed, swallowed, and replied, “There’s a gate near the grotto you can use. It lets out into the cliffs, with room enough for a single rider to pass safely and quietly.”
Sioned blinked. “Rohan never told me about—”
“That’s because he doesn’t know. One day my mother and I will have to show you all Zehava’s improvements. Milar wasn’t the only one to leave her mark on Stronghold.”
Sioned marveled at the effort and secrecy it had taken to carve such a path from the keep, but put nothing beyond the old prince. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“As for the timing—before dawn. We’ll need deep sleep and no one stirring early.”
“I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”
Maeta nodded. “My lady, I’ve been thinking. We have the chance for action against the Merida, and not just at Tiglath.”
“Yes?” Sioned asked, bewildered but intrigued.
“Empty Stronghold of all but the best archers, and send everyone else to Remagev by night. The Merida will think them off to Feruche or down south with Lord Chaynal.” She grinned as if she was a dragon spotting easy prey. “We’ll leave ourselves vulnerable to attack. They won’t be able to resist.”
Sioned laughed. “They’ll split up to take advantage, and we’ll pick them off from the cliffs! And when they pause to regroup, we’ll hit them from the east with the troops sent to Remagev!”
“Very good, my lady,” Maeta approved. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet. Shall I order it, then?”
“Please! Present the plan to Ostvel tomorrow. I know he’ll like it.” She thought with satisfaction that this scheme would also help Walvis and Eltanin—and keep Ostvel too busy to come after her. Then something occurred to her. “Maeta, you’ve made no objection to my leaving.”
“You’re sovereign lady here, and may do as you please when it pleases you to do it.” The black eyes danced as the pious words were spoken, and Sioned knew that she and Maeta understood each other perfectly. “And no one is counting on a faradhi,” Maeta added.
“Rohan must.”
“But Ianthe is not. That’s why I’m letting you do this thing that will have Ostvel ready to skin me alive. I know Sunrunners—and I know you, my lady.” She paused, then smiled again. “I also know a little something about Feruche.”
Sioned stared, then nodded slowly. “I see.”
All at once the outer door was flung open and Riyan hurtled through to bury his face against Sioned’s shoulder. She hugged him close, trying to make sense of his babbled words, and Maeta unobtrusively departed before Ostvel could catch up with his offspring and ask questions Maeta did not want to answer.
“Here now, a little slower!” Sioned held Riyan on her knees and looked into his eyes that were so much like Ca
migwen’s that it hurt sometimes to see them. She brushed the soft hair from his forehead, wishing her friend was here now. Cami would understand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Tilal’s home!” He bounded off her knees and raced from the room, returning a few moments later, dragging Tilal by the hand. “Hurry, hurry,” Riyan urged.
The squire looked as exhausted as Sioned felt. She rose, embraced him tenderly, then stood back to inspect him. A young man looked out of his eyes, not a boy. Sioned drew him over to a chair, bade him sit, and gestured Riyan to quiet.
At first Tilal spoke in measured sentences that sounded as if he’d rehearsed them all the way from Skybowl. He was a soldier giving a report, not a boy made fearful and furious by what he’d seen. Yet as he talked on, his sunburned cheeks flushed a deeper red and his green eyes began to flash, and the words tumbled over each other.
“—and we got back to Skybowl and I made a map just as Feylin told me to do.” He pulled a creased bit of parchment from his filthy tunic. “It’s of the castle, as much as I saw of it. It’s a horrible place, my lady, you can feel her all over it! Feylin told me to draw this so you’d know, where things are.” He handed it over and she unfolded it, seeing instantly that her original idea would not work. Tilal saw her frown, and went on, “With enough troops—you’re a Sunrunner and we could—”
“The only thing you’re going to do is take a bath and get some sleep,” Ostvel said from the doorway. All three glanced around, startled that he had been there all this time.
“But Papa, I haven’t heard everything yet!” Riyan protested.
“There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow. It’s time for boys to be asleep.”
Tilal’s whole body went rigid. Sioned shook her head fractionally at Ostvel in warning and said, “There’s more I must hear, and more I must tell him. Riyan, you may ask your questions tomorrow. Go with your father now, please.”