by Melanie Rawn
Visian’s fingertips on his arm alerted him. Several moments later he heard it, too: the dull clop of hoofbeats, discernible even through the groaning sound of the Harps. No conversation, no jingle of bridles. The Vellant’im were being cautious, or perhaps they were intimidated by the bizarre music. Thinking that over, Pol decided not; the only thing that seemed to affect these savages was the sight of a dragon. He considered conjuring one from the mouth of the cave on the opposite wall. No. This battle he would fight with the strength of his hands, not the power of his mind. Not that he’d had much luck with the latter, he thought bitterly.
He wondered all at once why he hadn’t used that power to go Sunrunning, to give Kazander the exact location and number of the enemy. Surely he could have done that much. Why hadn’t he thought of it?
Simple enough. He’d failed. Over and over again, the combined strengths of faradhi and diarmadhi blood had proved impotent. At Radzyn, at Remagev, at Stronghold—the memory of Azhdeen showing him Fire bleeding down the castle walls made him cringe.
Visian was looking at him, dark eyes worried. Pol smoothed his expression. The youth gestured to the gully below. The enemy was within reach, and in the next instant the music of wind through cactus spines was nearly drowned by the screams of dying men.
Pol dug his heels into his stallion’s ribs and ducked his head as he burst from beneath the balancing stone. His sword—Rohan’s sword—was in his hand without his having to think about it. With the memory of Stronghold and his father’s lifeless body and his mother’s lightless eyes before him, he blanked all portions of his brain that thought beyond the next sword stroke and all portions of his heart that felt anything but rage.
And as he began to kill, he did indeed begin to laugh.
• • •
In Firon, the sun was no match for snow clouds that had blown in overnight. The only difference between dawn and noon was a shift in the gray pallor surrounding the castle at Balarat, and it took a glance at the water clock to tell that it was nearing dusk. Even the most powerful Sunrunner would have been helpless in such gloom. But Firon’s court Sunrunner was dead, and for all the contact with the world beyond its walls, Balarat might as well have been built on one of the three moons.
Even had there been news, Prince Tirel would not have been privy to it. Since the Sunrunner Arpali’s death, he had been confined to his chambers, ostensibly to keep him from contracting the illness that had supposedly killed her. His constant companion and only servant was his father’s squire, Idalian. For a willful seven-year-old, heir to the princedom and accustomed to being treated as such, being isolated and ignored was intolerable. But worse was happening, and he knew it.
His uncle, Lord Yarin, was availing himself of opportunities opened by the absence of Tirel’s parents in Princemarch. That the nobles and ministers had not rescued Tirel from what amounted to imprisonment scared him. Though Idalian said that they must think the threat of disease a real one, Tirel believed they were either aiding Yarin or too frightened of him to object.
Idalian—whose home at Faolain Riverport the Vellant’im had destroyed the first day of the war—did not insult Tirel by patronizing him. They spent their days in quiet study and games, alert to the presence of Yarin’s servants outside. But at night, when the squire judged it safe, he discussed matters with the boy. Their talks produced no solutions but at least helped them both clarify what was happening, what might be happening, and why.
That day, however, there was nothing Idalian could say to calm the fretful child. Denied exercise and fresh air, the natural energy of a healthy young boy had turned in on itself. A rough-and-tumble game of tag amid the furniture hadn’t tired him, only made him more restless. He wouldn’t settle to his books, begging Idalian to talk to him instead. So the squire decided to occupy Tirel’s mind with a history lesson.
“You have to know what happened in the past,” he said, trying to match his voice to his memories of his own tutor at her most pedantic. “The truth, that is, not what gets prettied up for the scrolls. Old Prince Ajit had half a dozen wives but no heirs—”
“I know that,” Tirel said impatiently. “The High Prince gave Firon to Papa because he was the closest heir with Fironese royal blood. But what does that have to do with Uncle Yarin?”
“I’ll get to that.”
“Do it faster,” Tirel demanded. He flopped down across his bed, unsettling the chessboard and pieces spread out for the benefit of anyone who might open the door.
“Ajit never left Balarat except to attend Riall’im. Everybody did pretty much as they liked for all the years he ruled. He wasn’t allied with anybody, the way Firon’s a close ally of the High Prince now. As for your uncle . . . back in Ajit’s day, Yarin was a young man and he always did as he liked. When Ajit got really old, Yarin of Snowcoves ruled in all but name. When the old prince died, he felt he should’ve had the name as well.”
“Oh.” The child’s voice was very small. “He must hate my papa.”
“Prince Laric has what Lord Yarin wants,” Idalian replied with a shrug.
Tirel suddenly turned ashen. “Idalian, will he do to me what he did to our Sunrunner? Will he pretend I got sick and—”
“Absolutely not,” he answered firmly. “You took care of that yourself, by asking him if he was going to isolate his own son for protection. And Natham’s been in and out of here for days now—”
“I like him better when he’s out.”
“So do I, my prince.” Idalian grinned. “But you see, if something happened to us he’d have some fast explaining to do about why it was just us and not Natham, too. So we’re both safe.”
For now, he did not add aloud. Yarin had made Tirel sign a document giving him complete power to rule until Prince Laric returned—a worthless piece of parchment, as it happened, for no one under the age of ten could lawfully sign anything. Not that it meant anything in immediate terms for the prisoners.
Idalian thought it odd that Yarin had insisted on the signature. But there were reasons why it might become important from his point of view. The immediate result was power he, the nobles, and the ministers considered legal. Even if some or all of them knew that the signature of a seven-year-old was invalid, they could always claim an honest mistake made in ignorance.
But that was assuming Laric could retake his princedom, and Idalian knew that Yarin assumed nothing of the kind. The document was simply his way of adding legitimacy to his claim to Firon. And he would formalize that claim when he decided it was time to kill the young prince.
This thought chilled Idalian more than the snow outside. Unused to scheming enemies, a near-stranger to introspection, he must try to think as Yarin would, for the sake of the boy whose only protection he was.
Idalian had no illusions that he could rally influential persons to the boy and foil the Lord of Snowcoves before Laric’s return from Princemarch. He kept up the fiction of believing that everyone thought them truly in danger of illness, but he knew as well as Tirel did that it truly was fiction.
All things came down to one: for Yarin to succeed, Tirel must die.
But surely, Idalian thought, surely Yarin knew that the High Prince would never accept him as ruler of Firon. If Yarin defied him, Rohan could decree the princedom outcast. Cessation of trade would be a terrible hardship for Firon, which could not feed itself on its two major attributes—crystal and snow.
But if Rohan lost this war—
He shook himself mentally. He would not think about defeat. Tirel was alive. It had not occurred to the boy yet—and Idalian didn’t mention it—that Yarin would keep him that way at least a little while longer, until he’d worked out a plausible method for killing him.
Idalian himself was another matter. But he didn’t mention that, either.
“We’re safe,” he repeated.
Tirel nodded, content for now. Waving a hand at the chessboard, he asked, “One more game?”
The squire gave a sigh. Nineteen years old, profici
ent at arms, with a war going on out in the great world—and here he was, sitting across a chessboard from a seven-year-old. But Idalian knew bleakly that there was no one else to care about the fate of a helpless little boy.
The chess set was a beautifully crafted one. Tirel’s uncle Ludhil had sent it last New Year from Dorval, and the boy mostly played the pieces in elaborate battles across bunched bedsheets. Though chess was no game for a fretful child, Idalian had been teaching him for something to do. A reluctant pupil at first—it was much more fun to fly the dragons at enemy knights and imagine Sunrunners weaving spells around opposing castles—Tirel had applied himself after his cousin Natham demonstrated considerable proficiency for a ten-year-old.
Idalian smoothed the quilt flat and arranged the enameled copper pieces: twenty-three for each side in three rows on a nine-squares-by-nine board. Tirel dutifully recited the placement.
“Back row is dragon-knight-knight-Sunrunner each side, High Prince in the middle. Second row is castles at each end and squires between, except the Sunrunners don’t have anybody ahead of them so they’re free to work.” Tirel fingered one of the dragons. It was a fierce little creature with arching wings, talons dug into the riverstone that formed the piece’s base. “Idalian, why do the dragons stand behind the castles?”
“Because they need someplace to perch. Front row?”
“All guards except for spaces in front of the Sunrunners. But I think they need protection, too, these days. Arpali did. . . .”
Idalian bit his lip at renewed mention of the dead faradhi. When the door was flung open, even the usually unwelcome entrance of Yarin’s son and heir was a relief.
“Are you still playing that silly old game?” Natham scoffed, making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed without a by-your-leave. “My papa’s new friend taught me the real way to play chess.”
“Perhaps you’d like to teach us,” Idalian suggested, gritting his teeth, but ready for any distraction.
“I don’t think so.” Natham smiled. He had a round, pretty face reminiscent of his aunt Lisiel, and his mother Vallaina’s thick-lashed black eyes. Another six or eight winters, and those eyes would earn him grand success with the ladies—if Tirel let him live that long. The cousins had come to loathe each other during the long days of isolation.
“Why not?” the young prince challenged now. “I can learn anything you can!”
“Could not.”
“Could so! And beat you at it, too!”
“You could try!”
Idalian held his breath, ready to separate the boys if it came to physical blows. But Tirel then proved himself a master strategist, even at his tender age, by shrugging carelessly.
“If you’re scared that I’ll learn better than you and win too fast, then—”
“Scared of you?” Natham snorted and plucked all the faradhi pieces from the board. “This is how you play real chess—without these stupid Sunrunners messing things up!”
Idalian didn’t dare ask what replaced them.
Natham grabbed up the central figure from Tirel’s side of the board. “And you can’t play with a High Prince from now on because Rohan is dead!”
“No!” Idalian snarled.
Instantly the boy dropped all the pieces onto the quilt and jumped to his feet. “Don’t tell!” he demanded in a voice that tried to threaten even as it shook. “You can’t tell I said that!”
Tearing his gaze from the gutted board, Idalian picked up two of the discarded pieces: Tirel’s High Prince and a Sunrunner wearing a green dress.
“Swear you won’t say anything!” Natham ordered. “Or I’ll—”
Glancing up, Idalian asked quietly, “And who is there for us to tell, who doesn’t already know it?”
Natham flushed crimson all over his plump face. “Just—just don’t say you heard from me, that’s all.” He fled.
“Idalian. . . .”
“Hush up!” he hissed, and Tirel cringed.
“But what are we going to—”
“I said to hush!” Rising, he went into his own chamber next to the prince’s, and stood at the windows staring blindly at the snow.
It wasn’t until that sleepless midnight that he wondered how, lacking a Sunrunner, Yarin could know that Rohan was dead.
• • •
It was midnight, and the ritual was over. Rialt choked down some wine, turning his face from the plate of food his wife brought him in the banqueting hall. Mevita hesitated, as if about to coax him to eat, but then thought better of it and set the plate aside.
“I know you want to leave,” she murmured, her eyes warning him of the watchers all around them in the crowd. “But we can’t. We must stay and listen.”
He nodded numbly. Ever since Chiana had spoken words that meant Rohan was dead, he had been struggling to comprehend them. There was no Sunrunner to consult for confirmation or denial. He wanted to believe it was all a trick, that Chiana had lied for reasons of her own. But he could think of no advantage to be gained by it. Indeed, news that the High Prince was dead had created unease in most of those around him now. They spoke in low, nervous voices, all the nobles and important merchants who had been invited to participate in the ritual. He sent Mevita to circulate among them and hear what they were saying.
Halian, as was his princely duty, had spoken before the lighting of the candles. He was honestly sorry that Rohan was dead. Voice breaking once or twice, he told his personal memories—hunting, hawking, riding the green richness of Meadowlord to try out new horses. He said not a word about Rohan as a prince, only as a man.
Pol’s name was not mentioned once.
It was Pol who occupied Rialt’s thoughts as he exchanged his empty wine cup for a full one. Pol was his friend as well as his prince—and now the new High Prince, although formal acknowledgment of that would have to wait until all the princes could be assembled to confirm him. And that would have to wait until after the war. Rialt suspected Chiana had ordered Halian not to speak of Pol because any reference to him was tacit admission of his new status. To admit was to acknowledge; to acknowledge was to acquiesce. And that would not suit her plans for Rinhoel.
This subject was exercising the tongues of Halian’s three illegitimate daughters, who stood nearby with pages to hold their plates for them. Rialt never could get their names straight—probably, as Mevita had pointed out, because he didn’t want to. They all looked alike anyway: being very close in age and all dark-haired, brown-eyed, and snub-nosed like their father. The only way to distinguish them was that the eldest and youngest chattered constantly and the middle one never had a word to say for herself.
The talkative pair were discussing quite openly their half-brother’s nearness to the throne of Princemarch, now that Pol and the two little princesses might be killed at any instant.
“Rinhoel’s claim is stronger than Daniv’s. Chiana was only six when Rohan forced her to sign the parchment that disinherited her.”
“Daniv’s mother was eleven—of legal age. So if Pol dies. . . .” She pursed her lips. “How much of a fight would Prince Miyon put up? Against Rinhoel’s marrying Jihan or Rislyn, I mean.”
Rialt struggled against nausea and turned his back.
“Oh, not much. Although he’ll extract a stiff price for the marriage.” She giggled. “Half the Desert!”
“Not unless Maarken and his son and daughter and all of Andry’s children die, too. They’re the next heirs to the Desert.”
“Well, Rinhoel can bother about it once he’s at Dragon’s Rest.”
“And Chiana is finally at Castle Crag! She’ll never leave it until her last breath and we’ll be rid of her at last.”
“I wonder which of Pol’s daughters Rinhoel will Choose. They’re both said to be pale, puny little things.”
The third sister spoke up for the first time. “I can just imagine the ways he’ll use to decide between them!”
The trio laughed aloud at this, drawing a few startled glances.
&nbs
p; “My dear!” her sister chided gaily. “When he’s High Prince, he can do as he pleases—so why not take both?”
Rialt swung around on his heel, unable to stand any more. “The day he touches either of them, I’ll—”
“Here you are, my lord!” exclaimed Mevita, grabbing his arm. “Come and tell Princess Palila about—”
“Leave me be!” He took her off, intent on the sisters, and took a menacing step forward. Mevita’s hand shackled his wrist.
“My lord!” she said sharply.
He ignored his wife. “You miserable, foul-minded bitches—”
“Did you hear that?”
“How dare you insult us!”
“And he threatened our brother Prince Rinhoel. We all heard him!”
Mevita hung onto him with all her strength. Rialt tore out of her grasp and advanced on Halian’s daughters. People were staring now, some of them shocked and some of them delighted by the excitement. He clamped his fingers around a skinny, silk-clad shoulder.
“Papa!” she squealed in honest alarm.
“Yes, someone fetch Prince Halian,” Rialt snarled. “You can tell him your treason with your own lips!”
“My lord—no!” Mevita pleaded. “Think!”
“Shut up!” he ordered, but he released the woman. “It sickens me even to touch you.”
“You assaulted me! Papa! Papa, help!”
Mevita had him by the arm again, trying to draw him away. “Excuse my husband, my lady, it’s his grief talking, and the wine—”
It infuriated him to hear her grovel to them. But she dug her nails into his hand and a measure of sanity returned.
“What’s all this?” Halian asked.