by Melanie Rawn
Meath smiled at him. “Isriam. Everything ready for the trip to Chaldona? What brings you here—the peace and quiet?”
“No, I came to ask you something.” He drew a breath. “Does it seem to you—it’s come to my—I mean, I’ve noticed—I’m worried about the High Princess,” he blurted at last.
The big Sunrunner gave a tiny sigh. “She’s better. She isn’t keeping to her rooms as much anymore—” he broke off as Isriam shook his head. “What is it?”
“Just now, in the kitchens—if Princess Rislyn hadn’t asked her to read them a story, she would’ve gone back up with another pitcher of wine. One of the maids says she drinks constantly and eats almost nothing.”
Meath leaned back against the cool green-veined marble of the bench. “I know,” he said softly.
“Somebody has to do something. I’m afraid she’s going to kill herself.”
“If she wanted to die, she would,” was the flat reply. “She’s a Sunrunner. She knows how.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
“I understand your worry, Isriam. You’ve done your duty by telling me—”
“To Hells with my duty!”
The faradhi eyed him musingly. “Forgive me. It was a foolish thing to say. I’ll do what I can, Isriam. I promise.”
And with that the young man had to be content.
Meath watched him go, thinking that although he had never understood how they did it, Rohan and Sioned both evoked emotions that went far beyond mere duty. Those who knew and served them had faith in them as rulers, and love for them as people. Perhaps it happened because they earned loyalty that anyone else would simply have commanded or taken for granted.
But Sioned was taking advantage of that loyalty, and hurting those who loved her. Anger he had not allowed Isriam to see began to roil in him. Yesterday Hollis had asked him to please discourage Sioned from offering to help with the wounded. In her present state, she was as likely to give a cleansing tincture as a sleeping draught. This morning Riyan had asked him to please discourage Sioned from offering to help exercise the horses. In her present state, she was likely to fall off.
Now Isriam.
“Stay with her,” Rohan had said. Meath would, until his last breath—but Sioned wasn’t making it easy. He tried to tell himself that it was a good sign, her willingness to help again. She was venturing out of her emotional exile, attempting to make herself useful. He knew she needed something to do. He sympathized—but he wasn’t about to let her do it drunk.
Sioned had made fools of the clever all her life, out-thought and out-fought every enemy, guided whole princedoms—
—had done it sober.
He didn’t relish the idea of confronting her. He suspected Pol had already done so, without perceptible success. Rohan would have known what to say, what to do, Meath told himself in despair. Rohan would have been appalled to know he was the cause of this.
Maybe that was how to do it. But even the prospect of mentioning Rohan’s name around her was enough to make him queasy.
Perhaps when Pol got back from killing Merida he could talk some sanity into her. If not . . . Meath would have to try it himself.
But he knew that no one, no one, made Sioned’s decisions but Sioned.
• • •
Princess Naydra kept to her room the whole of the day, alternating between disbelief and a strange new sensation of power. The seemingly endless tolling of It cannot be true—It must be true gradually rang a change in her mind to I’m not—I am. And finally, toward dusk: I don’t want—I do want.
At sunset, a servant crept into her chamber with a tray of food. “My lady? Please, you should eat something.”
“Take it away, I’m not hungry,” Naydra said.
“But, my lady—”
“I said leave me!” she snapped. “Are you deaf?”
“No, my lady. I—”
“Then what’s wrong with you? I gave you an order. Follow it!”
Branig slid smoothly into the anteroom, took the tray, and said, “Perhaps her grace will feel more like eating a little later. You can go back to the kitchens now.”
The servant scurried away. Branig elbowed the door shut and put the food on a table, regarding her speculatively. “You’ve thought it over,” he said.
“Yes,” Naydra replied, and heard more than simple affirmation in her voice. She realized then that It must be true/I am/I want had won the battle of belief; more, for the first time in her life she had access to power that would allow her to do something about her fate. Branig must have seen it in her eyes, for a fleeting smile touched his lips.
“I’ll give you all the help I can, Diarmadh’reia.”
She trusted him not at all. But whatever he wanted from her—and she was sure it was different from what he said he wanted—she could learn nothing by rejecting his offer of action.
“If anything is to be done, it must be done tonight. Now.” She was unable to believe the words had left her lips. But despite the strangeness of the sounds to her ears, her mind and body settled into this new strength with surprising ease. “Prince Tilal and Lord Ostvel need to be told certain things.”
“Tell me, and I will go to them.”
Was that what he wanted? To know what she knew, and tell the Vellant’im? “Impossible. They’ve never met you. I must go myself.” When he frowned, she dismissed further objections with a shake of her head. “I need a horse. Not one of those fire-eating Radzyn monsters, mind you, I’d fall off. Can you get me outside the walls with no one the wiser?”
“Horses will be waiting for both of us. How we get to them is my responsibility.” Branig took a small pouch from his pocket and reached for the wine pitcher on the tray. As he poured wine into a cup and sifted some sort of dried herb into the liquid, he went on, “Everyone already thinks you indisposed. Call your maid. Tell her you’re going to bed. I’ll be back before moonrise.”
“Why not after? The light will give you the chance to see—” She broke off as another little smile touched his mouth. Used to Sunrunners, she’d forgotten that diarmadh’im did not need the moons.
“The moonlight will let others see, as well,” he said. “And what they will see is us.”
“That won’t matter, once we’re out of Swalekeep.” She started for her bedchamber, then turned. “In which direction did Cluthine ride?”
Branig frowned. “West.”
“Then we’ll go south and turn west after a few measures.”
“But that will lead us directly into the Vellanti lines!”
A smile curved her lips, an unfamiliar smile that nevertheless felt quite natural. “Don’t worry, Branig. Meet me at moonrise near the library stairs.”
She left him in the anteroom and hurried to the standing wardrobe to pick through her scant store of clothing, tossing her selections over her shoulder onto the rug. The trousers, woolen shirt, and knee-length cloak had last been worn on the journey from Waes. The garments were clean now, and mended, and the boots borrowed from one of Rialt’s household guard gleamed with polish. Naydra changed as quickly as she could, cursing her aging bones. Never physically robust, long days in the saddle escaping Waes had left her sixty-four-winter-old frame in a state of near collapse. But her muscles had toughened, and if the horse Branig gave her was soft-mouthed, she might just make it through without having to soak in a hot bath for three days afterward.
When she returned to the other room, Branig had vanished. So too the wine he’d poured. Naydra sat and forced herself to eat a few bites of dinner, thinking about what she would be doing in the next little while. To her surprise, the spoon clattered against the empty bowl in no time at all.
How odd that having power and purpose made one so hungry.
There was a guard down the hallway that led to Rinhoel’s chambers. Naydra called her over and told her to take the tray downstairs, and while she was at it to find her maid. “This horrible climate of yours has given me a chill,” she said petulantly. “I do
n’t wish to be disturbed until noon tomorrow. Not by anyone for anything. Is that clear?”
“Yes, my lady,” the woman replied, respectfully enough—this was Princess Chiana’s half-sister, after all—but with an undertone of resentment at being commanded to play the lackey. As she started down the corridor, Naydra emphatically slammed the door shut. After counting to twenty, she opened it again, glanced around, and tiptoed across the thick rugs to Rinhoel’s rooms.
Everyone was at dinner in the hall. Naydra knew exactly where to find what she sought, and expected to whisk in and out before anyone saw her. The heavy oak doors opened to her—there was no need to lock up when there was always a guard on duty, the one Naydra had sent off on an errand—and she entered the reception room. Large, masculine furniture was strewn across an enormous Cunaxan carpet patterned in shades of green and blue and crimson. And there, between a pair of garnet velvet chairs, on the table beside a silver bowl of candied fruits, was—
Nothing.
Naydra stared at the table, stricken. All at once a soft crash near the fireplace whirled her around. Tangled in a chair, its pillows, and her own skirts was a small, struggling figure. Naydra swallowed her heart and quickly righted first the chair and then Princess Palila.
“What in the Name of the Goddess are you doing here?” she scolded, guilt and surprise sharpening her voice. The girl cringed back, terrified. “We gave each other quite a start, didn’t we? I’m sorry, Palila. Are you hurt?”
“N-no, my lady—I was just—I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t. But I don’t understand why you’re in your brother’s rooms,” she said, hoping the same question would not be asked of her.
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
Naydra smiled reassurance. “Oh, I think we know each other well enough so that you can use my name, or call me your aunt, whichever pleases you. Are you looking for something? So am I. Perhaps we can help each other.”
Palila fidgeted and clenched her fists. Then she delved into a pocket. “I—I already found—but it’s not for me, my lady—I mean, Aunt Naydra,” she amended shyly. “It’s for Polev. He’s in my room, crying. Nobody knows where his parents are and he’s upset, and—”
Naydra’s gaze caught on the gold in the small palm.
“He’s always talking about—I thought he might like to play with it. I was going to put it back later. He’s crying,” she repeated.
She reached for the token, felt it cool and sharp in her hand. “It was kind of you to think of a way to cheer him.”
“You won’t tell?”
“Of course not. Why should I?”
Palila smiled and started for the door. Naydra glanced around swiftly. Everything was as it had been, the overturned chair and pillows back in place. Closing her hand around the gold dragon, she followed the girl into the hall.
“Aunt Naydra, do you know where Lord Rialt and Lady Mevita are?”
“No, my dear,” she replied, and it was only partly a lie. She had no idea where prisoners were kept in Swalekeep. Always assuming that Branig had not lied about that.
Polev held forth from the middle of Palila’s bedchamber floor. Tears ceased instantly when he was presented with the dragon. Naydra kept one eye nervously on the windows for the first glimmer of the moons. But Polev, long since worn out by sobs, quickly began to droop over his prize. She tucked him into the quilt, gently retrieving the dragon from a possessive fist grown lax with sleep.
When Naydra whispered, “Won’t someone wonder where he is?” Palila shook her head.
“The servants brought him to me when his crying kept everybody else from going to sleep. He’ll be all right here, Aunt Naydra. Will you keep the dragon for him?”
“No, I’ll put it back in Rinhoel’s room. And he doesn’t need to know that we borrowed it. You’d better get to bed yourself, my dear. Good night.”
She was only a little late getting to the library stairs. Branig stepped out of a shadowy embrasure and murmured, “I’d begun to worry.”
“That I’d lost my courage?”
“Never, Diarmadh’reia. That you’d been caught.” He led her down the three flights of steps to a back entrance. “We’re in luck. There’s trouble at the dockside warehouses. Everyone’s in a panic. We won’t be noticed even without sorcery.”
“Do you use it so casually, then?” She pulled her cloak more firmly around her with one hand, the other tight around the dragon.
“I use it very rarely. All of us do.” Taking her elbow to guide her through the deserted kitchen garden, he added, “But I didn’t use it tonight. Whatever’s going on isn’t my doing. It’s the Goddess smiling on us.”
“You believe in her?”
Branig laughed softly. “So they still tell those old stories, do they? Lady Merisel managed to obliterate our language, our knowledge, and damned near us, but not even she could stifle the legends. No, my lady, diarmadh’im do not murder children, trap innocent spirits inside mirrors, drink dragon’s blood, or set fire to mountains.” There was a bright, excited note to his voice, not tense, but anticipatory. As if he was about to have the time of his life. “Though I’m told there used to be some very pretty ceremonies at Castle Crag at the New Year—all that stone to burn, you know.”
Naydra tried to imagine it: the cliffs glowing red and gold and white with flames, fire falling down the canyon until the very rocks seemed ablaze, reflecting in the river far below. . . .
“But you do believe in the Goddess?” she insisted.
“Of course. And the Father of Storms.” He held a branch out of her way as they skirted the fence of the Swalekeep menagerie. She could hear the mountain cats and the wolves snarling at each other, their cages clattering.
“And the old sorcerers—what did they believe?”
“At the first, who knows? At the last, all they seemed to believe in was their own power.”
“Rather like my father,” she muttered.
“I suppose so, my lady. Quietly now. A guard sits by the gate and I don’t want him alerted before we get to him.”
Branig’s touch cautioned her to stay put behind the thin shelter of a bare-limbed fruit tree. He left her momentarily, then came back smiling.
“He’s only asleep,” he said as they passed the slumped figure at the gate. “Or do you trust me enough not to suspect me of spells more sinister?”
He was teasing, his own lightheartedness reaching out to her. A sense of humor had never been encouraged in Roelstra’s daughters; though Naydra had slowly acquired one through the years, she didn’t find this at all funny. By the first thin rays of moonlight she scowled at Branig, who immediately bowed his contrition and asked her pardon.
“It’s the dranath,” he explained as they made their way along the torchlit streets of Swalekeep. “I took quite a lot of it tonight in preparation for whatever I might have to do. It affects some differently than others.”
It had once enslaved her father’s Sunrunner. She wondered if Branig was similarly addicted. “Who was Lady Merisel? You seem to admire her, and yet—”
“And yet,” he agreed. “Down this alleyway, my lady. Yes, we do admire her. But not as an enemy who vanquished us—although she did that. It’s very complicated, what we feel for her.”
They passed by a group of men and women bemoaning whatever disaster had occurred at the warehouses. Something about foodstuffs ruined by flooding, Naydra gathered, not much caring.
“About Lord Andry we are not so ambiguous,” Branig said suddenly.
“Why?”
“He wants us all dead. Wiped out of existence and even memory—although he’s pleased to use our knowledge when it suits him,” he added bitterly. “Here, this turning. You see the tavern? The Crown and Castle? At the end of the street there’s a breach in the wall. That’s where we’ll go through.”
“But it’s barricaded. And, Branig, there must be guards!”
“Of course. It’s on the west side, where Prince Tilal must approach,
and they’re guarding the arms stockpiled in those carts.” He clasped both hands together in front of his face. “Now’s when I need the dranath,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
He murmured something—the spell, perhaps. She shivered. And felt something almost at once, a kind of scratching in the far corners of her mind. Like mice scurrying for their holes. No, she thought, frightened and intrigued in equal parts, more as if the mice were inside the walls and scrabbling for a way out. And suddenly it was not mice she thought of but great predatory beasts, like the cats and wolves in Chiana’s animal garden, or dragons. Clawing at their iron cages, at the piled stones of their hatching caves, howling an insatiable need for freedom.
The freedom to hunt, to kill?
Was this what it meant to have a sorcerer’s power?
She gave a convulsive shudder and stepped back from Branig, wanting to run from him and this revelation of what she could possess—what might possess her. But his hand enfolded hers with exquisite respect, and he led her up to the carts that blocked the section of toppled wall. The guards reacted not at all. As if they saw nothing. As if Naydra and Branig were invisible.
He helped her clamber between the barriers and over the broken stones. She slipped once, and heard someone behind her ask, “What’s that?” But the reply was only, “Oh, the walls shift and resettle all the time. Make yourself useful and go get us another pitcher, why don’t you?”
There was soft, rain-drenched ground beneath her feet. Knees buckling, she leaned back against the solid rock of the outer wall.
Branig gave a long, relieved sigh. “I haven’t done that in dragon’s years. Not many know how. Nice to know I haven’t lost the knack of it. Wait here, my lady, I’ll go get the horses.”
“No—no, I’ll come with you.”
“You can rest for a while if you like.” He smiled kindly in the gathering silver glow of the moons. “I know what it is to feel someone else’s power for the first time.”
Naydra swallowed hard. “Wh-what did you do?”
“It’s a variation on something the Sunrunners do, actually. Not wicked or even very difficult if you really know the trick of it—although disguising two people from four other people isn’t something I’d care to juggle very often. I’m good, but not that good.”