by Melanie Rawn
“And why shouldn’t they love you? You’re theirs and they know it with pride.” She reached over to brush the wayward hair from his brow. “Theirs, long before you were mine,” she added.
“But yours with all my heart,” he said, still solemn.
Sionell hesitated, then put her hand to his cheek. “Don’t think too much about what Pol did. I know it’s in your mind that you may have to do much the same thing. But you’ll find another way, I know you will. Something with honor in it.”
“This from the woman who wanted a Merida hide to hang on her wall?” he asked, but there was no amusement in his eyes to match the curve of his mouth. After a moment, he went to the balcony doors, looking down at the bustle of preparations for this evening’s leavetaking. “There’s no honor in war, Sionell. There’s only killing enough of them so they can’t rise again and kill us. We’ve never done it in the past. The Merida always come back again. One generation, two—I don’t want my children to have to face them yet again. So all of them must die this time. Pol had the right of it. But he didn’t go far enough. He should have killed all of them after the battle, not just the wounded.” He stroked the stone lintel. “If the Goddess gives me the blessing of a chance, I won’t make the same mistake.”
And she knew that if the Goddess gave him the curse of that chance, it would haunt him the rest of his days.
At dusk, when farewells had been said and Lyela had ridden out the gates leading the refugees, Tallain drew Sionell into the solar that was their family’s private retreat. It was too quiet, and too empty. Lyela’s lap-sized harp had vanished into a cupboard; Antalya’s small embroidery frame had been covered with a cloth next to her usual chair, and her basket of bright yarns hidden beneath it. Even the children’s toys were gone, packed away for their return or crammed into saddlebags for the journey to Feruche.
But two goblets had been set out, already filled with wine. Sionell frowned a little on seeing them—a gift from her parents when she and Tallain had been married ten years. Dark blue Fironese crystal was cradled in elegant spirals of gold; Tiglath’s colors.
“I thought we’d wait here for Vamanis to bring us word,” Tallain said.
Sionell nodded and sat down at the little table where they usually played chess—and he always won. “He looked for Birioc half the day. He must be cowering under a rock somewhere, to escape a Sunrunner.”
“Well, he has to move today or tomorrow. He’ll find him.” He raised his goblet in a silent toast, and drank. She did the same. “I hope I’ve made Tiglath seem easy enough. I wish I knew more about him—how he thinks, whether he’s as blindly arrogant as his father.”
“Meiglan isn’t. But then, she’s not a Merida. I wonder who his mother was, and if Miyon knew who he was bedding.”
“And what he was begetting,” Tallain added. Stretching out his legs, he gave a sudden smile. “Jahnev looked fine, didn’t he? Lyela said he insisted on carrying the banner.”
“I hope she gets it away from him before he drops it. He’d never forgive himself. But he did look quite the grown-up squire—even though the flagpole is three times taller than he is.”
They shared a smile of pride in their elder son, and began discussing the drills their people would practice today at the walls. Halfway through her wine, Sionell noticed that Tallain seemed to be waiting for something. Vamanis, of course, but it wasn’t the door he watched. It was her.
Suddenly she yawned. Tallain arched a teasing brow.
“I realize the efficient dispersal of fresh arrows isn’t exactly the most fascinating topic, but do try to pay attention, my love.”
“I’m tired, not bored—and it’s your fault. I don’t sleep well when you’re gone, and you don’t let me sleep at all when you’re here.”
He grinned unrepentantly and went on talking about supplies. She yawned again, this time widely enough to crack her jaw. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”
“Only that the whetstones will be busy tonight, sharpening swords.”
She nodded and set the goblet down. It was more and more difficult to focus her mind on his words.
“Tallain,” she interrupted irritably, “why are you staring at me as if I were dripping off moments like a water clock?”
Suddenly she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open.
Tallain got to his feet. “Sionell?” His fingers sought the pulse at her throat. “For a moment I thought I hadn’t given you enough.”
She dragged her eyelids open by sheer force of will. “Enough of what?” she tried to ask, but managed only an inarticulate mumble.
“Forgive me, my darling,” he said, very tenderly. “But I do know you very well.”
He straightened and went to the door. She commanded herself to watch, but her eyes had closed again.
“Lord Kazander? You swear to me you’ll take good care of her?”
“My lord, as if she were the mother of my sons.”
Tallain chuckled. “Well, she’s not, and don’t get any ideas!”
“My lord sees into my deepest heart. I crave forgiveness.”
“Speaking of which, if I were in your boots I’d be well out of her way when she’s completely herself again.”
“Better advice was never given, my lord. I’d thought to go hunting. Perhaps as far as Castle Crag. Perhaps until spring.”
“Wise choice.”
Sionell discovered with vague amusement that she couldn’t even be angry. Not yet, anyway, she thought fuzzily. And then she couldn’t think anymore, her mind betraying her as her body had already done. As her husband had already done. Dimly, she heard footfalls on the carpet and the rustle of Tallain’s silk shirt. She was gathered up in his arms, held close and tight.
“Forgive me,” he murmured again, from very far away. “But I have to know you’re safe. You understand, don’t you, love?”
She never felt him give her carefully over to Kazander’s strong arms.
• • •
Shortly after moonrise, Hollis descended the last dozen steps of the one hundred and six that spiraled up to the top of the Sunrunner Tower—tallest at Feruche—and paused to rub her aching leg muscles before turning toward the Attic.
It wasn’t literally an attic. It wasn’t even at the top of any section of the castle. The architect’s drawings labeled it the Sunrise Chamber for the spectacular eastern view, and it served as a private family dining room. But when Riyan and Ruala finished stuffing it with things collected, inherited, or given over the years, the Attic it became.
Here resided everything from the belt and jeweled wine-horn old Prince Clutha of Meadowlord had given Riyan at his knighting to four polished copper plates that had belonged to Ruala’s great-great-grandmother. The contents of only one display cabinet were: Maara’s silver rattle and lace Naming gown, dice cups, a chess set (glass, and too fragile to use), a little wooden horse carved by Riyan in childhood (wobbly on the off foreleg), a herd of crystal deer in varying sizes, Ruala’s collection of hunting knives, framed needlework samplers, a glazed clay model of Feruche, and the twelve beaten-gold wine cups that had been the gift of Ruala’s grandfather at her marriage.
There were four such cabinets, wooden shelves beneath every window, and a mantlepiece—all crammed with similar items. When one included in the morass the pair of lutes kept for Ostvel’s visits, the huge tapestry frame that had belonged to Ruala’s mother, a carved chest full of yarns, a wall hanging here and there, the oval fruitwood table that seated twelve easily and twenty at a pinch, chairs to match, two large sofas, a smattering of footstools and other chairs, a few convenient little tables, and the sideboard that took up half a wall, the Attic was an eminently appropriate name.
Hollis never entered it without feeling that Sorin would have approved the happy clutter. The big table indicated his intent for this room: large gatherings of family and friends, and plenty of children of his own. She could almost imagine it: Sorin at one end and Betheyn at the other, with herself and Maarken, Riyan an
d Ruala, Pol and Meiglan, and all their parents and offspring scattered between making a glorious noise.
Andry, too, with his sons and daughters. Sorin might have done it, Hollis told herself. He might have brought them all close again—as a family, if not as a political whole.
So many were missing from the imagined scene; the dead, the never-born. Sorin’s hopes were as dead as he was. Shaking off her sadness, and reminding herself that tonight she could bring good news to leaven the bitter, she took a place at the table and drank deep of the cup of taze Riyan poured for her.
“Well?” Maarken asked impatiently. “What did you see?”
She smiled. “Oh, nothing much.”
“Hollis. . . .” he warned.
“Just that the Vellant’im were defeated outside Swalekeep yesterday, and now it belongs to Tilal and Ostvel.”
Riyan gave a whoop of sheer irrepressible delight that had the others laughing. Hollis, seated next to him, covered her ears and grimaced.
“I think your father heard you all the way in Meadowlord,” she said when things had quieted down. “He’s perfectly all right, by the way, and not happy about it. Tilal didn’t let him anywhere near the fighting.”
“Good for Tilal,” Chay said. “Is he unhurt, too?”
“A sword cut in one leg, a bad bruise on his back. Nothing serious, but enough to keep him from riding after Chiana and Rinhoel.”
Sighing, Maarken shook his head. “I knew you were giving us the good news first.”
“I knew we should have ordered something stronger to drink,” Meath countered. “Isriam, pretend for a moment you’re still a squire and not a knight, and bring that pitcher of wine over here.”
As the young man went to the sideboard, others began asking questions. Tobin rapped the knuckles of her good hand on the table. “Hush,” she commanded, and then, to Hollis, “Talk.”
“The worst of it isn’t Chiana. Kerluthan died in the battle. It all happened yesterday. Pol, will you send to Dragon’s Rest when you can? Edrel was your squire. You’ll know better than I how to tell him through Hildreth that his brother is dead.”
He nodded slowly. “There’s no Sunrunner at River Ussh to let Kerluthan’s wife know. Has Tilal sent a rider?”
“Yes.” She paused, still looking at Pol. “Halian is dead, too.”
“Don’t tell me the Parchment Prince rode into battle!” Pol exclaimed.
“No. Ostvel found him and Lady Aurar in Chiana’s rooms. Both dead. Both murdered, I should have said.”
“Goddess,” Maarken breathed. “Who?” Then he gave a start and looked sick to his stomach.
“Rinhoel,” Chay murmured.
“Palila saw him do it,” Hollis said. “She told Naydra before she stopped saying anything at all.”
“I think you’d better start at the beginning,” Riyan said grimly.
“Not yet.” Pol had held Hollis’ gaze, and she knew he had seen it in her eyes. “Who else was killed?”
“Lady Cluthine,” she replied. “Trying to get word of Swalekeep’s defenses and Chiana’s treason to Tilal.”
“Who else?” he said again.
This time she had to tell him. They had been friends, and Named their son for him. “Rialt and Mevita,” she whispered. “Their throats slit by Chiana’s order. Naydra killed the guard who killed them, Pol. With Fire.”
Into the silence, Meath said, “So she knows now what she is.”
Meiglan rose shakily from her chair. “And—and their little boy?” she asked in a reedy voice.
“Alive and safe. Not even Chiana and Rinhoel would murder children.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Chay rasped.
Meiglan was white as winter moonlight. “If you’ll excuse me,” she managed, “I should go look in on the children. Isriam, will you come with me, please?”
Pol touched her hand, frowning with worry. “Meggie, are you all right?”
Fool, Hollis thought. Let her escape with some dignity. She’s trying so hard, poor little thing.
“Yes, my lord,” Meiglan answered with a thin smile. “But the girls have been too quiet, you’ll agree.”
Ruala helped by saying dryly, “The three of them have recruited an army—the Dorvali children. Today they stormed the kitchen, which is why dinner was a little late.”
Meiglan’s smile was a little more genuine. “Did I say ‘quiet’? Wish me luck!”
That got her to the door, supported by Isriam. Hollis willed Pol not to say anything more, but a stronger will than hers had been at work on him. Tobin had caught his gaze, black eyes fierce beneath knitted brows. He took the hint.
With Meiglan and Isriam gone, everyone looked at Hollis again. She was glad now of the wine. After a long swallow, she gathered herself and began at the beginning. When she was finished with the story as Ostvel had told it to Andrev, and Andrev had told it to her, the elation of the victory at Swalekeep had been forgotten. She had known it would be; that was why she had told that part first. They had all needed to hear it and enjoy it before the price of the victory was told.
After moistening her throat with more wine, she went on to talk of what she had seen at other places. Skybowl was quiet, with fifty or so Vellant’im camped down below it, obviously wondering what to do. The main army was still outside the ruin of Stronghold. At High Kirat, the court Sunrunner Diandra had told her that Tilal’s son Rihani had arrived that day, been reassured about his parents, and promptly collapsed into much-needed sleep. Clouds had threatened around Tiglath, Dragon’s Rest, and Kierst, so she had nothing to report from there. But she’d discovered something strange at Goddess Keep.
“I looked there first, just as the sun was setting. They were at the walls singing the ritual as usual. You know that Oclel and Rusina were lost. They’ve now been replaced. I don’t know the woman. But the man is an old friend of yours, Meath. Antoun.”
“Him? Never! He has no use for Andry’s mouthings!”
“It seems he does now. He’s been made one of the devr’im.”
“But he can’t be!” Meath was more upset than Hollis had ever seen him. “I know him, I’ve known him since we were first at Goddess Keep. He came with us to Stronghold when we brought Sioned to marry Rohan! I won’t believe he’s gone over to Andry.”
“That’s the other odd thing,” Hollis said. “Andry’s not there. He should have been leading the ritual for all the people outside the walls to see. But it was Torien who was in charge. Andry was nowhere to be found.”
“You didn’t think to ask, I take it?” Pol asked sharply.
Hollis stiffened. Maarken replied for her, “Go ask them yourself.”
“I just might.”
“Stop right there,” Chay ordered. Both men settled back in their chairs, though neither relaxed. Hollis felt a sudden painful longing for Rohan, who could master the most ungovernable temper with a single glance.
“We have other things to talk about besides my brother,” Maarken said.
Riyan picked up his cue. “On our way back here, Pol and I started talking about what we can do against the Vellant’im. That’s the main problem.”
Betheyn, silent until now, said, “And it’s likely to remain so until we discover why they’re here.”
Everyone turned to look at her. She bore the surprise and the scrutiny with steady calm, her hands folded neatly on the table. Her gaze sought each of them in turn: Riyan, Hollis, Maarken, Pol, Ruala, Tobin, Chay, Meath. Sunrunners, sorcerers, and one man who was “merely” powerful.
“Why do people make war?” Beth asked. “There are economic reasons—to gain land, goods, material wealth. Or to destroy an enemy’s ability to make material wealth.”
“Vengeance,” Ruala said. “To hurt as you’ve been hurt, and to destroy the enemy’s ability to hurt you again.”
“Yes,” Beth told her. “Especially that last. There’s politics, too—putting someone you favor into power, or getting rid of someone you don’t like. What else?”
�
�Pleasure,” said Tobin. “My f-father loved war.”
“He loved to prove his strength,” Chay corrected. “There’s another reason for you, Beth. But I have one more. Insanity.”
“That’s one I hadn’t considered,” she admitted.
“Your answers open up new questions,” Pol said abruptly. “Why have the Vellant’im gone to war against us? They obviously don’t want to stay and bring wealth from the land. They’re destroying everything they can get their hands on. Crippling our ability to produce food and goods. But that can’t be their only reason, else why attack the Desert?”
“And if they wanted to stay and set up their own princedoms, they would have left the land intact,” Hollis mused. “You can’t rule over burned farmhouses and fields. So politics isn’t it.”
“Unless what they want is to see us out and don’t care who takes over afterward,” Maarken said. “Which leads to the revenge idea. But revenge for what? What did we ever do to them? Goddess, we didn’t even know they existed until they attacked us!”
Betheyn shook her head. “Let’s hold off on that for a moment. They could be doing this for the enjoyment of it. They appear to be a people who love war—and they’re very good at it. Maybe we’re just convenient.”
“They ran out of other people to kill, you mean?” Pol growled. “If that’s true, then Chay’s answer is the best one. They are crazy.”
“You know better than that,” the Lord of Radzyn chided. “Look at their strategy. If war is organized madness, they’re depressingly well organized.”
Riyan leaned forward. “But that’s just what Pol and I were talking about the other day. What have they done so far? Kept everyone else occupied so no aid can come to the Desert. They took Radzyn—where Rohan was. Then they took Remagev—where Rohan was. Then Stronghold—where Rohan was. What else does the Desert have to offer but sand and dragons—and the High Prince?”
“My father is dead,” Pol said flatly. “If it was him specifically, they’d celebrate his death and be gone. It’s got to be something we have here in the Desert, and it’s not the sand. They started out terrified of dragons until that whoreson commander of theirs killed Elidi.” He made an angry gesture that nearly swept his wine cup from the table. “We’re no closer to it than we were when we started.”