by Melanie Rawn
“I should be right here.” She leaned comfortably against him, arms around his waist. “Mmm, you’re warm. I’ve already heard all about everything from Camina and that young Medri—Gerwen? Yes, that’s his name. So let’s sit down and I’ll tell you my side of things.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “And tomorrow morning you can get right back on your horse and ride home to Castle Crag.”
Tilting her head back, she said, “But I didn’t come on a horse—not until this morning.”
“Alasen,” he breathed, “tell me you didn’t sail down the Faolain. Not in winter.”
“Oh, that wasn’t much bother. We didn’t lose a single boat. There are twelve of them, by the way, with thirty soldiers in each, but that can wait to be told in order. No, the problem was something else.” She was actually smiling as she said it, as she admitted what she was. “Namely, me. Your Sunrunner wife had her head in a bucket for eight days. Could you possibly have them bring me something to eat? I’m starving.”
• • •
Rohannon had expected to be discovered almost at once. The circumstance that allowed his deception, however, forced him to reveal it. A simple thing to most people, but of monumental importance to faradh’im: he was on board ship and he wasn’t sick.
Son of Lord Maarken and Lady Hollis he might be, cousin to the new High Prince, and nephew of the Lord of Goddess Keep himself, but New Raetia’s court Sunrunner flatly refused to teach him anything but a bunch of useless chanting songs honoring the Goddess. Rohannon knew something frightening about power, though. And while he was more wary of it than most—he had cause to be—caution had not been equal to frustration.
Rialt’s daughter, Tessalar, had taken on the management of medical supplies, which included everything from purification of steel knives to the gathering and storage of herbs. Five days ago, Rohannon had volunteered to help her assemble the basic kits for each of Prince Arlis’ ships, soon expected to sail in an attempt to rid Brochwell Bay of the Vellanti fleet. Tess never saw him take a handful of little parchment twists from a box labeled dranath.
Long years ago, Rohannon’s mother had very nearly been fatally addicted to the drug. But it augmented power, and in the absence of additional learning Rohannon chose additional strength.
It worked very well indeed. Two nights ago, when the wind that had brought today’s storm had first cleared the sky of clouds, he had used the first of the packets. Instantly he had understood the lure, but the exhilaration was stronger, and only scared him afterward.
Not fool enough to attempt the stars, he used what he knew about sunlight and applied it to the moons. He was rewarded with the sight of dragon-headed ships making for Einar to the north.
Arlis now knew where to sail. He scolded Rohannon for daring the moons when he was still a bit shaky with sunlight, but the information was too important for the prince to argue much about how it was obtained. New Raetia’s Sunrunner was absent in any case. She was traveling the far-flung manors and keeps of Kierst-Isel, sending back word to Rohannon on how many were coming from each. This was a faradhi’s only duty during wartime, and Arlis had sent her out to it with relief that she was gone. She was Andry’s to her fingertips.
But Arlis could not wait for the rest of the levies to march to New Raetia. As long as the Vellant’im merely patrolled the bay and threatened no coast, he could afford patience—even if he wasn’t very good at it. Now the dragon-headed ships were heading in on a strong wind for Einar. If they took the city, they would have a perfect base: north into Princemarch and Fessenden, or west-southwest to Isel. So this morning Prince Arlis’ fleet would sail, and sail quickly.
The prince hadn’t wasted his breath forbidding Rohannon to come along. Everyone knew that no Sunrunner in his right mind would set foot on a ship unless compelled by dire necessity.
But Rohannon weighed his inherited weakness against his sworn duty as a squire, and decided this was indeed a dire necessity. Besides, eventually they would land at Einar, and he could be of use again.
He sneaked on board with the contingent from Port Adni. He chose them because as the troops from the most important of Arlis’ holdings, these soldiers would travel on the prince’s own ship. He owned a red tunic that was almost the same crimson they wore, and with black trousers and a black shirt Port Adni’s colors were complete. Technically, they should have worn the combined yellow and scarlet of Kierst-Isel, since with Lord Narat’s death the keep was now a crown holding. But as long as his wife Naydra lived, Port Adni was still hers. So they wore her colors, and their commander took formal oath of Prince Arlis in her name.
Rohannon figured that the only drawback to so brilliantly colored a tunic was that when he succumbed to the inevitable, he would be noticed. He slid away the moment the oath was finished, finding a nice, out-of-the-way spot to be sick in.
But the inevitable did not happen.
He used the unforeseen respite to find himself a pail, certain that the instant the anchor weighed, he would need it. The ship moved away from the docks, surging as more sail was raised and the current caught the hull.
Nothing happened.
Rohannon crouched behind a crate of food the whole of the morning. Around noon he succumbed to the growing knowledge that he was a complete fool, abandoned his hiding place and his unused pail, and went to find Prince Arlis.
To his lord’s startled exclamation on recognizing him, and the angry demand to be told what in all Hells he thought he was doing, Rohannon replied simply, “I’m a Sunrunner. And I feel perfectly fine.”
Arlis had the Kierstian green eyes Rohannon knew so well in Sioned. They narrowed, then glanced out at the choppy sea before returning to regard him with fierce curiosity. “How?”
“I don’t know, my lord.”
Arlis drew him over to the railing. “You mean to tell me that looking out at that doesn’t bring a single twinge?”
“Not a suggestion of a quiver, my lord.” From up here on the captain’s deck he could see the distant dots of white Vellanti sails. “Will we catch up to them in time?”
“Yes,” the prince replied with absolute assurance. “Do you know why? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. A Sunrunner’s only interest in the sea is how to avoid it. We’ll catch them because our sails can swing around to catch any wind—and theirs can’t.”
“Oh,” said Rohannon, glancing up at the three great triangles of sail.
“I still want to know why you aren’t puking your guts out, the way you did when I brought you to Kierst-Isel two years ago.”
“If I knew, I’d tell you,” the boy answered a bit desperately. “The only thing I can think of is that maybe I’m not a Sunrunner anymore, but how could that be? One is or one isn’t—it’s not something you can change!”
“Find Zaldivar for me. Tell me what my wife is doing.”
Rohannon closed his eyes. A few moments later he opened them again. “She’s outside in the walled garden, holding your newborn son while Roric and Hanella play with the castle children.”
“So you’re still a Sunrunner.”
“Yes, my lord,” he said, and with relief. But his head ached a little after the effort, and he rubbed absently at the center of his forehead. It had been so easy to check the progress of the Vellant’im last night on the light of the moons.
“Then tell me the exact configuration of enemy ships out there, so I don’t have to guess at my tactics.”
Rohannon’s jaw dropped. “You’re going to fight them at sea?”
“If I can manage it.” Arlis smiled tightly. “Every one of those ships that I can kill means fewer soldiers to land.”
“But—but I’ve never even heard of a battle at sea among so many ships!”
“Neither have I,” the prince admitted almost cheerfully. “But I’ve got an idea or three. Come, Rohannon, help me make a name for myself. I’ll make sure you feature prominently in all the ballads.”
• • •
Alasen paced a slow, speechless circle around the vast chamb
er. She had been born a princess and lived in fine rooms all her life. Never had she seen anything like this. Not in all the castles and manors she had visited in six princedoms, got even in the grand new palace at Dragon’s Rest, had anyone committed such a display.
And all it was was a bathroom.
The tiles under her bare feet, a riot of every color of green ever imagined and some she swore were impossible, were pleasantly warmed from below. Gleaming gilt braziers radiated heat from all six corners of the room. Silver shelves held all manner of soaps, lotions, unguents, creams, and salts. Thick moss-green towels hung on golden racks above the white marble bathtub)—which was sunken into the floor and put her in mind of a small lake. Daintily screening the toilet was a tall tapestry panel; its pattern of ferns and fantastic multicolored flowers was repeated everywhere from the painted walls and ceiling to the tiles behind the tub. Potted ferns flourished everywhere in the steamy warmth. There were even two small trees in huge silver buckets. Their foliage evidently had not been considered sufficient decoration, for gigantic silk flowers to match the others had been wired to the branches. Absolutely nothing had been left unpainted, unglazed, or ungilded, except for the mirrors lining the room to a point halfway up every wall. In these the whole jungle was endlessly, dizzyingly repeated.
“Goddess in glory,” Alasen breathed at last, truly awed.
“I thought you might find it interesting,” Naydra remarked.
“‘Incredible’ and ‘appalling’ also come to mind. I begin to think Chiana ought to be executed for sheer bad taste if nothing else.”
The older princess smiled. “At least it’s warm. In fact, I’d wager it’s impossible to catch a chill in here stark naked in the dead of winter. I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished.” She turned for the fern-strewn door, sidestepping a tree. “By the way, Prince Tilal had the servants scrub it down from ceiling to floor. Something about a promise he made your husband.”
“I can imagine. Oh, one other thing. When do the live birds start flapping around?”
Naydra glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “I think they flew south for the winter. Have fun.”
Alasen turned on the spigots and proceeded to enjoy a delightfully decadent bath. She was so tired and sore that she would have settled for a basin of hot water in a private corner of the kitchen. But this was a haven of luxury, even if every time she looked at the garish flowers she giggled.
When she had soaked until her toes wrinkled, she dried and wrapped herself in a heavy velvet robe. It was too short for her, and the velvet slippers were a little too small, but she’d brought almost nothing of her own with her and all of it had been drenched in yesterday’s rain. Little as she liked wearing Chiana’s things, she was grateful for their warmth.
After twisting her hair atop her head in a towel, she took a last look around, shook her head with amazement, and joined Naydra. Not in Chiana’s bedchamber, but in the dressing room. This was starkly white and completely undecorated so as not to compete with Chiana herself, who would have seen her reflected splendor multiplied a thousandfold in mirrors attached to the closet doors. A few of these were open. Alasen stared anew. She loved pretty clothes, and at times her extravagance provoked even her adoring husband. But Chiana’s wardrobe was an education.
Naydra was seated on one of a pair of white velvet chairs, calmly pouring taze. “I know,” she said before Alasen could think up adequate means of expressing herself. “I keep asking myself when she had occasion to wear even half of this.”
“It warms my heart to think she left here with only the clothes on her back.” Alasen sat down and accepted a cup of taze.
“And her jewels.”
“Even better,” Alasen declared. “Can you imagine her agony? Forced to part with a diamond for dinner, a sapphire necklet for a night’s lodging in a loft!”
“And a cold one, at that!” Naydra smiled back, but her eyes were lightless.
Alasen snuggled into the chair and stretched out her legs. “Goddess, but it’s good to be clean again! And on solid ground.”
“I never feel a water journey, myself. But then, I’m not a Sunrunner.”
The opening having been presented and used, Alasen spoke freely. “I denied it for a very long time. I can’t anymore. We need everything we have against the Vellant’im.”
“And so you brought your husband an army.”
“Half an army. But he’ll make it seem two when he joins Tilal.”
“Which is why you brought them, knowing he would sooner or later follow.”
“He says he’s too old for this sort of thing, but like most men he’s a very bad liar.” She paused to select a slice of nutcake that had been sent with the taze. “How did you find out, Naydra?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Branig told me. Lord Ostvel will have told you of him?” When Alasen nodded, she went on, “He was diarmadhi. They are not all the same. One faction sent Mireva and Ruval to the Desert nine years ago to challenge Prince Pol. The other is loyal to him. They sent Branig to guard against Chiana’s ambitions being used again to their purposes. He told me many things, but each of his answers brought new questions. He died before I had time to ask them all.”
Alasen found she was chewing her thumbnail, a childish habit long since broken. She drank more taze, frowning into her cup, then set it down and put her hands in the robe’s silk-lined pockets. At length she said, “Do you know of any way to find Branig’s people?”
“I’m of the side who sent my mother to marry Roelstra and bear a diarmadhi High Prince. Even if I knew how to find Branig’s faction, they would suspect me because of my mother.”
“Your own loyalties have never been in doubt,” Alasen reminded her. “They would know that.”
“Perhaps. It doesn’t matter, in any case. I don’t know how to reach them.”
“Then they’ll have to be persuaded to find you.” She held Naydra’s gaze. “If, that is, you wish to be found.”
The princess recoiled slightly.
“I understand,” Alasen murmured. “I didn’t want to be found, either. You remember that Rialla. You were there. The way Andrade died, what Andry did with his power—it still frightens me, Naydra. But I can’t afford fear anymore.”
“It was different for you. You watched what others did. I killed.” She shuddered. “It was so easy . . . the Fire so simple a thing. . . .”
Alasen backed down, knowing how difficult it was—but not, thank the Goddess, exactly the way Naydra was experiencing it. Besides, if the idea hovering just out of reach proved to be what she thought it might, she wouldn’t need Naydra’s cooperation at all. It was a regrettable cruelty, but compassion was another thing she couldn’t afford.
So she said, “You did what you felt was necessary at the time. I only hope my husband doesn’t feel it necessary to leave for the south at once. I’d like to get to know his face again after all this time.” She smiled and stretched, and inside the pocket of Chiana’s robe felt something small and hard and sharp. Before she could take it out to look at it, Naydra had roused enough to speak again, distracting her.
“Does Ostvel intend to find the army of Syr as Prince Tilal plans to do?”
“I think so.” Alasen watched the other woman’s face, alert to something elusive in Naydra’s dark eyes.
“Perhaps he ought to consider going north.”
“Chiana wouldn’t dare approach Castle Crag!” Alasen exclaimed.
“No. Dragon’s Rest. The palace of the High Prince is where Rinhoel would want to go. It’s only a two-day ride through Dragon Gap to Stronghold, where the main Vellanti army is.”
“Rinhoel’s not that big a fool. Edrel isn’t likely to welcome them, no matter what lies they tell. He was Pol’s squire, and—”
Naydra poured into her cup with a steady hand. “Miyon is also there. And, unlike most men, he is truly an excellent liar.”
• • •
“It follows,” Ostvel said slowly, spea
king to the fire-thrown shadows on the ceiling above the bed. “They’d seek their natural ally. But they’ve got to know at Dragon’s Rest what’s happened here. Damn! If I had Andrev, I could send to Hollis and get her to contact Hildreth.”
Alasen’s reply was subdued. “I’m sorry. I should have learned Sunrunning long ago.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he told her contritely. “And don’t get any ideas about trying it, either. I’ll just send somebody on a very fast horse.”
The shadows shifted as she turned from drying her hair by the hearth. “You won’t go there with the army?”
“Until I get definite word that Chiana and Rinhoel are at Dragon’s Rest, no.” He scratched his bare chest idly and rubbed his feet over the wrapped hot brick at the bottom of the bed. Goddess, he was tired. He must be getting older than he’d thought. War was a young man’s work, but all this conferring and deciding and writing of orders left him as spent as if he’d fought a battle.
“I think Naydra’s right,” he went on, “but I want to be sure. We need everyone we have to clean up Syr and then march for the Desert. I don’t want to waste time on a needless trip to Dragon’s Rest.”
She came nearer to the bed, still combing her waist-length hair. “But you’d be halfway to Feruche.”
“And Tilal would still be fighting it out down south with an exhausted army, trying to find Saumer—who’s busy looking for Vellant’im to kill.” He shook his head and tugged the quilt closer around him. “Pol’s been taking care of himself fairly well so far. Besides, how could we get through the snow? In the end, it’ll be faster and easier on everyone to go through Syr.”
“Then send me to Dragon’s Rest,” she said. “Give me an escort equal to the number who went with Chiana and Rinhoel. That way, with the troops still at Dragon’s Rest, there’ll be two of us for every one of them.”
“They’ve had four days’ head start,” he warned.
“Have you ever seen Chiana on a horse?”
“Alasen, this is nothing to joke about! The Goddess alone knows how many of those whoresons are running around loose—”