by Melanie Rawn
“His hand is gone, Chadric!”
“His brain isn’t. He’s still your Battle Commander—unless you plan to replace him?”
“Goddess, no!” The thought of doing the work himself appalled him.
“Point made,” Chadric said with a nod. “Also, please consider that two of his rings are gone as well. I’m told they mean quite a bit to you faradh’im. You’ll have to use him as both a warrior and as a Sunrunner over the next little while, or he may start believing he really is a cripple.”
“I—I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Was there any end to things he didn’t think of until they were written in dragon-high letters and shoved under his nose? “And the third thing, my lord?”
“He needs to touch his wife—and be touched by her.”
Pol swallowed hard and squeezed the old man’s arm. “Yes. You’re right, of course. I’ve been stupid again.”
“I wouldn’t presume to argue with the High Prince,” Chadric said slyly, then sobered again. “But think about it, Pol. If everyone treats him differently, he’ll start to think of himself differently. And the man you need is Maarken of Radzyn, not Maarken-who-has-only-one-hand.”
Pol nodded, considering. He glanced to where his cousin stood, a little off-balance, a little uncertain. Even a trained warrior’s muscular grace could not compensate for what was gone. Maarken would learn and adapt. It was Pol’s responsibility to make it easier. And now that Maarken wasn’t shouting, Pol could see how desperately he was trying to hide fear.
Clasping the old prince’s shoulder in thanks, Pol returned to his cousin, calling out, “Well? What are you standing around for? We’re leaving—just as soon as I get my other boot on.” He grinned, holding up the leather still crushed in his fist and shaking it in Maarken’s face. “If you’re very, very nice to me, maybe one day I’ll forgive you for making me look such a damned fool, hopping about in my stocking feet!”
“You don’t need my help for that,” Maarken responded, laughing in his relief. “A fool, like a cactus, doesn’t need watering in order to grow.”
• • •
Sioned rose wearily from her knees. For a moment she stood looking down at the dead young face, then bent to draw the blanket up to cover him. Chayla, one row over and several pallets down in the infirmary, glimpsed the movement and came over to her.
“Another one,” Sioned murmured.
“I was hoping he’d pull through.”
“Head wounds are chancy.” She beckoned to a servant and told him to take the body outside for burning tonight. “First one today,” she said to Chayla.
“The only, if I have anything to say about it.”
Sioned stayed silent. The girl’s steely determination was no match for death. Goddess, what an occupation, pitting one’s mind and hands against the million things that could go wrong with a human body. And that was at the best of times. In war, physicians must go slightly mad.
“Did you know him?” Chayla asked.
“Not really. I recognized his name. He held two manors, one in Ossetia and one in Grib. We heard the case in Autumn—which princedom could claim him and his lands. We never did make a decision on it.” She gave a shrug as the man was carried out to be readied for burning tonight. “Proof that if only one waits long enough, every problem solves itself.”
Chayla frowned, not really understanding, then said, “Well, one thing that won’t solve itself is the supply of febrifuges. I need a good, wet meadow with lots of winterberry and blue sword. At this time of year it’s impossible to find the really effective herbs, but if I brew the others strong enough we’ll be all right.”
“The children?”
“Yes. Most of them have come down with silk-eye,” Chayla reported glumly. “Between their needs and the wounded here, I’ll be out of everything in two or three days.”
“Ask Ruala where the nearest pickings are. And don’t go out alone.”
“I won’t.” Someone called her name several rows down, and she hurried off.
Sioned stretched from side to side, trying to work the kinks out of her aching back. Making herself useful—Pol’s angry demand echoed in her mind—was only marginally better than sitting all day in her room. Here, among the wounded, she was too busy to think. But when she grew too tired to work anymore, her thoughts were even darker.
No, there was nothing wrong with her memory. She’d been insane to think that even an ocean of wine would drown out his voice.
“. . . the demands of a civilized conscience that the sick, the crippled, and the dying be cared for. Not a few coins to an old blind woman, or once-a-year rounds by a physician who’d rather be lolling in our castle at our expense, but honest care.”
Men and women who had been whole and strong lay in neat rows, blankets flat where arms or legs should have been, or bulging where dressings were bound to wounds at breast or belly or thigh. What could be done to care for them? Next to nothing.
“. . . nurture children’s minds and hearts, help them become what they were meant to be. Teach by lesson and by example, and keep them safe while we make a world for them better than the one we were given.”
Dozens of children were upstairs in rooms very like this one with its rows of bedding on the floor and its confused smell of medicines. Other children, those who had not caught the sickness, wandered about the keep, calling for their parents or staring at nothing with huge, stunned eyes. Teach them? They were learning death and pain and war.
“. . . not because I want my praises sung or my name to live forever—after all, I’ll be long dead and won’t hear about it, will I? It’s because it’s right, Sioned. Of all the things that are wrong, surely I can make some of them right, or what’s the use of power?”
She whimpered softly and turned her face to the wall. But she couldn’t stop his voice in her mind. She had loved his voice and his words, and now she feared them because she had failed him.
“We can do it, Sioned. I’ve always wanted—Goddess, I’ve talked all night, telling you what I want! But until I saw you this Spring, I never really believed I could do it. With you here beside me, I can do anything. You and I, together—”
She fled the infirmary, climbing the courtyard steps to the sunswept battlements. There were memories here, too. Across stones just like these—right about here, in fact, at that other Feruche—Ianthe had impatiently paced out her time as Pol grew inside her. Sioned had watched, coveting Rohan’s son, waiting for him to be born in a room high in a tower that no longer existed.
The Feruche around her now could be thought of as a symbol of what she and Rohan had done. New, strong, proud, beautiful . . . filled with the maimed and the sick and the dying. She had filled it with Fire on a night long ago, when she’d taken a child that was not hers and claimed him as her own son. Oh, yes—a symbol of what she and Rohan had done: a shining new castle built on lies and filled with death.
The breeze tousled her shorn curls, dried the stinging tears on her face. Everything he had ever dreamed was in ruins around her. And she could feel him slipping away from her, almost forty years stealing out of her reach, and in a mere thirty days.
Rohan! I need you. I’m alone and I don’t believe in anything anymore. You’re not here to help me believe—oh, damn you, why did you leave me alone like this?
Angrily she swept the tears from her eyes. This was useless, dangerous, it served no purpose but to steal what little strength she still had. What she had told Pol was the truth. She had nothing left to give. No strength, no belief, no dreams.
I can’t help him. I know I should but I can’t. Damn you, Rohan, why did you leave me and leave him in my keeping, when it’s you he needs? He doesn’t dream the way you did. I don’t know what he wants, except to have everything the way it was. Why can’t he see that’s impossible? What’s the good of going back to the way things were? We can’t go back, and he’ll break his heart if he tries.
I can’t make it all right for him. I can’t! Not by myself. It
was only together that we could do anything, anything at all—
“Sioned? It’s freezing up here! Put this on your shoulders.”
Meath settled a warm woolen shawl around her. She looked up at him, at the gray so thick in his hair and the lines so deep around his eyes. But they were clear, quiet eyes, slate-blue made brighter by heavy black lashes, and in them shone the love and support of a warm and giving heart.
That’s it, though, isn’t it? she thought suddenly. To know how to give. All I’ve ever done is take. Andrade’s knowledge, Rohan’s power and position, Ianthe’s son—the only person I ever really gave to was Rohan. He had everything of me. And he took everything with him—
No. He was never that selfish. He’s still here with me, in me. He gave me what he was. His dreams . . . I can’t lose all of him. I must remember what it was like to believe. To know I could do anything for him. . . .
For Pol, now. And for those people who believe because Rohan showed them how to dream.
She looked up at Meath, and saw time in his face. So many years. Forty-four since the first time she’d seen Rohan in Fire and Water. She’d plucked a hair from her head and floated it on the pool of clear water, and it had become his crown. Prince he would have been, with her or without her. But the kind of prince he dreamed of being—she had brought him that. Given him that.
I must give. If not of myself, then of what he left me.
And after this is done, and Pol is safe, I will have all the rest of my life to be alone.
She made her first gift a smile. So simple a thing, but Meath returned it with startled pleasure. She stood close to him, watching the Desert. After a time she remembered that there was another woman who had the rest of her life to be alone in. A young woman, whose solitude was but eleven days old.
“Meath?”
“My lady?”
“Where’s Sionell?”
• • •
When Rohannon staggered as the ship plowed into another massive wave, Arlis steadied him and asked, “Still all right?”
“Fine.” The boy chuckled softly. “In fact, I’m starting to like being at sea. Even when it’s rough like this.”
Arlis snorted. “This is nothing but a little chop. When we get past Kierst-Isel up to the Dark Water, then I’ll show you ‘rough.’”
“Can’t wait,” he grimaced. “I just hope whatever it is that’s keeping me on my feet is still working.”
“Well, as long as it is, I’d like you to do something for me if you would.”
“Anything I can, my lord. You know that.”
“Yes—and it’s more than most squires are asked. I’m a bit preoccupied right now, but once Yarin is out of the way we’ll hold a celebration in the hall at Balarat for your knighting.”
“My—”
Arlis smiled at his astonishment. “I may have to elbow Laric aside for the privilege. But he and I can argue about that later. Right now I’d like to know what my little brother is doing. If the sky’s clear enough across Syr, could you—?”
“Of course, my lord.”
As often as Arlis had witnessed this, as many years as he had spent around faradh’im, the subtle differences never failed to intrigue him. Pol’s eyelids barely drooped when he worked. Hollis closed her eyes tightly and seemed to be holding her breath. The Sunrunner at New Raetia during his childhood had always rested one hand casually on a chair in case she lost her balance. And Sioned, Arlis was firmly convinced, could go Sunrunning without anyone’s noticing at all.
Rohannon was like his mother: lashes squeezed shut, breathing stilled, although Hollis would never have worried her lower lip between her teeth the way her son did now. Arlis smiled, recalling how Sioned had teased Princess Tobin about that very habit, chiding her for destroying the dignity and mystery of their craft.
A mystery it surely was to Arlis, how one could see and speak down rays of light. But it was something his younger brother must learn to do, for Saumer was gifted and it was too valuable a talent to waste.
Rohannon’s eyes opened, their forest-green misted for a moment until he shook his head. “Sorry. It was a long way, my lord, and there was a lot to see. And I think I startled him. Or tickled his colors without his knowing what was going on.”
“I won’t even pretend I know what you’re talking about. Where is he?”
The ship crested another wave and slid down into its trough. Rohannon, who had remained steady as a rock while Sunrunning, nearly lost his balance again. Arlis steadied him.
“Whoops! Thank you, my lord. Prince Saumer is five measures outside Faolain Lowland—with the Vellant’im camped between him and it.”
Arlis paled. “The fool’s not going to attack!”
The boy shifted uncomfortably. “He was drawing maps in the dirt, my lord, first one strategy and then another.”
“Rohannon, go back. Talk to him. Stop him! Tell him that if he does this, when I catch up with him I’ll break both his arms and—”
“My lord . . . I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? You found him, you’re both Sunrunners, talk to him!”
“It doesn’t work that way.” Rohannon rubbed his forehead. “The only person I can talk to on sunlight is my father, and only because he controls the weave. Nobody’s ever taught me how to do it myself.”
“But you can speak to your father?”
“It’s kind of complicated. I find him and wait for him to feel my colors, and then he does all the rest.”
Arlis paced a few steps, easily balanced to the pitch of the deck. Then he swung around. “Find Maarken. Now. What he does for you, he can do for Saumer.”
Rohannon frowned all over his wind-burned face. “I think I can do that. If I show him Saumer’s colors, and if Saumer stays in the sunlight long enough for my father to—”
“I don’t care what you have to do, just do it.”
• • •
“What made you change your mind?”
Pol glanced around from tying down his saddlebags. His blue-green eyes were clear, candid, utterly without guile. Maarken knew that look, and what it hid.
“About what?” He stroked Azhenel’s glossy golden hide.
“Letting me ride with you. What did Chadric say?”
“Oh, he only reminded me that we’ve got a battle to plan. The last battle of this war, Goddess willing. What he asked me, and what I should have considered myself, was how could I do that without my Battle Commander?”
“My father held the title before me—and he’s forgotten more about war than any of us will ever know.”
“But he’s not a Sunrunner.” Pol finished the last knot, and turned. “We’ve got to use everything we have, Maarken. Everything.”
“So you need me.”
“Damned right I do.”
Maarken smiled at his cousin, thinking suddenly how like Rohan Pol could be. “I don’t believe you, but thank you anyway.”
“Believe what you like. It happens to be true.”
“Of course it is. But it’s not an argument our peaceful Chadric would have made.”
Pol laughed ruefully. “Caught! What he really said was embarrassing—that I need you to keep me from the consequences of my natural folly. I can see I’m going to have to work on the respect part of the High Prince’s job. When all I ruled was Princemarch, there were never so many people telling me what an idiot I am.”
“Well, you are,” Maarken said. “Let’s say our farewells and be off. We won’t make it to the first camp by evening if we don’t leave soon.”
They went into the keep, where Feylin was giving Kierun a satchel of medicines and Walvis was lecturing Kazander.
“—along the way to go Vellanti hunting, I’ll send word to your wives that a war wound has made you impotent and they’ll divorce you and marry other and better men before you can prove otherwise.”
Kazander moaned and clutched his chest. “The exalted athri, who already possesses the most wondrous of w
omen for his own selfish pleasure, cannot be so cruel as to spread such lies!”
“Watch me,” grinned Walvis, then threw his arms around the young man and lifted him off his feet. “Have a care to yourself.”
“I will, if I can ever breathe again!” When he was released, he turned and bowed deeply to Feylin, giving her the salute of his people and a long, languishing look from merrily dancing black eyes. “This unworthy one begs a smile from your perfect lips, to hold in his heart that shatters each time we part. But one smile only, for your husband is a jealous and vengeful man whose frowns fill me with terror and—”
“Oh, hush up!” Feylin exclaimed, and took him by the ears and kissed him.
“I will faint,” Kazander avowed. “I cannot bear the honor or the joy!”
Maarken shook his head in amazement. Kazander was two parts warrior, two parts poet, and all parts madman, but he was nothing if not entertaining.
Farewells were said all around. Sethric and Daniv left for the courtyard to make sure everything was ready; Kazander bowed to Audrite, spoke a more subdued version of his usual outrageousness, and vanished out the door. Riyan gave a few last orders to his steward and sent the man on his way. Maarken then noticed Alleyn and Audran fidgeting by the stairs. Brother whispered to sister, received a reluctant nod, and at last they approached Pol as he started for the main doors.
“Your grace,” said Alleyn, “may we please talk with you for just a moment? It won’t take long.”
Pol smiled down at the children. “Something I should tell Meath when we get to Feruche?”
“Oh yes, please tell him we miss him, but this is something else. We—”
Audran, more direct than his sister, tugged at Pol’s gloved hand. “Come and look, your grace.”
“What is it? The mirror?” Pol stood with them before it. Maarken joined them, drawn by the adult intensity of the children’s faces. “It belonged to Lord Riyan’s mother, the lady for whom Jeni is Named. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but—”
Again Audran interrupted. “There’s somebody in it.”
Pol didn’t even blink. “Besides us,” he said, not quite a question.