by Melanie Rawn
“Talk not fast. Prince you?”
“Prince me,” Miyon affirmed with a serene smile. “Warrior you.” He held up the bottle. “Wine?”
Hospitality counted with these people, it appeared. The man sheathed his sword and approached, taking no more notice of the guards than he would of rocks by the side of the road. He crouched down within arm’s reach of Miyon and grabbed the bottle. The wine was drained down his throat in two swallows.
“Good,” he pronounced, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “More?”
“Sorry, no,” Miyon lied. Savages indeed, to treat a vintage like this as if it were common cider. Sioned would be appalled. His lips twitched at the notion. Perhaps he’d share one of the remaining bottles with the High Warlord in her memory.
“Dencri,” the warrior said, thumping his own breastbone with a massive fist. “Clanmaster Storm Wheel.”
“Delighted to meet you. A charming name. I presume it means you were the death of your mother? My condolences. I am Miyon, Prince of Cunaxa.” He tapped his chest. “And I intend to get a good night’s rest. We have a busy morning ahead of us.”
Dencri frowned as Miyon pulled the blanket up and snuggled down to sleep. “Go now. Take princess.”
“Sleep now. Take princess tomorrow.”
Dencri’s brows met over the huge wedge of his nose. “Take now. This night.”
Miyon pillowed his head against the curve of the saddle. “I am the prince here, and I am going to sleep.”
The sword was drawn so quickly that its point was at his neck before the spitting sound of its unsheathing had faded. Miyon waved his men back and stared up at the Vellanti.
“Now,” Dencri reiterated needlessly.
“Hear me, Clanmaster.” He could feel the icy steel throb against his throat with every word. “Faradh’im see with sun and moons. Clouds tomorrow, see nothing. Princess comes near here tomorrow. Take tomorrow.”
“Faradh’im!” Dencri spat on the ground. Every last one of his fellows did the same. Miyon thought it politic to join them. Dencri replaced the sword in its scabbard. “No faradh’im see tomorrow?”
“Succinct and accurate, my eloquent friend.”
“Take princess tomorrow,” was the verdict.
“I’m so glad you see it that way. Make yourselves comfortable. Good night.”
Miyon wrapped the blanket around him and rolled onto his side, trying to ignore the sounds of Vellant’im settling in all around him. They made him nervous. But he needed them, for he had no intention of risking his own life—or his four personal guards—in seizing his daughter and grandchildren. The Vellant’im would do the work and Miyon would take the credit.
And Pol could prowl Feruche in agony at his leisure.
The picture made him smile, and on this happy thought he fell asleep, delicately snoring.
• • •
“Not a cloud in the sky, damn it,” Saumer muttered. “We’ll have to wait at least another day to get into Lowland. We can’t sneak past all those whoresons without rain to cover us.”
Havadi gave him a speculative look. “Your vocabulary has taken another turn for the worse, my lord.”
The young prince grinned tightly. “Did you ever meet my mother? She swore worse than ten drunken sailors telling filthy jokes. My father was always shocked, but Grandfather Volog used to laugh himself halfway to a seizure.” He lost his smile. “Once we’re inside Lowland, Havadi, I’m going to plot out a fight that’ll end only when every one of these—Vellant’im—are dead. And then I’m going to chop each one’s balls off and send them as a present to their High Warlord. And maybe then my parents will rest a little easier.”
“A fine plan, my lord,” the captain admitted. “Just make sure that in the doing—”
“That’s what you’re here for. To make sure I come out of this with my balls!” He bit his lip, suddenly looking seventeen again instead of thrice that. “It’ll be for Rihani, too. And Prince Kostas. And afterward, we’ll march to the Desert and kill all the rest of them.”
“We won’t be going back to High Kirat, then?”
“No. If there was any danger, Lady Hollis would have told me. What she did say was that Daniv confirms me as commander of his army—and wants it brought to him at Skybowl.” He kicked at a stone embedded in the mud. “It’ll be strange, giving up command to him. But I’ll be glad not to have all these worries on my shoulders anymore.”
“You’ve carried them better than most men,” Havadi coughed a sudden thickness from his throat. “I served Prince Kostas since his boyhood at River Run. I knew him. He’d be proud of you.”
Saumer glanced away, unwilling to show his own emotion. “I—I hope so. But we’re not finished with these Vellanti bastards yet.” He looked up at the sky once again and made a grim face. “Well, if we’re not going anywhere tonight, we might as well get some sleep.”
But he lay wakeful under the clear, shining stars for most of the night, aware of the elegant irony. Rain was a Sunrunner’s natural enemy. He was a Sunrunner who beseeched the Goddess for rain.
Chapter Twenty-six
Miyon was wrong about the morning clouds.
At midnight the moons and stars were blotted out by a storm that sent everything that could move scurrying for shelter. Draza woke Alasen when the rain began to fall, apologizing for having to crush their entire party into the stone shelter.
“Don’t be silly,” she replied. “No reason why everyone has to get soaked. Besides, it might make it a little warmer in here.”
Warm it was, with forty-eight men, women, and children packed inside a space meant to hold twenty-five. Feneol and Laroshin stayed outdoors with five of the guards to watch the horses, huddled miserably beneath the few trees, and to patrol the road for half a measure in either direction. Meiglan cradled Jihan in one arm and Rislyn in the other, admonishing the former every so often to hush and go back to sleep. Dannar, beside Alasen, eventually nodded off again, and it was a poignant joy to hold her son to her heart—possibly for the last time, for he was growing up so fast. But no one except the children slept for the remainder of the night.
Andry and Evarin, taking advantage of the moonlight, were caught on the road by the storm. By the time they found shelter beneath an overhanging rock, they were so sopping wet it hardly seemed worth the trouble. But a little Fire warmed them enough to stop their teeth chattering, and they, too, waited wakeful until dawn.
Miyon, already beneath a tree and wrapped in a blanket, merely rolled onto his other side and went back to sleep.
• • •
“Sun’s up, my lady,” Feneol whispered.
Alasen peered at the doorless entry. It was a tall gray rectangle now instead of just one more blank place in the night. But of sunshine there was none. “I’ll take your word for it,” she mumbled, shifting Dannar against her shoulder. Her adventure of the previous day ached in every bone of her body. “Sounds as if the rain has stopped, though.”
“A light mist, just enough to curl your hair, my lady.” He smiled down at the sleeping boy. “Or straighten his?”
“You could press it flat with a clothes iron and it’d only laugh at you.” She ruffled her son’s wild red hair. “Time to wake up, darling.”
Dannar snuggled closer to her side and buried his nose in the curve of her neck. Alasen grinned and hugged him.
“We’re heating water for taze, my lady,” Feneol told her. “And for a wash, if you’re inclined. Breakfast as soon as you’re ready.”
“Let everyone else eat, first. But I’d love a cup of taze as soon as you can manage it, Feneol.”
A little while later she was sharing the hot, bitter drink with Dannar, who was as grumbly as his father on first waking. The guards had all gone outside, leaving only the highborns of the party within the shelter. Lyela was coaxing Rabisa to drink some taze; Meiglan combed out Rislyn’s bright hair; Jihan stood in the center of the room, trying to juggle three pine cones.
All at once Meiglan
snapped, “For pity’s sake, sit down and stop making all that noise!”
“But I’ve almost got it, Mama.”
“I told you to stop! Come over here and let me do your hair. Now, Jihan!”
Sulkily, the girl obeyed, casting a resentful glance at Dannar. Alasen arched a brow at her son, who shrugged.
“I showed her how the other day at Elktrap. But you have to get pine cones the same size, or your hands get confused.”
“Ah. I see.”
Rislyn was hunched into her cloak and a blanket, shivering and mute. Jihan, noticing her twin’s discomfort, frowned and made a gesture with her right hand.
A small fire appeared near Rislyn’s feet.
Meiglan gasped and dropped the comb. Even Rabisa flinched, spilling taze from her cup.
“That’s very good, Jihan,” Alasen said, grateful that her voice was calm and even. “Did your father teach you how? Or Grandmother Sioned, perhaps?”
“No, your grace.” She looked over her shoulder at her mother, fidgeting nervously. “I just—I’m sorry, Mama, but Rislyn is cold, and—”
Meiglan was white-faced, the effort clearly visible as she said, “You . . . you startled me, Jihan.”
Alasen began to understand what it must be like to have a faradhi child. How would she feel the first time she saw her own Jeni call Fire, or wear that strange blank expression that meant she was Sunrunning?
“I can make it go away, mama,” Jihan offered meekly.
Abruptly, Alasen was angry. As deeply as her gift frightened her, she had never been ashamed of it.
Rising, sure that everyone could hear the creaks in her muscles, she crouched near Rislyn and warmed her hands over the flames. “Oh, that feels good! If you could keep this going a while, Jihan, I’m sure your sister will be nice and warm in no time.”
“It’s no trouble,” the little girl admitted. “I don’t even have to think about it much.”
With bloodlines like yours, I’ll just bet you don’t, Alasen thought. But I’m going to speak to your father and grandmother about you, my dear. You’re too young to know so much.
There were two kinds of Sunrunner’s Fire. One burned cold without consuming fuel. Sioned had explained it once as essentially a trick of conjured light, shaped into flame because that was the common reference. Candle fire or conflagration, the size depended on the amount of light a faradhi gathered and the skill of the gatherer. Sioned’s Fire dragon at Lowland had been an elaborate conjuring, using light but no heat.
The other kind of Fire truly burned. This was what Jihan had called just now. Alasen wondered if she knew the difference.
In due course, everyone was fed, the horses were saddled, and they started off again. A fine mist drifted down from indolent clouds, collecting on Alasen’s lashes even beneath the hood of her cloak. She wiped her eyes and cheeks so often it was if she were crying.
Rislyn nestled into her mother’s arms, too listless to ride by herself. A few questions had eased Meiglan’s mind of worry that she was coming down with silk-eye. It was only a cold, and weariness. The sooner they were home at Dragon’s Rest, the better.
Seeing all the attention her sister was receiving, Jihan predictably wanted to ride with someone, too. Just as predictably, her choice was Alasen. Meiglan drew breath to forbid it, but Alasen only shook her head and smiled, saying that she would be glad of the chance to talk with Jihan as they rode. So she took Jihan with her on Tiba. The girl perched in front of her in the saddle, holding the reins for her and chattering freely. Alasen nudged her around to what had happened during the weaving at Stronghold. As she’d expected, Jihan’s response to the revelation of her Sunrunner talents had been the exact opposite of Alasen’s own.
“—and it was beautiful, your grace, all the colors and shapes and things, but Papa kept chasing me and finally he caught me, and he’s wonderful, so strong and powerful, like Granda Sioned only different. But he’s her son, wouldn’t they be almost the same, and me and Rislyn the same as him?”
“I don’t think it works like that, Jihan.”
“Oh. It should. People who are in the same family should have colors like each other.” Jihan glanced over her shoulder, blue eyes brilliant. “I saw Jeni, too, you know. She’s so pretty—all blues and golds, and kind of a soft glowy white like Mama’s moonstone necklet.”
“Sunrunners name their colors after gemstones.”
“Do they? I didn’t know that. So Jeni must be sapphire, and moonstone, and—” She frowned. “It’s not like Grandsir Rohan’s ring, but I guess it’s topaz. My Papa has the ring now, your grace.”
“I know.”
“He’s High Prince. Mama’s High Princess. But is Granda Sioned still High Princess, too?”
“Yes. Just like Lady Rabisa is still Lady of Tuath Castle, even though her son Jeren is now its lord.”
“Lady Rabisa is so sad, isn’t she?” Jihan lowered her voice. “I try to talk to her, but she doesn’t say anything. I don’t think she even sees me. Why is she so quiet and strange?”
“Because Lord Jahnavi is dead.”
Tiba reached with sharp white teeth for a tuft of grass; Jihan tugged her gently but firmly back to the trail. “Grandsir is dead, too. Granda didn’t say anything for a long, long time after. But not like Lady Rabisa. Lord Jahnavi came to Dragon’s Rest once, back when we were little, and played with us. He gave us earrings made of sand jade, too. Do you have a lot of jewels?”
Alasen smiled, thinking of the huge coffer on her dressing table at Castle Crag. It overflowed with trinkets both of her own choosing and lavished on her by an indulgent husband who nevertheless complained about her extravagance—and paid the bills. “Oh, a few.”
“Mama has lots and lots, but she only wears them for the Rialla. Your necklet is pretty—I like the sapphire. Is it from Lord Ostvel?”
“Yes, he gave it to me when Jeni was born. The sapphire is for her, the pearl for Milar, and the amethyst for Dannar.”
“Because Dannar will be Lord of Castle Crag one day, and that’s in Princemarch, and our gem is amethyst! I’m amethyst, too.”
“Are you?” Alasen knew she wasn’t talking about jewelry.
“And emerald like Granda and Papa, and something dark red—what would that be? Not like the stones in Maarken’s Sunrunner rings, those are rubies.”
“Garnet, I should think.”
“Garnet.” She nodded. “And bits of shiny black, like some of the stones at Skybowl that cut if you’re not careful.”
“That’s obsidian—black glass. I think Sunrunners use onyx.”
“Granda has it, too, just like me. So maybe colors really do run in families. What are yours?”
Alasen blinked. “I don’t know.”
Jihan was quiet for a moment, then squirmed around in the saddle and stared very hard at Alasen. “Oh! You have onyx, too! And moonstone like Jeni. But your red isn’t like mine, it’s rubies. You’re very beautiful,” she added shyly.
“Thank you,” Alasen replied automatically, stunned. Calling Fire at eight winters old, able to see another Sunrunner’s colors—a Sunrunner who didn’t even know her own—definitely she would have to speak to Pol and Sioned about this child.
“You’re welcome,” Jihan said, facing forward again. “Can I call you Alasen? Mama says you’re from Kierst, and that’s my Granda’s family, so we’re cousins, aren’t we?”
“Yes, Jihan, you may call me Alasen.”
“Thank you. Who’s that man?”
She felt rather like shaking her head to resettle her brains. She’d forgotten what it was like to spend time with a ruthlessly curious child. “What man?”
“The one with Laroshin, coming this way. He looks funny.”
Alasen saw them—Pol’s captain and a tall, plainly dressed, pale-haired man whose intense dark eyes stared straight at her. She didn’t recognize him, but something about his gaze made her stiffen. He regarded her too closely for a chance-met traveler—and who in his right mind would tra
vel this road in mid-winter anyway, unless he absolutely had to?
“He looks like his face doesn’t fit,” Jihan said, and giggled.
Alasen began to understand poor Meiglan’s constant chiding. “It’s not polite to say such things where someone can hear you.”
“I know how to behave,” the child pouted. “I’ve had lessons.”
“Your grace,” Laroshin said as he neared, the unknown man riding a little behind him, “this merchant, Master—what was your name again?”
“Sorindal, your grace,” the man said.
“Master Sorindal asks if he and his companion may ride with us to Feruche.”
“You have business there?” Alasen asked politely.
He nodded his fair, rain-dampened head. “I come for Cunaxan arms and armor, your grace. Usually I deal in gold and silver, but in these times, it’s steel that’s needed. I do what I can.”
“Commendable, but surely foolhardy to travel so far, and under these conditions, Master Sorindal.”
“And yet your grace is in the saddle, and, if I’m not mistaken, the High Princess as well. I have been to Dragon’s Rest for the Rialla Fair, your grace. I recognize the gentle and lovely Princess Meiglan.”
Jihan shifted against Alasen and said, “Master Sorindal, why—”
She got no further. For at that moment, from the cover of the rocks and trees around them, sprang half a hundred bearded men, bellowing “Diarmadh’im! Diarmadh’im!” as if with a single voice.
• • •
Pol was so numb with fatigue that he barely saw the outlines of the garrison buildings below Feruche. Sometime during the night his brain had for some reason begun calculating the number of measures he’d ridden since Autumn. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to Remagev to Stronghold to Feruche to Zagroy’s Pillar—no, Skybowl had come between Stronghold and Feruche. Begin again. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to Remagev to Stronghold to—now he’d forgotten the chase he’d led part of the Vellanti army after Remagev. Once more. Dragon’s Rest to Radzyn to. . . .
When he reached something over two thousand measures, he decided he didn’t want to know. Every one of them, counted or not, seemed to stretch between the Desert floor and the castle on the cliff. When his exhausted stallion tottered into the courtyard, Pol dropped the reins and slid from the saddle and very nearly fell to his knees.