Melanie Rawn - Dragon Star 3 - Skybowl

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PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

She appeared without warning, balanced exquisitely on a carpet of sunlight, crowned in stars. When

she smiled at him, all the sweetness and serenity that ever were shone from her face. Beautiful,

of course—though he could not have defined the color of her eyes, or her hair, or her skin. She

was all he had ever dreamed, many things he had never dared imagine, and she was here, with him,

smiling. He reached out a reverent hand, hoping he would be allowed to touch her.

"No," she murmured, her voice softly throaty, "not yet, my dear. All things in time."

Her starry crown brightened, pulsing in rhythm with his quick heartbeats, dazzling his eyes. He

drew back slightly, frightened of power for the first time in his life. But he could not look

away, for from that arc of brilliant light shot clear, fiery sparks, each expanding to a

crystalline sphere. She juggled them easily, almost whimsically, all twelve in turn caught and

then tossed high by elegant fingers.

Within each was a castle. Stronghold, Radzyn, Tiglath, Skybowl, Remagev, Swalekeep, Castle Crag,

Balarat, Tuath, Goddess Keep—he knew those well, but two were strange to his eyes. He tried to

follow their movements, tried to discern the patterns of wall and tower and court.

"Too fast?" she asked. Suddenly the spheres were suspended in midair, the two unfamiliar castles

resting delicately on her fingertips. She held one iridescent globe out to him.

"The Feruche that was, before it was taken by Fire."

Yes, he recognized it now, from drawings. Not half so beautiful as the Feruche Sorin had created,

and very much older.

She extended her right hand, and he saw a strong, soaring tower, surrounded by a trim village of

wooden houses glowing with stained-glass windows, unprotected by walls.

"This was mine, before the building of the place you now 'hold."

And when he saw the crystal dome that was oratory and calendar and mathematical triumph, he knew

that he looked upon the ancient Sunrunner keep on Dorval.

More. He looked upon the Goddess.

She was toying with the castle-spheres again. They rose and fell at the flick of her fingers. All

at once she gestured, and they hovered in a straight line before her.

Stronghold fell and shattered.

And Tuath.

Feruche.

Remagev.

The castle on Dorval that no one living had ever seen.

"Wait!" he cried. "Not Radzyn! Please!"

"No. You have already paid for your home. But one other will fall."

Which one? Swalekeep—where Ostvel was, making Alasen a widow? Tiglath—to further break Sionell's

heart? Castle Crag? Skybowl? Balarat?

Goddess Keep?

"I can't choose!"

"Have 1 asked you to?" Her laughter was sunlight on diamonds. She began to juggle the remaining

castles once more, swifter than his eyes could follow.

"Then why—?"

"Because they are still in danger."

"You said I paid for Radzyn. How?" He thought of Brenlis.

The lovely features drew into an expression of shock. "Not with pain. I am not so cruel as all

that. You paid with belief. "

Of course. What other coin would Deity accept?

"Is it possible to do the same for—-"

"Which one?"

As unable as he had been to choose a castle to destroy, neither could he choose one to save.

She was smiling again. Her eyes were green and then blue, black and then hazel and then gray. Her

hair was spun sunlight—no, fiery red—no, soft brown—black—-pure silver. She was his mother and

Sioned and Andrade and Hollis and Brenlis and even Alasen.

"You see how difficult power can be. One more will fall. But which?"

She flung all the spheres up into the air. He watched helplessly holding his breath, heart stopped

in his chest. Higher, Higher, seven glowing globes, shrinking to pinpoints of light that circled

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into a crown of stars....

••Andry? My Lord, wake up." The voice was urgent, familiar. "Andry!"

He opened his eyes. Evarin; only him. "Where is she?" he muttered thickly.

The Master Physician sagged with relief. "About time you came out of it. Don't worry about

Princess Alasen. She's on her way to Feruche. She should get there tomorrow sometime. I had a look

earlier, while you were sleeping. Then this fever came over you like a summer squall, and it was

all I could do to get a cure down your throat. How do you feel now?"

"Cold." Drenched in sweat, Andry huddled into a sopping blanket.

Evarin produced a dry one that reeked of horse. Andry found the smell comforting. He stripped off

wet clothes and wrapped himself in the wool. Then he drank whatever Evarin gave him and lay back

weakly.

A little Fire glimmered nearby, warming the darkness of a small stone shelter. "Where are we?"

"One of Lord Garic's way stations. Before you ask, we got here on horseback. Undignified, but

there weren't any artists around to note the pose for a commemorative portrait, so—"

"Stop babbling and tell me what happened." Then, looking more closely at Evarin's face, he said

gently, "You've got a fever, yourself. How's the leg?"

The young man shrugged. "It'll do."

"Where'd the horse come from?"

"Your horse, actually. He wandered back. You don't remember?"

"No."

"Well, you got a pretty nasty crack on the head today.

Your memory may play tricks for a while. Anyway, we heard hoofbeats, and you tried some whistle or

other, and your stallion came trotting up—well, limping, actually. You took the stone from his

hoof, and—you really don't remember?"

"None of it. But I'm glad you didn't have to do all the work yourself. I presume we got on the

horse and started riding?"

"I doubt you'd call it that." He grinned tiredly. "Your father'd be appalled—or laugh himself

senseless, one of the two, seeing us. And I'm babbling again, so I think I'll let you take the

watch for a while."

''Yes, get some rest. Is there anything to eat?"

"Water and what was in your saddlebags." Evarin reached out and dragged the leather satchels over.

"Dry clothes, too."

"Good. You lie down and sleep. I'll tend the Fire."

One moment Evarin's little blaze faded, and the next Andry called Fire to the same spot. The

exchange was made smoothly; at least the injury to his head hadn't played foul with his gifts. The

physician curled himself into another blanket and was asleep between one breath and the next.

Andry changed clothes, keeping the blanket like a shawl over his shoulders. It was bitterly cold,

but his need for warmth had more to do with his guts than his skin.

"One will fall...."

But which? Oh, Goddess, which one?

He took hard bread and cheese from his saddlebags and went to the shelter doorway. He had no sense

of time; it might have been anywhere from just after dusk to just before dawn. There must have

been a clear sky earlier, or Evarin wouldn't have been able to go looking for Alasen, but now only

faint, milky luminescence showed where the moons lurked behind the clouds. The unusable light

mocked him.

Which would fall?

Not Radzyn. She said he had bought it with his belief. He remembered his dreams of death and

destruction. She had shown him what might happen, and he had believed.

Tiglath, then? Evarin, on their long ride before the disaster of today, had told him all he knew

of events. The Vellant'im had sailed to Tiglath, attacked, been repulsed, and departed. Tallain

had died defending his castle, but the castle still stood. They had tried to take it once. They

had failed. There was no reason to think they might attempt it again.

Not so with Goddess Keep. Seven ships were in Brochwell Bay even now. But Torien and the other

devr'im Knew how to protect themselves. Prince Elsen of Grib was nding south with troops in answer

to Torien's call for aid. The prince's sister Norian was on her way from Dragon's Rest with her

husband, Edrel of River Ussh. They would provide more traditional defense than the spells used by

the devr'im. With sudden wryness, he reminded himself that Jayachin was there, too—and nothing

would prevent her from doing everything she could to uphold her own safety and her new position as

unofficial athri of the refugees out-Mde the walls.

No, it would not be Goddess Keep.

Castle Crag was too remote for the Vellant'im to bother

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*ith. But not, he realized with a start, for Chiana. It had always been her goal to rule there.

Onee she realized that no Vellanti or sorcerous help would be coming to her at Rezeld Manor, she

might decide to fulfill her lifelong ambition. Ostvel was at Swalekeep; Alasen was at Feruche; all

their troops and the levies from the surrounding Veresch were with one or the other. There was no

one left to defend Castle Crag. Would it be the one to fall?

Perhaps Swalekeep. No, the Vellant'im had tried once there, too, and failed. There was no military

profit in the place, anyway.

That brought him to think of Balarat, up in Firon and equally irrelevant in terms of securing the

continent—which

* as obviously not the invaders' intention to begin with. Politically, however, the place

presented dangers. Yarin of Snowcoves occupied the castle and held in custody the rightful

prince's young heir. Regaining Balarat would present a pretty problem. But if it fell to Prince

Lark, would that not be returning it to its rightful owner? This hardly constituted the kind of

"fall" he felt sure the Goddess had meant.

Lastly, there was Skybowl. Something inside him quickened. A Desert castle. The Vellant'im had

concentrated on

*uch; it was the next logical place to seize on the way to Feruche, where Pol was; it was a place

of dragons.

If the choice was his, then it would be Skybowl. The sixth dnd last to fall. It could not be

bought back from the Goddess' claim, not even with faith. A battle would be fought there. Men and

women would die there. Skybowl would go the way of Stronghold.

Andry knew all the castles of the Desert. He had visited them in childhood, before going first to

High Kirat and his abbreviated service as Prince Davvi's squire and then to Goddess Keep, where he

had always wanted to be. Stronghold was destroyed, as was Tuath; Radzyn still stood, though in

enemy hands. Skybowl and Tiglath were held fast. And Feruche—

Of them all, next to Radzyn, Feruche was dearest to him. It was his dead twin brother's work, his

legacy of beauty and strength. Sorin's very spirit lived within its walls and towers.

Stronghold and Tuath were gone. He had bought Radzyn's safety. Remagev was useless to the enemy,

as was Tiglath now that the Merida were shattered. If it came to a choice between Skybowl and

Feruche, there was no choice. Skybowl would be the sacrifice. The sixth and last offering to the

Goddess.

No, that wasn't quite right. She was not so cruel, she had said so. Then why must another castle

fall?

His head ached with it, his heart in turmoil. He gave it up, but for one clear decision: Feruche

would not be the one to fall.

Faint sounds intruded on his thoughts—familiar sounds that should have blended into his

consciousness unheeded. What had this barren land done to him, that noises heard from childhood

caught his attention as the strange noises of the Desert did not? The ring of steel on stone, the

call of the master masons, the grunts of the slaves—all the sounds of the quarry that was his

family's wealth. Good, solid granite with beautiful black graining, cut into smooth blocks to

build homes and temples as far away as Kersau, the Island of the Blind....

But those sounds did not belong here. Wind, the occasional clatter of sandstone pebbles, the

whisper of sand underfoot—the Desert had its own music, and he had reluctantly learned to

appreciate it. The cutting of stone, however, was as alien here as he.

Coming out of his tent, he fixed a cold gaze on the Flametower, all that could be seen of

Stronghold from his camp. A single lifted finger brought a guard running, a horse

[rotting along behind. He mounted, galloped up the slope to the canyon, and bent his head as he

went through the tunnel.

They were using picks on the cobbles of the outer court->ard. They were hacking away at the walls.

They were gouging mortar from the foundation stones.

They stopped when they saw him, and knelt before him in their hundreds, proud of what they had

accomplished.

He spoke very softly into the hush. "The priest?"

"In the gardens, O Most High," someone said to the broken cobbles.

"Bring him."

Someone else scrambled to his feet and, after bowing to him where he sat the stallion, raced for

the inner gardens. A few of the others risked a glance upward. He ignored them.

The priest did not hurry. His strides were long with confidence, but he did not hurry. Nor did he

bow. His voice was rich and smug.

"Since the Fire was chased away by your righteousness, lord, I have been thinking how best to

drive the lingering evil from this place. After much prayer, the solution was vouchsafed me: bring

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the castle down around itself."

They had sent him another priest from Radzyn to replace the one who had met his demise at Skybowl.

A very young priest. Only someone just out of Sanctuary would use a word like "vouchsafe."

Repressing a sigh, he let his gaze travel slowly from the gatehouse to the walls to the vast

looming bulk of Stronghold. "That may take some time."

"It must be done, lord," the priest said firmly. "This is a >ource of the Azhrei's power. It must

fall."

It has been burned to a crisp—what more do you want? he thought. What he said was, "And had you

considered the demons that might still lurk within?"

The young face glowed with sunburn and fervor. "The Father of Storms will protect us."

"Had you noticed," he continued as if the priest had not spoken, "how the Dragon Sign is

everywhere here?"

"We are being careful to eradicate all of them."

"I'm sure you are." He paused, knowing this must be phrased exactly right. They were all

listening, even though they pretended not to; it was not the first time he had faced off with a

priest, and this pompous little half-beard was beginning to annoy him.

"I'm puzzled," said the High Warlord, crossing his wrists casually on the pommel of his saddle.

"If Stronghold is razed, will the Azhrei's power die?"

"No, he carries the taint and the sin with him. But—"

"If all Dragon Sign is defaced, will the Azhrei's power die?"

"No, he will only call forth other dragons of his cursed Fire. But—"

"My lord priest," he said with respectful curiosity, "how will we rid this land and the Father's

Sacred Dragons of the Azhrei's power?"

"By killing the Azhrei himself, of course," came the impatient reply. "That is why we came to this

horrible dead place where nothing grows because of the sins of—"

It may be why you came, he thought. "Then why?" He swept an arm wide. "What does it gain but sore

backs and crushed sword-hands?"

Someone coughed, and in the sound was amusement.

Plump cheeks turned redder above the scraggly beard. "It is necessary."

"I don't see why. It seems to me that killing the Azhrei's castle accomplishes very little, when

killing the Azhrei himself would not only rid the dragons of his evil, but all the land and all

its castles as well."

The priest's forehead congested with blood. "It is necessary," he repeated stubbornly.

You damned idiot! he wanted to shout. You're using up their strength that should be saved for

battle, and for a stupid superstition—for nothing!

"As you say," he remarked instead. "Tell me, for you have studied things I have not, what would be

the source of power in this place?"

"The Dragon Signs." Suddenly he looked halfway intelligent—and as if he wanted to cut out his own

tongue for having fallen into the trap. It was tempting to offer him a knife to do it with.

The High Warlord continued, "Then perhaps if those were taken care of. this long and dangerous

task of bringing the keep down around itself would not be necessary?"

The priest glanced around him. It was a terrible mistake. Not one face was to be seen, only bowed

heads. But everyone knew he had searched for support; everyone knew his

weakness as he realized that he was not the one who truly commanded here.

At least the fool knew when he was overmatched. "I hadn't thought of it that way. In my zeal—"

"—which is commendable," the High Warlord interrupted gently before the youngling could make an

even bigger spectacle of himself. Authority had been established; humiliation was to be avoided.

"You rejoice in the purity of your calling and the advantage of scholarship. I am only a

warrior—ignorant of the deeper mysteries, too concerned with worldly things." He leaned down a

little, as if wanting to speak confidentially. He could practically feel the hundreds sharpen

their hearing on mental whetstones. "You know, I can't help thinking of their wives. Palms

roughened by calluses of sword and shield are marks of honor, but very different from those left

by working stone. These would not be pleasing to a woman's pride as a wife—or to her skin. And

there are times when even the Father of Winds cannot howl as loudly as an angry woman."

No one dared even clear his throat this time.

The priest shifted his legs—between which there was lacking certain equipment essential to

conjugal relations— and shrugged his shoulders. "Sometimes we priests forget the more practical

and, as you say, worldly considerations."

"You are fortunate to be able to do so," he replied with good humor. "The Dragon Signs, then—and

we shall see how it affects the power of this Azhrei who is steeped in sin."

The priest drew himself up proudly. "And when shall he steep in his own blood?" he challenged.

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He supposed he was owed that, after the rebuke. "The vision was a true one. It shall be done when

the ritual is completed."

"You are making plans to that end?"

He wished he knew where the deadfalls were at Stronghold; he would take significant pleasure in

pushing the priest into one.

"I am." He raised his head to the Flametower. "You might start up there. Dragons sleep atop every

one of those pointed windows."

Turning his horse, he rode from Stronghold. Out in the Desert once more, he gave in to impulse and

urged the stallion to a gallop across the sand, far from the idiots he must suffer for his greater

purpose.

He knew the priests were restless. It was their customary condition, and did not trouble him

overmuch. But this matter of the Desert castles was irksome. The priests wanted so much to

obliterate at least one.

It hadn't been necessary to forbid the destruction of Radzyn and Whitecliff; the priests had

seized on their luxuries gladly. Remagev survived because the old Azhrei had fled it—and the traps

inside were too numerous to risk. The priests had grumbled at that, but all he'd had to do was

comment that anyone willing to brave the spells left behind was welcome to do so for the glory of

his clan. Faolain Riverport mattered nothing to him. It was too new to be of importance. The

Merida had demolished and burned Tuath Castle, forgetting all the subtlety of their origins in

their passionate vengeance. As assassins, the only token of their existence was the broken glass

knife left in a victim's heart. But as conquerors, they became as children smashing a coveted toy

for spite.

Feruche mattered little, except that it now sheltered the Azhrei. And her. he reminded himself,

reining in to gaze out at the empty vastness of her Desert. She was why he wanted Stronghold to

remain standing. If the Storm Father was good to him, he would be able to see her, perhaps even

touch her, before the ending. If circumstances were different, he would have named her as the

prize, not the new Azhrei's wife. But things were as they were, and in fact he was glad that she

would not be in the charge of the priests.

Although, he told himself with an inner grin, it would have been a wonder and an education to see.

Turning, he saw the sun balance atop the Flametower. Soon it would glow through the topmost

chamber, almost as if the old Azhrei's fire still burned.

It did not. The young one's Fire would never be lit. Eventually he would leave Feruche and they

would face each other in battle at last. And then, after the victory, the true prize would be

taken.

Skybowl.

Andry let Evarin sleep himself out. When the young man finally woke on his own at midmorning, hot

taze and toasted bread and cheese were waiting for him. The physician ate,

tended to his own and Andry's wounds, and pronounced them fit for travel.

"Elktrap?" he asked as Andry hoisted him into the saddle.

"I'd rather go straight on to Feruche if you can make it." Taking the reins, he started walking.

Though Radzyn horses were strong, this one still favored his near foreleg a bit.

Just past noon they reached a shortcut Andry remembered from a map. No need to trust his memory,

though; the trail was trampled down, clearly visible. Alasen had come through only yesterday. No

subsequent rain or snowfall obscured the tracks.

A sluggish breeze began to stir halfway through a gray afternoon. Measure after measure, Andry put

one foot in front of the other, ignoring the throbbing in his head, refusing to consider what was

and what might be. Eventually he was unable to think past the next step. His body was beyond

weariness, numb with cold; his mind found comfort in sodden exhaustion.

But what was permissible and even desirable for him was not allowed his horse. They might have

continued by dark, a fingerflame lighting their way, but the stallion was exhausted and limping

badly. So when the pale, stubborn glow of the sun was a fingerspan above the western crags, Andry

called a halt.

Evarin stirred blearily in the saddle. "We there yet?"

"No. I have to build a shelter while there's light enough to work. You're tonight's cook. Surely

all those years of brewing potions qualifies you."

Evarin rallied a little as he was helped off the horse. "Febrifuges and eye ointments aren't

stuffed venison with moss-berry sauce. I can boil water."

"That's more than Sioned can do." He settled his friend on a flat rock cleared of snow. "I know, I

know, a princess isn't expected to cook. But she can't even brew a drinkable cup of taze. Speaking

of which, here's a pot, and there's the snow. I'll be back soon."

Andry left the saddlebags where Evarin could reach them, tethered the horse, and started off into

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the trees. Snow would be thin on the ground beneath the gigantic pines, and he had every

expectation of finding branches suitable for his purpose. He had collected nearly a dozen—needles

still green, limbs still supple enough to bend—when he came upon a rabbit burrow. He'd never been

much good at hunting large

game, but he'd caught plenty of sand-nesting creatures in his childhood. Rabbits couldn't be much

more difficult.

He was wrong.

Sighing, he cast aside the stick he'd been using in a doomed attempt to coax the bleating animal

from its den. So much for rabbit stew tonight. But on his way back, lugging heavy branches, he had

the good fortune to find a brave, bedraggled clump of wolfpaw growing around a tiny frozen pond.

Everything about the plants, from golden-brown flowers to pulpy root, was edible, nourishing, and

delicious when soaked in wine. Hoping Evarin hadn't drunk all of what he'd liberated from Pol's

cellars, he crouched down to harvest dinner.

The pond was no more than a puddle, barely an armspan across, and the trees formed nothing

resembling a circle. But all at once Andry sat back on his heels, breathing hard. The stones

rimming the pool had been set there deliberately.

He'd heard of two tree-circles in his life: one near Goddess Keep, the other close to the ruins of

Lady Merisel's castle on Dorval. He'd never even considered that there might be others.

Or that they might be used by the diarmadh'im. Stoneburners.

Was the Goddess here? Was this her place? Had it once belonged to her and been corrupted?

Only one way to find out.

He stripped off his gloves and pocketed them, and let his cloak fall from his shoulders. There was

no question of removing the rest of his clothes; he wasn't suicidal and doubted that the Goddess

wanted the Lord of her Keep to freeze to death. After closing his eyes for a few moments to steady

his mind and his breathing, he gazed at the stone directly opposite him. It was larger than the

others, upright in the frozen mud like an arm reaching for the sky. He would call Fire to it, let

it cascade down to melt the ice, and then pluck a hair from his head to float on the freed

water....

But at the first glimmer of Fire, the stone itself turned to flame. Angry crimson burst head-high,

then bled in a swift circle to ignite all the rocks. Andry flinched back and bade the Fire be

gone.

It burned brighter than ever.

Within the circle, the sheet of ice reflected living Fire. Across the mirrorlike surface swirled

furious shadows

painted in red and yellow and orange. His hands shook as he tugged a single hair from his

nape—startled to find it was a gray one—and let it fall onto the solid, unmelting ice.

Fire, Water, the Earth of which he was made. One more thing would finish the gathering of

Elements—and somehow he knew that if he did not breathe Air across the pond, the flames would burn

forever. This was a ritual that demanded completion. But for Andry, it was like being trapped in a

dream, struggling to wake, desperately aware that until it was over there would be no escape.

It was not his breath but the Storm God's that blew across the ice and flames, scattering shadows.

The pond was truly a mirror now—a diarmadhi mirror, not reflecting what was before it but

revealing what was inside it.

And unlike the mirror he'd found in the Veresch, this one did not show the living. Every face he

saw was the face of someone dead.

He knew them, had seen them since childhood or at Riall'im or in Fire conjurings that showed

others how to recognize them. Halian of Meadowlord, the Parchment Prince; black-eyed Miyon of

Cunaxa; hawk-nosed Kostas of Syr. Volog and Latham of Kierst, father and son, alike in features

but not in the marks of age and rule. The brothers Edirne and Camanto of Fessenden, utterly

unalike. And the youngest, and the most regrettable death: Rihani of Ossetia.

One after another the faces of dead princes appeared and were consumed in flames, just as the

castles had been dropped and shattered.

The price of this war? The sacrifices? What might have bought their lives?

Kostas, assassinated by a Merida. Rihani, dead of wounds. Halian and Latham murdered. Volog alone

had succumbed to natural causes. Edirne had been killed in an accident. Miyon's death had been an

execution as far as Andry was concerned. He didn't know how Camanto had died—hadn't even been

aware of his death, in fact, until now.

But if this was the tally of princes sacrificed to this war, where was Rohan?

Andry sat back on his heels, tearing his gaze from the empty ice-mirror to stare at the trees.

Though they formed only an arc, not a circle, around him, they were easily identified. The one

directly to his left was the Child; next to it, Youth. A flowering bush, naked now in winter,

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intervened

between that tree and the one that must represent the Man. Beside it was the Father. And just to

Andry's right was a massive pine that could only be the Graybeard.

Would there be any answer, in this place that seized Fire and gave it independent life to mirror

the faces of the dead?

Long ago he had consulted other trees at the proper time. At Goddess Keep the pines formed an

elegant circle around a larger forest pool with its rock cairn. He had asked his questions of all

the trees—except the Graybeard. Not many had the courage to look into their old age until it was

actually upon them. And by then questions generally lost their importance anyway, if one was lucky

enough to be granted a placid finish to life.

Andry had the depressing feeling that his own old age would be as turbulent as his youth.

He shifted slightly, biting his lip. Then he plunged his bare hands through the Fire and into the

ice, and faced the mighty tree.

The ice shards cut like crystal. Needles of pain drove into his knuckles, bringing a muffled cry

to his lips. The Fire atop the standing stone flared once more, and in it he saw the face of a

man.

No. The face of the God.

He was like unto the Goddess in that his terrible beauty had no specific feature. He was Rohan and

Meath and old Prince Lleyn; he was Torien, Pol, and Walvis. He was Andry's father and grandfather

and brothers and sons. Ostvel's gray eyes became Roelstra's leaf-green, Tallain's deep brown, and

then a clear sapphire blue.

He was ... Andry.

A voice smooth and hard as polished stone reverberated in his mind. No one calls Fire here now. No

one comes to see the faces of the dead,

Andry caught his breath in an instinctive protest, then realized his foolishness. Everyone died.

No bargain could be struck here—his faith for a life as it had purchased Radzyn.

You, the voice accused, you are not of the Old Blood. You are afraid. Go. Return when you

understand.

The Fire died. The face that was all faces and none faded into the broken ice. The stones were

only stones. Wind whispered in the pines, finding lonely echo in Andry's soul. He slid his hands

from the water and stared at them as if unsure

they were his. The skin was stung scarlet with cold, the nails blue.

It was a long time before his fingers warmed enough to use. He fumbled with his gloves, drew his

sodden cloak back .up around him, and pushed himself stiffly to his feet.

Evarin was nodding over steaming taze. He glanced up when Andry trudged from the wood with his

branches and his pockets full of wolfpaw.

"I was beginning to worry, my Lord. It's getting dark."

"Yes," Andry agreed. "Very."

"... hundreds and thousands of them, more than anyone could ever count. But even with all those

stars, people were frightened by the night. So they learned how to make torches, and candles, and

lamps, but it wasn't enough."

The sound of Pol's soft voice stopped Sionell just outside the half-open bedchamber door. She

waited, listening as he told an old, old legend; it had been one of her own favorites as a child.

"Now, as it happened, there were three sisters who had very special gifts. The eldest of them

could speak with trees, and the second one could speak with clouds, and the youngest could speak

with dragons."

"Like you," Jihan's voice said smugly.

"Well, not quite. Anyway, the sisters thought for a long time about the night's darkness and

finally decided on a plan. The first asked the trees in the forest to fashion three boats. The

second asked the clouds to spin themselves into sails. The third asked a few dragons to carry them

on their backs far up into the sky, until the starry wind caught their sails. Soon everything was

ready. Trees had built themselves into boats, and clouds were hung from the masts, and dragons

hunkered down to take the boats on their backs, and the three sisters stood at the prows. Up they

went, into the dark sky without sunlight, until the wind caught their sails. The dragons flew back

home.

"Then the sisters called Fire to their boats, beautiful silver and gold that shone from the

curving hulls and billowing sails. And just the way a candle makes a circle on a window-pane, the

light glowing from the ships made great circles in the sky.

"Down below, the night was not so dark as it had been. The three sisters sailed their boats across

the sky, and looked down from the prows onto the land, where people took heart that there was

light in the darkness.

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"But after a while they realized that they'd forgotten something. With the clouds as their sails,

there was nothing for the rain and snow to fall from. Fields withered, and rivers dried up, and

only the places where water came directly from the ground could still—"

"Like at Stronghold," Jihan interrupted.

"Yes, like the spring at Stronghold. But one or two springs, or even a hundred, couldn't water the

whole world. So the sisters decided that part of the time, they'd have to do without their sails,

so that the clouds could give the water a place to live before it came back down as rain. And

that's why tonight the sisters are drifting through the sky in their curving boats, for their

cloudy sails are somewhere making a home for the rain."

"And that's also why there's a lady at the front of every -hip. isn't that right. Papa?"

"Absolutely right. Sailors and shipmasters call them the vsary watchers' because, like the three

sisters, they're always keeping an eye out for clouds."

"The sisters must have been Sunrunners," said a new voice—Tobren's. A predictable remark,

considering who her father was, Sionell thought, then berated herself for the injustice.

"Or sorcerers," contributed Jihan.

"No, they weren't," Tobren stated. "They use the stars, not the moons."

"But Sunrunners get sick when they sail," said Antalya, and Sionell nearly marched into the room

to demand the reason why her daughter wasn't in her own bed. Though recovering and no longer

contagious, she was barely over her fever.

"So it can't be Sunrunners," Jihan said triumphantly.

"It's not Water up in the sky, it's Air," was Tobren's superior reply.

"Well ... so what," Jihan muttered. "Papa, it could have been sorcerers, couldn't it?"

"Not being in a position to ask the three ladies, I really couldn't say. And I think it's time you

settled down for the

night. It's late and I thought we were only going to have one story, not four."

Once again Sionell took a step, intending to enter the room. Once again the conversation inside

stopped her.

"I'm going to be a Sunrunner when I grow up," Jihan announced. "So is Rislyn. And so is Talya, and

Meig, and Maara—and you, too, Tobren," she added.

SionelFs knees went a little weak. She'd known about her daughter, but—Meig? And how did Jihan

know, anyway?

Pol's voice was even and easy as he said, "If so, you'd better follow Meig's example and get some

sleep. Being a Sunrunner is hard work."

"No, it's not," Jihan said, encouraged—As if that child needed any encouragement, Sionell mused—by

her father's acceptance of her statements. "See what I can do already, Papa?"

Pol gave a startled exclamation. Tobren cried out. Goddess, what has she done? Sionell thought

frantically, and flung open the door.

The room was brilliant with light. A branch of candles over by the windows was ablaze—not just the

wicks but the wax and the iron stand as well, perilously near a tapestry curtain.

Sionell sidestepped a chair and snagged the cloak draped carelessly over its back. The heavy, soft

wool was enough to smother the flames.

Catching her breath, she turned around. Pol was struggling to untangle himself from children and

coverlet on the bed. Tobren's face was white with shock; Antalya seemed only thoughtful and

curious. Meig, bless him, was curled at the foot of the bed like a kitten, sound asleep.

Jihan perched on a pillow, hands folded demurely in her lap. "You didn't have to do that, Lady

Sionell. I would have put it out myself."

"But not before you burned up half the room," Sionell responded. "It got away from you, didn't

it?"

"Well, some," she admitted unwillingly.

Pol was on his feet now, looking down at his daughter with eyes of solid stone. "Jihan."

"Yes, Papa?"

That innocent little face, those sweet blue eyes beneath tangled golden hair.... Sionell knew

precisely what was going through Pol's mind. Jihan needed a good scold and a bad

scare, but not now. Not after what had happened to her mother and twin sister.

"Don't do that again," Pol said, not gently, but not as severely as he might have. "Give me your

word."

"But, Papa—"

"Your word as an athri of the High Prince."

Jihan cast a quick glance at Tobren—almost defiant, almost sty. "I promise, my lord."

He nodded acceptance. "Well, then. Into bed with all of you." He scooped up Meig, who squirmed and

snuggled against him. "Sionell, does anything short of a trumpet in his ear wake this child?"

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"He'd sleep through thunderstorms. Hand him over."

She felt his forehead with her own cheek, relieved to find it cool. Four years old—and already

identified as a Sunrunner? She held him more tightly to her breast, wondering dismally why her

immediate instinct was to protect him from what he could become.

The three girls shared the bed. Once they were all settled, and Sionell had reassured herself of

Antalya's well-being, Pol retrieved the scorched cloak and beckoned a maidservant down the hall to

come keep watch over the children.

As the door closed, Pol murmured, "I brought the other children in to keep Jihan company. She's

having nightmares. She's always slept with Rislyn in the room, you see."

"It's all right. I understand."

He touched Meig's tousled dark head and gave a rueful smile. "He insisted on joining us—and I

think I bored him right to sleep."

"He's like that. Wide awake one moment, oblivious the next."

Pol sighed wearily as they started down the corridor. "I envy him. I thought it would work with

the girls, too, but—it seems I can't even tell a simple bedtime story anymore without something

outrageous happening."

"Did you know Jihan could call Fire?"

"Alasen mentioned it this evening when we spoke."

"And it doesn't worry you?" Sionell asked carefully.

Pol shrugged. "Jihan is what she is. She was bound to pick it up on her own one day. My mother did

when she was only a little older than Jihan is now. There's power in her. I don't want her to be

afraid of it like Alasen is." He paused before his own chamber door. "Ell...."

Swiftly, she said, "Your mother is looking for you. Kazander's turned up missing, and you know

where he's gone—or at least what he plans to do."

"Kazander—? Oh, good Goddess, that fool!"

"I'll go tell her you're on your way, shall I?"

He caught her arm. She froze. He let her go and looked anywhere but at her. "We have to talk."

They were at her door; she opened it blindly. "There is nothing to discuss. Nothing happened."

Eyes bruised beneath with exhaustion widened with shock. Not because of her denial; it was Meiglan

in his eyes, not her,

"Ell, I didn't mean talk about—about that."

"No, of course not," she said mindlessly. "I'm sorry, I should've known—"

"I need you."

His quiet plea hit her all wrong. She held Meig defensively against her shoulder. "I have three

children who need me. You don't."

"You don't understand. I have to know that you—"

"I don't want to hear this," she snapped, turning from him, furious. He had no right to claim

anything from her. No right to start hurting her again. No, she told herself, I'm the one who hurt

me, all those years ago. It was never his fault. He was what he was.

But what is he now?

This time his fingers shackled her forearm hard enough to bruise the bones. "I need you more than

Tallain ever did."

And this time she gasped. "Don't you dare say his name tome!"

Meig grumbled in his sleep. She rocked him, glaring at Pol. There was no quick response of temper

in his eyes. Bleak, vulnerable, his face almost broke her heart.

Almost. She would not allow it.

"I don't know what to do, what to say," he whispered. "If you want to pretend that it never—it

would be best, you're right. But don't do this to me, Sionell. Not now, when I need—"

"Do this to you?" she echoed incredulously. "You selfish bastard! What could I ever do to you that

you haven't already repaid me a hundredfold in advance? Damn you, let me go!"

To her surprise, he did. "I'm sorry," he told her, and in the next instant vanished down the

hallway.

Composure shattered, Sionell sagged back against the wall. Her son curled against her; she buried

her lips in his silky hair and closed her eyes.

Pol had been cruel, trying to claim her. She had nothing for him. Her children needed her. Their

father was dead, their world forever changed. Jahnev was Lord of Tiglath now—at barely seven

winters old. Antalya would be a Sunrunner one day—but who would teach her? Not Andry! And not Pol,

either. Maarken? Sioned?

And what of Meig? Grubby, bright-eyed, full of mischief, secretly her favorite—was Jihan right?

Was he gifted, too?

She thought of another child then. Two children, really. Meiglan was as gentle and innocent as

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Rislyn. She thought of them held captive by the Vellant'im, and wondered why Pol was not a

shrieking madman.

Selfish, she'd called him. They were two of a kind.

Goddess help us, she thought wearily, and went to put her youngest to bed.

Pol stood in the middle of his bedchamber, wondering numbly how and why he was there. Certainly

not to sleep. Restlessness had seized him as surely as exhaustion, fevered brain and tired body at

constant war, with him as the battlefield and the casualty.

Meiglan.

Rislyn.

Chayla.

Sionell....

Swords stabbing through-iron bars at a caged animal.

He turned as if to escape the pain and saw himself in the wall mirror. Only his own tense face was

reflected, his own sleepless eyes. But within that other mirror, a dark and dangerous

image—caught? Trapped inside silver and glass, alive only in Fire, silent and helpless....

He watched his own face in the mirror, thinking of that dark reflection. Trapped. Helpless.

Meiglan.

Rislyn.

Chayla.

Sionell....

Oh, Goddess help him ... Sionell....

CHAPTER TWo

The only problem with sneaking into Faolain Lowland was the only thing that allowed Saumer and his

troops to sneak in at all.

Rain.

He'd waited two nights for this storm that would obscure the army's movements. He could, however,

have done very nicely without the deluge that obscured absolutely everything. He couldn't see more

than a handspan from his nose. Torches were a sodden joke, and he didn't know much about conjuring

a fingerflame. So he directed his people down an access tunnel dark as a Sunrunner's nightmare,

listening to curses that told him feet had slipped on the ladder. A nice little shower to keep the

Vellant'im in their shelters, some convenient concealing mist—that was all he'd wanted. Instead he

sent his troops through an entry in the forest floor that reminded him forcibly of a rabbit hole,

and huddled into a sopping cloak that weighed more than if he'd simply draped the wool around his

shoulders while the sheep still wore it.

At last everyone was through the chimney Lady Hollis had described on sunlight—a thing Saumer was

convinced he would never see again—-and he began his own descent. As he reached up to shut the

wooden covering, soil around it gave way. A silkweight of muck dumped on his head.

"Lovely," he grumbled, spitting grass, mud, and a few rocks. "Thanks."

But at least the torrents of rain were closed out. Sliding the iron bar home to lock the

entry—Mirsath had had it

opened a couple of days ago—he climbed down, jumping the last rungs to land in water halfway to

his knees.

Havadi, Prince Kostas' captain and now Saumer's own second-in-command, was waiting, having already

sent the rest of their people on ahead. "Lord Mirsath left a few dry ones for us, my lord," he

said, holding up a lighted torch. "The passage is through there."

Saumer pushed mud-thickened hair from his face and eyed the darkness of the low tunnel uneasily.

"Under the moat. We might as well have swum the thing."

They started off, following dim flashes of fireglow ahead and the sound of more swearing. The

young prince tried to take his mind from the closeness, the cold, and his incredibly soggy self by

concentrating on the torch Havadi held. Having only recently learned that he was faradhi like his

aunt Alasen, Saumer wondered if he could sense anything different about fire. But he saw only a

torch made of wood and pitch, and the flames were like any others he had watched in his life.

The sudden glowing quiver on the edge of his mind was made of another kind of Fire entirely.

Saumer straightened abruptly and bumped his head against the low ceiling. Havadi turned when an

annoyed exclamation left his lips.

"My lord?"

Saumer was running his gloved fingers over the dripping overhead stones. "There's something here.

Just above the rock...."

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